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m*. 


•  . 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


VOL.    LXX 


MACMILLAN'S 


VOL.  LXX 

MAY,  1894,  TO  OCTOBER,  1894 


pontoon 

MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 
29  &  30  BEDFORD  STREET,  CO  VENT  GARDEN;  AND 

Jleto  gorfc 

1894 


W.  J.  LIMTON.  S' 


T>ir,7,t  n+    Twn  <>7/Y/?Viij  n.njU.   T!p/nrndii.r.f,inn  is  Reserved. 


v.fO 


RICHARD  CLAY  AND  SONS,  LIMITED, 
LONDON  AND  BUNGAY. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Bank  of  England,  The  Founders  of  the 184 

Begging  Letters  and  their  Writers 52 

Bit  of  Land,  A  ;  by  MRS.  STEEL 235 

Board  of  Guardians,  At  the 350 

British  Army,  The  Beginnings  of  the — 

I.— The  Infantry 109 

II.— The  Cavalry 195 

III. — Artillery  and  Engineers 265 

Cape  of  Storms,  The 143 

Chapters  from  Some  Unwritten  Memoirs  ;  by  MRS.  RITCHIE — 

XL— In  Italy       429 

Chateaubriand,  Some  Thoughts  on '.  390 

Chatham  (Lord)  on  the  Surrender  at  Saratoga 193 

Chorister,  The  Little 365 

Cliff-Climbers,  The 60 

Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport ;  by  C.  H.  FIRTH 401 

Deffand,  Madame  du 224 

Ditas 39 

Egypt,  British  Rights  in  ;  by  M.  J.  FARELLY 464 

Forgotten  Fight,  A  ;  by  LIEUT. -COLONEL  JAMES  . 331 

France  and  her  New  Allies  ;  by  C.  B.  ROYLANCE-KENT 313 

Glenbaragh 276 

God,  The  Little  Clay 435 

Historical  Novel,  The  ;  by  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY — 

Part   I.— The  Days  of  Ignorance 256 

,,     II.— Scott  and  Dumas 321 

„  III.— The  Successors 410 

India,  A  Vision  of 100 

Japanese  Constitution,  The  New  ;  by  C.  B.  ROYLANCE-KENT 420 

Joan  of  Arc,  The  Last  Fight  of ;  by  ANDREW  LANG 69 

Kossuth,  Louis  ;  by  PROFESSOR  NICHOL 153 

Leader- Writer,  The  Complete  ;  by  HIMSELF 359 


12309 


vi  Contents. 

PAGK 

Melancholy  Man,  The 47 

Old  Parr  ;  by  CHARLES  EDWARDES 372 

One  of  the  Cloth *......  140 

Oswell,  William  Catton  ;  by  His  HONOUR  JUDGE  HUGHES,  Q.C 307 

Parliaments  and  Ministers  of  the  Century,  The  ;  by  C.  B.  ROYLANCE-KENT     ....  19 
Perlycross  ;  by  R.  D.  BLACKMORE — 

Chapters  xxxvi.— xxxvin 1 

,,         xxxix. — XLI 81 

,,         XLII. — XLIV.     (Conclusion) 161 

Philornithus  in  the  Park 354 

Pipe-Plot,  A  New      438 

Post  Office  Packets,  The 282 

Property,  A  Visit  to  his  ;  by  A  SMALL  LANDLORD 215 

Ravenna  and  her  Ghosts  ;  by  VERNON  LEE ' 380 

Reformer's  Wife,  The  ;  by  MRS.  STEEL 452 

Scholar-Gipsies 209 

Sentimental  Travelling 445 

Sequels,  A  Discourse  on 28 

Sir  Simon's  Courtship  ;  by  G.  W.  HARTLEY 241 

Sister  Cordelia  .    „• 469 

Thurloe,  Mr.  Secretary 291 

Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick,  The  ;  by  GUY  BOOTHBY 339 

Trout-Fishing  in  New  Zealand 12* 

Unconscious  Humourist,  The 271 

Unfinished  Rubber,  An 115 

West  Indian  Rebellion,  1795.     I.  Grenada  ;  by  HON.  J.  W.  FORTESCUE 456 

Wicked  Cardinal,  The 130 

Wit  of  Man,  The 204 

Yell,  The  Witch  of  .                                                                                                        .  304 


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MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


MAY,    1894. 


PERLYCROSS. 


BY    R.    D.    BLACKMORE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

A    FIGHTING   BOUT. 

AFTER  that  mighty  crash  everybody 
with  any  sense  left  in  his  head  went 
home.  There  was  more  to  talk  about 
than  Per ly cross  had  come  across  in  half 
a  contury.  And  the  worst  of  it  was 
that  every  blessed  man  had  his  own 
troubles  first  to  attend  to ;  which  is 
no  fun  at  all,  though  his  neighbours' 
are  so  pleasant.  The  Fair  in  the 
covered  market-place  had  long  been 
a  dreary  concern,  contending  vainly 
against  the  stronger  charm  of  the 
wr(  stling-booth,  and  still  more  vainly 
against  the  furious  weather.  Even 
the  biggest  and  best  fed  flares  (and 
they  were  quite  as  brisk  in  those  days 
as  Ihey  are  now),  gifted  though  they 
mig  ht  be  with  rage  and  vigour,  lost  all 
selt -control  and  dashed  in  yellow  forks, 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  singeing 
son  etimes  their  own  author's  whiskers. 
Like  a  man  who  lives  too  fast,  they 
killed  themselves ;  and  the  poor  Cheap- 
jacks,  the  Universal  Oracles,  the 
Bei  evolent  Bountymen  chucking 
guiaeas  right  and  left,  the  Master 
of  Oupid's  bower,  who  supplied  every 
lass  with  a  lord  and  every  lad  with  a 
lady  having  a  lapful  of  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds, — sadly  they  all 
strapped  up,  and  lit  their  pipes,  and 
shivered  at  that  terrible  tramp  before 
them,  cursing  the  weather,  and  their 
wives,  and  even  the  hallowed  village 
of  Perlycross. 

Though  the  coaches  had  forsaken 
this  ancient  track  from  Exeter  to 
Loi  don,  and  followed  the  broader  turn- 
No.  415. — VOL.  LXX. 


pike  roads,  there  still  used  to  be  every 
now  and  then  a  string  of  pack-horses, 
or  an  old  stage- waggon,  not  afraid 
of  hills  and  making  no  fuss  about 
time,  but  straggling  at  leisure  through 
the  pristine  thoroughfares  thwarted 
less  with  toll-bars.  Notably,  old  Hill's 
God-be-with-us  van  left  Exeter  on 
Tuesdays,  with  the  goodwill  of  three 
horses,  some  few  hours  in  the  after- 
noon, and  might  be  trusted  to  appear 
at  Perlycross  according  to  the  weather 
and  condition  of  the  roads.  What 
more  comfortable  course  of  travel 
could  there  be  for  any  one  who  under- 
stood it,  and  enjoyed  sound  sleep  and 
a  good  glass  of  ale  at  intervals,  with 
room  enough  to  dine  inside  if  he 
thought  fit,  than  the  God-be-with-us 
van  afforded  ?  For  old  Hill  was 
always  in  charge  of  it  himself,  and 
expected  no  more  than  a  penny  a 
mile,  and  perhaps  the  power  to  drink 
the  good  health  of  any  peaceful  sub- 
ject of  the  King,  who  might  be  in- 
clined to  come  along  with  him  and 
listen  to  his  moving  tales.  The  horses 
were  fat,  and  they  rested  at  night, 
and  took  it  easily  in  the  daytime; 
and  the  leader  had  three  little  bells 
on  his  neck,  looking,  when  you  sat 
behind  him,  like  a  pair  of  scales  ;  and 
without  them  he  always  declined  to 
take  a  step,  and  the  wheelers  backed 
him  up  in  that  denial.  For  a  man 
not  bound  to  any  domineering  hour, 
or  even  to  a  self-important  day,  the 
broad-wheeled  waggon  belonging  to  old 
Hill  ("  Old-as-the-Hills "  some  flippant 
younkers  called  him)  was  as  good  an 
engine  as  need  be  for  crossing  of  the 


Perlycross. 


country  when  it  wanted  to  be  crossed,  and 
halting  at  any  town  or  hospitable  turn. 

That  same  Shrove-Tuesday  (and  it 
is  well  to  mark  the  day,  because 
Master  Hill  was  so  superior  to  dates) 
this  man,  who  asserted  the  dignity 
of  our  race  by  not  allowing  matter  to 
disturb  him,  was  coming  down  hill 
with  his  heavy  drag  on,  in  a  road  that 
was  soft  from  the  goodness  of  the  soil, 
when  a  man  with  two  legs  made  of 
better  stuff  than  ours,  either  came 
out  of  a  gate  across  the  van,  or  else 
fairly  walked  it  down  by  superior 
speed  behind.  "  Ship  ahoy !  "  he 
shouted  ;  and  old  Hill  was  wide  awake, 
for  he  had  two  or  three  barrels  that 
would  keep  rolling  into  the  small  of 
his  back  (as  he  called  it,  with  his  usual 
oblivion  of  chronology),  and  so  he  was 
enabled  to  discern  this  man,  and  begin 
at  his  leisure  to  consider  him. 

If  the  man  had  shouted  again,  or 
shown  any  other  symptom  of  small 
hurry,  the  driver  (or  properly  speak- 
ing the  drifter,  for  the  horses  did 
their  own  driving,)  would  have  felt 
some  disappointment  in  him  as  an 
inferior  fellow-creature.  But  the  man 
on  foot,  or  at  least  on  stumps,  was  in 
no  more  hurry  than  old  Hill  himself, 
and  steadfastly  trudged  to  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  looking  only  at  the  horses, 
— a  very  fine  sign. 

The  land  being  Devon,  it  is  needless 
to  say  that  there  was  no  inconsistency 
about  it.  Wherever  one  hill  ends, 
there  another  begins,  with  just  room 
enough  between  them  for  a  horse  to 
spread  his  legs  and  shake  himself  with 
self-approbation.  And  he  is  pretty 
sure  to  find  a  crystal  brook,  purling 
across  the  road  and  twinkling  bright 
temptation  to  him. 

"  Hook  up  skid,  and  then  'e  can 
jump  in,"  said  old  Hill  in  the  hollow 
where  the  horses  backed  ;  and  he  knew 
by  the  clank  that  it  had  been  done, 
and  then  by  a  rattle  on  the  floor  be- 
hind him  that  the  stranger  had  em- 
barked by  the  chains  at  the  rear. 
After  about  a  mile  or  so  of  soft  low 
whistling,  in  which  he  excelled  all 
carriers,  old  Hill  turned  round  with  a 
pleasant  grin,  for  there  was  a  great 


deal  of  good  about  him.  "  Going  far  ?  " 
he  asked,  as  an  opening  of  politeness 
rather  than  of  curiosity. 

"  Zort  of  a  place  called  Perlycrass," 
replied  the  wooden-legged  man,  who 
was  sitting  on  a  barrel.  Manifestly  an 
ancient  sailor,  weather  beaten  and 
taciturn,  the  residue  of  a  strong  and 
handsome  man. 

The  whole  of  this  had  been  as  nearly 
to  the  carrier's  liking  as  the  words 
and  deeds  of  any  man  can  be  to  any 
other's.  Therefore  before  another 
mile  had  been  travelled  old  Hill 
turned  round  again,  with  a  grin  still 
sweeter.  "  Pancake  day,  bain't  it  1  " 
was  his  very  kind  inquiry. 

"  B'lieve  it  be,"  replied  the  other, 
in  the  best  and  truest  British  style. 
After  this  no  more  was  lacking  to 
secure  old  Hill's  regard  than  the  very 
thing  the  sailor  did.  There  was  a 
little  flap  of  canvas,  like  a  loophole 
in  the  tilt,  fitted  for  the  use  of 
chawers  and  the  cleanliness  of  the 
floor.  Timberlegs,  after  using  this 
with  much  deliberation  and  great 
skill,  made  his  way  forward,  and  in 
deep  silence  poked  old  Hill  with  his 
open  tobacco-box.  If  it  were  not 
silver  it  was  quite  as  good  to  look 
at  and  as  bright  as  if  it  held  the  free- 
dom of  the  City  ;  the  tobacco,  more- 
over, was  of  goodly  reek,  and  a  promise 
of  inspiration  such  as  never  flows 
through  custom-house. 

"  Thank  'e,  I'll  have  a  blade  bumbai. 
Will  'e  zit  upon  that  rope  of  onions'?  " 
The  sailor  shook  his  head  ;  for  the  rim 
of  a  barrel,  though  apt  to  cut,  cuts 
evenly  like  a  good  schoolmaster. 

"'Long  of  Nelson?"  Master  Hill 
inquired  pointing  to  the  places  where 
the  feet  were  now  of  deputy. 

The  old  Tar  nodded ;  and  then  with 
that  sensitive  love  of  accuracy  which 
marks  the  Tar,  growled  out,  "  Least- 
ways, wan  of  them." 

"And  what  come  to  t'other  wan?" 
Master  Hill  was  capable  of  really 
large  human  interest. 

"  Had  'un  off,  to  square  the  spars, 
and  for  zake  of  vamily."  He  had  no 
desire  to  pursue  the  subject,  and  closed 
it  by  a  big  squirt  through  the  flap. 


Peril/cross. 


Old  Hill  nodded  with  manly  appro- 
b  ation.  Plymouth  was  his  birthplace ; 
and  he  knew  that  other  sons  of  Nelson 
had  done  this ;  for  it  balanced  their 
bodies,  and  composed  their  minds  with 
another  five  shillings  a  week  for  life, 
and  the  sale  of  the  leg  covered  all 
expenses. 

"  You'm  a  very  ingenious  man  ;  " 
ha  glanced,  as  he  spoke,  at  the  sailor's 
jury-rig.  "I'll  war'n  no  doctor  could 
a'  vitted  'e  up  like  thiccy." 

"  Vitted  'un  myself  with  double 
swivel.  Can  make  four  knots  an  hour 
now.  They  doctors  can  undo  'e,  but 
'eoa  can't  do  'e  up.  A  cove  can't  make 
siil  upon  a  truck-head." 

"  And  what  do  'e  say  to  the  weather, 
cap'n  1 "  Master  Hill  inquired  of  his 
passenger,  when  a  few  more  compli- 
ments had  passed,  and  the  manes  of  the 
horses  began  to  ruffle,  and  the  tilt  to 
sway  and  rattle  with  the  waxing  storm. 
"  Think  us  shall  have  as  big  a  gale 
of  wind  as  ever  come  out  of  the 
heavens,"  the  sailor  replied,  after 
stumping  to  the  tail  of  the  van,  and 
gazing  windwards.  "  Heave  to  pretty 
smart,  and  make  all  snug  afore  sunset, 
is  my  advice.  Too  much  sail  on  this 
here  little  craft  for  such  a  blow  as  us 
shall  have  to-night." 

"Can't  stop  short  of  Taunton  town." 
Old  Hill  was  famed  for  his  obstinacy. 
"  Can  'e  take  in  sail  "j  Can  'e  dowse 
tfcis  here  canvas  ?  Can  'e  reef  it  then 
somehow ?"  The  old  man  shook  his 
h(  ad.  "  Tell  'e  what  then,  shipmate, 
if  'e  carry  on  for  six  hours  more,  this 
ht  re  craft  will  be  on  her  beam-ends, 
w  'out  mainsail  parteth  from  his  lash- 
in  *s,  sure  as  my  name  is  Dick  Herni- 
rnan." 

This  Tar  of  the  old  school,  better 
ki  own  as  "  Timber-legged  Dick,"  dis- 
embarked from  the  craft,  whose 
wreck  he  had  thus  predicted,  at  a 
turning  betwixt  Perliton  and  Perly- 
cross,  and  stumped  away  up  a  narrow 
lane  at  a  pace  quite  equal  to  that  of 
th«j  God-be-with-us  van.  The  horses 
looked  after  him,  as  a  specimen  of 
biped  hitherto  beyond  their  experi- 
ence; and  old  Hill  himself,  though 
incapable  of  amazement  (which  is  a 


rapid  process),  confessed  that  there 
were  some  advantages  in  this  form  of 
human  pedal,  as  well  as  fine  economy 
of  cloth  and  leather.  "  How  'a  doth 
get  along,  nimbler  nor  I  could  !  "  the 
carrier  reflected,  as  his  nags  drove  on 
again.  "  Up  to  zummat  ratchety,  I'll 
be  bound  he  be  now.  A  leary  old  sort 
as  ever  lived.  Never  laughed  once, 
never  showed  a  smile,  but  gotten  it 
all  in  his  eyes,  he  have  ;  and  the  eyes 
be  truer  folks  than  the  lips.  Enough 
a'most  to  tempt  a  man  to  cut  off  's 
own  two  legses." 

Some  hours  later  than  this,  and  one 
hour  later  than  the  downfall  of  the 
wrestler's  roof,  the  long  market-place, 
forming  one  side  of  the  street,  a  low 
narrow     building     set     against     the 
churchyard   wall   between  the  school 
and  the  lych-gate,  looked  as  dismal 
and    dreary     and    deserted     as     the 
bitterest  enemy  of  Fairs  could  wish. 
The  torrents  of  rain  and  fury  of  the 
wind  had  driven  all  pleasure-seekers, 
in  a  grievously  drenched  and  battered 
plight,  to  seek  for  wiser  comfort ;  and 
only  a  dozen  or  so  of  poor  creatures, 
either  too  tipsy  to  battle    with  the 
wind  or  too  reckless  in  their  rags  to 
care  where  they  were,  wallowed  upon 
sacks,  and  scrabbled   under  the  stan- 
chion-boards,  where   the   gaiety    had 
been.     The  main  gates,  buckled  back 
upon  their  heavy  hinges,  were  allowed 
to  do  nothing  in  their  proper  line  of 
business  until  the  church-clock  should 
strike  twelve,  for  such  was  the  usage  ; 
though  as  usual  nobody  had  ever  heard 
who    ordained    it.     A    few    oil-lamps 
were  still  in  their  duty,  swinging  like 
welted  horn-poppies  in  the  draught,and 
shedding  a  pale  and  spluttering  light. 
The  man  who  bore  the    keys   had 
gone  home  three  times,  keeping  under 
heel  with  his  oil-skins  on,  to  ask  his 
wife  (who  was  a  woman  of  some  mark) 
whether  he  might  not  lock  the  gates, 
and   come   home  and  have  his  bit  of 
bacon.     But  she  having  strong  sense 
of  duty,  and  a  good  log  blazing,  and 
her  cup  of  tea,  had  allowed  him  very 
generously  to  warm  his  hands  a  little, 
and  then  begged  him  to  think  of  his 
family.     This  was  the  main  thing  that 


Perlycross. 


he  had  to  do ;  and  he  went  forth 
again  into  the  dark  to  do  it. 

Meanwhile,  without  anybody  to  take 
heed  (for  the  sergeant,  ever  vigilant, 
was  now  on  guard  in  Spain),  a  small 
but  choice  company  of  human  beings 
was  preparing  for  action  in  the  old 
school-porch,  which  stood  at  the  back 
of  the  building.  Staffs  they  had,  and 
handcuffs  too.  and  supple  straps,  and 
loops  of  cord  ;  all  being  men  of  some 
learning  in  the  law,  and  the  crooked 
ways  of  people  out  of  harmony  there- 
with. If  there  had  been  light  enough 
to  understand  a  smile,  they  would 
have  smiled  at  one  another,  so  positive 
were  they  that  they  had  an  easy  job, 
and  so  grudgef  ul  that  the  money  should 
cut  up  so  small.  The  two  worthy 
constables  of  Perlycross  felt  certain 
that  they  could  do  it  better  by 
themselves,  and  the  four  invoked 
from  Perliton  were  vexed  to  have 
to  act  with  village  lubbers.  Their 
orders  were  not  to  go  nigh  the 
wrestling,  or  show  themselves  inside 
the  market-place,  but  to  keep  them- 
selves quiet,  and  shun  the  weather, 
and,  what  was  a  great  deal  worse,  the 
beer.  Every  now  and  then  the  ideas 
of  jolly  noises,  such  as  were  appropriate 
to  the  time,  were  borne  upon  the 
rollicking  wings  of  the  wind  into  their 
silent  vestibule,  suggesting  some  wip- 
ing of  lips  which,  alas,  were  ever  so 
much  too  dry  already.  At  a  certain 
signal  they  were  all  to  hasten  across 
the  corner  of  the  churchyard  at  the 
back  of  the  market-place,  and  enter  a 
private  door  at  the  east  end  of  the 
building,  after  passing  through  the 
lych-gate. 

Suddenly  the  rain  ceased,  as  if  at 
sound  of  trumpet ;  like  the  mouth  of  a 
cavern  the  sky  flew  open,  and  the  wind, 
leaping  three  points  of  the  compass, 
rushed  upon  the  world  from  the 
chambers  of  the  west.  Such  a  blast 
as  had  never  been  felt  before  filled 
the  whole  valley  of  the  Perle,  and 
flung  mowstack  and  oak  wood,  farm- 
house and  abbey,  under  the  sweep  of 
its  wings  as  it  flew.  The  roar  of  the 
air  over-powered  the  crush  of  the  ruin 
it  made,  and  left  no  man  the  sound  of 


his  own  voice  to  himself.  These  great 
swoops  of  wind  always  lighten  the 
sky ;  and  as  soon  as  the  people  blown 
down  could  get  up,  they  were  able  to 
see  the  church-tower  still  upright, 
though  many  men  swore  that  they 
heard  it  go  rock.  Yery  likely  it 
rocked,  but  could  they  have  heard  it  ? 

In  the  thick  of  the  din  of  this  awful 
night,  when  the  church-clock  struck 
only  five  instead  of  ten  (and  it  might 
have  struck  fifty  without  being  heard), 
three  men  managed,  one  by  one,  and 
without  any  view  of  one  another,  to 
creep  along  the  creases  of  the  storm, 
and  gain  the  gloomy  shelter  of  the 
market-place.  "Every  man  for  him- 
self "  is  the  universal  law,  when  the 
heavens  are  against  the  whole  race  of 
us.  Not  one  of  these  men  cared  to  ask 
about  the  condition  of  the  other  two, 
nor  even  expected  much  to  see  them, 
though  each  was  more  resolute  to  be 
there  himself,  because  of  its  being  so 
difficult. 

"  Very  little  chance  of  Timberlegs 
to-night,"  said  one  to  another,  as  two 
of  them  stood  in  deep  shadow  against 
the  back  wall,  where  a  voice  could  be 
heard  if  pitched  in  the  right  direction  ; 
"he  could  never  make  way  again'  a 
starm  like  this." 

"  Thou  bee'st  a  liar,"  replied  a  gruff 
voice,  as  the  clank  of  metal  on  the 
stone  was  heard.  "  Timberlegs  can 
goo  where  flesh  and  bone  be  molli- 
chops."  He  carried  a  staff  like  a  long 
handspike,  and  prodded  the  biped  on 
his  needless  feet,  to  make  him  wish  to 
be  relieved  of  them. 

"  Us  be  all  here  now,"  said  the 
third  man,  who  seemed  in  the  waver- 
ing gloom  to  fill  half  the  place.  "  What 
hast  thou  brought  us  for,  Timber- 
legged  Dick?" 

"  Bit  of  a  job,  same  as  three  months 
back.  Better  than  clam-pits,  worn't 
it  now  1  Got  a  good  offer  for  thee 
too,  Harvey,  for  that  old  ramshackle 
place.  Handy  hole  for  a  louderin' 
job,  and  not  far  from  them  clam-pits." 

"  Ay,  so  a'  be  ;  never  thought  of 
that.  And  must  have  another  coney, 
now  they  wise  'uns  have  vound  out 
Nigger's  Nock.  Lor',  what  a  laugh 


Perlycross. 


we  had,  Jem  and  I,  at  they  fules  of 
Perly crass  !  " 

"Then  Perlycross  will  have  the 
kugh  at  thee.  Harvey  Tremlett, 
and  James  Kettel,  I  arrest  'e  both, 
in  the  name  of  his  Majesty  the 
King." 

Six  able-bodied  men  (who  had  en- 
tered unheard  in  the  roar  of  the  gale 
and  unseen  in  the  gloom)  stood  with 
drawn  staffs,  heels  together  and  shoul- 
der to  shoulder,  in  a  semi-circle  en- 
c  osing  the  three  conspirators. 

"Read  thy  warrant  aloud,"  said 
Pick  Herniman,  striking  his  hand- 
spike upon  the  stones,  and  taking 
command  in  right  of  intellect ;  while 
the  other  twain  laid  their  backs 
against  the  wall,  and  held  themselves 
ready  for  the  issue. 

Dick  had  hit  a  very  hard  nail  on 
the  head.  None  of  these  constables 
had  been  young  enough  to  undergo 
Sergeant  Jakes,  and  thenceforth  defy 
the  most  lofty  examiner.  "  Didn't 
hear  what  'e  zed,"  replied  the  head-con- 
stable, making  excuse  of  the  wind, 
which  had  blown  him  but  little  of  the 
elements.  But  he  lowered  his  staff 
and  held  consultation. 

"Then  I  zay  it  again,"  shouted 
Timber-legged  Dick,  stumping  forth 
with  a  power  of  learning,  for  he  had 
picked  up  good  leisure  in  hospitals ; 
41  if  thou  representest  the  King,  read 
his  Majesty's  words  afore  taking  his 
name  in  vain." 

These  six  men  were  ready,  and  re- 
solute enough,  to  meet  any  bodily 
c<  >nflict ;  but  the  literary  crisis  scared 
them.  "  Can  'e  do  it,  Jack  1 "  "  Don't 
know  as  I  can."  "  Wish  my  boy  Bill 
was  here."  "  Don't  run  in  my  line," 
— and  so  on. 

"  If  none  on  7e  knows  what  he  be 
about,"  said  the  man  with  the  best 
legs  to  stand  upon,  advancing  into  the 
midst  of  them,  "I  know  a  deal  of  the 
law ;  and  I  tell  'e,  as  a  friend  of  the 
K  ing,  who  hath  lost  two  legs  for  'un  in 
the  Royal  Navy,  there  can't  be  no 
lawful  arrest  made  here.  And  the 
liberty  of  the  subject  cometh  in,  the 
same  as  a  doth  again'  highwaymen. 
Harvey  Tremlett,  and  Jem  Kettel, 


the  law  be  on  your  side,  to  '  protect 
the  liberty  of  the  subject.'  " 

This  was  enough  for  the  pair  who 
had  stood,  as  law-abiding  Englishmen, 
against  the  wall,  with  their  big  fists 
doubled  and  their  great  hearts  doubt- 
ing. "  Here  goo'th  for  the  liberty  of 
the  subject,"  cried  Harvey  Tremlett, 
striding  forth.  "  I  sha'n't  strike  none 
as  don't  strike  me  ;  but  if  a'  doth,  a 
must  look  out." 

The  constables  wavered,  in  fear  of 
the  law  and  doubt  of  their  own  duty  ; 
for  they  had  often  heard  that  every 
man  had  a  right  to  know  what  he  was 
arrested  for.  Unluckily  one  of  them 
made  a  blow  with  his  staff  at  Harvey 
Tremlett  ;  then  he  dropped  on  the 
flags  with  a  clump  in  his  ear,  and  the 
fight  in  a  moment  was  raging.  Some- 
body knocked  Jemmy  Kettel  on  the 
head,  as  being  more  easy  to  deal  with ; 
and  then  the  blood  of  the  big  man 
rose.  Three  stout  fellows  fell  upon 
him  all  together,  and  heavy  blows 
rung  on  the  drum  of  his  chest  from 
truncheons  plied  like  wheel-spokes. 
Forth  flew  his  fist-clubs  right  and  left, 
one  of  them  meeting  a  staff  in  the  air 
and  shattering  it  back  into  its  own- 
er's face.  Never  was  the  peace  of 
the  King  more  broken  ;  no  man  could 
see  what  became  of  his  blows,  legs 
and  arms  went  about  like  windmills, 
substance  and  shadow  were  all  as  one, 
till  the  substance  rolled  upon  the 
ground  and  groaned.  This  dark  fight 
resembled  the  clashing  of  a  hedgerow 
in  the  fury  of  a  midnight  storm; 
when  the  wind  has  got  in  and  cannot 
get  out,  when  ground-ash  and  syca- 
more, pole,  stub,  and  sapling,  are 
dashing  and  whirling  against  one  ano- 
ther, and  even  the  sturdy  oak-tree  in 
the  trough  is  swaying,  and  creaking, 
and  swinging  on  its  bole. 

"  Zoonder  not  to  kill  e'er  a  wan  of 
'e,  I  'ood;  but  by  the  Lord,  if  'e 
comes  they  byses,"  shouted  Harvey 
Tremlett,  as  a  rope  was  thrown  over 
his  head  from  behind,  but  cut  in  half 
a  second  by  Herniman.  "More  of  'e 
be  there  ?  "  as  the  figures  thickened. 
"Have  at  'e  then,  wi'  zummat  more 
harder  nor  visties  be  ! "  He  wrenched 


Perlycross. 


from  a  constable  his  staff,  and  strode 
onward,  being  already  near  the  main 
gate  now.  As  he  whirled  the  heavy 
truncheon  round  his  head,  the  con- 
stables hung  back,  having  two  already 
wounded,  and  one  in  the  grip  of 
reviving  Jem  who  was  rolling  on  the 
floor  with  him.  "Zurrender  to  his 
Majesty,"  they  called  out,  preferring 
the  voluntary  system.  "  A.  varden 
for  the  lot  of  'e  !  "  the  big  man  said, 
and  he  marched  in  a  manner  that 
presented  it. 

But  not  so  did  he  walk  off,  blame- 
less and  respectable.  He  had  kept  his 
temper  wonderfully,  believing  the  law 
to  be  on  his  side  after  all  he  had 
done  for  the  county.  Now  his  nature 
was  pressed  a  little  too  hard  for  itself, 
when  just  as  he  had  called  out,  "  Coom 
along,  Jem  ;  there  be  nort  to  stop  'e, 
Timberlegs,"  retiring  his  forces  with 
honour, — two  figures,  hitherto  out  of 
the  moil,  stood  across  him  at  the 
mouth  of  exit.  "Who  be  you?"  he 
asked,  with  his  anger  in  a  flame  ;  for 
they  showed  neither  staff  of  the  King 
nor  warrant.  "  Volunteers,  be  'e  ? 
Have  a  care  what  be  about." 

"  Harvey  Tremlett,  here  you  stop," 
said  a  tall  man,  square  in  front  of 
him.  But  luckily  for  his  life  the 
lift  of  the  sky  showed  that  his  hair 
was  silvery. 

'"Never  hits  an  old  man,  you  lie 
there."  Tremlett  took  him  with  his 
left  hand,  and  laid  him  on  the  stones. 
But  meanwhile  the  other  flung  his 
arms  around  his  waist.  "  Wult  have 
a  zettler  ?  Then  thee  shall,"  cried  the 
big  man,  tearing  him  out  like  a  child 
and  swinging  his  truncheon  for  'to 
knock  him  on  the  head,  and  Jemmy 
Fox  felt  that  his  time  was  come. 
Down  came  the  truncheon  like  a 
paviour's  rammer,  and  brains  would 
have  weltered  on  the  floor  like  suds, 
but  a  stout  arm  dashed  across  and 
received  the  crash  descending. 
"  Pumpkins  !  "  cried  the  smiter,  won- 
dering much  what  he  had  smitten,  as 
two  bodies  rolled  between  his  legs  and 
on  the  stones.  "  Coom  along,  Jemmy 
boy  ;  nare  a  wan  to  stop  'e."  The 
remnant  of  the  constables  upon  their 


legs  fell  back.  The  Lord  was  against 
them ;  they  had  done  their  best.  The 
next  job  for  them  was  to  heal  their 
wounds,  and  get  an  allowance  for 
them  if  they  could. 

Now  the  human  noise  was  over,  but 
the  wind  roared  on,  and  the  rushing 
of  the  clouds  let  the  stars  look  down 
again.  Tremlett  stood  victorious  in 
the  middle  of  the  gateway.  Hurry 
was  a  state  of  mind  beyond  his  under- 
standing. Was  everybody  satisfied? 
Well,  no  one  came  for  more.  He 
took  an  observation  of  the  weather, 
and  turned  round.  "  Sha'n't  bide 
here  no  longer,"  he  announced. 
"Dick,  us'll  vinish  up  our  clack  to  my 
place.  Rain  be  droud  up,  and  I  be  off." 
"No,  Harvey  Tremlett,  you  will 
not  be  off.  You  will  stay  here  like  a 
man,  and  stand  your  trial."  Mr.  Pen- 
niloe's  hand  was  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  the  light  of  the  stars,  thrown  in 
vaporous  waves,  showed  the  pale  face 
firmly  regarding  him. 

"  Well,  and  if  I  says  no  to  it,  what 
can  'e  do  ?  " 

"Hold  you  by  the  collar,  as  my 
duty  is."  The  parson  set  his  teeth, 
and  his  delicate  white  fingers  tightened 
their  not  very  formidable  grasp. 

"  Sesh  !  "  said  the  big  man  with  a 
whistle,  and  making  as  if  he  could 
not  move.  "  When  a  man  be  baten, 
a'  must  gie  in.  Wun't  'e  let  me  goo, 
Passon  ?  Do  'e  let  me  goo." 

"  Tremlett,  my  duty  is  to  hold  you 
fast.  I  owe  it  to  a*dear  friend  of  mine, 
as  well  as  to  my  parish." 

"  Well,  you  be  a  braver  man  than 
most  of  'em  I  zimmeth.  But  do  'e  tell 
a  poor  chap,  as  have  no  chance  at  all 
wi'  'e,  what  a'  hath  dooed  to  be 
lawed  for  'un  so  crule  now  ?  " 

"  Prisoner,  as  if  you  did  not  know. 
You  are  charged  with  breaking  open 
Colonel  Waldron's  grave  and  carrying 
off  his  body." 

"  Oh  Lord  !  Oh  Lord  in  heaven  !  " 
shouted  Harvey  Tremlett.  "Jem 
Kettel,  hark  to  thiccy !  Timberlegs, 
do  'e  hear  thic  ?  All  they  blessed 
constables,  as  has  got  their  bellyful, 
and  ever  so  many  wise  gen'lemen  too, 
what  do  'e  think  'em  be  arter  us  for 


A  rter  us  for  resurrectioneering ! 
Never  heered  tell  such  a  joke  in  all 
my  life.  They  hosebirds  to  Ivy-bush 
cries  *  Carnwall  for  ever  ! '  But  I'm 
blest  if  I  don't  cry  out  '  Perlycrass 
for  ever!'  Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord! 
Was  there  ever  such  a  joke  1  Don't 
'e  hold  me,  sir,  for  half  a  minute, 
just  while  I  has  out  my  laugh, — fear  I 
should  be  too  heavy  for  'e." 

Timber-legged  Dick  came  up  to  his 
siie,  and  not  being  of  the  laughing 
kind,  made  up  for  it  by  a  little  horn- 
pipe in  the  lee,  his  metal  feet  striking 
from  the  flints  pitched  there  sparks 
enough  to  light  a  dozen  pipes;  while 
Kettel,  though  damaged  severely 
about  the  mouth,  was  still  able  to 
compass  a  broad  and  loud  guffaw. 

"  Prisoners,"  Mr.  Penniloe  said 
severely,  for  he  misliked  the  ridicule 
of  his  parish,  "  this  is  not  at  all  a 
matter  to  be  laughed  at.  The  evi- 
dence against  you  is  verystrong,!  fear." 

"  Zur render,  zurrender,  to  his 
Majesty  the  King  !  "  cried  Tremlett, 
being  never  much  at  argument. 
'  Constables,  if  'ee  can  goo,  take 
charge.  But  I  'ont  have  no  handi- 
cuffs,  mind  !  Wudn't  a  gie'd  'ee  a 
clout  if  I  had  knawed  it.  Zarve  'ee 
right  though,  for  not  rading  of  thic 
warrant-papper.  Jemmy,  boy,  you 
zurrender  to  the  King,  and  I  be 
Passon's  prisoner.  Honour  bright 
fust  though  ;  nort  to  come  agin'  us, 
urless  a  be  zet  down  in  warrant- 
pa  pper.  Passon,  thee  must  gi'e  thy 
word  for  that.  Timberlegs,  coom  along 
for  layyer." 

"Certainly,  I  give  my  word,  as  far 
as  it  will  go,  that  no  other  charge 
shall  be  brought  against  you.  The 
warrant  is  issued  for  that  crime  only. 
Prove  yourselves  guiltless  of  that,  and 
you  are  free." 

"  Us  won't  be  very  long  in  prison 
thon.  A  day  or  two  hain't  much  odds 
to  we." 

CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

GENTLE        AS       A       LAMB. 

OF  the  nine  people  wounded  in  that 
Agoraic  struggle,  which  cast  expiring 


lustre  on  the  Fairs  of  Perlycross, 
every  one  found  his  case  most  serious 
to  himself,  and  still  more  so  to  his 
wife,  and  even  solemn  in  the  pres- 
ence of  those  who  had  to  settle 
compensation.  Herniman  had  done 
some  execution,  as  well  as  received  a 
nasty  splinter  of  one  leg  which  broke 
down  after  his  hornpipe  j  and  Kettel 
had  mauled  the  man  who  rolled 
over  with  him.  But,  as  appeared 
when  the  case  was  heard,  Tremlett 
had  by  no  means  done  his  best ;  and 
his  lawyer  put  it  touchingly  and  with 
great  effect,  that  he  was  loth  to 
smite  the  sons  of  his  native  county 
when  he  had  just  redeemed  their 
glory  by  noble  discomfiture  of 
Cornwall. 

One  man  only  had  a  parlous  wound  ; 
and  as  is  generally  ordained  in  human 
matters,  this  was  the  one  most  impar- 
tial of  all,  the  one  who  had  no  interest 
of  his  own  to  serve,  the  one  who  was 
present  simply  out  of  pure  benevolence 
and  a  Briton's  love  of  order.  So  at 
least  his  mother  said ;  and  every  one 
acknowledged  that  she  was  a  woman 
of  high  reasoning  powers.  Many 
others  felt  for  him,  as  who  would 
have  done  the  same  with  like  oppor- 
tunity. For  only  let  a  healthy,  strong, 
and  earnest-minded  Englishman  (to 
use  a  beloved  compound  epithet  of  the 
day)  hear  of  a  hot  and  lawful  fight 
impending,  with  people  involved  in  it 
of  whom  he  has  some  knowledge,  and 
we  may  trust  him  heartily  to  be  there 
or  thereabouts  to  see,  as  he  puts  it  to 
his  conscience,  fair  play.  But  an  if 
he  chance  to  be  in  love  just  then, 
with  a  very  large  percentage  of  despair 
to  reckon  up,  and  one  of  the  com- 
batants is  in  the  count  against  him, 
can  a  doubt  remain  of  his  eager 
punctuality?  This  was  poor  Frank 
Gilham's  case.  Dr.  Gronow  was  a 
prudent  man,  and  liked  to  have  the 
legions  on  his  side.  He  perceived 
that  young  Frank  was  a  staunch  and 
stalwart  fellow,  sure  to  strike  a  good 
blow  on  a  friend's  behalf.  He  was 
well  aware  also  of  his  love  for 
Christie,  and  could  not  see  why  it 
should  come  to  nothing.  While 


8 


Perlycross. 


Jemmy  Fox's  faith  in  the  resources 
of  the  law,  and  in  his  own  prowess  as 
a  power  in  reserve,  were  not  so  con- 
vincing to  the  elder  mind.  "  Better 
make  sure  than  be  too  certain,"  was  a 
favourite  maxim  of  this  shrewd  old 
stager;  and  so  without  Jemmy's 
knowledge  he  invited  Frank,  to  keep 
out  of  sight  unless  wanted. 

This  measure  saved  the  life  of  Dr. 
Fox,  and  that  of  Harvey  Tremlett 
too,  some  of  whose  brothers  had 
adorned  the  gallows.  Even  as  it 
was,  Jemmy  Fox  lay  stunned,  with 
the  other  man's  arm  much  inserted  in 
his  hat.  Where  he  would  have  been 
without  that  buffer,  the  cherub  who 
sits  on  the  chimney-pots  of  Harley 
Street  alone  can  say.  Happily  the 
other  doctor  was  unhurt,  and  left  in  full 
possession  of  his  wits,  which  he  at 
once  exerted.  After  examining  the 
wounded  yeoman,  who  had  fainted 
from  the  pain  and  shock,  he  borrowed 
a  mattress  from  the  rectory,  a  spring- 
cart  and  truss  of  hay  from  Channing 
the  baker,  and  various  other  appli- 
ances ;  and  thus  in  spite  of  the  storm 
conveyed  both  patients  to  hospital. 
This  was  the  Old  Barn  itself,  because 
all  surgical  needs  would  be  forth- 
coming there  more  readily,  and  so  it 
was  wiser  to  decline  Mr.  Penniloe's 
offer  of  the  rectory. 

With  the  jolting  of  the  cart,  and 
the  freshness  of  the  air,  Fox  began  to 
revive  ere  long ;  and  though  still  very 
weak  and  dizzy,  was  able  to  be  of 
some  service  at  his  own  dwelling- 
place  ;  and  although  he  might  not, 
when  this  matter  first  arose,  have 
shown  all  the  gratitude  which  the 
sanguine  do  expect,  in  return  for 
Frank  Gilham's  loyalty,  he  felt  very 
deep  contrition  now  when  he  saw 
this  frightful  fracture  and  found  his 
own  head  quite  uncracked. 

The  six  constables,  though  they  had 
some  black  eyes,  bruised  limbs,  and 
broken  noses,  and  other  sources  of 
regret,  were  (in  strict  matter  of  fact, 
and  without  any  view  to  compensa- 
tion,) quite  as  well  as  could  be 
expected.  And,  as  happens  too  often, 
the  one  who  groaned  the  most  had  the 


least  occasion  for  it.  It  was  only  the 
wick  of  a  lamp  that  had  dropped, 
without  going  out,  on  this  man's 
collar,  and  burned  a  little  hole  in  his 
niddick,  as  it  used  to  be  called  in 
Devonshire. 

Tremlett  readily  gave  his  word  that 
no  escape  should  be  attempted  ;  and 
when  Mrs.  Muggridge  came  to  know 
that  this  was  the  man  who  had  saved 
her  master,  nothing  could  be  too  good 
for  him.  So  constables  and  prisoners 
were  fed  and  cared  for,  and  stowed 
for  the  night  in  the  long  schoolroom, 
with  hailstones  hopping  in  the  fire- 
place. 

In  the  morning  the  weather  was 
worse  again ;  for  this  was  a  double- 
barrelled  gale,  as  an  ignorant  man 
might  term  it,  or  rather  perhaps  two 
several  gales,  arising  from  some  vast 
disturbance  and  hitting  into  one 
another.  Otherwise,  why  should  it  be 
known  and  remembered  even  to  the 
present  day  as  the  great  Ash- Wednes- 
day gale  although  it  began  on  Shrove- 
Tuesday,  and  in  many  parts  raged 
most  fiercely  then  ?  At  Perlycross 
certainly  there  was  no  such  blast 
upon  the  second  day  as  that  which 
swept  the  abbey  down,  when  the 
wind  leaped  suddenly  to  the  west  and 
the  sky  fell  open,  as  above  observed. 

Upon  that  wild  Ash- Wednesday 
forenoon  the  curate  stood  in  the 
churchyard,  mourning  even  more  than 
the  melancholy  date  requires.  Where 
the  old  abbey  had  stood  for  ages 
(backing  up  the  venerable  church 
with  grand  dark-robed  solemnity,  and 
lifting  the  buckler  of  ancient  faith 
above  many  a  sleeping  patriarch,)  there 
was  nothing  but  a  hideous  gap  with 
murky  clouds  galloping  over  it.  Shorn 
of  its  ivy  curtain  by  the  tempest  of 
last  Sunday,  the  mighty  frame  had 
reeled,  and  staggered,  and  with  one 
crash  gone  to  ground  last  night,  be- 
fore the  impetuous  welkin's  weight. 
"  Is  all  I  do  to  be  always  vain,  and 
worse  than  vain,  destructive,  hurtful, 
baneful,  fatal,  I  might  say,  to  the 
very  objects  for  which  I  strive  ?  Here 
is  the  church,  unfinished,  leaky,  with 
one  of  its  corners  gone  underground, 


Perlycross. 


9 


ai id  the  grand  stone  screen  smashed 
ir  two ;  here  is  the  abbey,  or  alas  not 
here,  but  only  an  ugly  pile  of  stones ! 
B  ere  is  the  outrage  to  iny  dear  friend, 
and  the  shame  to  the  parish  as  black 
as  ever  ;  for  those  men  clearly  know 
nothing  of  it.  And  here,  or  at  any 
rr ,te  close  at  hand,  the  sad  drawback 
upon  all  good  works ;  for  at  Lady-day 
it  pour  the  bills,  and  my  prayers 
(however  earnest)  will  not  pay  them. 
It  has  pleased  the  Lord,  in  His  in- 
finite wisdom,  to  leave  me  very  short 
oi  cash."  Unhappily  his  best  hat  had 
been  spoiled  in  that  interview  with 
the  four  vergers  ;  and  in  his  humility 
ho  was  not  sure  that  the  one  on  his 
head  was  good  enough  even  to  go  to 
the  Commination  service.  However 
it  need  not  have  felt  unworthy ;  for 
there  was  not  a  soul  in  the  church  to 
bo  adjured,  save  that  which  had  been 
under  its  own  brim.  The  clerk  was 
oil  for  Perliton,  swearing  (even  at  his 
time  of  life  !)  that  he  had  been  sub- 
penaed,  as  if  that  could  be  on  such 
oc  casion ;  and  as  for  the  pupils,  all 
bound  to  be  in  church,  the  Hopper 
hi  id  been  ordered  by  the  constables  to 
present  himself  to  the  magistrates 
(though  all  the  constables  denied  it), 
and  Pike  and  Mopuss  felt  it  their 
duty  to  go  with  him. 

In  a  word,  all  Perlycross  was  off, 
though  services  of  the  Church  had  not 
yot  attained  their  present  continuity  ; 
a:  id  though  every  woman,  and  even 
man,  had  to  plod  three  wet  miles, 
with  the  head  on  the  chest,  in  the 
teeth  of  the  gale  up  the  river.  How 
they  should  get  into  the  room  when 
there  was  a  question  that  never  oc- 
curred to  them.  There  they  all 
yoarned  to  be ;  and  the  main  part, 
who  could  not  raise  a  shilling,  or 
prove  themselves  uncles,  or  aunts,  or 
former  sweethearts  of  the  two  con- 
stables who  kept  the  door,  had  to 
crouch  under  dripping  shrubs  outside 
tlie  windows,  and  spoiled  all  Squire 
Mockham's  young  crocuses. 

That  gentleman  was  so  upright  and 
thoroughly  impartial,  that  to  counter- 
act  his  own  predilections  for  a  cham- 
pion wrestler,  he  had  begged  a 


brother  magistrate  to  come  and  sit 
with  him  on  this  occasion ;  not  Sir 
Edwin  Sanford,  who  was  of  the 
Quorum  for  Somerset,  but  a  man  of 
some  learning  and  high  esteem,  the 
well-known  Dr.  Morshead.  Thus  there 
would  be  less  temptation  for  any 
tattler  to  cry,  "  hole  and  corner,"  as 
spiteful  folk  rejoice  to  do,  while  keep- 
ing in  that  same  place  themselves ; 
although  there  was  less  perhaps  of 
mischief-making  in  those  days  than 
now,  and  there  could  be  no  more. 

The  constables  marched  in,  with 
puff  and  blow,  like  victors  over 
rebels,  and  as  if  they  had  carried  the 
prisoners  captive  every  yard  of  the 
way  from  Perlycross.  All  of  them 
began  to  talk  at  once,  and  to  describe 
with  more  vigour  than  truth  the  con- 
flict of  the  night  before.  But  Dr. 
Morshead  stopped  them  short,  for  the 
question  of  resistance  was  not  yet 
raised.  What  the  Bench  had  first  to 
decide  was  whether  a  case  could  be 
made  out  for  a  mittimus,  in  pursuance 
of  the  warrant,  to  the  next  Petty 
Sessions  on  Monday  ;  whence  the  pris- 
oners would  be  remitted  probably  to 
the  Quarter  Sessions. 

The  two  accused  stood  side  by  side, 
peaceful  and  decorous,  as  if  they  were 
accustomed  to  it,  and  without  any 
trepidation  admitted  their  identity. 
It  was  rather  against  their  interests 
that  the  official  clerk  was  absent  (this 
not  being  a  stated  meeting,  but  held 
for  special  purpose),  for  magistrates 
used  to  be  a  little  nervous  without 
their  proper  adviser ;  and  in  fear  of 
permitting  the  guilty  to  escape,  they 
sometimes  remanded  upon  insufficient 
grounds.  In  the  present  case,  there 
was  nothing  whatever  to  connect 
these  two  men  with  the  crime,  except 
the  testimony  of  Joe  Crang,  and  what 
might  be  regarded  as  their  own 
admission  overheard  by  Dr.  Fox. 
The  latter  was  not  in  court,  nor  likely 
so  to  be  ;  and  as  for  the  blacksmith's 
evidence,  however  positive  it  might 
be,  what  did  it  amount  to  ?  And  such 
as  it  was,  it  was  torn  to  rags  through 
the  quaking  of  the  deponent. 

For   a   sharp  little  lawyer  started 


10 


Perly  cross. 


up,  as  lawyers  are  sure  to  do  every- 
where, and  crossed  the  room  to  where 
Herniman  sat,  drumming  the  floor 
with  metallic  power  and  looking  very 
stolid.  But  a  glance  had  convinced 
the  keen  attorney  that  here  were  the 
brains  of  the  party,  and  a  few  short 
whispers  settled  it.  "Guinea,  if  'e 
gets  'em  off  ;  if  not,  ne'er  a  farden." 
"Right!"  said  the  lawyer,  and  an- 
nounced himself.  "  Blickson,  for  the 
defence,  your  Worships — Maurice 
Blickson  of  Silverton."  The  proper 
bows  were  interchanged,  and  then 
came  Crang's  excruciation.  Already 
this  sturdy  and  very  honest  fellow 
was,  as  he  elegantly  described  it,  in  a 
"  lantern-sweat  "  of  terror.  It  is  one 
thing  to  tell  a  tale  to  two  friends  in  a 
potato-field,  and  another  to  narrate 
the  same  on  oath,  with  four  or  five 
quills  making  unknown  strides,  two 
most  worshipful  signers  bending 
brows  of  doubt  upon  you,  and  thirty 
or  forty  faces  scowling  at  every 
word,  "  What  a  liar  you  be  ! "  And 
when  on  the  top  of  all  this  stands 
up  a  noble  gentleman,  with  keen 
eyes,  peremptory  voice,  contemptuous 
smiles,  and  angry  gestures,  all  ex- 
pressing his  Christian  sorrow  that  the 
devil  should  have  so  got  hold  of  you, 
— what  blacksmith,  even  of  poetic 
anvil  (whence  all  rhythm  and  metre 
spring),  can  have  any  breath  left  in 
his  own  bellows  ? 

Joe  Crang  had  fallen  on  his  knees 
to  take  the  oath,  as  witnesses  did, 
from  a  holy  belief  that  this  turned 
the  rungs  of  the  gallows  the  wrong 
way  :  and  then  he  had  told  his  little 
tale  most  sadly,  as  one  who  hopes 
never  to  be  told  of  it  again.  His 
business  had  thriven,  while  his  health 
was  undermined,  through  the  scores 
of  good  people  who  could  rout  up  so 
much  as  a  knife  that  wanted  a  rivet, 
or  even  a  boy  with  one  tooth  pushing 
up  another ;  and  though  none  of 
them  paid  more  than  fourpence  for 
things  that  would  last  them  a  fort- 
night to  talk  about,  their  money 
stayed  under  the  thatch,  while  Joe 
spent  nothing  but  a  wink  for  all  his 
beer.  But  ah,  this  was  no  winking- 


time  !  Crang  was  beginning  to  shuffle 
off,  with  his  knuckles  to  his  forehead, 
and  recovering  his  mind  so  loudly 
that  he  got  in  a  word  about  the 
quality  of  his  iron  (which  for  the  rest 
of  his  life  he  would  have  cited,  to 
show  how  he  beat  they  Justices), 
when  he  found  himself  recalled  and 
told  to  put  his  feet  together.  This, 
from  long  practise  of  his  art,  had 
become  a  difficulty  to  him,  and  in 
labouring  to  do  it  he  lost  all  possi- 
bility of  bringing  his  wits  into  the 
like  position.  This  order  showed 
Blickson  to  be  almost  a  Yerulam  in 
his  knowledge  of  mankind.  Joe 
Crang  recovered  no  self-possession,  on 
his  own  side  of  better  than  a  gallon 
strong.  "  Blacksmith,  what  o'clock 
is  it  now  1 "  Crang  put  his  ears  up, 
as  if  he  expected  the  church-clock  to 
come  to  his  aid ;  and  then  with  a 
rally  of  what  he  was  hoping  for,  as 
soon  as  he  got  round  the  corner, 
replied,  "Four  and  a  half,  your 
honour." 

"  I  need  not  remind  your  Worships," 
said  Blickson,  when  the  laughter  had 
subsided,  "  that  this  fellow's  evidence, 
even  if  correct,  proves  nothing  what- 
ever against  my  clients.  But  just  to 
show  what  it  is  worth,  I  will,  with 
your  Worships'  permission,  put  a 
simple  question  to  him.  He  has 
sworn  that  it  was  two  o'clock  on  a 
foggy  morning,  and  with  no  church- 
clock  to  help  him,  when  he  saw  in 
his  night-mare  this  ghostly  vision. 
Perhaps  he  should  have  said,  'four 
and  a  half  ',  which  in  broad  daylight 
is  his  idea  of  the  present  hour.  Now, 
my  poor  fellow,  did  you  swear,  or  did 
you  not,  on  a  previous  occasion  that 
one  of  the  men  who  so  terrified  you 
out  of  your  heavy  sleep,  was  Dr. 
James  Fox, — a  gentleman,  Dr.  Mors- 
head,  of  your  own  distinguished 
profession.  Don't  shuffle  with  your 
feet,  Crang,  nor  yet  with  your  tongue. 
Did  you  swear  that,  or  did  you  not  1 " 
"  Well,  if  I  did,  twadn't  arkerate." 
"In  plain  English,  you  perjured 
yourself  on  that  occasion.  And  yet 
you  expect  their  Worships  to  believe 
you  now !  Now  look  at  the  other 


Perlycross. 


11 


man,  the  tall  one.  By  which  of  his 
features  do  you  recognise  him  now,  at 
four  and  a  half  in  the  morning? " 

"  Dun'now  what  veitchers  be. 
Knows  'un  by  his  size,  and  manner 
of  standin'.  Should  like  to  hear  's 
voice,  if  no  object  to  you,  layyer." 

"  My  friend,  you  call  me  by  your 
own  name.  Such  is  your  confusion 
of  ideas.  Will  your  Worships  allow 
me  to  assist  this  poor  numskull  1  The 
great  Cornish  wrestler  is  here,  led  by 
that  noble  fraternal  feeling  which  is 
such  a  credit  to  all  men  distinguished 
in  any  walk  of  life.  Mr.  Polwarth 
of  Bodmin,  will  you  kindly  stand  by 
the  side  of  your  brother  in  a  very 
noble  art?"  ' 

It  was  worth  a  long  journey  in  bad 
woather  (as  Squire  Mockham  told  his 
guests  at  his  dinner-party  afterwards, 
and  Dr.  Morshead  and  his  son  con- 
firmed it,)  to  see  the  two  biggest 
growths  of  Devonshire  and  of  Corn- 
wall standing  thus  amicably  side  by 
side,  smiling  a  little  slyly  at  each 
other,  and  blinking  at  their  Worships 
with  some  abashment,  as  if  to 
say,  "This  is  not  quite  in  our  line." 
For  a  moment  the  audience  *  forgot 
itself,  and  made  itself  audible  with 
three  loud  cheers.  "  Silence  !  "  cried 
their  Worships,  but  not  so  very 
sternly.  "  Reckon,  I  could  drow  'e 
next  time,"  said  Cornwall.  "  Wun't 
zay  but  what  'e  maight,"  answered 
Devon  courteously. 

"  Now,  little  blacksmith,"  resumed 
the  lawyer,  though  Joe  Crang  was 
considerably  bigger  than  himself, 
"  will  you  undertake  to  swear,  upon 
your  hope  of  salvation,  which  of  those 
t\\  o  gentlemen  you  saw  that  night  ?  " 

Joe  Crang  stared  at  the  two  big 
men,  and  his  mind  gave  way  within 
him.  He  was  dressed  in  his  best,  and 
hi*  wife  had  polished  up  his  cheeks 
and  nose  with  yellow  soap,  which 
gleamed  across  his  vision  with  a  kind 
of  glaze,  and  therein  danced  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  the  figures  of  the  big  men, 
the  faces  of  their  Worships,  and  his 
own  hopes  of  salvation.  "  Maight  'a 
been  Carnisher,"  he  began  to  stammer, 
with  a  desire  to  gratify  his  county; 


but  a  hiss  went  round  the  room  from 
Devonian  sense  of  justice,  and  to 
strike  a  better  balance,  he  finished  in 
despair, — "  Wull  then,  it  waz  both 
on  'em." 

"  Stand  down,  sir  !  "  Dr.  Morshead 
shouted  sternly,  while  Blickson  went 
through  a  little  panorama  of  righteous 
astonishment  and  disgust.  All  the 
audience  roared,  and  a  solid  farmer 
called  out,  "  Don't  come  near  me,  you 
infernal  liar  !  "  as  poor  Crang  sought 
shelter  behind  his  top-coat.  So  much 
for  honesty,  simplicity,  and  candour, 
when  the  nervous  system  has  broken 
down  ! 

"  After  that,  I  should  simply  insult 
the  intelligence  of  your  Worships," 
continued  the  triumphant  lawyer, 
"  by  proceeding  to  address  you.  Per- 
haps I  should  ask  you  to  commit  that 
wretch  for  perjury  ;  but  I  leave  him 
to  his  conscience,  if  he  has  one." 

"  The  case  is  dismissed,"  Dr.  Mors- 
head announced,  after  speaking  for  a 
moment  to  his  colleagues;  "unless 
there  is  any  intention  to  charge  these 
men  with  resisting  or  assaulting  officers 
in  the  execution  of  their  warrant.  It 
has  been  reported,  though  not  formally, 
that  some  bystander  was  considerably 
injured.  If  any  charge  is  entered  on 
either  behalf,  we  are  ready  to  receive 
the  depositions." 

The  constables,  who  had  'been 
knocked  about,  were  beginning  to  con- 
sult together,  when  Blickson  slipped 
among  them,  after  whispering  to  Her- 
niman,  and  a  good  deal  of  nodding 
of  heads  took  place,  while  pleasant 
ideas  were  interchanged,  such  as, 
"  Handsome  private  compensation," — 
"Twenty-five  pounds  to  receive  to- 
night, and  such  men  are  always  gene- 
rous,"— "  A  magnificent  supper-party 
at  the  least,  if  they  are  free ;  if  not, 
all  must  come  to  nothing."  The 
worthy  custodians  (now  represented 
by  a  still  worthier  body  and  one  of 
still  finer  feeling)  perceived  the  full 
value  of  these  arguments  ;  and  luckily 
for  the  prisoners  Dr.  Gronow  was  not 
present,  being  sadly  occupied  at  Old 
Barn. 

"Although  there  is  no  charge,  and 


12 


Pcrlycross. 


no  sign  of  any  charge,  your  Worships, 
and  therefore  I  have  no  locus  standi," 
Mr.  Blickson  had  returned  to  his 
place,  and  adopted  an  airy  and  large- 
hearted  style,  "  I  would  crave  the  in- 
dulgence of  the  Bench  for  one  or  two 
quite  informal  remarks ;  my  object  be- 
ing to  remove  every  stigma  from  the 
characters  of  my  respected  clients. 
On  the  best  authority  I  may  state  that 
their  one  desire  and  intention  was  to 
surrender  like  a  pair  of  lambs  [at  this 
description  a  grin  went  round,  and  the 
learned  magistrates  countenanced  it], 
if  they  could  only  realise  the  nature 
of  the  charge  against  them.  But  when 
they  demanded,  like  Englishmen,  to 
know  why  their  liberty  should  be  sud- 
denly abridged,  what  happened  ?  No 
one  answered  them  !  All  those  ad- 
mirable men  were  doubtless  eager  to 
maintain  the  best  traditions  of  the 
law,  but  the  hurricane  out-roared 
them.  They  laboured  to  convey  their 
legal  message  ;  but  where  is  education 
in  a  whirl  like  that?  On  the  other 
hand,  one  of  these  law-abiding  men 
had  been  engaged  gloriously  in  main- 
taining the  athletic  honour  of  his 
county.  This  does  not  appear  to 
have  raised  in  him  at  all  the  pugna- 
city that  might  have  been  expected. 
He  strolled  into  the  market-place, 
partly  to  stretch  his  poor  bruised 
legs,  and  partly  perhaps  to  relieve 
his  mind,  which  men  of  smaller 
nature  would  have  done  by  tippling. 
Suddenly  he  is  surrounded  by  a  crowd 
of  very  strong  men  in  the  dark.  The 
Fair  has  long  been  over;  the  lights 
are  burning  low ;  scarcely  enough  of 
fire  in  them  to  singe  the  neck  of  an 
enterprising  member  of  our  brave  con- 
stabulary. In  the  thick  darkness  and 
hubbub  of  the  storm,  the  hero  who 
has  redeemed  the  belt,  and  therewith 
the  ancient  fame  of  our  county,  sup- 
poses, naturally  supposes,  charitable 
as  his  large  mind  is,  that  he  is  beset 
for  the  sake  of  the  money,  which  he 
has  not  yet  received,  but  intends  to 
distribute  so  freely  when  he  gets  it. 
The  time  of  this  honourable  Bench  is 
too  valuable  to  the  public  to  be  wasted 
over  any  descriptions  of  a  petty 


skirmish,  no  two  of  which  are  at 
all  alike.  My  large-bodied  client, 
the  mighty  wrestler,  might  have  been 
expected  to  put  forth  his  strength.  It 
is  certain  that  he  did  not  do  so.  The 
man  who  had  smitten  down  the  pride 
of  Cornwall,  would  strike  not  a  blow 
against  his  own  county.  He  gave  a 
playful  push  or  two,  a  chuck  under 
the  chin,  such  as  a  pretty  milkmaid 
gets  when  she  declines  a  sweeter 
touch.  I  marvel  at  his  wonderful 
self-control.  His  knuckles  were  shat- 
tered by  a  blow  from  a  staff  ;  like  a 
roof  in  a  hailstorm  his  great  chest 
rang  (for  the  men  of  Perliton  can  hit 
hard)  ;  yet  is  there  anything  to  show 
that  he  even  endeavoured  to  strike  in 
return?  And  how  did  it  end?  In 
the  very  noblest  way.  The  pastor  of 
the  village,  a  most  saintly  man  but 
less  than  an  infant  in  Harvey  Trem- 
lett's  hands,  appears  at  the  gate,  when 
there  is  no  other  let  or  hindrance  to 
the  freedom  of  a  Briton.  Is  he  thrust 
aside  rudely  ?  Is  he  kicked  out  of  the 
way  ?  Nay,  he  lays  a  hand  upon  the 
big  man's  breast,  the  hand  of  a  Minis- 
ter of  the  Cross.  He  explains  that 
the  law,  by  some  misapprehension,  is 
fain  to  apprehend  this  simple-minded 
hero.  The  nature  of  the  sad  mistake 
is  explained  ;  and  to  use  a  common 
metaphor,  which  excited  some  derision 
just  now,  but  which  I  repeat,  with 
facts  to  back  me, — gentle  as  a  lamb, 
yonder  lion  surrenders !  " 

"  The  lamb  is  very  fortunate  in  his 
shepherd,"  said  Dr.  Morshead  drily, 
as  Blickson  sat  down  under  general 
applause.  "But  there  is  nothing  be- 
fore the  Bench,  Mr.  Blickson.  What 
is  the  object  of  all  this  eloquence  ?  " 

"The  object  of  my  very  simple  nar- 
rative, your  Worships,  is  to  discharge 
my  plain  duty  to  my  clients.  I  would 
ask  this  Worshipful  Bench  not  only  to 
dismiss  a  very  absurd  application,  but 
also  to  add  their  most  weighty  opinions, 
that  Harvey  Tremlett  and  James 
Fox, — no,  I  beg  pardon,  that  was  the 
first  mistake  of  this  ever  erroneous 
blacksmith — James  Kettle,  I  should 
say,  have  set  a  fine  example  of  perfect 
submission  to  the  law  of  the  land." 


Perlycross. 


13 


"  Oh  come,  Mr.  Blickson,  that  is  out 
ol  the  record.  We  pronounce  no 
opinion  upon  that  point.  We  simply 
adjudge  that  the  case  be  now  dis- 
missed." 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

AN    INLAND    RUN. 

"WON'ERFUL  well  'e  doed  it,  sir. 
If  ever  I  gets  into  Queer  Street,  you 
be  the  one  to  get  me  out."  This  well- 
irerited  compliment  was  addressed  by 
Dick  Herniman  to  Attorney  Blickson, 
at  a  convivial  gathering  held  that 
same  afternoon  to  celebrate  the  above 
recorded  triumph  of  Astrsea.  The 
festal  party  had  been  convoked  at  the 
Wheatsheaf  Tavern  in  Perliton  Square, 
and  had  taken  the  best  room  in  the 
house,  looking  out  of  two  windows 
upon  that  noble  parallelogram,  which 
Perliton  never  failed  to  bring  with  it 
orally  when  it  condescended  to  visit 
Perlycross.  The  party  had  no  idea  of 
being  too  abstemious,  the  object  of  its 
existence  being  the  promotion,  as  well 
as  the  assertion,  of  the  liberty  of  the 
subject. 

Six  individuals  were  combining  for 
this  lofty  purpose,  to  wit  the  two 
gentlemen  so  unjustly  charged,  and 
their  stout  ally  of  high  artistic  stand- 
ir  g,  that  very  able  lawyer  who  had 
V]  ndicated  right ;  also  Captain  Timber - 
le  gs,  and  Horatio  Peckover  Esquire  ; 
a:  id  pleasant  it  is  as  well  as  strange 
to  add,  Master  Joseph  Crang  of 
Sisscot,  blacksmith,  farrier,  and 
engineer.  For  now  little  differences 
oi  opinion,  charges  of  perjury  and 
body-snatching,  assault  and  battery, 
and  general  malfeasance,  were  sunk 
ir  the  large  liberality  of  success,  the 
plenitude  of  John  Barleycorn,  and 
the  congeniality  of  cordials. 

That  a  stripling  like  the  Hopper 
should  be  present  was  a  proof  of  some 
f a  ilure  of  discretion  upon  his  part,  for 
which  he  atoned  by  a  tremendous  im- 
position ;  while  the  prudent  Pike  and 
the  modest  Mopuss  had  refused  with 
short  gratitude  this  banquet  and  gone 
h<  >me.  But  the  Hopper  regarded  him- 
self as  a  witness  (although  he  had  not 
been  called  upon)  in  right  of  his  re- 


searches at  Blackmarsh,  and  declared 
that  officially  he  must  hear  the  matter 
out,    for    an    explanation    had   been 
promised.      The   greater   marvel   was 
perhaps   that   Joe    Crang    should    be 
there,   after   all   the   lash   of   tongue 
inflicted    on    him.     But    when    their 
Worships  were  out  of  sight,  Blickson 
had    taken   him    by    the   hand   in    a 
truly  handsome  manner,  and  assured 
him  of  the  deep  respect  he  felt,  and 
ardent  admiration,   at  his  too   trans- 
parent     truthfulness.       Joe      Crang, 
whose  heart  was  very  sore,  had  shed 
a  tear  at  this  touching   tribute,  and 
was  fain  to  admit,  when  the  lawyer  put 
it  so,  that  he  was  compelled  in  his  own 
art  to  strike  the  finest  metal  the  hardest. 
So  now  all  six  were  in  very  sweet 
accord,   having   dined  well,  and    now 
refining  the  firmer  substances  into  the 
genial  flow.     Attorney  Blickson  was 
in    the   chair,   for  which  nature  had 
well   qualified    him ;  and    perhaps    in 
the   present   more    ethereal    age,    he 
might   have   presided   in  a  syndicate 
producing  bubbles  of  gold  and  purple, 
subsiding  into  a  bluer  tone.     For  this 
was  a  man  of  quick  natural  parts,  and 
gifted  in  many  ways  for  his  profession. 
Every  one  said  that  he  should   have 
been   a   barrister;  for   his   character 
would   not   have    mattered  so  much, 
when  he  went  from  one  town  to  an- 
other, and  above  all  to  such  a  place  as 
London,  where  they  think  but  little 
of    it.     If    he  could  only  stay  sober, 
and  avoid  promiscuous  company,  and 
make  up  his  mind  to  keep  his  hand 
out  of  quiet  people's  pockets,  and  do 
a  few  other  respectable  things,  there 
was  no  earthly  reason  that   any  one 
could  see  why  he  should  not  achieve 
fifty  guineas   a   day,  and   even    be  a 
match  for  Mopuss,  K.C.,  the  father  of 
Mr.  Penniloe's  fattest  pupil. 

"  This  honourable  company  has  a 
duty  now  before  it."  Mr.  Blickson 
drew  attention  by  rapping  on  the 
table,  and  then  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  with  a  long  pipe  rested  on  a 
bowl  of  punch,  or  rather  nothing  but 
a  punch-bowl  now.  On  his  right 
hand  sat  Herniman,  the  giver  of  the 
feast  (or  the  lender  at  least,  till  prize- 


Perlycross. 


money  came  to  fist),  and  on  the  other 
side  was  Tremlett,  held  down  by 
heavy  nature  from  the  higher  flights 
of  Bacchus,  because  no  bowl  was  big 
enough  to  make  him  drunk.  "  Yes, 
a  duty,  gentlemen,  which  I,  as  the 
representative  of  Law,  cannot  see 
neglected.  We  have  all  enjoyed  one 
another's  good  health,  in  the  way  in 
which  it  concerns  us  most;  we  have 
also  promoted,  by  such  prayers,  the 
weal  of  the  good  Squire  Mockham, 
and  that  of  another  gentleman,  who 
presented  himself  as  amicus  curice 
(gentlemen,  excuse  a  sample  of  my 
native  tongue),  a  little  prematurely 
perhaps  last  night,  and  left  us  to  sigh 
for  him  vainly  to-day.  I  refer  to  the 
gentleman  with  whom  another,  hap- 
pily now  present  and  the  soul  of  our 
party,  and  rejoicing  equally  in  the 
Scriptural  name  of  James,  was  identi- 
fied in  an  early  stage  of  this  still 
mysterious  history  by  one  of  the  most 
conscientious,  truthful  and  self-pos- 
sessed of  all  witnesses  I  have  ever  had 
the  honour  yet  of  handling  in  the  box. 
At  least  he  was  not  in  the  box,  be- 
cause there  was  none;  but  he  fully 
deserves  to  be  kept  in  a  box.  I  am 
sorry  to  see  you  smile  ;  at  my  pro- 
lixity I  fear,  therefore  I  will  relieve 
you  of  it.  Action  is  always  more 
urgent  than  words.  Duty  demands 
that  we  should  have  this  bowl  refilled. 
Pleasure,  which  is  the  fairer  sex  of 
duty,  as  every  noble  sailor  knows  too 
well,  awaits  us  next  in  one  of  her 
most  tempting  forms,  as  an  ancient 
poet  has  observed.  If  it  is  sweet  to 
witness  from  the  shore  the  travail  of 
another,  how  much  sweeter  to  have 
his  trials  brought  before  us  over  the 
flowing  bowl,  while  we  rejoice  in  his 
success  and  share  it.  Gentlemen,  I 
call  upon  Captain  Richard  Herniman 
for  his  promised  narrative  of  that 
great  expedition,  which  by  some  con- 
fusion of  the  public  mind  has  become 
connected  with  a  darker  enterprise. 
Captain  Richard  Herniman  to  the 
fore  !  " 

"  Bain't  no  Cappen,  and  bain't  got 
no  big  words,"  said  Timber-legged 
Dick,  getting  up  with  a  rattle  and 


standing  very  staunchly ;  "  but  can't 
refuse  this  here  gentleman  under  the 
circumstances.  And  every  word  as  I 
says  will  be  true." 

After  this  left-handed  compliment, 
received  with  a  cheer  in  which  the 
lawyer  joined,  the  ancient  salt  pre- 
mised that  among  good  friends  he 
relied  on  honour  bright  that  there 
should  be  no  dirty  turn.  To  this  all 
pledged  themselves  most  freely ;  and 
he,  trusting  rather  in  his  own  reserva- 
tions than  their  pledge  that  no  harm 
should  ever  come  of  it,  shortly  told 
his  story,  which  in  substance  was  as 
follows.  But  some  names  which  he 
omitted  have  been  filled  in,  now  that 
all  fear  of  inquiry  is  over. 

In  the  previous  September,  when 
the  nights  were  growing  long,  a 
successful  run  across  the  Channel  had 
been  followed  by  a  peaceful,  and  well- 
conducted,  landing  at  a  lonely  spot  on 
the  Devonshire  coast,  where  that 
pretty  stream  the  Otter  flows  into  the 
sea.  That  part  of  the  shore  was  very 
slackly  guarded  then ;  and  none  of 
the  authorities  got  scent,  while  scent 
was  hot,  of  this  cordial  international 
transaction.  Some  of  these  genuine 
wares  found  a  home  promptly  and 
pleasantly  in  the  neighbourhood, 
among  farmers,  tradesmen,  squires, 
and  others,  including  even  some  loyal 
rectors,  and  zealous  Justices  of  the 
Peace,  or  perad venture  their  wives 
and  daughters  capable  of  minding 
their  own  keys.  Some,  after  dwelling 
in  caves,  or  furze-ricks,  barns,  potato- 
buries,  or  hollow  trees,  went  inland, 
or  to  Sidmouth,  or  Seaton,  or  any- 
where else  where  a  good  tax-payer 
had  plastered  up  his  windows,  or  put 
"Dairy  "  on  the  top. 

But  the  prime  of  the  cargo,  and  the 
very  choicest  goods,  such  as  fine 
Cognac,  rich  silk  and  rare  lace,  too 
good  for  pedlars  and  too  dear  for 
country  churches,  still  remained  stored 
away  very  snugly  in  some  old  dry 
cellars  beneath  the  courtyard  of  a 
ruined  house  at  Budleigh ;  where 
nobody  cared  to  go  poking  about, 
because  the  old  gentleman  who  lived 
there  once  had  been  murdered  nearly 


15 


thirty  years  ago  for  informing  against 
smugglers,  and  was  believed  to  be  in 
the  habit  of  walking  there  now. 
These  shrewd  men  perceived  how  just 
it  was  that  he  should  stand  guard  in 
tte  spirit  over  that  which  in  the  flesh 
ho  had  betrayed,  especially  as  his 
treason  had  been  caused  by  dissatisfac- 
tion with  his  share  in  a  very  fine 
contraband  venture.  Much  was  now 
committed  to  his  posthumous  sense  of 
honour ;  for  the  free-traders  vowed 
that  they  could  make  a  thousand 
pounds  of  these  choice  wares  in  any 
wealthy  town,  like  Bath,  or  Bristol, 
01  even  Weymouth,  then  more 
fashionable  than  it  is  now. 

But  suddenly  their  bright  hopes 
wore  dashed.  Instead  of  reflecting  on 
the  value  of  these  goods,  they  were 
forced  to  take  hasty  measures  for 
their  safety.  A  very  bustling  man  of 
a  strange  suspicious  turn,  as  dry  as 
a  mull  of  snuff  and  as  rough  as  a 
nutmeg-grater,  in  a  word  a  Scotchman 
out  of  sympathy  with  the  natives, 
WHS  appointed  to  the  station  at 
Siimouth,  and  before  he  unpacked  his 
clothes  began  to  rout  about,  like  a 
dog  who  has  been  trained  to  hunt  for 
morels.  Very  soon  he  came  across 
some  elegant  French  work  in  cottages, 
or  fishers'  huts,  or  on  the  necks  of 
milkmaids;  and  nothing  would  con- 
teat  him  until  he  had  discovered, 
even  by  such  deep  intriguery  as  the 
distribution  of  lollipops,  the  history  of 
the  recent  enterprise. 

"Let  bygones  be  bygones,"  would 
have  been  the  Christian  sentiment  of 
any  new-comer  at  all  connected  with 
th  3  district ;  and  Sandy  MacSpudder 
must  have  known  quite  well  that  his 
curiosity  was  in  the  worst  of  taste, 
and  the  result  too  likely  to  cast 
discredit  on  his  own  predecessor,  who 
w<s  threatening  to  leave  the  world 
jut.t  then  with  a  large  family  unpro- 
vided for.  Yet  such  was  this  Scotch- 
ed jn's  pertinacity  and  push,  that  even 
thu)  little  quiet  village  of  Budleigh, 
wlich  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  listen 
to  its  own  brook  prattling  to  the 
gently  smiling  valley,  even  this  rose- 
f ringed  couch  of  peace  was  ripped  up 


by  the  slashing  of  this  rude  lieutenant's 
cutlass.  A  spectre,  even  of  the  best 
Devonian  antecedents,  was  of  less 
account  than  a  scarecrow  to  this 
matter-of-fact  Lowlander.  "  A'  can 
smell  a  rat  in  that  ghostie,"  was  his 
profane  conclusion. 

This  put  the  spirited  free-traders  on 
their  mettle.  Fifty  years  ago  that 
Scotch  interloper  would  have  learned 
the  restful  qualities  of  a  greener  sod 
than  his.  But  it  is  of  interest  to 
observe  how  the  English  nature  soft- 
ened when  the  smiting  times  had 
lapsed.  It  scarcely  occurred  to  this 
gentler  generation  that  a  bullet  from 
behind  a  rock  would  send  this  spry 
inquirer  to  solve  larger  questions  on 
his  own  account.  Savage  brutality 
had  less  example  now. 

The  only  thing  therefore  was  to 
over-reach  this  man.  He  was  watch- 
ing all  the  roads  along  the  coast  to 
east  and  west ;  but  to  guard  all  the 
tangles  of  the  inward  roads  and  the 
blessed  complexity  of  Devonshire  lanes 
would  have  needed  an  army  of  pure 
natives.  Whereas  this  busy  foreigner 
placed  no  faith  in  any  man  born  in 
that  part  of  the  world,  such  was  his 
judgment,  and  had  called  for  a  draft 
of  fellows  having  different  vowels. 

This  being  so,  it  served  him  right 
to  be  out-witted  by  the  thick  heads  he 
despised.  And  he  had  made  such  a 
fuss  about  it  at  head-quarters,  and 
promised  such  wonders  if  the  case 
were  left  to  him,  that  when  he  cap- 
tured nothing  but  a  string  of  worn-out 
kegs  filled  with  diluted  sheep-wash,  he 
not  only  suffered  for  a  week  from 
gastric  troubles  through  his  noseless 
hurry  to  identify  Cognac,  but  also 
received  a  stinging  reprimand,  and  an 
order  for  removal  to  a  very  rugged 
coast,  where  he  might  be  more  at 
home  with  the  language  and  the 
manners.  And  his  predecessor's  son 
obtained  that  sunny  situation.  Thus 
is  zeal  rewarded  always,  when  it  does 
not  spell  success. 

None  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that 
the  simple  yet  masterly  stratagem, 
by  means  of  which  the  fair  western 
county  vindicated  its  commercial  rights 


16 


Perlycross. 


against  northern  arrogance  and  ignoble 
arts,  was  the  invention  of  a  British 
Tar,  an  old  Agamemnon,  a  true  heart 
of  oak,  re-membered  also  in  the  same 
fine  material.  The  lessons  of  Nelson 
had  not  been  thrown  away;  this 
humble  follower  of  that  great  hero 
first  misled  the  adversary,  and  then 
broke  his  line.  Invested  as  he  was 
by  superior  forces  seeking  access  even 
to  his  arsenal,  he  despatched  to  the 
eastward  a  lumbering  craft,  better 
known  to  landsmen  as  a  waggon, 
heavily  laden  with  straw  newly 
threshed,  under  which  was  stowed  a 
tier  of  ancient  kegs  which  had  under- 
gone too  many  sinkings  in  the  sea 
(when  a  landing  proved  unsafe)  to  be 
trusted  any  more  with  fine  contents. 
Therefore  they  now  contained  sheep- 
wash,  diluted  from  the  brook  to  the 
complexion  of  old  brandy.  In  the 
loading  of  this  waggon  special  mystery 
was  observed,  which  did  not  escape 
the  vigilance  of  the  keen  lieutenant's 
watchmen.  With  a  pair  of  good 
farm-horses,  and  a  farm-lad  on  the 
ridge  of  the  load,  and  a  heavy  fellow 
whistling  not  too  loudly  on  the  lade- 
rail,  this  harmless  car  of  fictitious 
Bacchus,  crowned  by  effete  Ceres, 
wended  its  rustic  way  towards  the 
lowest  bridge  of  the  Otter,  a  classic 
and  idyllic  stream.  These  two  men, 
of  pastoral  strain  and  richest  breadth 
of  language,  received  orders  of  a 
simplicity  almost  equal  to  their  own. 
No  sooner  was  this  waggon  lost  to 
sight  and  hearing  in  the  thick  October 
night,  and  the  watchmen  speeding  by 
the  short  cuts  to  report  it,  than  a 
long  light  cart,  with  a  strong  out- 
stepping horse,  came  down  the  wooded 
valley  to  the  ghostly  court.  In  half 
an  hour  it  was  packed  and  started 
inland,  passing  the  birthplace  of  a 
very  great  man,  straight  away  to 
Farringdon  and  Rockbear,  with  orders 
to  put  up  at  Clist  Hidon  before  day- 
light, where  lived  a  farmer  who  would 
harbour  them  securely.  On  the  fol- 
lowing night  they  were  to  make  their 
way,  after  shunning  Cullompton,  to 
the  shelter  in  Blackmarsh,  where  they 
would  be  safe  from  all  intrusion  and 


might  await  fresh  instructions,  which 
would  take  them  probably  towards 
Bridg water  and  Bristol.  By  friendly 
ministrations  of  the  Whetstone  men, 
who  had  some  experience  in  trade  of 
this  description,  all  this  was  managed 
with  the  best  success.  Jem  Kettle 
knew  the  country  roads  by  dark  as 
well  as  daylight,  and  Harvey  Tremlett 
was  not  a  man  to  be  collared  very 
easily.  In  fact,  without  that  sad 
mishap  to  their  very  willing  and  active 
nag,  they  might  have  fared  through 
Perlycross,  as  they  had  through  other 
villages  where  people  wooed  the  early 
pillow,  without  a  trace  or  dream  of 
any  secret  treasure  passing. 

Meanwhile  that  pure  and  earnest 
Scotchman  was  enjoying  his  own  acute- 
ness.  He  allowed  that  slowly  rolling 
waggon  of  the  Eleusine  dame  to  pro- 
ceed some  miles  upon  its  course  before 
his  men  stood'?  at  the  horses'  heads. 
There  was  wisdom  in  this,  as  well  as 
pleasure  (the  joy  a  cat  prolongs  with 
mouse),  inasmuch  as  all  these  good 
things  were  approaching  his  own  den 
of  spoil.  When  the  Scotchmen  chal- 
lenged the  Devonshire  swains,  with 
flourish  of  iron  and  of  language  even 
harder,  an  interpreter  was  sorely 
needed.  Not  a  word  could  the  North- 
men understand  that  came  from  the 
broad  soft  Southron  tongues ;  while 
the  Devonshire  men  feigning,  as  they 
were  bidden,  to  take  them  for  high- 
waymen, feigned  also  not  to  know  a 
syllable  of  what  they  said. 

This  led,  as  it  was  meant  to  do,  to 
very  lavish  waste  of  time  and  incre- 
ment of  trouble.  The  carters  instead 
of  lending  hand  for  the  unloading  of 
their  waggon,  sadly  delayed  that 
operation,  by  shouting  out  "  thaves  !  " 
at  the  top  of  their  voice,  tickling 
their  horses  into  a  wild  start  now  and 
then,  and  rolling  the  Preventive  men 
off  at  the  tail.  MacSpudder  himself 
had  a  narrow  escape ;  for  just  when 
he  chanced  to  be  between  two  wheels, 
both  of  them  set  off  without  a  word 
of  notice  ;  and  if  he  had  possessed  at 
all  a  western  body,  it  would  have  been 
run  over.  Being  made  of  corkscrew 
metal  by  hereditary  right  he  wriggled 


Perlycross. 


17 


out  as  sound  as  ever  ;  and  looked  for- 
ward all  the  more  to  the  solace  under- 
lying this  reluctant  pile,  as  dry  as  any 
of  his  own  components. 

Nothing  but  his  own  grunts  can 
properly  express  the  fattening  of  his 
self-esteem  (the  whole  of  which  was 
home-fed)  when  his  men,  without  a 
fork  (for  the  Boreal  mind  had  never 
thought  of  that)  hut  with  a  great 
many  chops  of  knuckles  (for  the  skin 
of  straw  is  tougher  than  a  Scotch- 
man's) found  their  way  at  midnight, 
like  a  puzzled  troop  of  divers,  into 
the  reef  at  bottom  of  the  sheafy 
billows.  Their  throats  were  in  a 
hu&ky  state,  from  chaff  too  penetrative 
and  barn-dust  over  volatile,  and  they 
risked  their  pulmonary  weal  by  open- 
ing a  too  sanguine  cheer. 

'•Duty  compels  us  to  test  the  staple," 
the  officer  in  command  decreed  ;  and 
many  mouths  gaped  round  the  glow  of 
his  bullseye.  "Don't  'ee  titch  none 
of  that  there  wassh,"  the  benevolent 
Devonians  exclaimed  in  vain.  Want 
of  faith  prevailed ;  every  man  suspected 
the  verdict  of  his  predecessor,  and 
even  his  own  at  first  swallow.  If 
Timber-legged  Dick  could  have  timed 
the  issue,  what  a  landing  he  might 
have  made !  For  the  coast-guard 
tested  staple  so  that  twenty  miles 
of  coast  were  left  free  for  fifty  hours. 

Having  told  these  things  in  his 
gravest  manner,  Herniman,  who  so 
wel]  combined  the  arts  of  peace  and 
war,  filled  another  pipe  and  was  open 
to  inquiry.  Everybody  accepted  his 
narrative  with  pleasure,  and  heartily 
wished  him  another  such  a  chance  of 
directing  fair  merchandise  along  the 
lanes  of  luck.  The  blacksmith  alone 
had  some  qualms  of  conscience  for 
apparent  backslidings  from  the  true 
faith  of  free-trade.  But  they  clapped 
him  on  the  back,  and  he  promised 
with  a  gulp  that  he  never  would 
peep  into  a  Liberal  van  again. 

"  There  is  one  thing  not  quite  clear 
to  me,"  said  the  Hopper,  when  the 
man  of  iron  was  settled  below  the 
table,  whereas  the  youth  had  kept 
himself  in  trim  for  steeeplechasing. 

.No.  415. — VOL.  LXX. 


"What  could  our  friend  have  seen  in 
that  vehicle  of  free-trade,  to  make  him 
give  that  horrible  account  of  its  con- 
tents ?  And  again,  why  did  Mr. 
Harvey  Tremlett  carry  off  that  tool 
of  his  which  I  found  in  the  water  1 " 

With  a  wave  of  his  hand,  for  his 
tongue  had  now  lost,  by  one  of  nature's 
finest  arrangements,  the  copiousness 
of  the  morning,  whereas  a  man  of 
sober  silence  would  now  have  bloomed 
into  fluency,  the  chairman  deputed  to 
Herniman  and  Tremlett  the  honour  of 
replying  to  the  Hopper. 

"  You  see,  sir,"  said  the  former,  "  it 
was  just  like  this.  We  was  hurried 
so  in  stowing  cargo,  that  some  of  the 
finest  laces  in  the  world,  such  as  they 
calls  Valentines,  worth  maybe  fifty  or 
a  hundred  pounds  a  yard,  was  shot 
into  the  hold  anyhow  among  a  lot  of 
silks  and  so  on.  Harvey  and  Jemmy 
was  on  honour  to  deliver  goods  as  they 
received  them  ;  blacksmith  seed  some 
of  this  lace  a'flappin'  under  black  tar- 
porly  ;  and  he  knowed  as  your  poor 
Squire  had  been  figged  out  for  's  last 
voyage  with  same  sort  of  stuff,  only 
not  so  good.  A  clever  old  'ooman 
maketh  some  to  Perlycrass  ;  Honiton 
lace  they  calls  it  here.  What  could 
a'  think  but  that  Squire  was  there  ? 
Reckon  Master  Crang  would  a'  told  'e 
this,  if  so  be  a'  hadn't  had  a  little 
drap  too  much." 

"Thou  bee'st  a  liar!  Han't  had 
half  enough,  I  tell  'e,"  the  black- 
smith from  under  the  table  replied, 
and  then  rolled  away  into  a  bellowsful 
of  snores. 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  said  Peckover.  "  I 
see  now.  Tamsin  Tamlin's  work  it 
was.  Sergeant  Jakes  told  me  all 
about  it.  With  all  the  taJfe  there  had 
been  of  robbing  graves,  and  two  men 
keeping  in  the  dark  so,  no  wonder 
Crang  thought  what  he  did.  Many 
people  went  to  see  that  lace,  I  heard  ; 
and  they  said  it  was  too  good  to  go 
underground :  though  nothing  could 
be  too  good  for  the  Squire.  Well 
now,  about  that  other  thing,  why  did 
Mr.  Tremlett  make  off  with  little 
Billy?" 

c 


18 


Perlycross. 


"  Can't  tell  'e,  sir,  very  much  about 
'un,"  the  wrestler  answered,  with  a 
laugh  at  the  boy's  examination. 
"  Happen  I  tuk  'un  up,  a'veelin'  of 
'un  to  frighten  blacksmith  maybe ; 
and  then  I  vancied  a'  maight  come 
ooseful  if  nag's  foot  went  wrong  again. 
Then  when  nag  gooed  on  all  right,  I 
just  chucked  'un  into  a  pool  of  watter, 
for  to  kape  'un  out  'o  sight  of  twisty 
volk.  Ort  more  to  zatisfy  this  young 
gent?" 

"  Yes.  I  am  a  twisty  folk,  I  sup- 
pose. Unless  there  is  any  objection, 
I  should  like  very  much  to  know  why 
Dr.  Fox  was  sent  on  that  fool's  errand 
to  the  pits." 

"  Oh,  I  can  tell  'e  that,  sir,"  replied 
Jem  Kettel,  for  the  spirit  of  the  lad, 
and  his  interest  in  their  doings,  had 
made  him  a  favourite  with  the  present 
company.  "  It  were  one  of  my  mates 
as  took  too  much  trouble.  He  were 
appointed  to  meet  us  at  the  cornder 
of  the  four  roads,  an  hour  afore  that 
or  more ;  and  he  got  in  a  bit  of  a 
skear,  it  seems,  not  knowing  why  we 
was  so  behindhand.  But  he  knowed 
Dr.  Yox,  and  thought  'un  better  out 
o'  way,  being  such  a  sharp  chap  and 
likely  to  turn  meddlesome.  He  didn't 
want  'un  to  hang  about  up  street  as  a' 
maight  with  some  sick  'ooman,  and  so 
he  zent  un'  t'other  road  to  tend  a  little 
haxident.  "Wouldn't  do  he  no  harm, 
a'  thought,  and  might  zave  us  some 
bother.  But,  Lord !  if  us  could  have 
only  knowed  the  toorn  your  volk 
would  putt  on  it,  I  reckon  us  should 
have  roared  and  roared  all  droo  the 
strates  of  Per ly crass.  Vainest  joke 
as  ever  coom  to  my  hearin',  or  ever 
wull,  however  long  the  Lord  kapeth  me 
a'livin'.  And  to  think  of  Jem  Kettel 
being  sworn  to  for  a  learned  doctor  ! 
Never  had  no  teethache  I  han't,  since 


the  day  I  heered  on  it."  A  hearty 
laugh  was  held  to  be  a  sovereign  cure 
for  toothache  then,  and  perhaps  would 
be  so  still  if  the  patient  could  accom- 
plish it. 

"  Well,  so  far  as  that  goec,  you 
have  certainly  got  the  laugh  of  us," 
Master  Peckover  admitted,  not  for- 
getting that  he  himself  came  in  for  as 
much  as  any  one.  "  But  come  now, 
as  you  are  so  sharp,  just  give  me 
your  good  opinion ;  and  you  being 
all  along  the  roads  that  night,  ought 
to  have  seen  something.  Who  were 
the  real  people  in  that  horrid  busi- 
ness 3" 

"  The  Lord  in  heaven  knoweth,  sir," 
said  Trernlett  very  solemnly.  "  Us 
passed  in  front  of  Perlycrass  church 
about  dree  o'clock  of  the  morning. 
Nort  were  doing  then,  or  us  could 
scarcely  have  helped  hearing  of  it. 
Even  if  'em  heered  our  wheels,  and  so 
got  out  of  sight,  I  reckon  us  must  'a 
seed  the  earth-heap,  though  moon  were 
gone  a  good  bit  afore  that.  And 
zim'th  there  waz  no  harse  there.  A 
harse  will  sing  out  a' most  always  to 
another  harse  at  night,  when  a' 
heareth  of  him  coming  and  a'  stand eth 
lonely.  Us  met  na woody  from  Perly- 
crass to  Blackmarsh.  As  to  us  and 
Clam-pit  volk,  zoonder  would  us  goo 
to  gallows  than  have  ort  to  say  to 
grave-work.  And  gallows  be  too  good 
for  'un,  accardin'  my  opinion.  But 
gen'lemen,  afore  us  parts,  I  wants  to 
drink  the  good  health  of  the  best  man 
I've  a  knowed  on  airth.  Bain't 
saying  much  perhaps,  for  my  ways 
hath  been  crooked-like.  But  maketh 
any  kearless  chap  belave  in  good 
above  'un,  when  a  hap'th  acrass  a 
man  as  thinketh  nort  of  his  own  zell 
but  gi'eth  his  life  to  other  volk.  God 
bless  Passon  Penniloe  !  " 


(To  be  continued.) 


19 


THE  PARLIAMENTS  AND  MINISTRIES  OF    THE  CENTURY, 


r.CHE  British  Constitution  is  the 
grandest  example  of  the  type  which  is 
not  made  but  grows.  It  knows  not 
the  day  of  its  nativity ;  it  came  not 
forth  into  the  world  full-blown  from 
socie  ingenious  and  constructive  brain  ; 
its  natural  elasticity  has  never  been 
cor  fined  within  the  range  of  any  docu- 
ment. It  is  an  accretion  of  accumu- 
lated custom  and  tradition,  "  broad- 
ening down  from  precedent  to  prece- 
dent," and  undergoing  changes  which 
are  not  the  less  sure  because  they 
make  no  stir.  It  is,  in  a  word,  what 
jurists  have  agreed  to  call  a  flexible 
and  not  a  rigid  constitution.  It  is  then 
only  natural  to  suppose  that  within 
the  present  century  time's  "  thievish 
progress"  has  left  its  mark  upon  it. 
Tho  great  central  institutions  stand 
apparently  unmoved,  but  the  stream 
of  time  runs  on,  and  slowly  but  surely 
tells  upon  the  fabric.  It  looks  out- 
wardly the  same,  but  the  careful  eye 
can  detect  the  changes  which  do  not 
lie  upon  the  surface.  The  present  Par- 
liament is  the  twenty-fifth  of  the 
United  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ire  and.  We  have  therefore  had  an 
experience  of  nearly  a  century  of  such 
Parliaments,  and  it  maybe  interesting 
to  i  ake  a  rapid  glance  backwards,  and 
see  what  can  be  gleaned  from  such  a 
survey  of  the  now  closing  century  of 
our  parliamentary  history. 

Something  in  the  first  place  must  be 
said  of  the  relative  durations  of  Par- 
liaments and  Ministries.  It  will  have 
been  observed  that  the  twenty-five 
Parliaments  of  the  century  have  had 
an  average  life  of  about  four  years 
apiece.  But  their  respective  fates 
have  been  curiously  divergent.  A  few 
have  lived  to  a  green  old  age,  while  of 
othors  the  thin-spun  thread  has  been 
early  cut.  Three  only  have  lasted  over 
six  years,  and  only  seven  over  five  ;  so 


that  the  proportion  of  long-lived  Par- 
liaments is  comparatively  small.  In 
three  cases  life  has  failed  to  reach  a 
single  year.  Having  regard  to  the 
average  it  may  be  said  that  the 
Septennial  Act  has  proved  of  much 
less  importance  than  might  have  been 
predicted.  For  many  years,  indeed, 
during  the  reign  of  George  the  Third 
it  was  a  common  thing  for  Parliaments 
to  die  a  natural  death,  but  things  are 
now  so  altered,  that  the  advocates  of 
triennial  Parliaments  would  gain  little 
satisfaction  by  the  change.  Contempo- 
raneously with  these  twenty-five  Par- 
liaments there  have  been  up  to  the 
time  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  retirement  a 
succession  of  twenty-nine  Ministries  ; 
but  after  making  due  allowance  for 
reconstructions,  and  for  the  fact  that 
prior  to  the  Reform  Act  of  1867  a  dis- 
solution followed  upon  the  demise  of 
the  Crown,  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
number  of  Ministries  and  Parliaments 
has  been  about  the  same,  and  it  may 
be  said  generally  that  each  Parliament 
has  had  its  separate  Ministry.  The 
one  great  exception  was  that  of  the 
Earl  of  Liverpool  who  took  the  reins 
of  government  in  1812,  and  continued 
to  hold  them  for  a  space  of  fourteen 
years,  during  which  period  no  less 
than  four  Parliaments  were  elected. 
It  was  a  singular  exception  which  was 
due  to  the  peculiar  conditions  of  the 
time,  and  it  is  not  likely  to  recur 
again.  The  relation  of  Ministries 
and  Parliaments,  and  the  intimate 
dependence  of  the  former  upon  the 
latter  could  not  be  better  illustrated 
than  by  a  careful  observation  of  their 
contemporaneous  histories.  An  old 
Ministry  will  sometimes  meet  a  new 
Parliament,  and  a  new  Parliament 
will  sometimes  grudgingly  support  an 
old  Ministry,  but  as  a  general  rule 
they  may  be  said  to  rise  and  fall  to- 

c  2 


The  Parliaments  and  Ministries  of  the  Century. 


gether.  Each  Parliament  is  too  jealous 
to  tolerate  any  creation  but  its  own. 

A  brief  and  rapid  sketch  of  the 
Parliaments  and  Ministries,  sufficient 
to  bring  into  relief  their  salient  char- 
acteristics, will  enable  us  to  trace  the 
changes  which  have  crept  into  the 
spirit  and  the  working  of  our  parlia- 
mentary institutions. 

The  first  Parliament  of  the  United 
Kingdom,  which  was  merely  the  con- 
tinued existence  of  one  elected  in  1796, 
met  in  January  1801,  arid  was  dis- 
solved in  the  autumn  of  the  following 
year.  Pitt  was  at  this  time  the 
one  indispensable  man  who  alike  pos- 
sessed the  King's  confidence  and  the 
capacity  to  govern.  Addington  tried 
to  do  it  for  a  while,  but  Pitt  alone  was 
equal  to  the  times,  and  he  was  Premier 
when  he  sank  beneath  the  cares  of 
office  in  1806.  This  was  a  year  which 
was  marked  by  events  of  great  con- 
stitutional importance.  It  was  then, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  rise  of  Pitt 
in  1783,  and  for  the  last  time  until 
1830,  that  the  Whigs  held  oflBce.  As 
Byron  wittily  put  it, 

Nought's  permanent  among  the  human 

race, 
Except  the  Whigs  not  getting  into  place. 

Those  who  are  accustomed  to  the 
present  uniform  swing  of  the  pendu- 
lum from  one  side  to  the  other, 
may  well  reflect  with  amazement  upon 
a  time  when  one  of  the  great  parties 
in  the  State,  with  one  brief  exception, 
was  excluded  from  office  for  nearly 
half  a  century.  It  is  a  fact  which  is 
eloquent  with  a  meaning.  This  Whig 
Ministry,  the  "  Ministry  of  all  the 
Talents,"  with  Lord  Grenville  as 
Premier  and  Fox  as  Foreign  Secre- 
tary,  had  a  very  brief  existence.  They 
proposed  a  measure  of  Catholic  Relief. 
The  King  not  only  forbade  them  to 
introduce  the  Bill,  or  even  to  offer 
him  any  advice  upon  the  subject,  but 
also  endeavoured  to  extort  from  them 
a  pledge  that  they  would  never  presume 
to  do  so  again.  They  refused,  were 
dismissed,  and  a  Tory  Ministry  with 
the  Duke  of  Portland  at  its  head  was 


appointed  in  their  place.  It  was  in 
this  government,  it  may  be  noted,  that 
Lord  Palmerston,  then  a  young  man 
of  twenty-three,  held  his  first  office  as 
a  Lord  of  the  Admiralty.  This  Ministry 
immediately  advised  a  dissolution,  and 
taking  advantage  of  the  favouring 
breezes  of  the  hour,  they  succeeded  in 
obtaining  a  substantial  majority. 
Then  ensued  in  home  politics  a  long 
period  of  monotonous  routine.  If  the 
administration  was  safe,  it  certainly 
was  dull.  It  was  an  age  of  respect- 
able mediocrities.  Burke's  stately 
eloquence,  Fox's  generous  ardour,  and 
Pitt's  administrative  genius,  were  a 
memory  to  treasure,  and  that  was  all. 
When  the  mantles  fell,  there  were 
none  to  take  them  up.  The  Duke  of 
Portland  died  in  1809,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  Spencer  Perceval,  a  conscien- 
tious minister,  whose  useful  services 
did  not  screen  him  from  the  gibes  of 
the  malicious  and  the  witty.  It  was 
recorded  to  his  credit  that  he  was 
"  faithful  to  Mrs.  Perceval  and  kind 
to  the  Master  Percevals  "  ;  but  it  was 
somewhat  cruelly  added  that  "if 
public  and  private  virtues  must  always 
be  incompatible,"  it  were  better  that 
"  he  destroyed  the  domestic  happiness 
of  Wood  or  Cockell,  owed  for  the  veal 
of  the  preceding  year,  whipped  his 
boys,  and  saved  his  country."  Per- 
ceval was  assassinated  in  the  lobby  of 
the  House  in  1812,  and  for  nearly 
fifteen  years  the  country  submitted 
to  the  soporific  rule  of  the  "  arch- 
mediocrity,"  the  industrious  Earl  of 
Liverpool.  He  retired  from  ill  health 
in  1827,  and  was  succeeded  by  the 
brilliant  and  meteoric  Canning,  who 
at  least  for  his  contributions  to  The 
Anti-Jacobin  will  always  find  a  grateful 
posterity.  A  few  months  of  office 
killed  him,  and  Lord  Goderich,  whom 
Disraeli  dubbed  the  "  transient  and 
embarrassed  phantom,"  took  for  a 
time  the  vacant  place.  He  made 
way  for  the  Duke  of  Wellington  in 
1828,  and  for  the  first  and  last  time 
a  great  soldier  became  Prime  Minister 
of  England.  For  nearly  three  years 
he  saw  to  it  that  the  King's  govern- 


The  Parliaments  and  Ministries  of  the  Century. 


meat  should  be  carried  on,  and  his 
administration  was  marked  by  an 
event  of  great  constitutional  import- 
ance, the  passing  of  the  Act  for 
Catholic  Emancipation.  It  was  an 
event  of  great  moment  in  itself,  for  it 
closed  a  conflict  which  had  lasted  for 
nearly  a  generation.  But  the  over- 
whelming interest  excited  by  the  pass- 
ing of  the  Act  has  thrown  into  the 
shade  an  aspect  of  the  case  which 
is  equally  important.  George  the 
Fourth  yielded  where  George  the 
Third  had  stood  firm,  and  in  surren- 
dering the  position,  he  marked,  as  will 
be  seen,  the  final  consummation  of  a 
change  in  our  constitutional  practice 
which  had  long  been  impending. 

The  long  period  of  repression  and 
reaction  which  had  followed  the  ex- 
ces^es  of  the  French  Revolution,  and 
which  had  thrown  Liberalism  back- 
wards for  nearly  half  a  century,  was 
now  drawing  to  a  close.  The  spirit 
of  innovation  was  everywhere  abroad, 
and  the  Don  Quixotes  of  Conservatism 
began  to  labour  heavily  beneath  the 
cuDibrous  armour  of  a  bygone  age. 
The  new  Parliament  of  1830  con- 
tained a  majority  favourable  to  reform. 
Th((  Duke  of  Wellington  resigned,  and 
Earl  Grey  formed  a  Whig  administra- 
tion. The  events  which  followed  are 
too  well  known  to  need  to  be  repeated 
here.  For  our  present  purpose  it  is 
enough  to  note  that  Earl  Grey  success- 
fully appealed  to  the  country  in  1831, 
and  after  a  great  historic  conflict  with 
the  Lords  passed  the  first  Reform  Bill 
into  law.  Earl  Grey  retired  in  1834, 
and  Lord  Melbourne  took  his  place. 
This  amiable  and  easy  peer,  the  "in- 
dolont  Epicurean,"  who  was  content 
"to  saunter  over  the  destinies  of  a 
nation  and  lounge  away  the  glory  of 
an  empire,"  had  not  held  office  many 
months  when  William  the  Fourth  used 
his  prerogative  in  a  way  of  which 
something  will  presently  be  said.  He 
believed,  or  affected  to  believe,  that 
the  Commons  did  not  truly  represent 
the  opinion  of  the  country.  He  dis- 
missed the  Whig  Ministry  and  sent 
for  Sir  Robert  Peel,  who  advised  a 


dissolution.  But  the  King  was  wrong, 
and  Peel,  rather  than  meet  a  hostile 
majority  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
resigned.  Lord  Melbourne  returned 
to  power  and  formed  one  of  the  longest 
administrations  of  the  century.  His 
authority  in  1839  began  to  ooze 
away,  and  his  Government  suffered  a 
virtual  defeat  on  a  measure  which 
involved  the  suspension  of  the  con- 
stitution of  Jamaica.  He  resigned  ; 
Sir  Robert  Peel  was  sent  for,  and  his 
attempt  to  form  a  government  gave 
rise  to  one  of  those  events  which, 
though  trivial  in  themselves,  produce 
more  important  consequences.  On 
this  occasion  it  was  a  question  of  the 
removal  of  the  Ladies  of  the  Bed- 
chamber, which,  though  a  purely 
personal  question,  constrained  Sir 
Robert  to  give  up  his  undertaking, 
and  prolonged  the  Whig  Ministry 
until  1841.  In  that  year  occurred 
an  incident  which  has  since  been 
turned  into  a  very  formidable  prece- 
dent. A  motion  of  want  of  confidence 
was  the  first  time  in  the  history  of 
the  House  of  Commons  successfully 
carried  against  the  Ministry  of  the 
day  by  a  majority  of  one.  This 
historic  resolution,  which  was  moved 
by  Peel  himself,  deserves  particular 
record.  It  ran  as  follows :  "  That 
Her  Majesty's  Government  do  not 
sufficiently  possess  the  confidence  of 
the  House  of  Commons  to  enable  them 
to  carry  through  the  House  measures 
which  they  deem  essential  to  the 
public  welfare,  and  that  their  con- 
tinuance in  office  under  such  circum- 
stances is  at  variance  with  the  spirit 
of  the  Constitution."  It  was  a  strongly 
worded  claim  by  the  Commons  for  a 
paramount  position  which  is  now 
without  question  accorded  to  them. 
The  Melbourne  Ministry  met  the  new 
Parliament  in  1841,and,being  defeated 
on  an  amendment  to  the  Address, 
immediately  resigned.  Sir  Robert  Peel 
succeeded  in  forming  a  durable  ad- 
ministration which  lasted  to  the 
summer  of  1846,  when  a  parallel  event 
to  that  which  happened  in  1886  oc- 
curred. Just  as  Mr.  Gladstone  split 


22 


The  Parliaments  and  Ministries  of  the  Century. 


up  the  Liberal  party  on  the  question 
of  Home  Rule,  so  did  Sir  Robert  Peel 
split  up  the  Conservatives  on  the  re- 
peal of  the  Corn  Laws.  The  Irish 
Famine  gave  his  mind  the  final  bias  in 
the  direction  to  which  it  had  pre- 
viously been  tending  ;  as  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  remarked  with  character- 
istic frankness,  "  Rotten  potatoes  have 

done  it  all ;  they  put  him  in  his  d d 

fright."  It  is  not  surprising  that 
Peel's  discontented  followers  looked 
out  for  an  occasion  of  revenge,  and 
they  found  it  in  a  Coercion  Bill  for 
Ireland.  The  Peel  Ministry  were  de- 
feated by  a  majority  of  seventy-three 
votes.  It  was  a  rancorous  outburst 
of  party  spirit  which  set  an  evil  pre- 
cedent for  the  future  conduct  of  par- 
liamentary government. 

Lord  John  RusTsell  now  succeeded  to 
the  place  to  which  his  eminent  merits 
had  entitled  him.  His  diminutive 
stature  caused  people  to  wonder  how 
one  so  great  could  yet  be  so  little, 
while  his  self-confidence  was  such  that 
men  jestingly  declared  that  he  was 
ready  to  do  anything  at  a  moment's 
notice,  from  performing  an  operation 
to  taking  command  of  the  Channel 
Fleet.  His  administration  lasted  until 
1852,  and  was  marked  by  an  incident 
unique  in  the  parliamentary  history 
of  the  century  ;  the  dismissal  of  Lord 
Palmerston  from  the  Foreign  Office 
for  his  persistent  refusal  to  submit 
his  despatches  to  his  colleagues  and 
the  Crown.  It  was  an  event  which 
emphasised  the  right  of  the  Premier 
and  the  Crown  to  be  consulted  by 
Ministers  on  all  important  matters 
which  come  within  the  sphere  of  their 
official  duties,  and  established  once 
for  all  the  practice  to  be  followed 
in  the  future.  However  in  1852  Lord 
Palmerston  had,  as  he  said,  his  "  tit- 
for-tat"  with  Lord  John  Russell. 
Upon  the  coup  d'etat  in  France  a 
Militia  Bill  was  introduced,  and  the 
Government  was  defeated  on  an 
amendment  proposed  by  Lord  Palmer- 
ston himself.  They  immediately 
resigned.  The  Earl  of  Derby,  whose 
dashing  oratory  has  earned  for  him 


the  title  of  the  "Rupert  of  debate," 
formed  a  government  of  mostly  untried 
men,  which  was  styled  by  the  facetious 
the  "Who,  Who,  Government."  To 
its  inglorious  existence  Disraeli's  first 
adventures  in  the  region  of  finance 
speedily  proved  fatal.  As  Lord  Derby 
wittily  said,  Benjamin's  mess  was 
greater  than  all  the  rest.  The 
general  election  which  followed  gave 
the  Ministry  so  small  a  majority  that 
they  resigned.  Parties  were  now  in 
a  state  of  unequal  equilibrium,  and 
neither  Conservatives  nor  Whigs 
could  form  a  strong  administration. 
Then  ensued  the  uncommon  spectacle 
of  a  Coalition  Ministry.  The  Peelites 
under  the  leadership  of  the  Earl  of 
Aberdeen  formed  a  government  by 
calling  in  the  assistance  of  the  Whigs. 
Disraeli  declared  that  the  English 
people  detested  coalitions.  They  had 
an  evil  reputation  from  the  fact  that 
George  the  Third  loved  to  make  use  of 
them  in  order  to  set  one  party  against 
the  other.  And  to  this  one  in  particu- 
lar the  country  had  no  reason  to  be 
grateful,  for  it  proved  responsible 
for  the  war  in  the  Crimea.  In  1855 
the  Coalition  Ministry  fell  discredited, 
on  Mr.  Roebuck's  motion  for  a  com- 
mittee of  inquiry  into  the  conduct  of 
the  war,  by  an  adverse  majority  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty-seven  votes. 
Consisting  as  it  did  of  a  group  of  men 
who  were  rivals  in  ability  but  who 
disagreed  in  principle,  it  contained  in 
itself  the  seeds  of  discord,  and  per- 
mitted things  to  drift.  Lord  Pal- 
merston succeeded,  and  held  office 
until  1857,  when  he  was  defeated  on 
Mr.  Cobden's  motion  condemning  his 
policy  in  China.  But  Lord  Pal- 
merston was  a  man  of  daring  and 
resource ;  he  knew  his  countrymen, 
and  to  their  judgment  he  appealed. 
To  the  amazement  of  the  world  he 
succeeded  in  reversing  the  verdict  of 
the  Commons,  and  was  rewarded  by 
obtaining  a  substantial  majority.  The 
Manchester  School  of  politicians,  who 
were  the  proximate  cause  of  the  elec- 
tion, were  smitten  hip  and  thigh,  and 
Bright  and  Cobden  with  the  rest  were 


The  Parliaments  and  Ministries  of  the  Century. 


ejected  from  their  seats.  It  was  an  al- 
most unexampled  triumph  for  a  Minis- 
ter ;  but  it  was  short-lived.  Once 
again,  in  1858  as  in  1852,  Louis  Napo- 
leon proved  fatal  to  an  English  adminis- 
tration. The  Orsini  bombs  had  an  ex- 
plosive force  in  more  senses  than  one, 
and  reverberated  far  beyond  the 
narrow  circle  of  the  Tuileries.  They 
were  the  immediate  cause  of  the  intro- 
duction of  Lord  Palmerston's  Con- 
sp  racy  Bill,  and  in  the  course  of  the 
debate  an  amendment  was  moved  by 
ML\  Milner  Gibson,  involving  a  censure 
on  the  Government  for  its  failure 
to  reply  to  a  French  despatch  which 
had  been  laid  before  Parliament. 
The  amendment  was  carried  by  nine- 
teen votes  and  Lord  Palmerston 
resigned.  The  significance  of  the 
afi'air  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  was  an 
interference  by  the  Commons  in  an 
act  which  belonged  purely  to  the  ex- 
ecutive, and  it  is  not  without  its 
meaning.  The  Earl  of  Derby  once 
more  formed  a  brief  administration, 
with  Disraeli  as  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  and  Leader  of  the  House. 
On  an  attempted  measure  of  reform  he 
was  defeated  on  Lord  John  Russell's 
resolution  by  thirty-nine  votes.  An 
unsuccessful  appeal  to  the  country 
followed,  and  when  Lord  Hartington's 
amendment  to  the  Address  was  car- 
ried by  thirteen,  the  Derby  Ministry 
resigned.  Lord  Palmerston  again 
formed  a  strong  administration  which, 
by  a  curious  sport  of  fortune,  exactly 
coincided  in  duration  with  Lord  Mel- 
bourne's second  government,  namely, 
sis  years  and  one  hundred  and  forty- 
oi.e  days.  Shortly  after  the  dissolu- 
tion Lord  Palmerston  died  in  1865, 
aiid  Lord  John  Russell,  who  was 
raised  to  the  peerage  as  Earl  Russell, 
assumed  the  reins  of  power.  His 
former  resistance  to  any  extension  of 
tlie  Reform  Act  of  1832  had  earned 
for  him  the  nickname  of  "  Finality 
Jack,"  but  this  did  not  prevent  him 
from  taking  up  the  subject  once  again. 
Reform,  however,  was  a  thing  which  ap- 
parently neither  side  could  handle  with 
success.  It  proved  fatal  to  Lord  Russell 


as  it  had  done  to  his  predecessor* 
and  brought  his  government  to  an 
end  within  a  year.  It  was  a  session 
rendered  memorable  by  the  formation 
of  the  party  of  the  Cave  of  Adullam, 
and  by  the  brilliant  rhetoric  of  Robert 
Lowe,  who  electrified  the  House,  and 
was  wittily  nicknamed  by  Disraeli 
the  "  Whitehead  torpedo."  The  Earl 
of  Derby  now  formed  his  third  ad- 
ministration, and  boldly  grappling 
with  reform,  he  took,  to  use  a  now 
celebrated  phrase,  his  "  leap  in  the 
dark."  In  1868  his  health  compelled 
him  to  retire,  and  the  opportunity 
came  to  Benjamin  Disraeli.  The 
u  superlative  Hebrew  conjuror "  of 
Carlyle  became  Prime  Minister  of 
England ;  and  he  who  was  at  first 
laughed  down  with  derision,  com- 
manded the  respect  and  obedience  of 
the  House.  To  use  his  own  expres- 
sion, which  is  more  forcible  than  ele- 
gant, he  had  climbed  to  the  top  of 
the  greasy  pole.  It  proved  more 
slippery  than  probably  even  he  ima- 
gined, and  in  a  very  few  months  he 
came  down  with  a  run,  when  Mr. 
Gladstone's  resolution  on  the  Irish 
Church  placed  him  in  a  minority. 
Disraeli  advised  a  dissolution,  but  he 
declined  to  meet  a  new  House  con- 
taining a  majority  against  him. 
Mr.  Gladstone  thereupon  formed  his 
first  administration,  which  endured 
for  rather  over  five  years  and  was 
marked  by  much  legislative  spirit.  But 
in  1873  he  was  placed  in  a  minority 
on  an  Irish  University  Bill.  Disraeli 
was  sent  for  by  the  Queen,  but  he 
prudently  declined  to  form  a  new  ad- 
ministration without  a  new  Parliament. 
The  end  was  not  long  delayed,  for  in 
February,  1874,  Mr.  Gladstone  gave 
himself  the  coup  de  grdce  by  suddenly 
determining  to  advise  a  dissolution. 
The  result  showed  a  great  Conserva- 
tive reaction  which  once  more  brought 
Disraeli  to  the  front.  The  events 
which  followed  will  be  within  common 
memory.  It  must  be  enough  to  note 
the  fact  that  the  period  which  has 
elapsed  since  then  has  been  marked 
by  three  long  administrations,  namely 


The  Parliaments  and  Ministries  of  the  Century. 


tliose  of  Lord  Beacon sfield,  Mr.  Glad- 
stone, and  the  Marquis  of  Salisbury ; 
and  that  the  year  1885  was  marked 
by  a  Reform  Act  which  gave  rise  to 
a  sharp  and  short  conflict  with  the 
Lords.  But  until  the  date  of  the  in- 
troduction of  the  Home  Rule  Bill,  no 
other  matter  of  constitutional  im- 
portance arose. 

Such  in  the   broadest  possible  out- 
line is  the  history  of  the  Ministries  and 
Parliaments  of  the  century;   a  map, 
so  to  speak,  disclosing  the  main  fea- 
tures but  ignoring  the  details  of  the 
region  which  we  have  rapidly  traversed. 
"What  then  are  the  most  striking  cha- 
racteristics of  the  scene  1     One  of  its 
most  impressive  features  certainly  is 
the  change  which  has  occurred  in  the 
position      occupied      by     the     House 
of    Commons    in    relation    to     Min- 
isters and  the  Crown.     It  stands  out 
predominantly    like    some    mountain 
range  which  towers  above  the  plain. 
Here,  as  almost  everywhere  through- 
out the  Western  world,  the  people's 
House  has  arrogated  to  itself  the  first 
place    in    the    State;    a   fact   which 
marks  a  step  in  the  forward  march  of 
democracy,    and   is   an   unmistakable 
sign  of   what,    in   the   absence    of   a 
better  term,  can  only  be  called  the 
spirit  of  the  age.     Popular  Chambers 
have    everywhere     encroached    upon 
rights  and   privileges  which   did  not 
formerly  belong  to  them.     Sometimes 
victory  has  only  been  wrested  with  a 
struggle,     but     sometimes     all     has 
gradually  and  quietly  been  conceded. 
In  England  the  process  has  a  history 
of   its   own,   and   the  history   of  the 
various  ways  in  which  it  has  mani- 
fested itself  is  the  matter  which  now 
immediately  concerns  us. 

And  first  as  to  the  relation  of  the 
Commons  to  the  Ministers  and  the 
Crown.  The  House  had  formerly  no 
practical  influence  over  either  of  the 
latter,  or  at  least  none  legally  recog- 
nised by  the  customs  and  the  conven- 
tions of  the  Constitution.  The  Crown 
summoned  and  dissolved  the  House  as 
it  pleased,  and  Ministers  had  not  much 
regard  for  its  judgment  or  its  votes. 


If  the  Commons  wished  to  have  their 
way,  their  only  resource  was  to  pre- 
sent addresses  to  the  Crown  or  to  cut  off 
the  supplies.  They  might  worry  the 
Ministers  or  the  Crown  into  conces- 
sions. But  that  state  of  things  has 
long  passed  away,  and  from  being  a 
mere  auxiliary  organ  of  government 
the  Lower  House  has  won  its  way  into 
an  absolute  pre-eminence.  It  has 
become,  to  make  another  use  of  Lord 
Rosebery's  expression,  the  "predomi- 
nant partner"  in  Parliament.  It 
is  upon  the  House  of  Commons  that 
every  eye  is  turned;  it  is  there  that 
the  centre  of  political  gravity  has 
shifted.  There  have  been  no  revolu- 
tions, no  bombastic  'declamations  or 
watering  trees  of  liberty  with  blood ; 
but  it  is  an  accomplished  fact  notwith- 
standing. It  now  remains  to  be  seen 
how  this  has  come  about,  and  to  note 
the  several  steps  in  the  transforma- 
tion as  they  have  occurred  within  the 
present  century. 

At  the  outset  a  distinction  must 
be  drawn  between  an  Administration 
or  a  Government  in  general  and 
those  leading  members  of  it  who  are 
said  to  form  the  Cabinet  for  it 
is  the  relations  of  the  Crown,  the 
Cabinet,  and  the  Commons  which 
will  now  have  to  be  considered.  It 
is  in  accordance  with  the  illogical 
character  of  British  institutions  that 
the  Cabinet  is  utterly  unknown  to  the 
law.  Both  Pepys  and  Clarendon  use 
the  word,  and  according  to  the  latter 
it  was  first  applied,  as  a  term  of 
reproach  among  the  courtiers,  to  the 
King's  Committee  of  State  in  1640. 
In  like  manner  too  the  terms  Prime 
Minister  and  Premier  are  not  recog- 
nised by  law.  Swift  speaks  some- 
where of  the  "premier  ministers 
of  State,"  as  though  in  his  day  the 
office  was  beginning  to  be  evolved. 
The  Crown  itself  first  presided  in 
the  councils  of  the  Cabinet,  and  no 
Minister  presumed  to  occupy  the 
place.  Walpole  indeed  was  gravely 
accused  of  making  for  himself  the 
place  of  a  first  Minister,  a  charge 
against  which  he  indignantly  protested. 


The  Parliaments  and  Ministries  of  the  Century. 


But  he  was  Premier  in  fact,  if  he  was 
not  so  in  name,  as  no  one  knew  better 
than  himself.  As  he  said,  when 
Townshend  was  admitted  to  the 
Cabinet,  "  the  firm  must  be  Walpole 
and  Townshend,  not  Townshend  and 
Walpole."  During  the  reigns  of  the 
first;  two  Georges,  who  knew  little 
English  and  lived  mostly  at  the 
Hanoverian  Court,  a  free  hand  was 
tacitly  accorded  to  English  Cabinets 
in  the  administration  of  affairs. 
Bui.  with  the  accession  of  George  the 
Third  came  a  very  different  state  of 
things.  That  his  Ministers  were 
his  servants  who  might  be  appointed 
and  dismissed  solely  at  his  own 
good  will  and  pleasure,  was  not 
merely  the  preconceived  opinion  of 
the  new  King,  but  was  apparently  the 
generally  received  doctrine  of  the  day, 
in  which  some  statesmen  themselves 
were  willing  to  acquiesce.  Lord  Shel- 
bur  ne,  for  instance,  indignantly  declared 
that  "  he  would  never  consent  that  the 
King  of  England  should  be  a  king  of 
the  Mahrattas,"  who  was,  he  declared, 
"  in  fact  nothing  more  than  a  royal 
pageant."  The  Commons  sometimes 
turned  restive,  as  when  in  1780  they 
affirmed  Mr.  Dunning's  resolution 
"  that  the  influence  of  the  Crown  has 
increased,  is  increasing,  and  ought  to 
be  diminished."  But  feeble  protests 
were  of  little  avail,  and  when  the 
first.  Parliament  of  the  United  King- 
dom met  in  1801,  the  old  doctrine  of 
kingship  and  prerogative  was  held  in 
all  its  fulness.  The  magnitude  of  the 
change  which  has  since  occurred  in  our 
constitutional  practice  may  best  be 
real  ised  by  saying  that  as  regards  the 
relation  of  the  Crown  to  the  Cabinet 
and  Commons,  that  practice  has  been 
totally  inverted ;  and  the  process 
was  accomplished  within  the  first 
half  of  the  century.  At  its  beginning 
the  Crown  appointed  and  dismissed 
its  Ministers  without  even  deigning 
to  consult  the  wishes  of  the  Commons  ; 
that  was  a  privilege  of  the  monarch 
with  which  they  were  deemed  to  have 
no  right  of  interference.  Now,  though 
the  Crown  selects  its  own  Prime 


Minister,  he  is  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses appointed  by  the  Commons. 
The  party  which  possesses  a  majority  in 
the  House,  in  reality  indicates  the  man 
who  must  be  chosen.  On  the  other 
hand  the  Crown  would  not  now  dis- 
miss a  Cabinet  which  possessed  the 
confidence  of  the  Commons,  but  would 
wait  until  that  confidence  was  un- 
mistakably withdrawn  before  ventur- 
ing on  such  a  use  of  the  prerogative. 
There  is  here  one  of  those  constitutional 
conventions  which,  as  Professor  Dicey 
says,  are  "precepts  for  determining 
the  mode  and  spirit  in  which  the  pre- 
rogative is  to  be  exercised  ; "  while 
the  prerogative  is  "  nothing  else  than 
the  residue  of  discretionary  or  arbi- 
trary authority  which  at  any  given  time 
is  legally  left  in  the  hands  of  the 
Crown."  Perhaps  the  most  im- 
portant function  of  the  Cabinet  is  to 
form,  as  it  were,  a  connecting  link 
between  the  Crown  and  Parliament. 
Mr.  Gladstone  has  happily  described 
it  as  "  a  clearing-house  of  political 
forces,"  where  everything  is  balanced 
and  adjusted,  and  the  nett  result 
obtained.  But  of  those  forces  that 
exercised  by  the  Commons  is  unques- 
tionably the  strongest,  and  inevitably 
has  a  preponderating  share  in  direct- 
ing the  general  movement  of  affairs. 

On  five  occasions  within  the  present 
century,— in  1806,  1818,  1829,  1834, 
and  1839 — a  crisis  has  occurred  in  the 
use  of  the  prerogative,  and  they  are 
excellent  illustrations  of  the  remark- 
able changes  which  have  gradually 
transformed  our  constitutional  con- 
ventions. In  1806  the  Grenville 
Ministry  proposed  to  introduce  a  Bill 
for  Catholic  Emancipation,  an  act  of 
policy  which  drew  from  Sheridan  the 
remark  that  he  had  often  heard  of 
people  running  their  heads  against  a 
wall,  but  had  never  heard  before  of 
them  building  a  wall  to  knock  their 
heads  against.  What  followed  has 
already  been  narrated,  and  forms  a 
striking  illustration  of  the  way  in 
which  the  personal  dislikes  of  the 
Crown  to  a  particular  form  of  policy 
were  allowed  to  defeat  the  other  forces 


26 


The  Parliaments  and  Ministries  of  the  Century. 


in  the  State.  A  Ministry  was  dis- 
missed and  another  was  appointed  with 
as  little  regard  to  the  opinions  of  the 
Commons  as  though  they  existed 
in  another  planet.  The  King's 
word  was  enough,  and  there  was  no 
more  to  be  said ;  and  that  was  passed 
without  protest  which  in  these  days 
would  raise  a  storm  of  indignation. 
Again,  in  1818  the  Prince  Regent 
performed  an  act  of  a  very  arbitrary 
kind.  The  demise  of  the  King  was 
hourly  expected,  and  in  order  to 
avoid  meeting  the  existing  House, 
which  he  would  have  to  summon  upon 
his  father's  death,  and  to  which  it 
would  seem  that  he  had  taken  a  dislike, 
he  went  down  to  Westminster  and  dis- 
solved Parliament  without  the  slightest 
notice.  Events  move  on  and  the  scene 
changes.  George  the  Fourth  is  King  ; 
and  in  1829  the  Government  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  is  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  can  no  longer 
avert  the  necessity  for  some  measure 
of  Catholic  Relief.  The  King  refuses 
to  assent  to  the  Bill  and  the  Ministry 
resigns ;  he  withdraws  his  refusal 
and  the  Bill  becomes  law.  It  is 
perhaps  not  too  much  to  say  that, 
next  to  the  Reform  Act  of  1832, 
this  act  of  the  King  is  the  most 
important  political  event  in  the  Eng- 
lish history  of  this  century.  It  was 
a  surrender  of  the  citadel ;  it  denoted, 
as  Mr.  Gladstone  has  said,  "  the  death 
of  British  kingship  in  its  older  sense." 
Like  Cleisthenes  at  Athens,  George 
the  Fourth  admitted  the  people  into 
partnership.  From  that  day  to  this 
the  Crown  has  not  ventured  to  veto 
legislation  on  the  ground  merely  of 
personal  dislike.  Its  moral  influence 
over  Ministers  may  be  great,  but  that 
is  almost  the  limit  of  its  powers.  The 
scene  shifts  again,  and  William  the 
Fourth  is  on  the  throne.  He  was  a 
conscientious  monarch  who  probably 
desired  to  use  his  prerogative  in  strict 
accordance  with  the  constitutional 
conventions  of  the  day.  But  the  old 
kingly  spirit  still  lingered  in  his  mind, 
and  his  dislike  of  the  Whigs  betrayed 
him  into  a  serious  misuse  of  his  pre- 


rogative. The  dislike  of  his  father 
and  his  brother  for  the  Whigs  was 
unabashed  and  open,  and  they  almost 
continuously  shut  them  out  of  office  in 
a  way  which  is  but  another  illustra- 
tion of  the  old  absolutist  theory.  The 
Whigs  were  too  exclusive  to  be  popular; 
they  were  a  sort  of  coterie  with  its 
seat  at  Holland  House,  not  admitting 
even  Burke  to  their  councils  in  the 
degree  to  which  he  was  entitled.  But 
they  nobly  sacrificed  their  interests 
to  their  principles,  and  ran  counter 
to  the  wishes  of  the  Crown.  William 
the  Fourth  shared  the  prejudice 
against  them,  and  in  1834  he  found 
a  pretext  to  dismiss  the  Melbourne 
Ministry.  Lord  Althorp  had  suc- 
ceeded his  father  as  Earl  Spencer,  and 
the  King,  declaring  his  conviction 
that  without  him  in  the  Commons  the 
government  could  not  be  carried 
on,  suddenly  dismissed  his  Ministers. 
It  was  a  perfectly  legitimate  use  of 
the  prerogative,  but  it  was  never- 
theless a  serious  mistake.  The  House 
of  Commons  had  its  revenge.  Upon 
the  dissolution  the  Melbourne  Min- 
istry had  to  be  recalled  to  power,  and 
from  that  time  down  to  the  Con- 
servative Reform  Act  of  1867  the 
Whigs  enjoyed  the  largest  share 
of  office.  For  the  last  time  in  1839 
Ministers  were  kept  out  of  office 
on  the  ground  of  personal  disagree- 
ment with  the  Crown.  At  that 
time  Sir  Robert  Peel,  who  had  been 
asked  to  form  a  Cabinet,  demanded 
that  the  Ladies  of  the  Bedchamber 
should  be  changed  with  the  old  ad- 
ministration. Her  Majesty  refused, 
and  the  Melbourne  Ministry  dragged 
on  a  discredited  existence  until  1841. 
It  was  the  last  episode  in  a  contest 
which  is  now  probably  for  ever  closed. 
As  the  Crown  has  lost  authority,  so 
in  proportion  has  the  House  of  Com- 
mons gained  it,  and  this  in  other  ways 
than  those  already  named.  There  is, 
for  instance,  nothing  but  the  impera- 
tive demands  of  constitutional  custom 
which  compels  a  member  of  the  Cabinet 
to  sit  in  either  House  of  Parliament  ; 
but  that  custom  has  almost  the  force 


The  Parliaments  and  Ministries  of  the  Century. 


'27 


of  law;  so  that,  in  the  case  of  a 
Minister  who  is  not  a  Peer,  he  is 
practically  bound  to  find  a  seat  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  Mr.  Gladstone 
heli  office  from  December  1845  to 
July  1846  without  a  seat  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  that  is  the  most 
notable  exception  to  the  rule  within 
the  present  century,  and  was  the  fruit 
of  very  special  circumstances.  So,  too, 
a  member  of  the  Cabinet  must  always 
hold  some  office,  and  when  Lord  John 
Russell  for  a  brief  period  once  led  the 
House  of  Commons  without  holding 
offi3e,  such  an  irregular  arrangement 
was  violently  condemned.  For  it  is 
by  such  constitutional  practices  as 
these  that  the  House  of  Commons  is 
able  to  retain  its  control  over  the 
Government.  And  so  too  with  that 
paradox  of  the  British  Constitution 
by  which  the  Cabinet,  or  the  central 
executive  body,  has  become  almost  the 
sole  source  of  legislation.  It  is  but  a 
mark  of  the  intimate  connection  which 
binds  together  Parliaments  and  Minis- 
tries. As  in  nature  animals  take 
colour  from  the  objects  which  sur- 
round them,  so  have  Ministries  taken 
colour,  so  to  speak,  from  Parliament 
and  assumed  the  livery  of  a  legislative 
body.  Nor  is  this  all,  for  the  House 
of  Commons  has  invaded  the  sphere  of 
tho  executive,  as  it  did  when  in  1857 
and  1859  on  the  respective  motions  of 
Mr.  Cobden  and  Mr.  Milner  Gibson  it 
up  >et  Ministries  on  purely  administra- 
tive measures. 

Of  the  relation  of  the  House  of 
Commons  to  the  Lords  it  can  only  be 
said  that  there  has  been  very  little 
change.  From  the  way  in  which  the 
House  of  Lords  is  now  occasionally 
spoken  of,  it  might  be  inferred  that 
th;tt  House  had  been  in  constant 


conflict  with  the  Commons.  Yet  in  fact 
nothing  can  be  further  from  the  truth, 
for  probably  a  less  obstructive  second 
Chamber  the  world  has  never  seen.  It 
has  been  infinitely  less  so  than  the 
American  Senate  or  some  of  our 
Colonial  Legislative  Councils.  Once 
only,  over  the  great  Reform  Act,  has 
there  been  anything  like  a  serious 
conflict.  The  Lords  have  helped  to 
pass  into  law  all  those  great  legis- 
lative measures  which,  as  making 
for  liberty  and  the  emancipation 
of  mankind,  will  always  be  regarded 
as  the  glory  of  the  age.  It  is  sig- 
nificant that  of  the  Premiers  of 
the  century  all  but  eight  (and  one 
of  these  was  an  Irish  peer)  have  been 
members  of  the  House  of  Lords,  and, 
if  we  may  judge  from  recent  circum- 
stances, the  fashion  does  not  seem 
likely  to  change. 

It  is  then  in  the  relations  of  the 
House  of  Commons  to  the  Cabinet 
and  the  Crown  that  the  spirit  of  the 
Constitution  has  within  the  present 
century  undergone  the  greatest 
changes.  In  the  supremacy  of  the 
People's  House  British  democracy  has, 
for  good  or  ill,  found  its  triumphant 
expression.  That  House  is  largely 
influenced  by  opinion  from  without, 
and  is  sensitive  to  every  breath  of 
popular  applause  or  censure.  Less 
than  forty  years  ago  a  Ministry, 
which  had  been  defeated  in  the  Com- 
mons, successfully  appealed  to  the 
country.  Lord  Palmerston's  triumph 
in  1857  appears  to  have  been  the  last 
occasion  when  the  electors  clearly 
demonstrated  by  their  votes  that  they 
were  not  in  agreement  with  the  major- 
ity of  their  representatives.  Such 
an  event  seems  unlikely  to  occur 
again. 

C.  B.  ROYLANCE-KENT. 


28 


A  DISCOURSE  ON  SEQUELS. 


"  IT  is  the  fate  of  sequels  to  dis- 
appoint the  expectations  of  those  that 
have  waited  for  them."  So  writes 
Mr.  Louis  Stevenson  in  his  dedication 
of  Gatriona,  which  was  his  own  sequel 
to  his  earlier  tale  of  Kidnapped.  That 
authors  should  go  on  producing  sequels 
is  a  matter  that  need  surprise  no  one. 
When  the  world  makes  friends  with  a 
character  in  fiction,  it  is  only  natural 
that  it  should  desire  to  hear  more  of 
him,  and  equally  natural  that  the 
author  should  be  glad  to  gratify  the 
world's  desire.  It  is  hard  to  say  good- 
bye for  ever  to  a  pleasant  acquaintance 
even  among  mere  mortals. 

I  suppose  nobody  ever  read  Shake- 
speare's Henry  the  Fourth  without  a 
lively  desire  to  meet  Falstaff  again. 
That  is  just  what  Queen  Elizabeth  felt 
when  she  saw  the  play.  Being  a  queen 
and  a  Tudor,  she  incontinently  gave 
command  for  a  sequel  ;  at  least  tradi- 
tion says  that  it  is  to  Elizabeth's  com- 
mand we  owe  The  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor.  The  tradition,  it  is  true, 
dates  from  considerably  later  than 
Shakespeare's  time.  The  earliest  written 
authority  for  it,  I  believe,  is  John 
Dennis's  dedication  (dated  1702)  to 
The  Comical  Gallant,  a  new  version  he 
made  of  Shakespeare's  play  ;  and  it 
depended  for  its  preservation  upon  the 
oral  testimony  of  Nicholas  Eowe,  who 
was  not  born  until  some  fifty  years 
after  Shakespeare  died.  From  that  day 
to  this,  however,  the  story  has  been 
generally  accepted.  Queen  Elizabeth, 
said  Howe,  was  so  well  pleased  with 
the  character  of  Falstaff  that  she  com- 
manded Shakespeare  to  continue  it  for 
one  play  more  and  to  show  him  in 
love.  If  Howe  was  right,  and  the 
Queen's  desire  was  to  see  the  fat 
knight  in  love,  the  wish  was  something 
less  wise  and  more  womanlike  than 
was  usual  with  her.  Falstaff  in  love 


would  be  a  contradiction  in  terms, 
and  Shakespeare  could  not  so  falsify 
his  conception.  This  is  how  Falstaff 
himself  in  the  play  opens  his  design  to 
Bardolph,  Nym,  and  Pistol  at  the 
Garter  Inn  at  Windsor.  "  My  honest 
lads,"  says  he,  "I  will  tell  you  what 
I  am  about."  "Two  yards  or  more," 
interposes  Pistol.  "  No  quips  now, 
Pistol,"  replies  Sir  John.  "  Indeed  I 
am  in  the  waist  two  yards  about ;  but 
I  am  now  about  no  waste  ;  I  am  about 
thrift.  Briefly,  I  do  mean  to  make  love 
to  Ford's  wife ;  I  spy  entertainment  in 
her ;  she  discourses,  she  carves,  she 
gives  the  leer  of  invitation."  "  The 
report  goes,"  he  adds,  "  she  has  all 
the  rule  of  her  husband's  purse." 

That  was  as  near  as  Shakespeare  could 
bring  himself  to  the  ordained  task, 
and  if  Elizabeth  was  satisfied,  she  was 
less  exacting  than  she  sometimes 
showed  herself.  Some  lingering  after 
lust  there  is  in  the  would-be  seducer 
of  Mistress  Ford  and  Mistress  Page, 
and  an  unabated  craving  after  lucre ; 
but  love ! — not  for  the  Queen's  com- 
mand the  bare  suspicion  of  it  in  the 
two  yards'  girth  of  him. 

Whether  it  was  the  fate  of  this 
sequel  to  disappoint  the  royal  expec- 
tation tradition  does  not  say.  It  may 
be  that  the  taste  that  desired  to  see 
Falstaff  in  love  was  satisfied  with  the 
horse-play  of  these  merry  wives.  At 
any  rate  the  play  was  a  favourite  with 
Restoration  audiences  ;  also  with  the 
late  master  of  Balliol.  We  shall  all, 
I  suppose,  with  Hazlitt  admit  that  it 
is  an  amusing  play,  with  a  great  deal 
of  humour,  character,  and  nature  in 
it.  Yet  will  every  right  Falstaflian 
add  with  Hazlitt  that  he  would  have 
liked  it  much  better  if  any  one  else 
had  been  the  "  hero  "  of  it  instead  of 
Falstaff.  The  indignities  suffered  by 
Falstaff  reminded  Hazlitt  of  the  suf- 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


29 


ferings  of  Don  Quixote.  There 
Hazlitt  let  his  natural  zeal  outrun 
his  critical  discretion.  Falstaff  is  the 
very  last  man  in  the  world  to  be 
called  Quixotic  ;  but  in  the  main  Haz- 
litt  is  right.  Falstaff  in  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor  is  not  the  man  he 
was  in  Henry  tlie  Fourth.  His  degra- 
dations are  too  dishonouring,  and  how 
much  his  wit  has  degenerated  a  simple 
test,  will  prove.  Falstaff's  sallies  of 
wit  are  among  the  most  current  of  the 
world's  quotations.  Not  one  quotation, 
I  think  I  am  right  in  saying,  comes  from 
the  Falstaff  of  the  later  play.  Falstaff's 
admirers  would  willingly  believe  that 
as  the  Mistress  Quickly  that  was 
servant  to  Dr.  Caius  was  a  different 
person  from  that  other  Mistress 
Quickly,  the  poor  lone  woman  who 
kept  the  Boar's  Head  in  Eastcheap,  so 
it  was  not  Hal's  Mentor,  but  '*  another 
fellow  of  the  same  name "  that  was 
crammed  into  the  buckbasket  with 
the  foul  smocks  ;  and  for  all  his  pro- 
testation, that,  if  he  were  served  such 
another  trick,  he'd  have  his  brains 
taken  out  and  buttered  and  give  them 
to  a  dog  for  a  New  Year's  gift, 
nevertheless  endured  the  disguise  of 
the  fat  woman  of  Brentford  and  the 
horns  of  Herne  the  Hunter.  The 
most  ingenious  German  commentator 
has  not  yet  however  ventured  on  so 
desirable  an  hypothesis ;  and  indeed 
the  presence  of  Bardolph,  Nym,  and 
Pistol  is  damning. 

]f  Shakespeare  himself  did  not 
write  a  satisfactory  Falstaffian  sequel, 
it  was,  we  must  suppose,  that  his 
heart  was  not  in  the  job.  The  tra- 
dition, according  to  Gildon,  was  that 
he  took  only  a  fortnight  about  it. 
Yet,  let  not  the  profit  column  of  the 
account  be  ignored.  If  Falstaff  loses, 
Sleuder  and  Shallow  gain.  And  there 
is  the  dear  Welshman  with  his  skim- 
ble  skamble  and  pribble-prabbles.  So 
much  there  is  to  set  to  the  credit  side 
of  sequels. 

Cervantes  also,  another  of  the  im- 
mortals, wrote  a  sequel,  as  one  is 
reminded  by  Hazlitt's  mention  of  Don 
Quixote.  That  sequels  were  generally 


unsuccessful  was  the  opinion  even  in 
Cervantes's  day.  "  People  say,"  says 
the  bachelor  Sampson  Carrasco  at 
the  beginning  of  the  second  part, 
"that  second  parts  are  never  good 
for  anything."  But  the  whole  of 
Spain  was  clamouring  for  more  about 
Don  Quixote  and  Sancho.  "Give  us 
more  Quixotades,"  people  were  saying. 
"  Let  Quixote  encounter  and  Sancho 
talk,  and  be  the  rest  what  it  will,  we 
shall  be  contented."  So  in  the  fulness 
of  time  Cervantes  gave  them  more 
Quixotades,  and  the  world  on  the 
whole  has  therewith  been  well  con- 
tented. To  think  of  Barataria  is  t6 
class  the  second  part  of  Don  Quixote 
among  successful  sequels. 

True  there  is  a  hostile  opinion  to 
take  account  of,  an  opinion  never 
lightly  to  be  regarded  in  literary 
matters,  the  opinion  of  Charles  Lamb. 
Lamb  could  not  forgive  the  practical 
joking  at  the  Duke's  castle,  could  not 
bear  to  see  his  high-souled  Quixote 
made  the  butt  of  duennas  and  serving- 
men.  He  thought  Cervantes  had  been 
misled  by  his  popular  success  to 
sacrifice  a  great  idea  to  the  taste  of 
his  contemporaries,  to  play  to  the 
gallery  in  fact.  The  whole  passage 
in  Lamb  is  delightful  reading.  In- 
cessu  patet  deus  Carolus  noster,  open 
the  book  of  Elia  where  you  will. 
But  besides  the  impeccable  literary 
critic,  there  is  another  Lamb  of  tender 
paradox  and  whimsical  tirade,  the 
discoverer  of  fairyland  in  Restoration 
comedy,  the  ultra-loyal  lover  of  her 
Grace  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle. 
And  one  is  inclined  to  say  that  this 
is  the  Lamb  who  declaims  so  against 
the  second  part  of  Don  Quixote,  when 
one  finds  him  talking  of  the  "  un- 
hallowed accompaniment  of  a  Sancho  ' ' 
and  of  the  "debasing  fellowship  of 
the  clown,"  wishing  almost  the  squire 
altogether  away  even  in  the  first  part. 
For  the  very  essence  of  Cervantes's 
conception  is  the  balance  and  contrast 
between  Sancho  and  his  Dapple  and 
Quixote  and  his  Rosinante.  And 
Lamb  might  have  remembered  from 
Sampson  Carrasco's  discourse  that  in 


30 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


Cervantes' s  own  day  the  knight  had 
his  special  partisans  no  less  than  the 
squire,  and  that  some  there  were  who 
would  gladly  have  been  spared  the 
full  tale  of  Quixote's  drubbings. 
Lamb,  it  must  be  remembered,  was 
not  indulging  in  a  set  criticism  of 
Don  Quixote.  He  was  arguing  how 
apt  pictorial  illustrators  were  to 
materialise  and  vulgarise  literary 
subjects,  an  interesting  contention, 
well  worth  consideration.  In  the 
pictures,  he  said,  Othello  was  always 
a  blackamoor,  Falstaff  always  plump 
Jack.  So  in  Don  Quixote  they  em- 
phasised the  buffooneries,  and  showed 
the  rabblement  always  at  the  heels  of 
Rosinante. 

Therefore  I  think  that  we  may 
discount  Lamb's  displeasure ;  and 
when  he  inveighs  against  the  duchess 
and  that  "  most  unworthy  nobleman  " 
her  lord,  we  shall  remember  that  they 
bestowed  upon  Sancho  Panza  the 
governorship  of  Barataria,  and  that 
but  for  their  bounty  we  should  not 
have  listened  to  the  wisdom  of  Sancho, 
which  is  second  only  to  the  wisdom  of 
Solomon.  And  when  Lamb  is  vexed 
because  Sancho's  eyes  were  opened  to 
know  his  master's  infirmity,  it  may 
occur  to  the  reader  that  this  was  but 
the  logic  of  events ;  that  so  shrewd  a 
clown  as  Sancho,  in  continuing  to 
accompany  Quixote  upon  his  sallies, 
must  needs  have  had  his  eyes  opened 
pretty  wide.  And  when  Lamb  'com- 
plains that  people  read  the  book  by 
halves,  mistaking  the  author's  pur- 
port, which  was  tears,  we  shall  be 
inclined  to  reply  that  it  is  no  less 
possible  to  read  the  book  by  halves 
another  way,  mistaking  the  author's 
purport,  which  was  laughter  at  least 
as  much  as  tears.  Indeed,  who  should 
read  Don  Quixote  by  halves,  hearing 
only  the  tears  in  it,  who  should 
wince  from  watching  duennas  and 
serving-men  practising  on  the  infir- 
mity of  the  "  Errant  Star  of  Knight- 
hood made  more  tender  by  eclipse," 
if  not  Charles  Lamb,  that  had  himself 
dwelt  within  the  penumbra  of  eclipse 
and  devoted  a  life  to  tending  the 


sister  whose  first  aberration  had  been 
so  tragic  ? 

A     strange     thing     happened     to 
Cervantes.       Before    his    sequel    ap 
peared  it  had  been  forestalled   by  a 
sequel  from  another  hand.    Cervantes 
thus  had  a  better  excuse  for  publish- 
ing a  sequel  than  the  popular  wish 
or   a  queen's  command.      He  had  to 
oust  a  bastard  claimant.     The  history 
is  curious.     Cervantes's  first  part  was 
published  in  1606,  his  second  part  not 
until   1616  ;   and  in  1614  there  had 
appeared    a    "  Second    Part    of    the 
Ingenious  Gentleman  Don  Quixote," 
purporting  to  be  by  "the  Licentiate 
Alonzo  de  Fernandez  de  Avellaneda." 
There  was  no  such  man  as  Avellaneda, 
and   who    the    ingenious    gentleman 
really   was,    who   devised    this    very 
unquixotic    sally,     has    in    spite    of 
numerous     conjectures     remained     a 
secret  to  the  present  moment.     That 
a  book  of  this  kind  should  have  been 
published  pseudonym ously  under  the 
highest  ecclesiastical  sanction  in  the 
Spain  of  that  day,  seems  to  Mr.  H.  E. 
Watts    (a    famous    student    of    the 
Don)    proof    enough,    not    only    that 
it  was  a  plot  to  injure  Cervantes,  but 
also  that  the  author  was  some  con- 
siderable person  ;  Mr.  Watts  suggests 
the    great    Lope    di    Yega    himself, 
Cervantes's   life-long   rival.     It   is   a 
matter  about  which  the  doctors  dis- 
agree,   and    disagree     fiercely;     the 
Cervantists    have    indeed    been     de- 
scribed   as    a    body   rent     with    the 
fiercest     blood-feuds     known     among 
mortals.     As  to  Avellaneda's  literary 
merits,  it  is  to  be  said  that  the  spuri  • 
ous    sequel   had    the   esteem   of    the 
author  of   Gil  .Bias,  and  that  it  has 
been     printed     among    the     Spanish 
classics   in   the    national   Library    of 
Spanish  Authors.     As  to  his  motives 
and  moral  merits  on  the  other  hand, 
there  is  clear  evidence  of  malice.    The 
pseudonymous  supplanter  made   per- 
sonal attacks  on  the  man  whose  work 
he    professed   to   be   continuing ;    he 
cast  in  Cervantes's  teeth  his  age,  his 
maimed  hand  and  his  ignorance,  and 
boasted  that  he  should  deprive  him  of 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


31 


the  profits  of  his  work.  No  wonder 
Cervantes  was  hurt.  The  public  was 
impatient  for  the  preface  of  Oer- 
vartes's  new  book,  expecting  resent- 
ments, railings,  and  invectives ;  but 
it  was  destined  to  be  disappointed. 
Cervantes  replied  only  to  the  taunts 
on  his  age  and  his  wound,  reminding 
his  adversary  that  his  hand  had 
suflered  fighting  for  his  country  in 
the  victory  of  Lepanto.  The  provoca- 
tion considered,  the  fun  Cervantes 
makes  of  his  rival  in  the  later  chap- 
ters of  his  second  part  is  certainly 
goo  d-humour  ed . 

Apart  from  the  personal  motive,  it 
would  not  be  historically  just  to 
judge  Avellaneda's  action  precisely 
as  it  would  be  judged  to-day.  We 
are  far  more  punctilious  and  pug- 
nacious nowadays  than  were  our  fore- 
fathers about  proprietary  rights  in 
literary  conceptions.  It  has  been 
latoly  contended,  for  instance,  that 
nobody  but  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy  has 
any  business  to  write  about  Wessex. 
Seeing  that  Wessex  was  before  Mr. 
Hardy,  this  is  putting  the  proprietary 
claim  perhaps  as  high  as  it  will  go. 
When  Mr.  Walter  Besant  the  other 
day  wrote,  greatly  daring,  a  sequel 
to  The  Doll's  House,  it  was  only 
Mr.  Besant's  genial  controversial 
method,  or  fifty  thousand  Ibsen- 
men  had  known  the  reason  why. 
Throughout  the  height  of  Dickens' s 
great  popularity  his  books  were  ac- 
companied by  a  crop  of  imitations,  but 
these  were  flat  piracy.  Seriously  it  is 
hardly  possible  to  imagine  any  one  but 
Mr.  Kipling  venturing  to  write  about 
Mulvaney,  or  another  than  Mr.  Bret 
Harte  telling  fresh  tales  of  Jack  Ham- 
lin  or  Yuba  Bill ;  nor  would  anybody 
but  M.  Daudet  have  dared  to  send 
Taitarin  upon  his  fool's  errand  to 
Port  Tarascon,  Things  were  different 
in  the  old  days  of  epic  and  romantic 
cycles.  Then  every  minstrel  was  at 
liberty  to  try  his  hand  on  a  new  lay 
of  Achilles  or  Helen,  a  new  romance 
of  Roland  or  Lancelot,  or  another 
geste  of  Robin  Hood.  When  a  hero 


or  heroine  caught  the  world's  fancy, 
the  world  could  not  have  enough  tales 
about  them.  There  is  the  secret  of 
the  interminable  fertility  of  cyclic 
poets  and  romancers.  It  is  not  pos- 
sible to  reconcile  all  the  versions  of 
Helen's  or  Tristram's  or  Sigurd's 
stories.  Many  of  the  greatest  legends 
and  romances  grew  up  by  accretions 
contributed  by  successive  hands.  And 
this  sense  of  common  property  in  the 
literary  stock  survived  later.  The 
free  use  made  by  Shakespeare,  who 
was  contemporary  with  Cervantes,  of 
literary  material  that  he  found  to  his 
hand  and  to  his  purpose,  has  been  the 
subject  of  common  remark.  His  con- 
temporary Lodge  seems  not  to  have 
grudged  him  his  own  Rosalind.  It 
was  Moliere,  I  think,  who  boasted 
(and  certainly  no  one  could  make  the 
statement  with  stricter  truth)  that  he 
took  possession  of  his  property  where- 
soever he  found  it.  Indeed,  the  very 
same  thing  that  happened  to  Cer- 
vantes happened  also  in  the  case  of 
the  other  Spanish  classic  Guzman  de 
Alfarache,  where  also  the  genuine 
conclusion  was  forestalled  by  a  sequel 
from  another  hand. 

The  fun  Cervantes  makes  of  his 
rival  in  his  sequel  is,  as  I  have  said, 
good-humoured,  but  elsewhere  he 
spoke  of  the  "  disgust  and  nausea " 
which  the  sham  Quixote  had  caused 
him,  and  it  was  unquestionably  to 
prevent  further  personations  that  he 
consented  to  his  own  Quixote's  death. 
For  despite  his  defeat  by  the  false 
Knight  of  the  Moon,  there  was  no 
real  call  for  Quixote  to  die.  He  was 
just  about  to  turn  with  hardly  dimin- 
ished zest  from  the  knight-errantry 
of  the  romances  to  the  idyllic  life  of 
the  pastorals ;  and  Sancho,  for  all  the 
unsealing  of  his  eyes,  was  steadfast 
not  to  leave  him,  as  eager  for  the 
curds  and  cream  as  the  knight  was 
about  the  shepherdess  queens.  But 
now  there  had  risen  before  Cervantes's 
eyes  the  fear  of  more  spurious  sequels. 
So  he  buried  Quixote  with  sanctions 
and  solemnities,  bidding  presumptuous 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


and  wicked  historians  and  plagiaries 
beware  of  profaning  his  subject  and 
attempting  a  burden  too  weighty  for 
their  shoulders,  expressly  warning 
"  Avellaneda  "  to  suffer  the  wearied 
bones  to  rest  in  the  grave.  It  may 
have  been  something  of  the  same  feel- 
ing that  led  Shakespeare  to  give  us 
his  true  Falstaffian  sequel,  the  inimi- 
table scene  in  Henry  the  Fifth. 
There  was  an  end  worthy  of  the  be- 
ginning, in  Mistress  Quickly-PistoFs 
unforgetable  description  of  Falstaff 
a-dying,  and  Bardolph's  supreme 
epitaph,  "  Would  I  were  with  him, 
wheresome'er  he  is,  in  heaven  or  hell." 
It  was  the  same  feeling  that  moved 
Addison  to  make  an  end  of  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley.  Foreseeing,  we  are  told, 
that  some  nimble  gentleman  would 
catch  up  his  pen  the  moment  he 
quitted  it,  he  said  to  an  intimate 
friend,  his  relative  Eustace  Budgell 
probably,  with  a  certain  warmth  of 
expression,  which  he  was  not  often 
guilty  of,  "By  G— ,  I'll  kill  Sir 
Roger  that  nobody  else  may  murder 
him !  "  And  so  there  befel  "  the 
melancholiest  day  for  the  poor  people 
that  ever  happened  in  Worcester- 
shire," and  there  was  not  a  dry  eye 
in  the  club  when  the  old  butler's  letter 
was  read  with  the  bad  news. 

This  extreme  precaution  is  not 
always  sovereign.  It  is  a  point 
not  absolutely  determined  in  Shake- 
spearian chronology  whether  Falstaff 
was  actually  dragged  from  his 
grave  to  make  an  Elizabethan 
holiday.  At  any  rate  Quixote  him 
dragged  from  his  grave  to  flaunt  him 
on  the  English  stage  by  no  less  a 
person  than  Henry  Fielding.  Field- 
ing was  properly  apologetic  about  it. 
He  was  only  twenty-one  when  he 
wrote  Don  Quixote  in  England,  and 
but  for  the  solicitations  of  the  dis- 
tressed actors  of  Drury  Lane  would 
not  have  consented  to  its  performance. 
For  five  years  he  had  left  it  on  the 
shelf  conscious  of  the  danger  of  the 
attempt  to  rival  Cervantes,  an  opinion 
in  which  he  was  confirmed  bv  Mr. 


Booth  and  Mr.  Colley  Cibber.  Yet 
was  it  with  an  adventure  not  wholly 
dissimilar  that  Fielding  embarked 
upon  his  true  career  as  a  novelist. 
For  Joseph  Andrews  was  conceived  as 
a  satirical  sequel  to  Pamela,  and 
Samuel  Richardson's  feelings  towards 
Fielding  were  in  consequence  about 
as  amiable  as  Cervantes's  to  "  Avel- 
laneda." Nor  has  Falstaff  been  left 
altogether  at  peace  in  Arthur's  bosom. 
You  will  find  a  letter  of  Lamb  to 
Coleridge  warmly  recommending  a 
new  volume  of  Original  Letters  of 
Falstaff.  That  sounds  a  pretty  rash 
adventure,  and  you  might  be  aston- 
ished at  Lamb's  commendations  if  you 
did  not  remember  that  James  White, 
the  author,  was  at  Christ's  Hospital 
with  Lamb,  and  how  good  a  friend 
Lamb  was.  Lamb  genially  suggested 
to  Coleridge  that  he  might  get  the 
book  puffed  in  the  reviews.  Though 
a  great  critic,  Lamb  was  very  human. 
Very  likely,  as  he  told  Coleridge, 
these  letters  were  far  superior  to 
Falstafs  Wedding  by  a  Dr.  Ken- 
drick. 

The  real  excuse  for  such  usage  is 
that  characters  like  Quixote  and 
Falstaff  become  a  substantial  part  of 
the  world's  heritage.  Their  authors 
really  are  creators,  to  use  the  cant 
term  with  which  commonplace  novel- 
ists comfort  themselves  against  the 
critic's  contempt.  It  is  in  its  way  a 
tribute  to  the  creative  gift  of  Cer- 
vantes that  Fielding  should  have 
written  about  Quixote  in  England, 
just  as  he  might  have  written  about 
Peter  the  Hermit  in  England,  if  only 
he  had  known  as  much  about  Peter 
the  Hermit  as  about  Don  Quixote. 
Few  historical  characters  are  so  real 
to  us  as  the  Quixotes  and  Falstaffs. 
Mr.  Justin  McCarthy's  notion  of  a 
Donna  Quixote  was,  by  the  bye, 
anticipated  by  The  Female  Quixote 
of  Charlotte  Lenox  (Dr.  Johnson's 
friend),  to  which  Fielding  devoted 
two  laudatory  columns  in  his  Covent 
Garden  Journal. 

Balzac  had  a  characteristic  idea  of 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


writing  a  sequel  to  Moliere' s  Tartuffe, 
in  order  to  show  how  dull  the  house- 
hold was  after  the  expulsion  of  the 
hypocrite.  Moliere  himself  was  not 
given  to  sequels,  and  it  is  surely  no 
wonder  that  he  left  Tartvffe  alone, 
seeing  what  a  storm  the  play  roused 
against  him  in  the  religious  world. 
Me diere,  however,  should  have  been 
ustd  to  storms.  There  had  been  no 
smill  ado  after  the  performance  of 
L'j^cole  des  Femmes.  To  that  play 
Moliere  did  write  a  kind  of  sequel. 
He  made  privately  among  his  friends 
such  dramatic  fun  of  his  critics,  that 
the-  Abb6  Dubuisson  suggested  he 
mi^ht  make  a  play  of  them.  And  he 
did  ;  he  put  his  critics  on  the  boards, 
and  La  Critique  de  I1  $  cole  des  Femmes 
ran  merrily  at  the  Palais  Royal 
Theatre  for  thirty-one  nights.  A 
man  named  Boursault  replied  with 
Le  Portrait  du  Peintre.  Moliere,  at  the 
personal  suggestion  of  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth, rejoined  with  L' Impromptu 
de  Versailles.  Not  even  the  inter- 
position of  the  King  put  an  end 
to  the  quarrel,  for  a  certain  De 
Yilliers  still  returned  to  the  attack 
wiih  La  Vengeance  des  Marquis.  It 
was  veritably  a-  war  of  sequels.  It 
is,  perhaps,  the  pleasantest  thing  that 
onn  knows  about  the  Grand  Monarch, 
thf  t  as  a  boy  he  had  his  ears  boxed 
by  Mazarin  for  reading  Scarron's 
novels  on  the  sly,  and  that  in  his 
maturity  he  was  so  good  a  friend  to 
Me  liere. 

Thackeray  has  told  us  in  one 
of  the  pleasantest  of  his  Round- 
abcut  Papers  how  familiarly  he  lived 
wii  h  the  heroes  and  heroines  of 
fiction:  how  he  would  love  to  wel- 
coi  le  Mignon  and  Margaret ;  how 
gladly  would  he  see  Dugald  Dalgetty 
and  Ivanhoe  stepping  in  at  the  open 
window  from  his  little  garden;  and 
Ui;cas  and  noble  old  Leatherstocking 
gli  ling  in  silently;  and  Athos, 
Porthos,  and  Aramis  swaggering  in, 
curling  their  moustaches ;  and  dearest 
Amelia  Booth  on  Uncle  Toby's  arm  ; 
son  Crummles's  company  of  comedians 
with  the  Gil  Bias  troupe;  and  Sir 

No.  415. — VOL.  LXX. 


Roger  de  Coverley  and  the  greatest 
of  crazy  gentlemen,  the  Knight  of 
La  Mancha  with  his  blessed  squire. 
A  pretty  skill  in  parody  testified  to 
his  intimacy.  Somewhere,  I  think, 
he  mooted  a  proposal  for  a  novel  to 
deal  altogether  with  the  leading 
characters  of  other  novels.  The 
method  after  all  is  as  legitimate  as 
Lucian's  and  Landor's. 

To  create  characters  so  much  alive 
is  the  main  business  of  the  novelist, 
more  so  even  (as  M.  Daudet  has 
remarked  with  a  pardonable  fling  at 
the  Flaubertists)  than  to  write  fine 
prose.  M.  Daudet  has  confessed  the 
thrill  of  paternal  pride  with  which 
he  has  heard  people  in  the  crowd  say, 
"Why,  he  is  a  Tartarin,"  or  "a 
Delobelle."  He  called  his  own  Tar- 
tarin a  Quixote  of  Southern  France. 
For  such  characters  not  only  live ; 
they  beget  descendants.  Hamlet- 
begat  Werther,  and  Werther  Rene, 
and  Rene  Obermann,  till  at  the 
present  day  the  family  of  Hamlets  is 
past  counting.  And  the  Quixotes  are 
nearly  as  numerous  as  the  Hamlets. 
Hudibras,  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley, 
and  Uncle  Toby,  and  Dr.  Syntax,  and 
Colonel  Newcome,  and  Mr.  Pickwick 
are  all  descendants  of  Don  Quixote. 
Thus  is  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  kin  to 
Mr.  Pickwick. 

M.  Daudet,  if  all  he  says  be  true, 
had  as  good  reason  to  leave  Tartarin 
alone  as  Moliere  had  to  leave  Tartuffe. 
The  wrath  of  Tarascon  was  notorious. 
This  resentment  of  a  whole  town  lay 
heavy  on  M.  Daudet's  spirit ;  safe  in 
Paris,  he  could  yet  see  in  his  mind's 
eye,  when  the  good  citizens  opened 
their  shops  of  a  morning  and  beat 
their  carpets  on  the  banks  of  the 
Rhone,  how  the  fists  would  clench  in 
his  direction  and  the  dark  eyes  flash. 
One  angry  man  of  Tarascon  actually 
penetrated  to  Paris  on  a  mission  of 
vengeance ;  and  if  a  friend  of  the 
novelist  had  not  distracted  the  pro- 
vincial's attention  in  a  whirl  of 
Parisian  excitement,  heaven  knows 
what  might  have  happened.  Yet  in 
spite  of  this  strong  local  feeling,  M. 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


Daudet  dared  to  write  a  sequel :  and, 
whatever  Tarascon  may  have  felt 
about  it,  Tartarin's  other  friends  were 
delighted  with  the  fresh  tidings  of 
him ;  for  Tartarin  in  the  Alps  was 
quite  his  old  delightful  self,  and  his 
mountaineering  exploits  were  Tartarin- 
esque  to  the  last  degree. 

M.  Daudet  used  to  give  Tarascon  a 
wide  berth  when  he  was  travelling  south . 
One  day,  however,  journeying  with 
his  son  and  the  Provengal  poet  Mistral, 
he  found  to  his  horror  the  train  stop- 
ping at  the  fatal  station.  "Father, 
how  pale  you  are,"  his  son  said.  Was 
it  any  wonder,  says  M.  Daudet 
pathetically  1  Over  and  over  again 
threats  had  reached  him  of  what 
would  happen  to  him  if  he  ever  dared 
to  set  foot  in  Tarascon.  A  commercial 
traveller,  who  had  for  a  joke  signed 
"  Alphonse  Daudet "  in  the  visitors' 
book  of  his  hotel,  had  been  mobbed, 
and  came  within  an  ace  of  being 
ducked  in  the  Rhone.  Well  might 
the  poor  author  turn  pale.  If  it  had 
been  one  man  he  had  to  deal  with, 
even  Tartarin  himself  in  all  his  exotic 
panoply,  he  might  have  faced  it; — but 
a  whole  townful,  and  the  Rhone  so 
deep  and  rapid  !  Yerily  a  romancer's 
life  was  not  a  bed  of  roses.  When 
the  train  stopped  and  the  travellers 
got  out  of  the  station,  lo  and  behold  ! 
not  a  soul  was  in  the  place.  Tarascon 
was  a  desert,  the  people,  as  it  turned 
out,  having  followed  Tartarin  a-colonis- 
ing  to  Port  Tarascon.  And  thus  it 
was  that  yet  another  Tartarin  sequel 
came  to  be  written.  That  was  how 
the  perfidious  novelist  finally  avenged 
himself  on  the  exasperated  town,  and 
how  Tartarin's  great  heart  came  to  be 
broken,  and  the  reader's  with  it. 

Beaumarchais  was  another  writer 
who  was  encouraged  by  the  success  of 
a  first  sequel  to  proceed  to  a  second, 
though  I  dare  say  many  readers 
perfectly  familiar  with  The  Barber  of 
Seville  and  Figaro's  Marriage  have 
hardly  heard  of  La  Mere  Coupable, 
the  second  sequel,  in  which  the  im- 
mortal Figaro  degenerated  into  re- 
spectability and  dulness.  But  if  the 


second  sequel  was  a  failure,  the  first 
is  perhaps  the  most  successful  on 
record.  Figaro's  Marriage,  besides 
being  a  famous  comedy,  is  acknow- 
ledged to  be  better  than  The  Barber 
to  which  it  was  sequel.  It  was  the 
Marriage  that  Mozart,  having  first 
choice,  chose  for  his  opera,  leaving  The 
Barber  to  Rossini.  Assuredly  this  is 
the  sequel  with  the  most  famous  his- 
tory ;  it  is  really  a  vivacious  page  of 
the  history  of  France.  It  was  a 
saying  at  the  time,  that  great  as  was 
the  cleverness  it  took  to  write  Figaro's 
Marriage,  it  took  a  great  deal 
more  cleverness  to  get  it  acted.  Pos- 
sibly M.  Daudet's  fervid  imagination 
had  something  to  do  with  his  trouble 
with  Tarascon.  Cervantes's  trouble 
with  the  sham  Quixote  may  be  re- 
garded by  a  Philistine  world  as  a 
storm  in  the  literary  tea-cup.  But 
the  difficulties  of  Figaro's  Marriage 
were  affairs  of  State,  and  its  produc- 
tion a  political  event  presaging  and 
helping  actually  to  precipitate  the 
French  Revolution.  It  was  not  with- 
out obstacles  and  delays  that  The 
Barber  had  been  brought  to  a  perform- 
ance. Accepted  by  the  Comedie 
Frangaise  in  1772,  it  was  put  off 
from  Carnival  to  Carnival,  first  owing 
to  the  dramatist's  quarrel  with  the 
Due  de  Chaulnes,  and  afterwards  to 
his  quarrel  with  the  Parliament,  and 
was  not  played  until  1775,  when  it 
failed  completely.  People  had  heard 
so  much  talk  about  the  precious 
Barber  that  when  he  came  they  found 
him  prolix  and  disappointing.  Beau- 
marchais, nothing  daunted,  revised  it, 
cutting  it  down  to  four  acts  (the  Barber 
had  been  drawn  and  quartered,  said 
the  wags,)  and  advertising  it  as  "  The 
Barber  of  Seville,  Comedy  in  Four  Acts, 
Played  and  Damned  at  the  Theatre 
Frangais."  This  time  it  was  brilliantly 
successful,  and  had  an  unusual  run. 

These  troubles  however  were  child's 
play  to  the  stormy  career  of  the 
sequel.  That  was  a  veritable  duel  of 
the  dramatist  with  principalities  and 
powers.  Beaumarchais  had  against 
him  the  police,  the  magistracy,  the 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


35 


ministry,  and  the  King  himself.  The 
play  was  ready  for  performance  in 
1781.  The  police  authorities  read  it, 
and  perceiving  at  once  its  dangerous 
tendencies  in  the  unsettled  state  of 
Fraice,  prohibited  the  performance. 
Thereupon  Beaumarchais  threw  him- 
self heart  and  soul  into  a  campaign  of 
intrigue  to  procure  the  license.  The 
memoirs  of  the  time  are  full  of  the 
affair  with  all  the  moves  and  counter- 
moves.  Beaumarchais  circulated  a 
saying  of  Figaro's  that  "  only  little 
mer  were  afraid  of  little  writings," 
and.  flattering  the  courtier's  foible  of 
independence,  won  over  several  lead- 
ing personages  in  society  to  protect 
and  befriend  his  Barber.  There  was 
the  Oount  d' Artois,  the  personal  friend 
of  the  Queen,  the  Baron  de  Breteuil, 
Madame  de  Polignac  and  her  set,  and 
M.  de  Yaudreuil.  Then  he  set  cleverly 
to  \vork  to  pique  the  curiosity  of 
society  and  the  court.  It  became  the 
fashion  to  give  readings  of  Figaro's 
Marriage  in  drawing-rooms.  Society 
talked  of  nothing  else.  Everywhere 
people  were  to  be  heard  saying,  "  I 
havo  just  been,"  or  "I  am  just  going  " 
to  a  reading  of  Beaumarchais' s  new 
play.  The  King  himself  at  last  could 
no  longer  resist  the  growing  curiosity. 
He  sent  to  M.  Le  Noir,  the  lieutenant 
of  police,  for  the  manuscript.  One 
moriing  when  Madame  Cainpan  en- 
tere  1  the  Queen's  private  room,  she 
four  d  the  King  and  Queen  alone,  and 
a  chair  placed  in  front  of  a  table  with 
a  pi e  of  papers  on  it.  "It  is  Beau- 
mar^hais's  comedy,"  said  the  King. 
"  I  Y^ant  you  to  read  it.  It  is  difficult 
to  raad  in  places  by  reason  of  the 
eras  ires  and  interlineations;  but  I 
desire  that  the  Queen  should  hear  it. 
You  are  not  to  mention  this  reading 
to  a  soul."  So  Madame  Campan  be- 
gan, and  as  she  read,  the  King  kept 
excl;  iming  at  the  bad  taste  of  passage 
aftei  passage ;  and  when  she  came  to 
Figaro's  monologue,  with  its  attack 
on  tie  administration,  especially  the 
tirace  against  the  State  prisons,  he 
leapt  d  to  his  feet  crying :  "  It  is 
dete:  table  ;  it  shall  never  be  played  ! 


We  should  have  to  pull  down  the 
Bastille  to  prevent  the  consequences. 
The  fellow  makes  a  mock  of  every- 
thing that  should  command  respect." 
"  It  is  not  to  be  played  then  1 "  asked 
the  Queen.  "  Certainly  not,"  replied 
Louis.  "  Of  that  you  may  rest  as- 
sured." And  Beaumarchais  outside 
was  saying  with  unabashed  audacity, 
"  So  the  King  refuses  his  permission  ; 
very  well,  then,  my  play  shall  be  per- 
formed." He  was  confident  of  winning 
in  the  end,  and  that  success  was  only 
a  matter  of  time.  Society  was  also 
sanguine  about  it,  and  bets  were 
freely  offered  on  the  event.  Beau- 
marchais's  backers,  continuing  to 
count  on  success  despite  the  King's 
refusal,  distributed  the  parts  to  the 
Comedie  Fran9aise ;  and  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  tacit  good  will  of  the 
Count  d' Artois,  M.  de  la  Ferte  lent 
them  the  stage  of  the  Hotel  des 
Menus  Plaisirs,  the  King's  own  par- 
ticular theatre.  The  rehearsals  were 
almost  public.  Tickets  were  issued  for 
a  performance  on  the  12th  of  June, 
1783.  Carriages  were  already  arriv- 
ing, the  hall  was  half  full,  the  Count 
d' Artois  was  on  his  way  from  Ver- 
sailles, when  an  order  arrived  from 
the  King,  who  had  heard  of  the  affair 
for  the  first  time  that  morning,  for- 
bidding the  performance.  Great  was 
the  general  disappointment,  and  the 
King's  action  was  keenly  resented. 
Madame  Campan  says  that  not  even 
during  the  days  immediately  preced- 
ing the  downfall  of  the  throne  were  the 
words  "  oppression  "  and  "  tyranny  " 
more  in  people's  mouths.  Beaumar- 
chais, once  more  baffled,  was  furious. 
"Very  well,  gentlemen,"  he  cried. 
"  So  my  piece  is  not  to  be  played 
here  !  Well,  I  swear  that  played  it 
shall  be,  if  it  has  to  be  played  in  the 
choir  of  Notre  Dame.'"' 

The  King,  perhaps  foreseeing  the 
end,  had  said  upon  one  occasion,  "  You 
will  see,  Beaumarchais  will  prove 
stronger  than  the  authorities."  Well, 
only  three  months  after  the  last  in- 
cident a  private  performance  was 
given  by  the  Comedie  Fra^aise  before 


K> 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


three  hundred  spectators  at  the  house 
of  M.  de  Yaudreuil.  The  Queen  was 
not  well  enough  to  be  present,  but 
the  Count  d'Artois  was  there  and  the 
Duchess  de  Polignac.  The  perform- 
ance was  winked  at  upon  the  pretext 
that  the  objectionable  passages  were 
to  have  been  excised.  Madame 
Campan's  father-in-law,  who  was 
there,  hearing  all  the  incriminated 
passages  delivered,  while  everybody 
kept  repeating  that  they  had  been 
cut  out,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
quoted  the  well-known  remark  of  the 
mystified  Basile  in  The  flarber,  "  Faith, 
gentlemen,  I  don't  know  which  of  us 
is  being  cheated,  but  the  whole  world 
seems  to  be  in  the  plot  "  The  points 
which  told  most  against  society, 
society  most  vigorously  applauded. 
Beaumarchais  was  beside  himself  with 
his  triumph.  Madame  Vigee  Lebrun, 
an  eye-witness,  has  described  how, 
when  somebody  complained  of  the 
heat,  he  went  round  breaking  the 
windows  with  his  cane ;  hence  came 
the  phrase,  Qu'il  avail  doublement 
casse  les  vitres. 

Encouraged  by  so  much  applause 
and  complicity,  Beaumarchais  chose 
to  construe  a  vague  private  remark  of 
M.  de  Breteuil  into  an  offic<al  per- 
mission, and  boldly  arranged  a  public 
performance  for  February  1784.  A^ain 
M.  le  JSToir  and  the  police  were  com- 
pelled formally  to  interfere,  and  the 
performance  once  more  was  stopped. 
But  the  siege  was  on  the  pomt  of 
being  raised.  The  King  at  length 
withdrew  his  veto,  being  apparently 
sanguine  enough  to  believe,  *fter  all 
that  had  taken  place,  that  the  play 
would  be  damned  on  its  merits ;  and 
011  the  27th  of  April,  1784,  the 
performance  took  place. 

The  excitement  was  indescri*  able. 
Princes  of  the  Blood  tumbled  over  each 
other  in  their  eagerness  for  tickets. 
The  author  was  inundated  with  ner- 
sorial  solicitations  from  the  highest 
ranks.  The  Duchesse  de  Bourbon's 
footmen  waited  at  the  box  office  from 
eleven  in  the  morning  till  four  o'cl«ck 
in  the  afternoon.  Great  ladies  were 


smuggled  into  actresses'  boxes,  taking 
their  dinner  with  them.  Three  hun- 
dred persons  dined  at  the  theatre  for 
fear  of  losing  their  places.  The  per- 
formance was  very  long,  but  it  was 
one  long  triumph.  The  piece  ran  for 
over  a  hundred  nights,  a  run  then  un- 
precedented. Beaumarchais,  a  passed 
master  in  the  art  of  advertisement, 
knew  how  to  keep  up  the  excitement. 
He  took  advantage  of  an  application 
by  some  ladies  for  a  loye  grillee  to 
reply,  in  a  letter  addressed  to  a  sup- 
positious  duke  and  carefully  made 
public,  that  he  had  no  consideration 
for  ladies  who  could  demean  them- 
selves to  view  in  secret  a  piece  they 
thought  improper.  This  letter  proved 
a  most  successful  advertisement.  When 
the  ntay  reached  its  fiftieth  night, 
Beaumarchais  invented  the  "charit- 
able performance.1'  He  chose ' '  nursing 
mothers  "  as  the  objects  of  the  charity, 
Kousseauism  being  the  fashion. 

Even  in  the  height  of  Beaumar- 
chais's  triumph,  the  King  did  him  one 
more  bad  turn.  The  dramatist  got 
into  controversy  about  his  charitable 
performance  with  an  anonymous  an- 
tagonist. That  antagonist,  unfortun- 
ately for  him,  happened  to  be  the 
future  Louis  the  Eighteenth,  who, 
stung  by  Beaumarchais' s  sharp  tongue, 
appealed  to  the  King.  Louis  was 
playing  cards  at  the  time.  He 
sera  VN  led  on  one  of  the  cards  an  order 
committing  Beaumarchais  to  St. 
Lazare,  the  common  prison  for  thieves 
and  prostitutes;  and  so  the  literary 
lion  of  the  hour  was  dragged  off  from 
a  fashionable  supper  party  and  thrown 
into  gaol,  there  to  remain  for  six 
days  amidst  the  scum  of  Paris,  and 
then  to  be  liberated  without  any 
charge  being  preferred.  It  was  a 
monstrous  outrage  ;  but  Beaumarchais 
had  his  revenge.  In  the  first  place 
the  King  had  to  pay  him  corn- 
pens.,  tion  to  the  tune  of  2,150,000 
livres.  But  there  was  other  com- 
pensation dearer  to  an  author's  heart. 
A  pert' ormance  of  The  Barber  of  Seville 
was  actually  given  at  the  Petit 
Tri  non  by  the  Queen's  private  com- 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


37 


pany,  the  Queen  herself  acting  Rosine, 
the  Count  d'Artois  Figaro,  and  M. 
de  Vaudreuil  Almaviva;  and  the  author 
was  invited !  Even  Beaumarchais 
must  have  been  satisfied. 

ligaro's  Marriage  was,  as  I  have 
said,  more  than  a  theatrical  triumph  ; 
it  v-as  a  political  event.  You  may 
read  it  to-day,  and  find  it  an 
amusing  play,  but  with  little  in  it 
calculated,  as  you  might  think,  to 
upsot  a  constitution.  But  so  electrical 
was  the  atmosphere  that  every 
allusion  to  the  failings  of  the  ruling 
classes  or  the  institutions  of  the  State 
becr.me  charged  with  significance.  It 
is  matter  of  history  that  it  helped  to 
precipitate  the  revolution.  Napoleon 
said  that  Figaro  was  the  revolution 
already  in  action. 

The  suggestion  for  this  sequel  also, 
by  the  way,  came  from  without.  It 
was  the  Prince  of  Conti  who  first  put 
the  idea  into  Beaumarchais's  head. 
Figaro's  creator  took  heart  and  soul 
to  the  idea ;  he  had  so  vivid  a  concep- 
tion of  his  Figaro  (who,  be  it  said, 
boro  a  strong  family  resemblance  to 
himself)  that  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
imagining  the  versatile  barber  in  the 
moie  complicated  situations  proposed 
by  the  Prince.  There  you  have  tlje 
seciet  of  the  sequel  in  a  nutshell. 
When  a  character  is  so  real  to  the 
aut!  lor  that  he  spontaneously  imagines 
him  in  fresh  situations,  and  divines 
ho\A  he  will  behave  therein,  the 
difficulty  of  the  sequel  is  solved. 
Thackeray  has  described  the  close 
intinacy  in  which  he  lived  with  the 
characters  of  his  novels.  He  was 
afraid  people  would  say,  "What  a 
pov  3rty  of  friends  the  man  has  !  He 
is  always  asking  us  to  meet  those 
Pen  dennises  and  Newcomes."  When 
he  was  asked  why  he  married  Esmond 
to  Lady  Castlewood,  his  answer  was, 
— "I  didn't;  they  did  it  themselves." 
There  are  a  dozen  similar  stories  of 
BaUac.  Once  Balzac  accosted  his 
sist-jp  with  all  the  importance  of  a 
gossip  bursting  with  a  piece  of  news  : 
"  ^  hat  do  you  think  ?  Felix  de 
Yai  denesse  is  going  to  be  married, 


and  to  one  of  the  Grandvilles,  too — a 
capital  match  ! "  Some  readers  in- 
terested in  the  air  of  ' '  a  man  with  a 
past "  worn  by  Captain  de  Jordy  in 
the  novel  Cfrsule  Mirouet,  once 
appealed  to  Balzac  to  tell  them 
what  this  past  has  been.  Balzac 
reflected  seriously,  then  remembered 
that  he  had  not  known  De  Jordy  till 
he  came  to  live  at  Nemours.  And 
another  time,  when  Jules  Sandeau  was 
speaking  of  his  sister's  illness,  Balzac 
interrupted  him  with  the  absent- 
mindedness  of  genius  and  suggested 
that  they  should  come  back  to  real 
life  and  discuss  Eugenie  Grandet. 
Such  a  real  world  to  Balzac  was  his 
Comedie  Humdine;  and  that  of  course 
is  the  secret  of  its  producing,  in  spite 
of  its  many  marvellous  characters  and 
melodramatic  occurrences,  so  strong 
an  illusion  of  reality  on  the  mind  of 
the  reader.  The  Comedie  Humaine  is 
a  system  of  sequels  and  interlacing 
narratives.  The  careers  of  some  of 
the  characters,  as  of  Lucien  de 
Rubeinpre  and  to  some  extent  of 
Vautrin,  may  be  traced  in  a  strict 
series  of  sequels.  The  lives  of  other 
personages  the  reader  has  to  piece 
together  from  several  novels ;  a 
biography,  for  example,  of  Maxim e 
de  Trailles  has  to  be  collected  from 
very  nearly  a  dozen.  The  student  of 
Balzac  almost  feels  as  if  he  were 
engaged  in  original  research.  The 
same  system  to  a  less  elaborate  extent 
was  employed  by  Trollope  in  those 
lifelike  scenes  of  clerical  life,  the 
Chronicles  of  Barsetshire,  and  also  in 
his  political  tales.  Indeed  Trollope 
was  even  more  successful  almost  than 
Balzac  in  producing  a  convincing  re- 
presentation of  a  substantial  world. 

Thackeray,  for  all  the  company  he 
kept  with  his  Pendennises  and  New- 
comes,  did  not  indulge  much  in  the 
sequel  proper.  The  Virginians  is  the 
one  example,  and  in  quality  it  is  but 
a  typical  sequel  for  Esmond.  It  con- 
tains, however,  in  the  age  of  the 
Baroness  Bernstein  as  sequel  to  the 
youth  of  Beatrix  Esmond  perhaps  the 
cleverest  and  cruellest  development  of 


38 


A  Discourse  on  Sequels. 


character  in  the  whole  range  of  sequels. 
Nor  did  Dickens  write  sequels,  the  in- 
effectual reappearance  of  the  Wellers 
in    Master  Humphrey's  Clock  being,  I 
think,  his  sole  effort  in  that  direction. 
Nor  did    Sir   Walter,    for   The    Abbot 
is  really   a    distinct  novel    from    The 
Monastery.        Scott's     great     French 
successor,  on  the  other  hand,  the  in- 
exhaustible and  unconfinable  Dumas, 
would  carry  his  sequels  through  the 
centuries  with  amazing  vivacity  and 
success.     Dumas's   secret,   you  would 
say,  was  rather  fecundity  of  invention 
than    the   vitality   of   his    individual 
characters.     Yet  as  you  say  so,  Chicot 
and  the  Musketeers  rush  to  your  re- 
collection.     Chicot' s     vitality     is     so 
considerable,   that  a   successful  novel 
about    him    has     been    produced    in 
France   within   the   last    few   weeks, 
and  the  Musketeers  are  alive  enough 
for  anything.     A  friend  of  mine  who 
loves  each  member  of  this  fine  Quad- 
ruple Alliance,  though  perhaps  he  loves 
Porthos  best,  is  for  ever  challenging 
me  to  produce  from  the  superior  pages 
of    novelists    who    affect    to    despise 
incident  a  finer  achievement  in  char- 
acter-drawing than  the  gradual  indi- 
vidualisation    and   divergence  of    the 
four  characters  in  the  course  of  the 
years  covered  by  the  eleven  volumes. 
It  is  a  challenge  that  I  have  never 
met  to   his,  nor    indeed   to   my   own 
satisfaction.     Are  not  in  truth  these 
Musketeers    sufficient    of    their   sole 
selves    to    take    away    the   reproach 
from    sequels    for   ever  ?     One  would 
like  to  clinch  the  question  by  claiming 
the  Odyssey  as  a  sequel  to  the  Iliad, 
but  between  us  and  that  devout  con- 
summation flow  floods  of  German  ink. 
When  we  acquiesce  in  the  common 
condemnation  of  the  sequel,  I  suppose 
it  is  hardly  of  Don  Quixote  or  Figaro 
or  of  Balzac  or  Dumas  that  we  are 
thinking,    but    rather    of    the    more 
ordinary  run  of  sequels,  of  the  thou- 
sand and  one  mechanical  continuations 
wherein   industry  takes  the  place  of 
inspiration.     Even  with  so  competent 
a  craftsman  as  Lytton  the  spirit  flags 


after  the  five  hundredth  page.  Nay, 
with  a  writer  of  genius  like  George 
Sand,  after  three  volumes  of  Consuelo 
the  ordinary  reader  gladly  leaves  the 
Comtesse  de  Rudolstadt  upon  her  shelf. 
That  there  is  a  special  danger  and 
difficulty  about  the  sequel,  there  is  no 
denying.  The  sequel  is  likely  to 
disappoint  expectations,  for  the  very 
reason  that  there  are  expectations  to 
disappoint.  The  writer  is  handicapped 
by  his  own  record ;  as  Scott  said  of 
Campbell,  he  is  afraid  of  the  shadow 
that  his  own  fame  casts  before  him. 
The  original  book  robs  its  successor  of 
the  advantage  of  novelty,  and  at  the 
same  time  fixes  a  difficult  standard  of 
comparison.  It  is  not  easy  to  imagine 
cleverer  sequels  than  Alice  through  the 
Looting-Glass  and  Tartarin  sur  les 
Alpes.  If  they  stand  in  estimation 
below  the  original  Tartarin  and  Alice 
in  Wonderland,  it  can  surely  only  be 
because  they  necessarily  had  not  the 
captivating  freshness  of  the  earlier 
books.  Herein  lies  the  difficulty  of 
the  sequel.  And  the  danger  is  the 
temptation  to  yield  to  demands  from 
without  or  the  desire  from  within, 
and  to  try  to  repeat  a  success 
mechanically  and  without  inspiration. 
The  most  notable  example,  because 
following  the  most  notable  success,  is 
the  second  part  of  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress.  Bunyan  tried  to  repeat  his 
success;  but  Christiana  was  always 
Christian's  worser  half,  and  her 
personally  conducted  tour  is  but  a 
poor  reflection  of  her  husband's  pilgrim- 
age. Many  of  us  may  have  read 
recently  in  Lowell's  correspondence, 
how  his  friend's  and  admirers  kept 
urging  him  to  resuscitate  Hosea 
Biglow  and  to  continue  the  Biglow 
Papers.  He  was  so  simple  as  to  try, 
he  said,  but  found  that  he  could  not. 
When  afterwards  he  did  write  a 
belated  Biglow  Paper,  it  was  clean 
against  his  critical  judgment.  "  For  " 
said  he,  "I  don't  believe  in  resuscita- 
tions. We  hear  no  good  of  the 
posthumous  Lazarus." 

W.  P.  J. 


39 


DITAS. 


"  Is  the  prairie  on  fire,  Manuelo?  " 

It  was  Ditas  Patronez  who  asked 
the  question  as  the  family  were  sitting 
down  together  to  the  evening  meal. 
For  this  was  the  Mexican  custom  in- 
herited and  cherished  with  more  than 
Spanish  conscientiousness  from  the 
days  of  old  Spain,  that  the  family 
and  a  few  of  the  retainers  should  eat 
togother  seated  according  to  their 
deg  ree  ;  a  shoot  of  feudalism  pushed  a 
long  way  West. 

"  You've  a  good  nose,  Ditas,  to 
smell  that,  and  the  wind  the  way  it 
is,"  her  cousin  replied,  glancing  at 
her  with  suspicion. 

"  How  could  it  have  caught  light, 
I  wonder,"  she  replied  answering  him 
with  equal  suspicion,  "  Have  you 
seen  the  Senor  Inglese  1 " 

"  It's  no  wonder  it  should  catch 
fire.  I  should  think,  Ditas,  when  we 
haven't  had  rain  this  twenty  months. 
As  for  the  Senor  Inglese  I  should 
think  you  were  more  likely  to  know 
where  he  is  than  I." 

I  >itas  did  not  answer  him  but  began 
to  occupy  herself  with  the  plate  of 
has  led  mutton  and  the  boiled  maize 
which  had  been  passed  down  to  her. 
It  would  have  been  a  grave  breach  of 
€tic  uette  in  that  household  for  one  to 
beg  in  to  eat  before  old  Pedro  Patronez, 
the  father  and  head  of  the  family, 
had  helped  all  round  the  table  and 
had  commenced  his  own  meal.  So  all 
had  sat  with  the  meat  steaming  and 
cooling  before  them  while  they  watched 
this  little  passage  of  arms  between 
the  cousins.  The  father  was  deaf  but 
his  faculties  were  alert  enough.  "  Eh, 
eh,'  he  said,  "  what  was  Manuelo 
say  ng, — that  the  prairie  was  on 
fire?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  young  man  an- 
swered. "I  saw  it  as  I  came  from 
drh  ing  the  horses  in  for  the  branding." 


"  In  which  direction  ?  " 
"  Eastward,  sir,  and  north,  towards 
the  Rio  Grande." 

"It  won't  come  near  us  then,  un- 
less the  wind  changes." 

"The  wind  won't  change,  sir,  at 
this  time  of  year." 

"  Where  is  the  Englishman,  I 
wonder?  Who  has  seen  him?"  the 
old  man  asked  with  some  anxiety. 

No  one  answered  for  a  minute,  then 
Ditas  said  quickly,  *'  He  went  out 
with  you,  Manuelo,  this  morning." 

"  That  was  a  long  while  ago,"  said 
the  young  man  sulkily.  "  We  had 
dinner  at  Oxener's  camp.  I  have  not 
seen  him  since." 

"  He  started  east  from  there  in  the 
direction  of  the  river,  Senor,"  one  of 
the  retainers  volunteered  from  the 
foot  of  the  table. 

"Did  he?"  replied  Manuelo,  as  if 
he  were  very  little  grateful  for  the 
information. 

Then  Ditas  glanced  quickly  at  her 
father. 

"  Eh,  eh,  towards  the  river,  did  he  ? 
I  hope  he  won't  get  caught  in  the  fire. 
He  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  in  a 
fire." 

"  Oh,  he'll  be  all  right,  sir :  he's  got 
a  very  good  horse,  that  bay  with  the 
white  on  his  forehead ;  and  there's 
the  river  always  down  wind." 

"  And  the  banks  of  the  river  are 
like  cliffs ;  you  know  it  as  well  as  I 
do,  Manuelo,"  the  old  man  said 
severely. 

Manuelo  was  abashed.  He  made 
no  answer,  but  under  his  breath  he 
said  sullenly,  "I  should  be  sorry  if 
we  lost  the  horse." 

Ditas  looked  at  him  reproachfully, 
but  her  two  brothers,  mere  lads,  who 
sat  one  beside  her  and  one  beside 
Manuelo,  laughed  covertly  at  his  re- 
mark. "  He'll  be  done  if  he's  caught; 


40 


Ditas. 


he  can't  ride  a  bit,"  one  of  the  boys 
said. 

"  No,  nor  shoot  either." 

"  And  he's  no  use  at  all  with  a  rope," 
the  first  added. 

"  Be  quiet,  Juan,"  Ditas  said.  "  If 
father  hears  you  there'll  be  no  more 
supper  for  you  to-night." 

"Oh — you  !"  said  her  brother  scorn- 
fully. "  Of  course  you're  always  de- 
fending him." 

At  which  the  hot  blood  flew  to  her 
face  and  she  bent  silently  over  her 
plate,  Manuelo  observing  her  with 
keen  displeasure. 

As  soon  as  supper  was  over  Ditas 
went  away  by  herself  and  played 
with  her  little  gray  hawk  which  lived, 
chained  by  the  leg,  in  the  pepper-tree 
outside  her  window.  The  little  hawk 
was  peacefully  sleeping,  with  its  head 
under  its  wing,  in  the  starlit  odorous 
night.  Yet  the  little  hawk  it  was, 
and  not  any  remarkable  powers  of 
scent  on  her  own  part,  that  had  told 
Ditas  of  the  prairie-tire.  For  when  she 
had  looked  at  the  bird  in  the  after- 
noon he  was  napping  his  little  wings 
and  tugging  at  his  chain.  Ditas  knew 
the  signs.  The  little  hawk  had  never 
seen  a  prairie-fire,  for  Ditas  had  had 
him  since  he  was  a  baby,  but  he  in- 
herited the  blood  of  thousands  of  an- 
cestors to  whom  such  fires  were 
familiar,  who  had  known  well  what 
it  was  to  hunt  the  wretched  scorched- 
out  gophers  and  lizards  among  the 
flames  and  the  smoke.  So  the  smell 
of  the  burning  spoke  to  the  inherited 
instincts  of  the  little  hawk,  though  he 
was  too  tiny  to  catch  a  thing  much 
bigger  than  a  humming-bird,  and  a 
humming-bird  was  too  quick  even  for 
his  lightning  dashes.  "  So  the  fire  is 
over,  pajarcito?"  Ditas  whispered  to 
him,  and  the  little  bird  drew  a  quick 
glancing  head  from  beneath  his  wing 
and,  seeing  before  him  well-known 
black  eyes  as  brilliant  as  his  own,  put 
back  his  head  to  sleep  again,  satis- 
fied. 

Then  the  girl  went  to  her  room. 
She  had  the  rare  privilege,  in  Mexican 
households,  of  a  room  to  herself,  be- 


cause she  was  the  only  daughter.  She 
looked  out  into  the  silent  night,  all 
the  more  deeply  silent  for  the  myriad- 
winged  hum  of  insects,  and  listened 
expectant  for  the  deep  dull  thud  of 
the  unshod  horse  cantering  home  over 
the  prairie.  But  all  was  still.  If 
she  blushed,  none  saw  it  on  her  beauti- 
ful dark  face;  if  she  prayed  to  the 
Saints  for  the  Englishman  whom  she 
loved,  the  answer  was  not  audible. 
At  rare  intervals  a  chorus  of  coyotes 
came  from  a  distant  patch  of  ebony 
trees,  a  few  fireflies  danced  over  the 
tremulous  feathers  of  the  pepper-tree. 
For  the  rest  the  starlit  stillness  was 
unbroken. 

Meanwhile  the  Englishman  had 
found  some  new  sensations  for  himself 
that  day.  He  had  gone  from  Oxener's 
camp,  as  the  retainer  had  said  of  him, 
eastward  towards  the  river,  to  look 
for  the  horses  which  were  to  be  driven 
into  the  corral  for  the  branding.  Much 
of  what  the  brothers  of  Ditas  had  said 
of  him  he  would  have  admitted  to  be 
true.  He  could  not  ride.  He  would 
not  have  said  so  when  he  came  out  to 
Mexico  a  few  months  ago ;  he  would 
even  have  been  very  angry  with  any 
one  who  had  dared  to  say  it  of  him. 
He  was  a  good  rider  to  hounds,  judged 
by  the  English  standard ;  but  now 
he  knew  the  Mexican  standard,  and, 
judged  by  that,  had  to  own  that  he 
was  lamentably  wanting.  He  could 
not  ride  a  broncho  that  had  never  been 
crossed  before,  and  after  three  hours 
of  diabolical  cruelty  bring  him  in 
nearly  dead,  it  is  true,  but  sufficiently 
broken  for  practical  purposes.  Neither 
could  he  shoot.  He  could  kill  rocket- 
ing pheasants  or  driven  partridges 
rather  better  than  most  men ;  but  he 
could  not  put  all  the  bullets  of  a  six- 
barrelled  revolver  into  a  thin  tree-stem 
as  he  went  at  full  gallop  past  it,  and 
this  is  what  they  meant  by  shooting. 
As  for  a  rope,  as  they  called  it, 
meaning  a  lasso,  he  had  not  seen  such 
a  thing  until  he  came  to  Mexico,  and 
beheld  with  the  awe  of  ignorant  won- 
der the  marvels  which  Ditas'  friends 
wrought  with  it.  It  did  not  astonish 


Ditas. 


him,  he  told  himself,  that  she  despised 
him. 

Another  thing  he  had  not  seen  until 
this  day,  a  prairie-fire.  It  came  upon 
him  with  a  sense  of  an  uneasy  hot- 
ness  in  the  air,  a  certain  restlessness 
which  he  caught  from  his  horse,  who 
knew  far  more  about  it  than  he  knew. 
Then  he  wondered,  while  these  slight 
signs  grew  more  emphatic.  A  few 
minutes,  and  birds  began  to  pass  him, 
a  coyote  galloped  across  his  path,  a 
wild  turkey  scudded  by  at  a  hard  trot ; 
even  the  Englishman,  ignorant  as  he 
was  of  the  ways  of  the  live  things  of 
the  ( ountry,  began  to  marvel.  A  sort 
of  lew  humming  sounded  from  wind- 
ware  ;  his  horse  began  to  snort  and 
gresv  unmanageable,  seeming  to  be  in- 
fected by  the  down- wind  race  of  all 
live  things,  edging  away  from  his 
north-easterly  track,  and  making  more 
directly  eastward.  He  was  indifferent, 
the  Bronchos  were  as  likely  to  be  east- 
ward as  northward,  and  let  the  horse 
go.  Presently  it  broke  into  a  canter, 
then  into  a  gallop ;  moths,  bats,  noc- 
turnal insects,  creatures  of  all  kinds, 
begaa  to  fly  past  him  through  the 
brig]  it  sunlight  as  in  a  nightmare,  and 
after  them  dashed  all  the  smaller  kind 
of  predatory  birds,  the  cousins-german 
of  JDitas*  little  hawk.  The  air  grew 
more  and  more  sultry,  and  laden  with 
a  su]phurous  breath.  Looking  behind 
him,  over  the  haunches  of  his  now 
racir  g  horse,  he  saw  a  dense  thickness, 
as  of  fog.  Above  the  density  rose  a 
whit  sh  cloud-line ;  through  the  density 
flash  3d  tongues  of  light ;  at  last  a 
sens< !  of  what  was  upon  him  dawned  : 
he  was  flying  from  a  prairie-fire. 

At.  he  realised  the  fact  the  instinct 
of  the  fleeing  animals  grew  infectious 
for  fc  im  too.  He  was  all  in  accord  now 
with  his  horse's  terror,  and  the  rider 
urge  1  on  the  pace  which  he  had  en- 
deavored to  restrain  before.  The 
wind  from  the  west  blew  with  steady 
strergth.  The  humming  sound  in- 
creas  ed  until  it  became  a  roar,  louder 
and  louder  with  each  mile  that  he 
galloped,  while  still  the  stream  of 
livin »  things  went  before  it.  The 


smoke  grew  dark  over  the  face  of  the 
sky,  the  flames  and  the  density  came 
nearer  and  nearer  ;  still  he  galloped 
on.  He  bethought  him  of  all  that  he 
had  read  in  the  pages  of  Mayne  Reid 
and  the  other  writers  who  had  been 
the  delight  of  his  youth.  To  kindle  a 
fire  of  his  own  before  him,  and  shelter 
himself  on  the  burnt  patch  thus  left 
barren  for  the  hunger  of  the  pursuing 
flames,  was  a  scheme  which  occurred 
to  him,  but  he  dreaded  the  delay  which 
it  would  occasion.  He  knew  vaguely 
that  the  river  was  somewhere  east- 
ward, and  the  influence  of  the  terror 
of  the  live  things  who  shared  his  flight 
was  too  powerful.  He  galloped  on. 
Now  he  saw  the  broken  line  of  the 
steep  bank  of  the  river  and  with  the 
sight  a  new  danger  presented  itself, 
for  the  banks,  as  he  knew,  were  pre- 
cipitous of  crumbling  earth.  How 
could  his  horse  descend  them,  or  how 
could  he  check  his  horse  in  order  to 
dismount  and  climb  down  1  A  patch 
of  ebony  trees  was  to  the  south,  and 
there  he  knew  the  land  sloped  gently 
to  the  river,  where  it  lay  in  placid 
cool  green  peace  with  the  turtles  float- 
ing on  its  stream ;  but  there,  too,  the 
fringe  of  prairie  grass  grew  higher, 
the  fire  found  better  fodder,  and 
already  there  was  a  wall  of  flying 
smoke  and  flame  to  shut  off  that  place 
of  refuge.  Still  he  galloped  on,  and 
now  the  smoke  and  the  lurid  heat  were 
but  some  quarter  of  a  mile  in  his  rear. 
His  horse's  flanks  were  heaving  with 
its  race,  but  not  a  mile  before  him 
was  the  river.  A  few  moments  more 
and  the  flames  and  smoke  were  thick 
around  him,  and  he  and  the  horse 
almost  on  the  river-brink.  He  tugged 
desperately  at  the  reins,  but  the  horse 
paid  no  heed,  blind  and  senseless  with 
terror.  They  were  on  the  verge  of  the 
cliff  now  ;  below  was  the  calm  blissful 
water.  He  shut  his  eyes  and  gripped 
firmly  with  his  knees  expecting  the 
fatal  fall,  when  to  his  surprise  he  felt 
a  slipping,  gentle  descent,  a  struggling 
of  his  horse  as  the  pace  slackened ; 
and  then,  before  he  realised  what  had 
befallen,  the  yielding  bank  had  given 


Ditas. 


way  beneath  their  weight,  and  horse 
and  rider  were  struggling  in  the 
water.  The  next  instant  he  was 
thrown  off  into  the  stream.  He  dis- 
engaged himself  from  his  horse,  and 
found  himself  standing,  sinking,  swim- 
ming in  the  river,  as  the  water  washed 
away  masses  of  the  earth  which  they 
had  brought  down  with  them.  The 
horse  swam  away  from  him  down  the 
stream,  and  he  was  left,  now  standing, 
now  swimming,  while  the  smoke  went 
curling  over  his  head  and  the  baulked 
flames  stopped  and  died  away  harm- 
less, save  for  a  few  fiery  missile  brands 
which  they  shot  at  him  out  in  the 
stream . 

And  so  the  peril  was  over.  He  had 
but  to  wait,  in  the  cooling  waters, 
until  the  fire  had  burned  away  and  he 
could  safely  climb  back  to  land.  There 
were  110  crocodiles  so  far  up  the  river. 
He  was  safe.  As  he  realised  his 
safety  the  reaction  nearly  overcame 
him,  and  he  had  need  to  summon  all 
his  fortitude  to  save  him  from  per- 
mitting himself  to  be  carried  helplessly 
down  the  stream.  And  then  through 
the  afternoon  and  all  through  the  still 
night,  over  the  blackened  prairie  he 
walked  sadly  and  steadily  homeward 
to  the  hacienda,  which  he  reached 
with  boots  charred  and  sooty  as  the 
vacqueros  were  just  setting  out  on 
their  morning's  work. 

He  slept  in  a  room  off  the  central 
court-yard  of  the  hacienda.  It  was 
not  a  bright  room,  for  it  had  no 
window  ;  its  occupants  went  to  bed 
by  the  light  of  the  stars  peeping  in 
through  the  open  door.  In  each 
corner  of  the  room  slept  a  man, 
Manuelo  in  one,  the  Englishman  in 
another,  and  Ditas'  two  brothers  in 
the  other  two.  Mosquito-netting  over 
each  bed  lent  an  air  of  decency,  and 
there  were  washing-basins.  Into  this 
plain  apartment  the  Englishman  stole, 
as  the  dawn  crept  up  over  the  prairie. 

"  You're  late  home,"  Manuelo  ob 
served  drily. 

"  Slightly,"  the  Englishman  said. 
Then  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed  and 
slept  the  sleep  of  the  wearied  until 


hard  on  the  hour  for  the  mid-day 
meal. 

"Got  caught  in  the  fire? "  old  Pat- 
ronez  asked  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  The  horse 
came  back,  I  hear.  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"  We  are  more  glad  that  you  came 
back,  Senor,"  the  host  replied  gallantly. 

"  Was  I  the  only  one  caught  ?  " 

"  The  only  one  ;  not  even  a  broncho 
was  caught  that  we  could  learn. 
Manuelo  fell  in  with  the  bands  to 
windward." 

<4Ah!  you  were  to  windward. 
Manuelo  1  "  This  was  Ditas'  simple 
remark,  but  the  tone  in  which  it  was 
said  made  all  around  the  table  glance 
up  at  her  in  surprise. 

Little  more  was  said  of  the  fire 
then ;  they  were  not  unusual  things, 
scarcely  worthy  of  comment ;  but 
after  the  meal  was  over  and  most 
were  taking  a  siesta  in  the  shade, 
Ditas  came  to  the  Englishman.  "It 
is  not  well  for  you  to  be  to  leeward 
of  Manuelo  when  the  prairie  is  so 
dry,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked 
quickly. 

"  I  have  said  it.  You  are  warned," 
she  answered  oracularly.  "  You  have 
escaped  once.  Do  not  let  him  have 
the  chance  again." 

"  You  think,  then — "  he  began ;  but 
before  he  had  finished  a  sentence  she 


was    gone. 


No,"     she     answered 


lightly,  as  she  fled,  "I  do  not  think; 
I  know," 

She  had  given  the  Englishman 
plenty  to  think  of  at  all  events.  He 
had  never  been  able  to  quite  analyse 
his  feeling  for  Ditas,  nor  hers  for  him. 
He  had  a  notion  that  she  must  despise 
him  because  he  could  not  ride,  nor 
shoot,  nor  lasso  beasts  as  her  brothers 
and  Manuelo  could.  But  if  it  were 
possible  that  Ditas'  alternations  of 
apparent  coldness  and  interest  had 
another  origin,  then  a  light  was 
thrown  on  Manuelo' s  probable  attitude 
towards  himself ;  for  Manuelo's  atti- 
tude towards  her  needed  no  light  to 
be  thrown  on  it.  He  was  the  lover, 
in  the  undisguised  yet  dignified 


Ditas. 


Spanish  style,  of  his  beautiful  cousin. 
And  Ditas'  feeling  was  supposed  to  be 
reciprocal.  Hitherto  the  English- 
man's relations  to  Manuelo  had 
seemed  to  him  purely  those  of  busi- 
ness ;  for  though  he  was  out  here  as 
the  guest  of  old  Patronez,  working 
out  .1  return  for  part  of  his  hospitality 
by  labour  on  the  ranche,  yet  his  real 
business  was  with  Manuelo,  who  was 
representative  of  the  older  branch  of 
the  family  owning  the  mines  back  in 
the  foothills  which  it  was  the  English- 
man's special  mission  to  inspect.  He 
had  come  out  a  month  or  two  before, 
with  the  iron-bound  boxes  for  carrying 
home  samples  of  the  ore.  He  had 
now  these  boxes  filled,  under  seal  and 
lock  and  key  beneath  his  bed.  The 
mines  had  been  thoroughly  inspected. 
It  was  a  constant  reproach  to  him  on 
Mariuelo's  part  that  he  would  tell 
nothing  of  the  report  which  he  should 
mate  to  his  employers,  the  English 
capitalists  who  might  buy  the  mine. 
Manuelo  might  have  augured  ill  from 
his  secrecy,  but  in  truth  it  was  but  a 
part  of  his  English  nature.  What 
his  opinion  of  the  mines  might  be 
Mai.uelo  did  not  know  ;  he  only  knew 
thai  this  secret  man  had  the  samples 
of  ore  tightly  locked  and  safely  kept 
in  tnat  room  in  which  they  slept. 

Tiie  day  after  the  fire,  Manuelo  left 
the  rancke,  and  went  up  into  the 
mountains  to  the  mines. 

A  s  the  days  drew  on,  the  English- 
man felt  that  he  could  no  longer  with 
decency  prolong  his  visit.  Already 
he  had  well  out-stayed  the  limit 
which  he  had  mentally  fixed  for 
himself  on  his  arrival.  He  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  attraction 
whirh  had  kept  him  lingering  on  in 
that  fairy-land  of  humming-birds  and 
firefiies  and  all  fair  sights  and  scents. 
Wh<  sn  he  did  grow  conscious  that  the 
attraction  was  Ditas,  the  necessity 
grev  but  the  more  patent  for  breaking 
it.  He  must  go  ;  the  idea  that  there 
was  anything  of  a  mutual  feeling  was 
absurd ;  he  must  go  before  the  tie 
grew  more  binding. 

Tiiese  great  haciendas  in  the  midst 


of  a  desolation  as  big  as  an  English 
county  are  places  of  rest  and  refresh- 
ment for  all  and  sundry;  all  are 
welcome.  The  Englishman  knew 
nothing  of  the  customs.  He  knew 
not  whether  to  offer  payment  for 
the  hospitality  he  had  received,  but 
in  the  end  his  tact  saved  him  from 
this  blunder.  He  thanked  his  host 
with  the  gratitude  owed  to  free 
hospitality  and  went  his  way,  resolved 
to  send  out  from  England  a  present 
which  should  be  something  in  the  way 
of  a  return. 

Old  Patronez  sent  him  in  the 
waggon  a  day's  journey  across  the 
prairie,  to  the  station  where  he  could 
take  the  narrow-gauge  train.  In  the 
body  of  the  waggon  were  his  boxes  of 
ore  and  his  personal  luggage.  By 
Ditas,  as  he  parted  from  her,  he  had 
sent  a  farewell  message  to  Manuelo, 
who  was  still  at  the  mines.  What 
was  the  strange  look  in  Ditas'  lovely 
dark  Spanish  eyes  ?  he  asked  himself, 
as  he  said  farewell.  Had  he  answered 
the  question  aright,  he  might  never 
have  set  out  on  his  journey. 

"  You  will  keep  a  look-out  as  you 
drive,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot  think 
what  Manuelo  is  doing.  He  knows 
you  are  going." 

"How  do  you  know  that  he 
knows  ?  "  the  Englishman  asked. 

"  I  know  many  things,"  she 
answered  lightly.  "  My  little  hawk 
tells  them  me." 

"Good-bye,"  he  said.  "You  will 
write  to  me  sometimes  in  England  1 " 

"  Adios  !  Yes,  if  you  will  write  to 
me."  It  seemed  to  the  Englishman 
that  her  eyes  were  swimming  as  she 
said  the  words;  but  it  might  have 
been  but  the  swimming  in  his  own 
which  obscured  his  clear  vision. 
"  Good-bye  !  "  He  choked  down  a 
sob  and  sprang  into  the  waggon. 

Then  all  through  the  day,  behind 
the  team  of  six  great  mules,  they 
jolted  and  toiled  over  the  prairie,  now 
and  again  dipping  into  a  clump  of 
ebony,  variegated  by  the  white  cluster 
of  the  San  Paolo  palm,  which  has 
deluded  so  many  a  traveller  by  its 


Ditas. 


likeness  to  a  whitened  chimney-top. 
In  the  end  they  came  about  sun-down 
to  the  little  station,  without  a  sight 
of  a  human  being  save  a  horseman, 
fully  armed,  Mexican  fashion,  with 
sword  and  pistol  as  well  as  rifle, 
ambling  along  on  a  pacing  horse. 

They  were  an  hour  and  a  half  in 
advance  of  the  train,  if  the  latter 
were  punctual,  which  was  improbable. 
It  grew  dark.  The  Mexican  women 
at  their  little  orange-booths  lighted 
their  torch-fires.  At  length  a  growing 
bustle  betokened  the  approach  of  the 
time  for  the  train.  The  station 
became  thinly  peopled,  chiefly  with 
loiterers  come  to  enjoy  the  spectacle. 
The  Englishman  "  expressed "  his 
portmanteau  and  his  precious  boxes, 
keeping  charge  himself  of  his  hand- 
valise.  Presently  the  train  steamed 
in.  He  stepped  on  board,  with  his 
eyes  blinking  in  the  unaccustomed 
gaslight.  He  went  into  the  Pullman 
car,  where  he  found  a  vacant  compart- 
ment and  sat  down  to  await  with 
patience  the  pleasure  of  the  porter 
in  getting  ready  his  sleeping-berth. 
He  glanced  at  his  fellow-passengers 
with  the  incurious  eye  of  a  constant 
traveller,  then  gave  himself  over  to 
his  thoughts  in  which  Ditas  played  a 
cruelly  large  part.  Even  now  the 
temptation  was  strong  on  him  to  get 
off  at  the  next  station  and  go  back  to 
try  his  fortune  with  her  ;  yet  still, — 
no, — surely  her  certain  scorn  of  him 
as  a  lover  would  be  harder  to  bear 
than  her  tolerance  of  him  as  a  friend. 
For  an  hour  he  sat  so,  heedless  of  the 
lapse  of  time ;  suddenly  a  thrilling 
voice  (was  it  the  voice  of  a  dream  or 
of  his  waking  sense  ?)  sounded  at  his 
very  ear,  "  Seiior  !  " 

He  started  and  looked  round. 
Leaning  over  to  him  from  the  seat 
behind,  was  the  bent  figure,  shrouded 
in  mantilla,  of  what  seemingly  was  an 
old  Mexican  lady. 

"  Heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  caught  sight  of  the  face  which 
the  mantilla  half  shrouded.  "  Ditas  ! 
You  ! " 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said.     "  Yes,  it  is  I. 


I  don't  know  what  you  will  think  of 
me ;  I  don't  know  what  to  think  of 
myself.  But  Manuelo  is  on  the  train. 
I  suspected  that  he  would  follow  you, 
though  I  do  not  know  what  his  object 
is  ;  and  I  followed  on  his  track  and 
yours  to  warn  you." 

"  Oh  Ditas  !  "  he  said,  in  a  tone 
which  made  the  warm  blood  dye  the 
girl's  dark  cheeks  yet  more  ruddily. 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said,  apprehensively 
glancing  back.  "I  could  not  warn 
you  before  ;  he  was  on  this  car.  Now 
he  has  gone  back  in  the  train.  Oh, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  For  the 
Englishman  had  risen  to  his  feet. 

"  I  am  going  to  look  for  him,"  he 
said  with  determination  :  "  to  ask 
him  what  he  means  by  thus  dogging 
me." 

"Oh  no  !  "  she  said.  "  At  least,— 
well,  perhaps  that  would  be  as  good  a 
way  as  any.  So  at  least  you  will 
meet  him  prepared.  But  do  be  care- 
ful !  " 

"  Are  you  afraid,  Ditas,  that  I  may 
harm  him?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  simply  ;  "  but  that 
he  may  harm  you." 

"  Oh,  Ditas  !  " 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  like  that, — in 
that  tone,"  she  whispered  fiercely,  her 
cheeks  aflame.  "  If  you  do  I  shall 
hate  myself  for  coming.  At  least  I 
have  warned  you  now ;  I  shall  get  off 
at  the  next  station." 

The  Englishman,  cruelly  abashed, 
said  no  more,  but  feeling  that  his 
revolver  was  ready  to  his  hand  started 
off  through  the  train  on  a  tour  of 
inspection.  He  went  through  one  car 
after  another  until  the  last  one,  look- 
ing searchingly  at  each  occupant. 
None  of  them  was  Manuelo.  He 
came  back  doubtfully  to  the  girl. 
"  You  were  wrong,"  he  said,  "  he  is 
not  there."  Doubt  of  her  motive  in 
coming  was  again  expressed  in  his 
words. 

"  Do  you  dare  not  to  believe  me  ?  " 
she  asked  again  angrily,  her  face 
crimsoning.  "  Come  and  see  for 
yourself  then."  Slowly  she  rose  and 
followed  him  down  the  cars.  Their 


Ditas. 


occupants  returned  their  searching 
looks  with  interest,  but  there  was  no 
Manuelo. 

"You  see,"  he  said  when  they  had 
como  to  the  end,  "he  is  not  there." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  she  said 
thoughtfully.  Suddenly  she  exclaimed, 
"  Where  are  your  boxes  of  the  ore  ? " 

"  In  the  express-waggon,  I  suppose." 

"  [  see  !  I  see  it  all  now  !  "  she 
said.  "  It  is  there  that  we  shall  find 
Maruelo." 

"  There  !  Why  1  But  it  is  all 
lock  ad  ;  the  expressman  is  forward  in 
the  brain." 

"Is  it  locked?"  she  said.  "We 
shall  see ! " 

Tae  Englishman,  his  heart  beating 
high  with  excitement,  climbed  the 
rail  of  the  hindmost  car  and  along 
the  footboard  of  the  express  waggon. 
Wonderful  to  say  the  bars  and  fasten- 
ings of  the  waggon  were  all  hanging 
loosely  down.  The  door  was  but 
pushed  to ;  in  an  instant  it  yielded 
to  his  hand.  The  bright  moon- 
lighu  streaming  in  showed  the  figure 
of  a  man  bending,  working  away, 
ovei  an  open  box  which  the  English- 
mar  had  time  to  recognise  as  one  of 
his  own  before  the  kneeling  figure 
turi.ed,  and  the  flash  of  a  pistol  for  a 
morieDt  blinded  him,  while  the  report 
echoed  fiercely  in  the  enclosed  space. 
The  Englishman  felt  a  sharp  red-hot 
stin^  in  his  shoulder,  but  unconscious 
of  t  le  hurt  he  sprang  on  the  kneeling 
figure.  The  door  swung  to  and  they 
struggled  in  the  darkness.  The 
Spaniard  wrenched  himself  free  from 
the  other's  grip  and  dashed  out  at  the 
door.  As  he  jumped  from  the  train, 
a  second  report  of  his  pistol  was 
followed  by  the  shriek  of  a  woman's 
voice,  and  at  the  same  moment,  the 
Eng  lishman,  dashing  after  him  in  the 
darkness  of  the  waggon,  struck  his 
forehead  violently  on  the  door  as  it 

swuag  to  again,  and  fell  unconscious. 
*         *         *         * 

"  You  warn't  spry  enough  with  the 
shooting-iron,  you  see,"  was  the  sound 
in  e  strong  Yankee  accent  to  which 
he  i  egained  his  sense. 


"  What's  'happened  ?  "  he  asked  in 
a  weak  voice. 

"  Wall,  you  see  the  crittur  was 
fixing  it  up  to  work  a  little  improve- 
ment in  the  samples  of  that  there  ore 
you  was  taking  home  with  you ;  got 
dummy  keys  to  the  boxes,  I  reckon. 
Seems  he  had  some  sorter  interest  in 
the  making  it  as  good  as  might  be — 
owner  of  mine  or  something,  from 
what  they  say,  and  he  kinder  got  a 
bead  on  you  afore  you  got  one  on  him. 
That's  what  happened ;  but  reckon 
you  ain't  hurted  any." 

"Where's  Ditas?" 

"  Ditas  ?  Oh,  Ditas,  that's  the  girl, 
I  see !  Wall,  she's  hurted  some,  I 
reckon ;  but  not  so  bad  as  it  might 
be  either." 

"  Did  she  get  off  at  the  next  stop  ? " 

"-Next  stop  ?  no  !  nor  won't  for 
several  stops,  I  reckon.  No  one 
seemed  to  know  where  she  was  going, 
and  there  warn't  no  place  to  put  her 
off,  so  as  she  would  be  looked  after. 
There's  a  doctor  on  board  and  he's  got 
her  into  a  berth,  the  forrard  berth  in 
the  car  there.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to 
go  and  see  how  she  is  ?  You  ain't 
hurted  any.  The  crittur's  bullet  only 
skinned  you." 

The  girl  was  lying  in  the  lower 
bunk  of  a  sleeping  compartment ;  the 
upper  bunk  had  not  been  let  down,  a 
rare  concession  to  her  wounded  state. 
The  bullet  had  passed  through  the 
upper  part  of  her  arm,  injuring  but 
not  breaking  the  bone.  Her  face  was 
very  white  and  deathly  from  the  loss 
of  blood,  and  the  long  lashes  of  her 
closed  eyes  lay  far  down  upon  her 
cheeks. 

"  Oh,  Ditas  !  "  the  young  English- 
man exclaimed  again ;  and  at  the 
words  the  great  dark  eyes  opened  and 
a  smile  played  on  her  face.  "  Oh, 
Ditas,  and  all  this  for  my  sake  !  " 

In  answer,  the  girl  let  her  other 
hand  stray  feebly  out  over  the  counter- 
pane. 

"  Take  it,  you  fool !  "  said  the  doctor, 
as  the  Englishman,  sorely  embarrassed 
by  this  ingenuous  Southern  advance, 
hesitated. 


Ditas. 


"  Where's  Manuel o  1  "  she  asked  in 
a  low  voice,  when  she  was  satisfied  by 
feeling  the  hand  she  sought  within  hers. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  gone — isn't  he  1  " 
the  Englishman  asked  appealing  to 
the  doctor. 

"  Yes  ;  they  stopped  the  train,  but 
the  rascal  had  got  the  start  of  them, 
I  don't  expect  any  of  them  was  in  an 
all-fired  hurry  to  get  within  shooting 
distance  of  him  either." 

"But  how  did  he  get  into  the  ex- 
press-waggon ! " 

"How1?  Squared  the  expressman, 
of  course.  We've  got  him  fixed  up  all 
right.  He'll  be  handed  over  to  what 
they  call  the  law  in  this  country  at 
Laredo." 

"  I  see,  I  see  !  Doctor,  she'll  get 
well,  won't  she? " 

"  Well  1  Of  course  she  will.  There's 
nothing  wrong  with  her  ;  lost  a  little 
blood,  that's  all.  Where's  she  going 
to?" 


"  I — I  don't  know.  She  said  she- 
was  going  to  get  off  at  the  first  stop." 

"Did  she?  Oh,  well  I  think  I'd 
better  leave  you  to  arrange  it  with 
her  where  she's  going  to  stop  off." 

"Ditas,"  said  the  Englishman,  as 
the  doctor  withdrew,  "  you  didn't  get 
off  at  the  first  stop." 

"  No,"  she  said  simply,  "  I  couldn't." 

"You  nearly  lost  your  life  for  me." 

"  Yes  ;  nearly's  nothing." 

"Ditas,"  bending  low  over  her, 
"  will  you  give  it  to  me  altogether  ? " 

A  faint  flush  came  into  the  pallor  of 
her  cheeks.  "  Are  you  sure  you  wish 
it?" 

"  Sure,  my  darling  !  " 

"  Hush,  why  didn't  you  speak  be- 
fore ?  " 

"  I  didn't  dare." 

"  Oh,  stupid  !  "  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  Yes,  it  is  yours,  if  you  will  have  it, 
for  ever  and  ever." 

"Oh,  Ditas!" 


THE  MELANCHOLY  MAN. 


A  STRANGE  thing  is  melancholy, 
and  a  most  subtle  and  illusive  subject. 
Even  Burton,  with  all  his  labour  and 
searching,  his  curious  knowledge  and 
extensive  citation  from  ancient  writers, 
has  only  scratched  upon  the  surface 
of  th  s  field.  He  has  given  us  the 
physician's  view  of  the  matter;  he  is 
more  concerned  in  things  corporal 
than  spiritual ;  he  is  all  for  hellebore 
and  purgings  of  the  liver.  And  even 
love,  with  him,  is  a  species  of  disease, 
affecting  he  knows  not  what  part  of 
our  bodies.  Such  materialistic  doc- 
trines are  not  for  this  age.  Yet  even 
he  perceived  the  strange  contradiction 
that  melancholy  is  a  sweet  sadness, 
sometimes  transporting  her  victim 
heave  awards,  and  again  oppressing 
him  with  torment.  The  patient  will 
often  be  unwilling  to  be  cured  of  his 
fantasies,  wherein  he  seems  to  have 
command  of  another  world  a  world 
dark  and  mysterious  but  with  a  strange 
magnificence,  a  shadowy  splendour  all 
its  own.  He  loves  to  wander  with 
Milton  away  from  the  pitiless,  ob- 
trusrve  sunlight,  where,  in  harmony 
with  his  own  thoughts,  the  day  is 
tempered  striking  through  stained 
windows,  and  soft  music  peals  along 
the  vi  ulted  roof.  Music,  indeed,  is  com- 
rnonly  his  chief  solace,  for  it  is  the 
most  plastic  to  our  mood  of  all  the  arts, 
and  it  man  finds  in  solemn  organ- 
chord  <  an  interpretation  in  consonance 
with  the  mind  he  brings  with  him. 
But  at  other  times  all  joys,  even  such 
sober  ones  as  these,  are  denied ;  the 
world  rings  hollow  to  his  ears,  and  he 
is  fill*  ;d  with  remorse  for  lost  oppor- 
tuniti  js.  An  unutterable  sadness 
haunts  him,  and  the  future  looks 
askance  at  him  in  leaden  blackness. 
The  world  seems  paltry,  even  the 
visiblo  universe  has  shrunk  in  his 
sight.  The  goal  he  has  set  before 


him  hitherto,  fame  or  wealth  or 
freedom,  matters  not  ;  it  is  no  longer 
worth  his  winning.  Idleness  is  a 
curse  and  a  weariness  ;  but  to  what 
end  should  he  work  ?  At  such  times 
he  could  endure  to  be  healed. 

It  is  curious  how  pleasant  a  thing 
sadness  sometimes  is  ;  and  IIOAV  some 
people  will  hug  a  sorrow,  as  a 
most  precious  possession,  to  their 
breasts.  In  fact,  all  emotions,  so 
they  be  not  too  strong,  are  pleasur- 
able ;  and  for  that  reason  it  will  be 
mostly  among  the  shallow-minded, 
who  can  seldom  feel  keenly,  that  we 
shall  find  this  weak  delight  in  self- 
pity.  For  even  fear,  duly  modified, 
as  in  a  well-told  ghost-story,  may  be 
held  to  inspire  some  not  unpleasing 
sensation,  and  many  enjoy  above  all 
things  a  touch  of  the  pathetic  in  their 
reading.  We  are  apt  to  love  those 
who  pluck  our  heart-strings  more 
than  those  who  merely  aim  at  ex- 
citing our  laughter ;  pathos  and 
humour  are  both  good  things,  but  the 
former  we  estimate  as  the  higher  gift. 
We  have  a  kind  of  veneration  for  the 
writer  that  can  move  us  to  tears. 
Thackeray  would  not  be  the  same 
man  in  our  eyes  if  he  had  not  written 
of  Colonel  Newcome. 

There  might  appear  to  be  something 
selfish  about  this  love  for  the  pathetic 
in  fiction  ;  as  though  the  reader  should 
feel  a  pleasing  contrast  between  his 
own  sense  of  security  and  the  mis- 
fortunes of  the  imaginary  characters 
in  his  book.  But  this  is  not  so  in  the 
main.  Your  true  novel-reader  identi- 
fies himself  with  each  prominent  person 
he  reads  of,  and  their  experiences, 
whether  of  happiness  or  pain,  are  his 
own  for  the  time.  For  the  moment 
he  is  Tom  Jones,  or  Darsie  Latimer, 
or  David  Copperfield  ;  and,  even  when 
the  heroine  steps  upon  the  stage,  he 


48 


The  Melancholy  Man. 


strains  his  imagination  to  embrace 
also  her  personality.  More  or  less, 
according  to  his  capabilities,  he  enters 
into  the  feelings  of  fool  and  villain. 
It  is  in  proportion  to  this  quality  of 
adaptation,  of  acting  a  part  insensibly, 
that  the  power  of  really  appreciating 
a  romance,  or,  for  that  matter,  a  drama 
or  a  historical  work,  exists.  There 
are  some  people,  it  is  true,  who  can 
content  themselves  with  such  sub- 
sidiary qualities  as  erudition,  or  neat- 
ness of  style,  or  power  of  language, 
but  the  main  body  look  to  the  author's 
presentment  of  his  actors.  If  he  has 
drawn  them  so  that  the  reader  can, 
without  violence  to  his  reason,  imagine 
himself  in  their  place,  and  pass  with 
them  through  their  adventures,  then 
he  may  rest  assured  of  finding  the 
great  majority  upon  his  side.  He  will 
be  said  to  have  created  new  characters. 
And  indeed  it  is  possibly  here  that  the 
chief  educational  influence  of  the  novel 
comes  in ;  for  as  certain  players  are 
wont  to  carry  their  parts  beyond  the 
stage,  so  it  may  chance  that,  even  after 
he  has  finished  his  book,  our  reader 
may  still  remain  imbued  in  a  sense 
with  the  virtues  of  hero  or  heroine. 
In  this  manner  an  author  may  indeed 
create  new  characters,  or,  at  the  least, 
regenerate  old  ones  ;  and  thus  it  is 
possible  for  men  who  read  fiction  aright 
insensibly  to  improve  themselves,  like 
men  who  have  mixed  for  a  time  with 
a  higher  grade  of  companions  than 
they  commonly  meet.  But  those  who 
deliberately  remain  aloof,  and  refuse  to 
become  one  of  the  party,  who  persist 
in  criticising  the  performance  solely 
from  the  outside,  with  a  curious  eye 
to  all  the  established  canons  of  art, 
will  reap  neither  profit  nor  much  en- 
joyment from  the  barren  process.  The 
critic  is  not  likely  to  be  reformed  by 
a  work  of  art.  Enthusiasm  is  foreign 
to  his  profession.  He  will  not  be  the 
man  to  laugh  at  your  comic  country- 
man, or  burst  into  tears  at  the  woes  of 
your  heroine  in  distress.  A  calm 
smile  of  approbation,  as  of  Jove  en- 
throned, shall  suffice  him,  if  the  touch 
be  well  brought  out ;  if  indifferently, 


a  calm  smile  of  contempt.  The  author 
that  shall  regenerate  your  professed 
critic  has  not  yet,  in  all  likelihood, 
seen  the  light. 

It  is  a  commonplace  with  some  that 
sadness  is  merely  a  product  of  indiges- 
tion, and  this  is  a  view  that  humorous 
writers  in  particular  are  much  inclined 
to  affect.  With  certain  kinds  of  melan- 
choly it  may  doubtless  be  so,  for  as  a 
certain  kind  of  love  is  fabled  to  arise 
from  fulness  of  bread,  so  also  may  an 
inferior  sort  of  gloomy  sulkiness.  Or 
as  we  see  sentiment  and  sentimentality, 
so  may  we  discern  a  legitimate  from 
a  dyspeptic  melancholy.  It  is  true 
that  not  all  men  have  the  time  to 
cultivate  a  genteel  hypochondria.  It 
is  idle  to  expect  a  common  ploughman 
to  be  sad  for  any  but  m  iterial  reasons. 
Some  real  deficiency,  such  as  a  lack 
of  bacon  to  his  loaf,  will  be  the  care 
that  penetrates  to  his  slow  mind ; 
even  a  fear  that  such  deficiency  may 
arise  in  the  near  future  will  not,  in 
general,  sensibly  affect  his  peace.  It 
takes  an  intellect  of  some  refinement 
to  be  truly  melancholy.  Centuries  of 
civilisation  go  to  form  that  sensitive 
mind,  conscious  that  the  world  is  out 
of  joint,  and  burning  with  a  noble 
discontent  at  things  in  general.  Most 
of  our  great  reformers  have  been 
stern,  sad-faced  men.  The  portraits 
of  Luther,  of  Knox,  of  Cromwell,  do 
not  show  us  faces  of  the  lightly  humor- 
ous cast,  nor  sleek  countenances  such 
as  Csesar  loved.  About  these,  and 
about  Carlyle,  who  from  an  innate 
sympathy  felt  himself  designed  to  be 
the  historian  and  apologist  of  such 
men,  there  lies  ever  a  rugged,  care- 
worn look,  as  of  men  who  found  the 
world  a  serious  puzzle,  and  one  that 
they  were  bound  to  solve  in  the 
interests  of  humanity.  One  would 
not  ascribe  the  sadness  of  their  aspect 
to  unaided  indigestion.  It  is  notorious, 
indeed,  that  Carlyle  was  a  martyr  to 
dyspepsia;  but  it  is  at  least  equally 
probable  that  this  was  the  result,  as 
that  it-  was  the  cause,  of  his  melan- 
choly. We  have  seen  it  suggested  that 
men  should  train  themselves,  as  it 


The  Melancholy  Man. 


49 


were,  for  pathetic  writing  on  some 
food  of  a  particularly  unwholesome 
character,  but  it  would  be  degrading 
to  suppose,  even  for  an  instant,  that 
we  c  we  the  Latter-Day  Pamphlets  to 
imperfectly  cooked  pie-crust.  If  that 
were  the  case,  the  world  might  well 
hope  to  secure  another  Locksley  Hall 
by  selecting  a  likely  poet,  and  feeding 
him  conscientiously  on  a  diet  of  lobster 
salad  and  unlimited  muffins.  We  are 
not  inclined  to  subscribe  to  such 
materialistic  views  as  these.  But  it 
is  true  that  the  human  organisation 
is  i,  delicate  piece  of  machinery 
enough,  and  so  inextricably  inter- 
woven that  one  cannot  without 
danger  separate  its  individual  parts. 
Body,  soul,  and  spirit  are  largely  inter- 
deptndent,  and  are  apt  to  react  upon 
each  other  to  an  unimagined  extent. 
It  is  very  likely  the  case  that  a 
sort  of  nervous  derangement  has  been 
in  some  degree  responsible  for  a  good 
many  gloomy  predictions,  and  that 
several  lofty  and  aerial  nights  (as  we 
imagine  them)  of  the  aspiring  soul 
can  be  traced  back  in  part  to  a  for- 
tunate condition  of  the  stomach. 
But  affections  of  the  body  can  never 
be  held  wholly  responsible  for  the 
colour  of  our  thought.  They  are 
ratter  like  some  transparent  medium 
through  which  must  pass  the  bright 
ray«  sent  forth  from  the  soul ;  a  sheet 
of  glass  sometimes  filmed  with  dust, 
sometimes  of  imperfect  nature  and 
sent  ling  forth  a  distorted  image,  rarely 
ind(  ed  pure  and  clean  and  altogether 
free  from  fault,  but  which  can  never 
do  sught  but  reproduce,  in  a  more  or 
less  mutilated  form,  the  figure  thrown 
upon  it  by  the  creative  power. 

T  he  rival  camps  of  the  optimist  and 
the  pessimist  divide  the  world.  It  is 
true,  perhaps,  that  it  is  mainly  a 
matter  of  health  to  which  of  these 
two  sides  the  individual  man  attaches 
himself.  It  is  noticeable  that  the 
former  will  commonly  reproach  the 
lattor  for  a  bilious  and  acrid  discon- 
tent ;  and  that  these  will  retort  upon 
the  dull,  eupeptic  happiness  of  their 
opponents.  The  world  will  in  general 

No.  415. — VOL.  LXX. 


believe  the  brains  to  lie  with  the  man 
who  is  satisfied  at  nothing,  and  thinks 
your  cheery,  careless  sort  a  good  fellow 
certainly,  but  little  better  than  a  fool 
in  intellect.  In  fact,  it  is  easier  to 
attack  than  to  defend,  and  the  sneer- 
ing critic  will  usually  make  a  more 
brilliant  appearance  than  the  good- 
natured  friend.  Again,  the  cynic's 
tub  has  now  become  a  well-cushioned 
elbow-chair,  and  the  trade  of  the 
pessimist  has  grown  so  inviting  that 
many  men  have  adopted  it  who  have 
nothing  much  to  complain  of  at  heart. 
They  enjoy  startling  their  neighbours 
with  evil  omens,  with  fearful  predic- 
tions ;  and  with  a  certain  pride  they 
point  to  the  decay  of  their  race,  and 
compare  the  present  state  of  British 
morality,  or  hardihood,  or  enterprise, 
with  the  past.  They  affect  to  mourn 
our  decline,  but  they  are  not  without 
a  subtle  consolation  in  the  thought 
that  they  have  for  some  time  seen  the 
slow  sapping  of  the  foundations  to 
which  it  may  be  attributed.  On  the 
whole,  if  they  are  not  too  serious  in 
their  opinions,  they  play  a  pleasant 
enough  part.  The  pain  which  any 
chance  fulfilment  of  their  prophecies 
may  inflict  upon  the  nation  is  miti- 
gated in  their  case  by  a  consciousness 
of  superior  wisdom.  They  are  like 
men  who  have  betted  a  small  amount 
against  their  own  horse;  whatever 
turn  affairs  may  take,  their  'money  is 
safe.  It  is  a  common  plan  with  some 
people  thus  to  hedge,  as  ib  were, 
against  a  possible  disappointment. 
They  school  themselves  to  believe  still 
that  the  worst  will  happen,  and  by 
this  means  discount  in  anticipation  the 
pain  that  such  a  misfortune  will  bring 
to  them.  The  process  may  be  pleasing 
to  themselves,  but  it  is  extremely  pain- 
ful to  their  friends.  It  is  something 
of  a  damper  to  the  spirits  to  have  a 
companion  who  persistently  expects 
unhappiness.  Such  a  man  cannot  be 
cheerful  himself,  neither  is  he  a  great 
incitement  to  cheerfulness  in  others. 
It  must  seem  almost  criminal,  we  think, 
in  his  eyes,  that  in  the  face  of  all  that 
is  hanging  over  us,  we  should  thus 

E 


50 


The  Melancholy  Man. 


affect  gaiety  and  light-heartedness ; 
and,  for  fear  of  offending  him,  we  sub- 
due ourselves  with  difficulty  to  a  dull 
decorum.  There  is,  indeed,  more  than 
a  suspicion  of  selfishness  in  this  variety 
of  sadness,  as  though  a  man  should 
have  all  the  world  walk  stiffly  because 
he  himself  is  clothed  in  armour,  or  in- 
sist upon  arousing  all  his  neighbours 
on  account  of  his  own  sleeplessness. 
We  may  be  wrong  in  suspecting  such 
men  of  a  desire  for  sympathy, — fre- 
quently they  would  sooner  be  without 
it — but  the  knowledge  that  a  fellow- 
creature  is  a  prey  to  groundless  grief, 
as  we  consider  it,  acts  upon  our  own 
feelings  and  in  time  produces  an  irri- 
tation which,  in  spite  of  ourselves, 
compels  us  to  share  his  sorrow. 

The  pessimist  is  not  always,  however, 
a  melancholy  man.  In  fact,  his 
humour  is  often  to  pose  as  a  cynic,  or 
general  critic  of  the  universe,  and  in 
that  position  he  feels  himself  to  be  on 
a  plane  removed  from  the  rest  of  the 
world's  inhabitants,  and  the  coming 
sorrows  that  he  foretells  have  no 
concern  with  him.  He  regards  him- 
self as  a  mere  spectator  in  the  theatre  of 
Life,  but  a  spectator  with  sufficient 
insight  into  things  theatrical  to  guess 
that  the  pleasant  farce  now  upon  the 
boards  is  but  the  prelude  to  a  tragedy. 
He  is  in  the  world,  but  not  of  it,  and 
the  strange  gambols  he  witnesses 
merely  produce  in  him  a  slight  pity 
tempered  with  amusement.  This 
scornful  attitude  has  come  to  be 
considered  the  fashionable  one  for 
men  of  any  education  and  originality. 
It  is  not,  to  our  mind,  a  cheerful  one. 
We  prefer  still,  no  matter  how  ridicul- 
ous it  may  seem,  the  simple  creeds  of 
our  forefathers.  We  confess  even  to  a 
certain  faith  in  the  future  of  the 
British  nation.  It  is  much  the- 
fashion  now  to  sneer  at  our  ancient 
belief  in  the  superiority  of  our  own 
race,  and  call  it  insular  prejudice  ;  to 
ridicule  patriotic  fervour,  and  term  it 
blustering  conceit.  There  are  some 
men  who  -object  strongly  even  to  the 
song  or  ballad  that  savours  of  this 
heresy,  and  who  would  school  the  race 


to  speak  with  bated  breath  of  past 
achievements  in  war,  from  a  fear, 
presumably,  lest  they  should  incau- 
tiously hurt  the  feelings  of  some 
ancient  foe.  They  are  never  weary  of 
insisting  that  it  has  always  been  our 
fault,  and  the  source  of  all  our  mis- 
fortunes, this  proneness  to  undervalue 
our  opponents.  They  flood  the  daily 
papers  with  alarms,  and  are  ever 
pressing  for  more  men,  more  ships, 
more  fortifications,  in  the  event  of 
unforeseen  contingencies.  We  do  not 
deny  that  they  may  be  doing  a  certain 
amount  of  good  in  this.  The  old 
careless  optimism  had  its  faults,  no 
doubt.  It  is  just  as  well  that  we 
should  be  prepared  for  possible  com- 
binations against  us  in  the  future.  It 
is  not  worth  while  to  expose  ourselves 
needlessly,  or  to  imagine  that  a  for- 
tunate audacity  will  always  help  us 
out  of  a  crisis.  But  there  was  some- 
thing heroic  in  the  old  creed  that  any 
Englishman  was  worth  his  half-a- 
dozen  foreigners  or  so  when  it  came  to 
fighting  ;  and  it  is  in  vain  to  build 
vessels  or  enrol  troops  if  we  destroy 
the  spirit  that  used  to  animate  our 
soldiers  and  sailors  in  old  time,  and 
that  has  enriched  our  annals  with 
deeds  of  reckless  daring  by  land  and 
sea  for  centuries. 

If  it  were  not  for  the  jealous 
alarmist,  it  is  possible  that  the  burdens 
of  the  world  might  be  lightened  con- 
siderably. It  is  these  people  who 
keep  urging  on  their  respective 
countries  to  vie  with  each  other  in 
expensive  preparations  for  war.  We 
wish  a  plague  on  all  such  pestilent 
fellows.  What  do  we  want  with  new 
explosives  and  fresh  varieties  of  im- 
plements for  destroying  life]  There 
is  something  ridiculous  surely  in  the 
present  position  of  affairs  in  Europe, 
something  ridiculous,  and  at  the  same 
time  most  mournfully  sad.  These 
great  nations  in  a  condition  of  armed 
suspense,  still  increasing  their  pre- 
paration for  war  and  still  hesitating 
to  begin  the  battle,  remind  us  of 
nothing  so  much  as  of  so  many  frogs 
gradually  inflating  themselves  in  order 


The  Melancholy  Man. 


51 


to  strike  terror  into  their  rivals.  And 
indeed  it  is  likely  enough  that  one  or 
two  will  burst  with  the  effort  before 
they  come  to  actual  business.  War 
has  little  enough  attraction  for  any 
reasonable  man  now.  What  with 
submarine  ships  and  torpedoes,  with 
air-balloons  and  weapons  of  precision, 
ther3  is  altogether  getting  to  be  too 
mucli  risk  about  it.  Even  a  hired 
soldier  likes  to  have  a  chance,  to  have 
fair  play  given  to  him,  to  be  able  to 
give  stroke  for  stroke.  There  is  not 
muci  excitement  in  receiving  one's 
death-blow  from  a  battery  six  miles 
distant,  or  in  sharing  a  common  fate 
with  some  hundreds  of  comrades 
through  an  inglorious  charge  of 
dynamite  dropped  from  the  clouds  at 
night-time.  To  say  nothing  of  the 
unconscionable  burden  a  modern  army 
(even  on  a  peace-footing)  lays  upon 
the  tax-payer,  it  is  becoming  evident, 
even  from  the  soldier's  point  of  view, 
that  some  return  to  simpler  methods 
is  advisable.  As  to  the  romance  of 
war,  it  received  a  shrewd  blow  at  the 
introduction  of  gunpowder,  and,  what 
with  the  maxim-gun  and  smokeless 
explosives,it  is  like  to  perish  altogether 
befo:-e  the  next  European  struggle. 

With  the  bombs  of  anarchists  and 
the  groaning  of  oppressed  tax-payers, 
it  is  undeniable  that  there  is  a  fine 
field  for  melancholy  in  our  viewing  of 
the  world.  Little  remains  for  the 
onlooker  but  something  of  a  Stoic 
calm,  to  be  maintained  as  well  as  he 
is  able  in  the  face  of  adverse  circum- 
stances. By  hard  work  it  is  fortun- 
atel}  possible  as  a  rule  to  be  quit  of 
much  unnecessary  thought,  and  in 
diligently  employing  ourselves  on  our 


own  business  we  may  escape  the  sad 
conviction  of  our  ultimate  ruin.  It 
is  hard  sometimes  to  refrain  from 
wishing  that  the  wheels  of  progress 
could  be  stayed,  or  even  set  back  for 
some  half  century  or  so  in  their  course. 
Was  not  the  world  the  happier  with- 
out a  fair  percentage  of  our  modern 
improvements  and  discoveries  1  Like 
timid  children  reading  a  tragic  story 
we  are  afraid  to  think  what  the  end 
of  the  book  may  bring.  To  be  sure, 
we  have  our  compensations,  facilities 
in  railway  travelling,  brilliant 
journalistic  and  other  enterprise,  and 
the  penny  post.  There  may  be  yet 
lying  before  us,  in  the  future,  fresh 
triumphs  of  civilisation,  marvellous 
and  as  yet  unimagined  developments 
of  science,  by  which  men  shall  open 
communication  with  the  stars  of 
heaven  and  learn  the  secrets  of  the 
spheres.  It  is  quite  possible;  and  possi- 
ble also  that  we  shall  be  perfecting  at 
the  same  time  our  various  explosive 
apparatus  and  arms  of  precision.  So 
that  at  the  last,  in  the  happy  inven- 
tion of  some  exceptionally  powerful 
agent,  it  is  likely  that  some  country 
will  contrive  to  blow  itself  from  off 
the  face  of  this  earth,  thereby  settling 
once  and  for  all  its  own  claim  to 
precedence.  Such  a  lesson  might 
prove  a  salutary  check  upon  the 
ambition  of  the  rest.  But  the  bare 
possibility  of  such  an  occurrence  should 
suggest  to  us,  as  the  most  reasonable 
course,  the  propriety  of  lagging  a 
trifle  behind  in  the  matter  of  new 
experiments,  or,  what  were  still  more 
to  be  wished,  that  we  should  agree  to 
abandon  the  further  prosecution  of 
such  inventions  for  all  time. 


52 


BEGGING  LETTERS  AND  THEIR   WRITERS. 


WE  have  often  been  asked  in  the 
course  of  our  professional  work  to  de- 
fine a  Begging  Letter  Writer  in  pre- 
cise terms.  This  is  not  so  easy  as 
might  be  thought.  It  is  true  that 
they  form  a  class  of  mendicants  dis- 
tinct from  any  other,  and  that  they  are 
all  persons  of  blood-sucking  propensi- 
ties and  predatory  habits.  But  there 
our  definition  must  end,  for  their 
modes  of  operation  are  very  various  ; 
they  are  drawn  from  every  rank  in 
life,  and  they  prey  on  all  classes  of 
society  from  a  shopkeeper  to  a  Prince 
of  the  Blood. 

It  is  thought  by  many  that  the 
Begging  Letter  Writer  picks  his  in- 
tended victim  from  the  most  guileless 
of  philanthropists.  This  is  a  delusion. 
It  is  within  our  personal  knowledge, 
for  instance,  that  more  than  one  of 
the  tribe  reaps  a  good  harvest  by 
appealing  to  some  of  the  most  eminent 
administrators  of  the  law ;  though,  of 
course,  only  passed  masters  in  the  art 
need  hope  to  succeed  in  such  ambitious 
flights.  We  once  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  man  who  did  an  extensive 
business  in  this  way.  His  plan  was  to 
send  printed  slips  of  poetry,  profess- 
ing to  be  of  his  own  composition,  of 
little  value  indeed  in  his  own  estima- 
tion, as  he  declared  with  engaging 
modesty,  but  which  had  been  approved 
by  writers  of  taste  and  judgment  when 
the  lines  were  written  many  years  ago. 
Now,  he  said,  he  was  an  old  man, 
ground  down  with  misfortunes  and 
the  miseries  of  extreme  poverty,  only 
just  able  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the 
door  by  addressing  envelopes  and  such 
like  drudgery.  Life  was  very  hard, 
and  should  the  enclosed  sonnet  merit 
approbation  from  his  Lordship,  a  trifle 
in  recognition  of  the  same  would 
honour,  as  well  as  comfort,  a  humble, 
destitute  member  of  his  Lordship's 
own  profession. 


This  gentleman  lived  in  a  dreary 
quarter  of  the  East  End,  in  a  street 
mostly  inhabited  by  mechanics  and 
labourers  of  the  better  class.  A  dirty 
slipshod  woman  came  to  the  door  and 
answered  with  an  abrupt  emphatic 
negative  our  question  as  to  whether 
Mr.  D.  was  at  home.  We  told  her 
then  from  whom  we  came,  and  at  the 
sound  of  one  of  the  best-known  names 
in  England  she  became  as  obsequious 
as  she  had  before  been  surly,  and  with 
many  apologies  ushered  us  down  some 
filthy  stairs  into  a  basement  room, 
nearly  dark  though  the  time  was  but 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Here 
she  lit  a  lamp,  and  left  us  to  inform 
Mr.  D.  of  the  honour  awaiting  him. 

The  room  was  mouldy,  malodorous, 
and  bare,  yet  there  was  something 
about  it  we  had  never  before  seen  in 
a  room  in  this  neighbourhood.  It 
contained  two  pieces  of  furniture : 
one,  a  table  covered  with  green  baize 
much  bespattered  with  ink,  on  which 
was  a  writing-case,  pens,  and  paper 
in  good  preservation  ;  the  other,  an 
arm-chair  very  old  and  worn,  but 
still  bearing  the  outward  form  of  such 
a  chair  as  might  be  found  in  the  study 
of  a  literary  man.  On  the  chimney 
piece  was  a  meerschaum  pipe  of  good 
quality  and  richly  coloured  ;  and  lastly, 
on  the  wall  behind,  was  a  small  book- 
shelf, containing  three  calf-bound 
tomes  on  law  more  than  half  a  century 
old,  and  two  yellow-backed  French 
novels  of  the  most  extreme  type. 

The  door  now  opened,  and  a  figure, 
in  keeping  with  the  room,  entered  with 
the  stealthy  tread  of  a  cat,  and  bowed 
politely.  Mr.  D.  was  a  man  about 
seventy  years  of  age,  tall  and  stoop- 
ing. He  wore  a  dressing-gown  which 
looked  as  old  as  himself,  and  slippers 
in  the  last  stage  of  decay.  His  head 
was  small,  round,  and  quite  bald ;  his 
face  a  mass  of  tiny  wrinkles,  with  bright, 


Begging  Letters  and  their    Writers. 


inning,  shifty  eyes.  His  manners  were 
those  of  one  who  in  his  time  had  been 
accrstomed  to  good  society. 

Bis  first  action  was  to  relate  with- 
out being  asked  what  he  called  the 
history  of  his  life.  It  was  a  pictur- 
esqi.e  narrative  told  with  infinite  in- 
genuity. Yet  that  it  was  true  in  the 
main  we  have  little  doubt ;  Mr.  D. 
was  far  too  clever  a  man  to  waste  his 
breath  in  telling  unprofitable  lies.  He 
was  born,  he  said,  to  a  good  position, 
his  father  being  a  prosperous  pro- 
fessional man.  He  had  taken  his 
degree  at  Cambridge,  had  read  for  the 
bar,  and  then — fallen.  His  father 
diec  about  this  time,  and  the  son 
wasted  his  share  of  the  money,  mar- 
ried a  servant,  and  lost  caste  alto- 
gether. For  many  years,  however,  he 
had  been  a  reformed  character  and 
lived  by  law-writing  and  copying. 
Now  he  was  nearly  starving. 

So  far,  so  good;  the  case  was  well 
put,  and  no  attempt  made  to  excite 
pity  by  any  obvious  exaggerations. 
But  a  touchstone  had  to  be  applied,  to 
be  followed  by  inquiry  and  verifica- 
tion. "  Have  you  children  2  "  "  Yes." 
"Any  sons?"  He  frowned:  "Yes, 
but  not  at  home ;  they  have  nothing 
to  do  with  me,  sir,  nor  I  with  them." 
"Excuse  the  question;  are  they 
married  ?  "  "No."  "  They  are  of  an 
age  to  earn  their  own  living  1 " 
"  Certainly."  "  Do  they  assist  you  1 " 
"They  do  not."  At  this  point  we 
lool  ed  at  one  another  steadily.  Then 
we  .isked  for  the  name  of  one  of  those 
sons  that  we  might  ascertain  why  they 
did  not  help  their  father.  Mr.  D. 
staied  for  a  moment  with  an  air  of 
grer.t  surprise,  then,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  countenance,  moved  towards 
the  door.  "No,  sir  !"  he  said,  his  voice 
trembling  with  righteous  anger,  "  No !  I 
could  not  tell  you  that.  It  is  enough. 
I  trouble  his  Lordship  no  further ;  I 
see  your  motive  as  clearly  as  possible, 
and  I  make  no  terms  with  you."  Here 
he  drew  himself  up  and  clenched  his 
hands.  "I  much  regret  that  I  should 
liave  confided  to  you  the  story  of  my 
life.  Such  confidences  are  only  for 


the  ears  of  a,  friend.  And  what  is  your 
reply  to  them  ?  Have  you  any  sym- 
pathy with  a  poor  old  man  1  Do  you 
offer  me  a  gift,  however  small,  to  make 
the  grinding  poverty  less  terrible  for 
a  little  while  ?  No !  You  only  ask 
questions  about  my  family  affairs  and 
commit  unwarrantable  intrusion  with- 
in the  sacred  precincts  of  my  home. 
I  refuse,  I  say,  to  answer  any  fur- 
ther questions.  If  the  condition  of 
this  room,  and  my  poor  person,  is  not 
enough  to  convince  you  of  the  truth 
of  my  story,  leave  me  to  starve  ;  leave 
me  to  linger,  withering  slowly,  until  in 
the  desperation  of  want  I  creep  to  the 
workhouse  door, — and  die." 

After  this  there  was  no  more  to  be 
said,  and  with  a  few  words  of  polite 
regret  we  took  our  leave.  From  a 
working  man  of  our  acquaintance  who 
lived  in  the  same  street,  we  subse- 
quently learned  that  the  postman 
groaned  daily  over  the  enormous 
budget  of  letters  he  had  to  carry  to 
Mr.  D.,  that  the  sons  were  respectable 
young  men  who  had  been  brought  up 
by  an  aunt,  their  father  having  turned 
them  out  of  doors  when  children,  and 
that  Mr.  D.  himself  bore  the  unenviable 
reputation  of  being  the  most  drunken, 
disreputable  old  reprobate  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

But  the  writers  of  begging  letters 
are  by  no  means  all  reprobates.  There 
was  a  man  of  a  very  different  stamp, 
an  immense  number  of  whose  letters 
fell  into  our  hands,  and  with  whose 
daily  life  we  were  intimately  acquainted 
for  several  months.  He  was  a  person 
who,  though  very  poor,  wore  scrupu- 
lously clean  linen,  a  well-brushed  frock- 
coat,  a  silk  hat,  and  black  kid  gloves. 
He  allowed  every  inquiry  to  be  made, 
professing  that  he  had  nothing  to  con- 
ceal. As  it  happened  in  course  of 
time  a  queer  fact  or  two  did  come  to 
light,  connected  with  a  sum  of  money 
received  yearly  by  him  for  a  certain 
specific  purpose  to  which  it  was  not 
applied,  and  which  speedily  came  to  an 
end  when  the  donor  knew  how  matters 
stood.  But,  on  the  whole,  it  was 
proved  that  he  had  a  most  respectable 


Begging  Letters  and  their   Writers. 


record,  and  further,  that  were  his 
appeals  to  the  benevolent  to  cease  to 
bear  fruit  and  he  to  be  forced  to  depend 
upon  himself,  he  might  morally  recover. 
It  is  satisfactory  to  note  that  in  the 
end  this  actually  happened.  For  a 
long  while  he  was  entirely  convinced 
that  it  was  the  business  of  the  public 
to  support  his  family  until  work  which 
precisely  suited  his  fancy  came  to 
hand.  But  finally,  finding  that  neither 
the  public,  nor  his  own  children,  took 
this  view  of  the  matter,  he  managed 
to  procure  some  regular  work,  and 
turned  his  back,  we  will  trust  for 
ever,  upon  a  mendicant's  life.  This 
happened  more  than  six  years  ago. 
The  latest  accounts  of  him  are  that, 
with  most  of  his  family  about  him,  he  is 
living  an  honest  life  as  a  hard-working 
London  citizen ;  and  that,  though  he 
still  bears  some  grudge  to  those  candid 
friends  who  succeeded  in  spoiling  the 
harvest  of  his  begging  letters,  he 
owned  to  one  of  them  not  long  ago 
that  it  was  this  action,  and  this  only, 
which  weaned  him  from  a  precarious 
existence  of  discontented  idleness  to  a 
healthy  life  of  work  and  independence. 

But,  after  all,  it  must  be  owned  that 
such  a  man  is  an  exception  in  the  craft. 
Those  whose  duty  it  is  to  examine  these 
matters  are  usually  faced  with  the 
worst  side  of  human  nature  ;  whether 
it  be  the  small  fry  of  the  trade,  or  the 
accomplished  master,  every  case  is 
marked  with  the  stain  of  deceit  and 
prevarication. 

Take,  for  example,  the  following 
delectable  epistle,  containing  a  dirty 
pawn-ticket.  "  Dear  maam,  I  hop  you 
will  excause  this  letter  from  a  poor 
woman  today  is  Christmas  day — my 
husband  as  been  laid  up  10  weeks  with 
Rheumatic  Fever — I  have  not  a  bit  of 
bread  or  fireing.  I  was  reading  today 
of  the  Queen  haveing  300  pounds  of 
meat  roasted  in  a  lump  and  I  thought 
if  she  only  new  how  I  was  placed  she 
would  send  us  something  my  husband 
as  got  a  little  work  to  do  now  to  start 
at  once  if  he  could  get  is  tools  out  of 
pledge  they  will  cost  15/9  I  have  sent 
one  of  them  so  that  you  can  see  I  am 


speaking  the  truth — my  husband  can 
begin  work  on  Friday  morning."  &c. 
&c.  When  a  visit  was  made  at  the 
writer's  house  a  few  days  later  there 
was  plenty  of  food  in  the  place  and  a 
big  fire.  The  man  was  at  home,  a 
strong  fellow  with  no  signs  of  rheu- 
matism or  any  other  ailment  about 
him.  He  refused  inquiry  with  abusive 
language.  Afterwards  it  was  dis- 
covered that  the  aforesaid  tools  had 
been  redeemed  the  week  before  with 
money  procured  from  some  other 
source,  and  promptly  pledged  again 
within  three  days.  In  fact  these  tools 
were  a  valuable  article  of  commerce. 
Within  three  months  no  less  than  five 
letters  from  the  man  or  his  wife,  all 
addressed  to  different  people,  fell  into 
our  hands.  In  most  instances  help 
had  been  sent  to  the  writer  before 
inquiry  into  his  condition  was  thought 
of. 

But  there  are  lower  depths  of  men- 
dicancy even  than  this.  A  well-known 
doctor  sent  in  the  following  letter  for 
inquiry  with  the  comment  that  he 
remembered  the  name  of  the  man 
mentioned  in  the  appeal,  and  would 
gladly  send  money  to  his  widow.  We 
give  the  letter  verbatim.  "  In  address- 
ing you  I  trust  that  I  am  not  pre- 
suming too  much  upon  your  kindness, 
but  my  poor  dear  Edgar  so  often  spoke 
of  you  (he  was  house-surgeon  and 

resident  accoucheur  under  you  at 

Hospital)  that  in  my  utter  friendless- 
ness  I  am  impelled  to  trespass  on  your 
generosity  and  ask  your  assistance  for 
a  poor  widow  left  in  destitute  circum- 
stances. My  dear  Edgar,  who  was  in 
practise  at  -  -  in  the  county  of 

died    suddenly    about    three 

months  ago  and  his  affairs  were  found 
so  involved  that  scarcely  anything  was 
left.  For  my  children's  sake  I  must 
endeavour  at  once  to  do  something, 
and  as  I  know  a  little  of  dress-making 
I  could  with  trifling  assistance  open  a 
small  shop  in  the  neighbourhood.  Am 
I  wrong  in  trusting  that  you  will  help 
the  widow  of  one  of  your  old  house- 
surgeons  ?  I  have  no  near  relations 
to  whom  I  can  apply,  and  the  prajrers 


Begging  Letters  and  their   Writers. 


55 


of  a  grateful  woman  that  God's  bless- 
ing may  rest  upon  you  and  yours  will 
be  aver  offered  by,  sincerely  yours, 
C—  -  E—  -  0." 

This  was  an  appeal  to  touch  a  good 
man's  heart.  The  address  given  was 
visited  at  once;  in  answer  to  the 
visitor's  knock  a  man  mending  boots 
at  a  window  invited  him  to  enter.  This 
man  shook  his  head  vaguely  at  first 
when  asked  for  Mrs.  C.,  then  grinned 
and  nodded.  "  Oh,  I  know  who  you 
mea  i ;  it's  those  parties  who  has  their 
lettf  rs  left  here.  I  don't  know  where 
they  live,  but  they  call  twice  a  week 
to  see  if  anything  has  come.  It's  a 
man  and  a  woman,  husband  and  wife, 
1  suppose.  They  says  they  lives  lower 
down  the  street  at  No.  151,  and  that 
as  this  house  is  15,  letters  might  come 
here  by  mistake,  and  might  they 
call  now  and  then  to  see  if  any  did 
come.  They  was  here  yesterday, 
or  ho  was.  Do  you  know  him  1  A 
stoutish  chap  with  red  hair,  well- 
dressed  for  this  neighbourhood.  No, 
I  don't  know  nothing  more  about  them 
than  that.  It  was  you  mentioning 
the  name ;  that  was  what  he  called 
himself.  You  go  to  151,  and  likely 
enough  you'll  find  'em."  The  cobbler's 
advice  was  taken.  At  No.  151  we 
found  a  milk-shop  with  a  stout,  decent- 
looking  woman  handling  the  cans. 
No,  the  people  did  not  live  there,  she 
said  ;  they  had  asked  if  they  might 
have  their  letters  addressed  here  as 
they  had  only  just  come  to  London,  and 
were  moving  about  a  great  deal.  Their 
story, 4she  said,  seemed  straightforward, 
and  several  letters  had  been  received 
and  taken  away  by  Mr.  C.,  as  he 
called  himself.  It  was  believed  that 
they  lived  in  some  buildings  near,  but 
they  seemed  mysterious  people.  The 
buildings  were  searched  in  vain,  and 
then  a  report  was  sent  to  the  benevo- 
lent doctor  concerning  the  "  widow  " 
which  must  have  surprised  him.  A  few 
days  later  a  letter  in  the  same  hand,  and 
couched  much  in  the  same  terms,  was 
received  by  another  doctor  from 
another  part  of  London.  In  this  in- 
stance a  blunder  had  been  made,  for  this 


doctor  happened  to  be  acquainted  with 
"  my  poor  dear  Edgar's  "  real  widow 
and  knew  her  to  be  in  comfortable 
circumstances,  and  not  to  be  living  in 
London  at  all. 

Here  was  a  case  of  direct  fraud. 
We  have  since  been  informed  that  the 
appeals  have  been  successfully  stopped 
by  the  police. 

Another  large  class  of  begging  let- 
ters come  from  workhouses  and  poor- 
law  infirmaries.  The  writers  send  elo- 
quent narratives  of  their  past  lives, 
asking  for  the  smallest  trifle  to  allevi- 
ate their  present  woes,  and  to  enable 
them  to  start  afresh  in  life.  Some- 
times they  represent  themselves  to  be 
broken-down  clergymen  or  mission- 
aries ;  more  often  they  are  discharged 
soldiers,  who  give  startling  accounts 
of  their  heroism  in  defence  of  their 
country,  but,  on  inquiry,  cannot  pro- 
duce their  discharges  or  be  traced  at 
the  War-Office.  When  they  receive 
assistance  (which,  alas !  they  often  do) 
they  disappear  from  the  workhouse  to 
drink  up  the  proceeds  of  their  eloquent 
pleadings,  invariably  returning  after 
no  long  absence  to  that  unfailing 
asylum  and  to  the  work  of  composing 
further  appeals. 

Women  are  quite  as  active  as 
men,  even  when  working  single-handed. 
One  day  there  came  to  us  a  woman, 
who  was  severely  and  uncompromis- 
ingly respectable  in  appearance.  She 
had  been  referred  for  inquiry  by  a 
gentleman  in  the  north  of  England  to 
whom  she  had  written  claiming  re- 
lationship (a  claim  he  entirely  re- 
pudiated) and  begging  for  money  to 
procure  food. 

The  manner  of  Mrs.  G.  was  very 
austere.  It  passed  her  comprehension, 
she  said,  why  she  had  been  sent  for 
to  such  a  place  as  this.  Inquiry,  was 
that  it]  Well,  she  was  afraid  of 
nothing  ;  she  lived  a  virtuous  life.  A 
lady  of  this  description  was  not  easy 
to  deal  with,  for  she  sat  down  to  be 
questioned  with  the  air  of  a  martyr 
bound  to  the  stake.  At  the  first 
question  the  rose  with  an  indignant 
sweep  of  her  skirts,  and  announced  her 


56 


Begging  Letters  and  their   Writers. 


intention  of  leaving  at  once.  Yet  it  was 
a  simple  question  ;  where  had  she  lived 
three  months  ago  before  coming  to  her 
present  address  ?  but  it  was  too  much 
for  Mrs.  G.,  and  after  relieving  her 
mind  by  some  severe  strictures  upon 
the  "  charity  which  gave  nothing  but 
crushed  the  poor  with  impertinent 
inquiry,"  she  went  away. 

A  few  weeks  later  a  letter  (from 
which  the  following  is  an  extract)  was 
sent  by  Mrs.  G.  to  a  gentleman  in  the 
City,  and  forwarded  to  us  for  verifica- 
tion. "  I  am  in  arrears  with  my  rent 
and  have  no  means  of  paying  any,  we 
have  not  tasted  meat  for  four  weeks 
only  bread  and  tea,  and  sometimes 
only  prison  fare,  bread  and  cold  water. 
I  am  entirely  helpless  and  alone,  not 
one  friend  in  this  great  City  of  wealth 
and  plenty,  will  you  help  me  or  inform 
me  where  I  can  apply  for  help  to  save 
me  from  starvation,  I  am  weak  and 
ill  from  want  of  common  food.  I  live 
a  quiet  virtuous  life."  We  called  upon 
the  woman  early  in  the  afternoon  and 
contrived,  for  reasons  of  our  own,  to 
enter  her  room  without  more  notice 
than  a  tap  at  the  door.  It  was  a 
fair-sized  apartment,  carpeted  and 
furnished  with  a  sofa,  four  cushioned 
chairs,  a  good  table,  two  beds,  and  a 
chest  of  drawers.  A  large  fire  was  in 
,the  grate  though  it  was  summer-time, 
and  on  the  table,  neatly  laid  on  a 
white  cloth,  were  the  remains  of  a 
mutton  chop,  baked  potatoes,  a  glass 
containing  the  dregs  of  half  a-pint  of 
stout,  tea,  bread,  and  butter. 

Mrs.  G.'s  face,  as  she  saw  our  eyes 
wandering  over  these  signs  of  starva- 
tion, was  an  interesting  study ;  but 
she  was  not  in  the  least  abashed.  A 
friend,  she  said,  had  just  sent  in  the 
food,  a  certain  Mrs.  Smith ;  but  the 
name  was  not  given  without  some 
hesitation.  Where  did  Mrs.  Smith 
live  ?  That  was  a  question  which  no 
one  on  earth  should  compel  her  to 
answer.  It  was  useless  to  ask  her 
such  questions.  Those  people  who 
refused  to  help  her  unless  she  endured 
insult  might  leave  her  to  starve  if 
they  pleased.  Others  there  were,  thank 


God,  whose  hearts  were  touched  by 
reading  the  appeal  of  a  virtuous 
woman,  and  who  required  no  other 
proof  of  her  needs  than  her  word. 
Upon  those  truly  charitable  souls  she 
depended.  No  one  need  trouble  to 
call  again  ;  and  -no  one  ever  has. 

The  most  striking  feature  in  this 
case,  and  in  others  of  the  same  class, 
was  the  absence  of  any  shame  or  con- 
fusion in  the  people  when  they  were 
found  out.  No  coiner  or  burglar  who 
has  served  his  time  could  be  less 
abashed  than  a  Begging  Letter  Writer, 
even  of  comparatively  short  experience, 
when  caught  in  some  palpable  lie. 

The  saddest  instance  of  this  came 
under  our  notice  three  years  ago.  A 
tradesman  of  good  position  in  a  pro- 
vincial town  became  bankrupt  through 
speculation  and  extravagance,  and  soon 
afterwards  began  to  suffer  from  illness 
which  temporarily  incapacitated  him 
from  work.  His  children  were  all 
grown  up ;  one  son,  though  married, 
stood  by  his  father  nobly,  but  the 
rest  were  rather  an  encumbrance  to 
him  than  otherwise,  and  the  family 
after  tiring  out  their  friends  in  their 
native  town,  drifted  to  London.  When 
they  came  they  were  already  ankle 
deep  in  the  mire  of  mendicancy. 
There  seemed  hope,  however,  of  saving 
them.  A  full  statement  of  their 
difficulties  and  resources  was  obtained 
from  Mrs.  T.  with  the  help  of  a  lady 
as  gentle  as  she  was  firm  ;  but  alas  ! 
when  it  came  to  the  choice  of  a  way 
to  help,  all  our  hopes  tumbled  about 
our  ears  like  a  pack  of  cards.  There 
were  children  young  and  strong, 
moreover  Mrs.  T.  was  not  delicate 
though  elderly  ;  and  so  our  kind 
counsellor  (herself  afraid  of  no  work 
that  had  to  be  done)  suggested  that 
as  the  head  of  the  house  was  unable 
now  to  keep  them  all,  they  should 
turn  to  and  keep  him.  This  sug- 
gestion was  met  with  expressions  of 
extreme  disfavour,  and  finally  re- 
jected with  a  cutting  rejoinder  that 
one  who  had  been  brought  up  "a 
lady "  would  certainly  not  consent 
at  her  time  of  life  to  do  menial  work. 


Begging  Letters  and  their  Writers. 


57 


A  gift,  even  of  trifling  value,  would 
have  been  acceptable,  and  received  in 
a  proper  spirit ;  but  such  treatment 
as  this  was  not  to  be  endured. 

There  was  no  reasoning  with  the 
wonan,  and  the  T.'s  went  their  own 
way.  Letter  after  letter  came  into 
our  hands,  giving  piteous  accounts  of 
the:r  woes  from  Mr.  T.'s  afflictions, 
carefully  suppressing  the  fact  that  the 
married  son  paid  the  rent  and  that 
twc  grown-up  daughters  were  now  at 
work.  One  day  a  new  departure  was 
made,  calling  for  special  inquiry.  "  We 
do  not  ask  for  ourselves,"  the  letter 
ran,  "  but  for  a  dear  son  going  into  con- 
sumption, who  needs  nourishment  we 
cannot  give  him.  We  would  not 
write  at  all,  but  for  the  sake  of  our 
dear  boy."  Now,  there  was  one  man 
who  had  believed  in  the  T.'s  and  had 
helped  them  from  time  to  time.  To 
him  we  went  forthwith,  and  seldom 
have  we  seen  any  one  so  indignant  as 
he  was  when  he  read  this  letter. 
"  That  son  !  "  he  gasped.  "  Why  the 
young  scamp  is  in  regular  work  at 
thirty  shillings  a  week,  with  two 
me.ds  a  day  thrown  in.  He  told  me 
so  himself  last  Sunday."  This  was 
serious  news,  and  the  next  step  was 
to  call  upon  the  T.'s.  We  were 
received  with  melancholy  dignity  by 
Mrs.  T.,  who  was  dressed  as  a  "  lady" 
should  be  in  a  black  gown  uncommonly 
lib  5  silk,  a  cap  embroidered  with 
white  lace,  and  a  light  woollen 
wrapper  thrown  over  her  shoulders. 
Th  3  good  matron  was  sitting,  with 
hei  hands  before  her,  in  front  of  a 
blazing  fire  in  a  room  furnished  with 
relics  of  past  grandeur.  We  drew  her 
att3ntion  to  the  letter,  and  asked  for 
the  son.  She  sighed  deeply,  and 
sail  he  had  gone  for  a  walk,  also 
that  he  had  earned  nothing  for  many 
weoks  and  had  not  made  eighteen 
shillings  in  a  week  for  some  months. 
W«s  watched  Mrs.  T.  closely  all  the 
tin;.e,  impressing  her  with  the  necessity 
for  perfect  accuracy  of  statement. 
Sho  answered  nothing  except  to  make 
a  distant  bow,  as  though  it  were  a 
liberty  to  appear  to  doubt  her  least 


word.  This  was  the  last  time  we 
troubled  ourselves  with  Mrs.  T. 
Frightened  at  length  by  the  thought 
of  possible  consequences,  she  confessed 
to  a  friend  that  she  had  said  what  was 
not  true,  and  a  few  months  later,  "  the 
dear  son  "  married,  and  has  now,  we 
believe,  a  'family  of  his  own. 

Such  is  the  moral  effect  of  writing 
begging  letters  upon  people  who 
but  a  year  before  would  have  rejected 
with  scorn  the  notion  that  they  could, 
in  any  circumstances,  sink  so  low.  If 
twelve  months  will  do  so  much  as 
this,  what  must  the  effect  be  of  thirty 
years  1  Not  long  ago  certain  letters 
came  into  our  hands  so  well  written, 
so  cleverly  put  together,  and  so 
original,  that  we  hastened  at  once  to 
pay  a  personal  visit  to  the  writer. 
We  will  call  him  Mr.  B. 

A  paragraph  of  one  of  these  letters 
ran  as  follows  :  "  A  really  sufficient 
change  of  air  at  the  sea  or  otherwise 
(involving  the  company  of  my  attend- 
ant as  well  as  that  of  Mrs.  B.)  would 
cost  no  less  than  £30  to  £40.  ;  If  Mr.— 
[a  gentleman  to  whom  appeal  had 
been  made]  viewed  the  case  with 
enough  favour^jm?i$yacie  to  say  that 
he  would  try  to  raise  that  sum,  or 
anything  like  it,  for  that  purpose, 
amongst  his  friends  subject  to  my 
laying  before  you  formal  particulars 
of  my  needs  and  circumstances,  I 
may  say  that  I  feel  the  object  is  so 
all  important  that  I  would  do  that." 
It  will  be  long  before  we  forget  our 
visit  to  this  man.  In  a  compact 
eight-roomed  house,  in  a  parlour  bed- 
room furnished  with  a  suite  of  good 
mahogany,  with  shelves  on  the  walls 
filled  with  well-bound  books  and 
a  table  at  the  bedside  loaded  with 
oranges,  grapes,  and  cigars,  on  a 
bed  covered  with  a  soft  quilt  and 
sheets  of  the  finest  texture,  lay  the 
writer  of  this  and  countless  other 
appeals.  An  aristocrat  of  the  pro- 
fession evidently !  He  was  an  old 
man  with  snowy  hair,  broad  shoulders, 
and  the  reddest  face  conceivable  ;  a 
very  clever  face,  with  fiery  eyes,  a 
hooked  nose,  and  a  coarse,  hard 


58 


Begging  Letters  and  their   Writers. 


mouth.  He  wore  a  black  velvet 
smoking-cap  and  a  handsome  shawl  of 
Scotch  plaid  was  thrown  round  him, 
for  he  sat  up  in  bed  in  honour  of  our 
visit.  Indeed,  look  where  we  might, 
there  was  no  sign  of  poverty  visible 
anywhere. 

His  polite  and  stately  condescension 
was  so  embarrassing  that  for  some 
time  we  were  glad  to  let  him  talk  on 
and  gather  our  scattered  wits  to- 
gether. "  Allow  me  to  thank  you, 
my  dear  sir,  for  your  kind  visit,"  he 
began.  "Are  you  surprised  to  find 
me  decently  clothed  and  fed?  No 
doubt  you  are  ;  and  a  little  indignant 
perhaps.  I  don'c  blame  you;  it  is  a 
very  natural  feeling.  Working  as 
you  do  among  the  lower  orders  it 
must  be  quite  a  shock  to  be  con- 
fronted with  one  of  your  own  class 
reduced  by  circumstances  to  appeal  to 
the  charitable  public." 

He  then  proceeded,  with  admirable 
ingenuity  and  clearness,  to  explain 
that  he  had  suffered  from  serious 
physical  defects  all  his  life ;  that  of 
late  years  his  health  had  altered 
much  for  the  worse,  and  though  he 
still  held  a  situation  of  which  he 
made  an  income  sufficient  to  procure 
the  bare  necessaries  of  life,  he  was 
obliged  to  throw  himself  upon  the 
charity  of  the  benevolent  for  "the 
luxuries,  or  I  may  say,  necessary  com- 
forts which  my  health  and  unfortunate 
position  require."  This  good  man 
had  seen  fit  to  marry  in  spite  of  his 
';  affliction,"  and  had  a  son  and 
daughter.  By  careful  questions  I 
learnt  that  the  son,  a  clerk  at  £150 
a  year,  had  left  home  suddenly,  and 
married  against  his  father's  wish, 
while  the  wife  and  daughter,  two 
gaunt,  half-starved,  overworked  crea- 
tures, still  remained  at  home. 

We  talked  together  a  long  time, 
and  by  degrees  the  story  of  this 
man's  life  became  plain,  and  was  con- 
firmed by  subsequent  inquiry.  He 
was  a  man  of  capacity  and  education, 
and  able  when  he  chose  to  be  a  valu- 
able servant  to  the  firm  who  still  em- 
ployed him.  But  he  was  without 


principle  or  feeling.  The  ill-health 
he  suffered  from  was  dyspepsia,  con- 
tracted by  systematic  over-eating  and 
drinking.  He  thought  of  no  one  but 
himself,  and  cared  for  nothing  but  his 
own  comfort.  He  had  an  income 
amply  sufficient  for  his  wants,  but 
through  making  the  discovery  that 
well-worded  begging  letters  could  be 
relied  upon  to  bring  in  some  return, 
he  became  shamefully  extravagant, 
and  latterly  had  been  falling  into  debt 
and  difficulties.  The  most  repulsive 
feature  of  the  case  was  his  treatment 
of  his  wife  and  daughter.  They  had 
coarse  food,  while  he  lived  on  all  the 
dainties  of  the  season ;  their  rooms 
were  as  poor  as  those  of  the  common- 
est servant,  while  his  were  as  com- 
fortable as  they  could  be  made.  As 
to  the  son,  he  was  now  his  father's 
bitterest  enemy. 

From  such  a  case  as  this  it  is  in- 
structive to  turn  to  that  of  a  widow 
who  was  saved  by  the  prompt  action 
of  two  ladies  from  the  degradation 
which,  as  we  have  shown,  the  writing 
of  begging  letters  brings  upon  its 
followers.  This  woman  was  well  edu- 
cated and  refined.  She  is  now  earn- 
ing an  independent  livelihood,  and  is 
beyond  all  fear  of  mendicancy.  Yet 
once,  being  in  serious  trouble,  she  sent 
off  a  letter  to  a  stranger,  and  it  is 
believed  by  her  friends  that  had  re- 
sponse been  made  in  money  to  this 
appeal,  which  was  quite  genuine,  she 
would  have  been  ruined  for  life. 
Afterwards,  the  friends  who  saved  her 
asked  what  had  put  it  into  her  head  to 
do  such  a  thing.  Her  reply  was  a  sig- 
nificant one.  She  had  seen  a  curate 
writing  appeals  broadcast  for  a  church, 
and,  in  the  desperation  of  the  crisis  of 
her  affairs,  feeling,  she  said,  that  she 
needed  the  aid  infinitely  more  than  he 
did,  she  followed  his  example  and 
wrote  for  herself. 

This  story  carries  a  forcible  moral 
with  it,  which  may  be  applied  to  many 
descriptions  of  charitable  appeal.  The 
ease  with  which  perfectly  conscien- 
tious and  well-meaning  persons  can 
slide  into  exaggerated  statements,  and 


Begging  Letters  and  their   Writers. 


59 


even  into  absolute  falsehood,  when 
they  once  begin  to  ask  for  help,  how- 
ever good  the  object  may  be,  from 
people  not  acquainted  with  the  facts 
of  tiie  case,  shows  how  demoralising 
the  effect  must  be  upon  those  who 
are  '.vriting  for  themselves. 

There  is  in  truth  far  too  much  beg- 
ging going  on  among  "charitable" 
people.  The  following  instance,  with 
which  we  will  close  our  article,  oc- 
currod  in  the  working  of  a  society  re- 
nowned for  its  opposition  to  mendi- 
cancy in  every  shape  and  form. 

A  young  girl  had  been  apprenticed 
to  a  business,  and  for  two  years  re- 
quirod  maintenance  and  careful  super- 
vision. There  were  two  ladies  actively 
interested  in  this  good  work.  One 
was  visiting  the  girl,  the  other  arrang- 
ing the  financial  part  of  the  business. 
It  so  happened,  however,  that  the 
visitor  was  asked  at  a  moment's  notice 
to  write  to  a  gentleman  for  assistance 
who  had  expressed  his  willingness  to 
help  any  case  of  this  kind.  A.  report 
was  sent,  very  brief  and  to  the  point, 
for  the  visitor  was  not  versed  in  the 
arts  of  "  charitable  appeal."  A  reply 
came  by  return  of  post  with  a  cheque 
for  the  sum  required.  But  the  donor 


said  he  was  confused  between  the  letter 
he  now  answered  and  another  he  had 
just  received  from  the  other  lady.  This 
lady  was  a  mistress  of  the  art  ;  it  was 
said  that  for  any  deserving  object  she 
could  obtain  <£40  within  three  days,  so 
potent  was  her  pen.  Yet  she  was  as 
honourable  a  woman  in  the  ordinary 
dealings  of  life  as  you  could  meet  with. 
Such,  however,  is  the  fatal  influence 
which  begging  exerts  upon  its  votaries 
that  in  explaining  the  case  of  this 
girl,  who  had  a  worthless  father,  she 
asked  for  help  on  the  ground  that  it 
would  assist  "a  poor  orphan  to  establish 
herself  in  the  world."  No  wonder  the 
man  appealed  to  was  puzzled,  for  the 
lady  who  first  wrote  to  him  had  dis- 
tinctly mentioned  the  existence  of  this 
parent.  When  the  lady  of  too  lively 
an  imagination  was  taxed  with  her 
inaccuracy  she  coolly  replied  :  "  It 
was  unlucky  that  he  should  hear  two 
different  accounts.  You  ought  to  have 
asked  me  what  you  were  to  say.  The 
word  orphan,  I  think,  always  has  a 
good  effect,  and  as  this  father  of  hers 
cannot  perform  a  father's  part,  why, 
really,  we  may  call  her  an  orphan, 
after  all ! " 


60 


THE   CLIFF-CLIMBERS. 


CREGBY  is  curiously  placed  high  up 
on  a  plateau  overlooking  the  sea.  All 
round  the  village  there  is  rich  farm- 
ing land,  but  this  ends  suddenly  to 
the  eastward  in  a  great  pale  wall  of 
limestone  overhanging  the  sea  for 
several  miles  with  never  a  break,  and 
forming  between  the  plane  of  the 
land  above  and  the  plane  of  the  water 
below  a  curious  vertical  world,  some 
hundreds  of  feet  in  depth,  which  be- 
longs to  neither.  Hither  in  the 
breeding  season  come  myriads  of  sea- 
birds, — guillemots,  razor-bills,  puffins, 
and  kittiwakes — in  obedience  to  an 
instinct  which  is  older  than  all  human 
history ;  and  here  on  the  bare  ledges 
of  the  cliffs  they  lay  their  great  eggs 
and  seek  to  rear  their  unshapely 
chicks.  For  these  eggs  there  is  always 
a  ready  sale,  and  it  has  been  the 
custom  of  the  villagers  for  many 
generations  to  gather,  in  due  season, 
this  harvest  of  the  rocks  during  six 
weeks  of  every  year,  in  June  and  the 
early  part  of  July,  earning  thereby  a 
greater  profit  than  their  ordinary  field- 
labour  would  give  them.  This  har- 
vest is  regulated  by  ancient  custom, 
and  by  some  curious  unwritten  law  of 
Cregby  certain  families  have  the 
monopoly  of  it. 

One  of  the  most  ancient  stems  of 
this  climbing  aristocracy  was  the 
family  of  the  Cowltheads.  So  far 
back  as  the  parish  registers  reached, 
or  the  gravestones  in  the  little  church- 
yard were  decipherable,  there  had 
always  been  Cowltheads  in  Cregby; 
and  no  one  has  ever  heard  of  a  time 
when  the  right  to  climb  the  very  best 
part  of  the  cliff  has  not  belonged  to 
them, 

Yet  in  the  course  of  ages  it  hap- 
pened to  the  Cowltheads,  as  to  many 
another  ancient  family,  that  the  stock 
grew  feeble,  and  it  had  come  to  pass 


that  although  there  was  still  nominally 
a  Cowlthead  gang,  its  leader  bore  an- 
other name.  At  the  time  referred  to 
there  was  but  one  Cowlthead  who 
climbed,  and  he,  Simon,  was  a  raw 
youth,  clever  enough  with  the  ropes 
as  every  one  owned,  but  for  the  rest 
entirely  lacking  experience  and  com- 
mon sense.  So  young  a  man  would 
not  have  been  accepted  by  the  other 
climbers  had  it  not  happened  that  he 
was  the  only  one  of  the  family  avail- 
able. His  father,  Dick  Cowlthead,  a 
dull,  heavy  man  wanting  in  enterprise, 
had  gone  to  the  cliff  for  several  years, 
but  had  made  no  headway,  and  wil- 
lingly sank  under  the  guidance  of  an 
energetic  newcomer  without  any  here- 
ditary claims,  a  newcomer  who  was  at 
first  only  a  stop-gap,  taken  on  when 
another  of  the  old  families  "ran  to 
women-folk,"  and  could  supply  no 
climber.  And  while  yet  in  his  prime 
the  rheumatism  (no  doubt,  had  he 
been  a  richer  man,  the  doctors  would 
have  called  it  gout,)  had  stiffened 
Dick's  limbs  so  that  he  could  no 
longer  work  the  rope ;  after  which 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  leave 
climbing  and  confine  himself  to  such 
field-work  as  he  could  do.  But  that 
the  family  might  nob  altogether  lose 
its  much-needed  share  of  the  egg- 
money,  it  was  agreed  that  his  eldest 
son  Simon,  a  lad  of  sixteen,  should 
be  admitted  into  the  gang. 

This  lad  was  by  no  means  a  favour- 
ite in  the  village.  It  was  his  ua- 
happy  fate  to  have  been  born  with  an 
ancestral  taint  in  the  form  of  an  un- 
controllable predilection  towards  wag- 
gery, while  for  the  rest  he  was  un- 
fortunately like  his  father,  exceedingly 
dull  and  stupid,  a  heavy-faced,  tow- 
headed  country  lout  of  the  most 
pronounced  type.  Now  a  joker  with 
wit  is  often  more  or  less  of  a  nuisance, 


The  Cliff-Climbers. 


61 


but  a  joker  without  that  quality  is 
always  an  absolute  infliction,  especially 
in  a  country  place.  And  as  the  play- 
fulness of  a  young  bullock  was  grace 
itsellf  compared  with  that  of  young 
Simc  n  Cowlthead,  it  is  not  at  all  sur- 
prising that  the  inhabitants  of  Cregby 
came  cordially  to  detest  this  ungainly 
youth,  and  to  visit  their  displeasure  at 
his  mischievous  pranks  upon  various 
parts  of  his  youthful  anatomy.  It 
may  be  readily  imagined  that  this 
youth  was  from  the  first  a  constant 
source  of  anxiety  and  annoyance  to  the 
shrewd  and  energetic  John  Bower, 
the  man  who  had  worked  his  way  to 
the  head  of  the  gang. 

The  methods  of  the  climbers  are  so 
simple  and  secure  that  accidents  are  of 
rare  occurrence.  Such  as  do  happen 
are  chiefly  small  injuries  from  falling 
stonos  dislodged  by  the  friction  of  the 
rope  as  the  climber  swings  himself 
below.  Of  the  three  men  who  form  a 
gang  one  descends  to  do  the  actual 
work  of  gathering  the  eggs,  while  the 
other  two  remain  above  at  the  more 
arduous,  if  less  dangerous,  task  of 
lowering  and  hoisting  their  comrade. 
At  the  spot  selected  for  a  descent  a 
stako  is  driven  into  the  earth  near  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  and  to  this  stake  a 
stout;  cord  is  fixed.  This  is  the  hand- 
line,  which  serves  for  signalling  and 
to  re  lieve  the  strain  on  the  main  cord. 
Then  the  man  who  is  to  descend  ad- 
just about  him  a  double  loop  of  rope, 
or  siort  breeches  of  canvas,  at  the  end 
of  tl  e  much  stouter  climbing-rope,  and 
som<  times  may  further  secure  himself 
by  a  strap  passed  loosely  round  the 
hips.  All  being  ready,  the  climber 
taking  up  the  hand-line  walks  down 
the  short  slope  which  caps  the  pre- 
cipic3,  passes  over  the  verge,  and  is 
lost  to  view,  while  his  two  comrades, 
seat*  d  above,  with  feet  well  planted  in 
little-  pits  cut  out  of  the  turf,  brace 
themselves  to  their  labour,  making  of 
their  thighs  and  bodies  a  living  brake. 
And  thus  they  hoist  or  lower  the 
climber,  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  signal  which  he  gives.  If  he  be 
skilful  the  man  below  will  greatly 


lighten  their  labour,  by  supporting  the 
greater  part  of  his  weight  on  the  hand- 
line  at  the  instant  that  their  effort  on 
the  main  rope  is  felt.  To  work  thus 
in  rhythmical  unison  with  the  men 
above,  to  watch  and  avoid  those  ter- 
rible missiles,  the  falling  stones,  to 
prevent  the  twisting  of  the  ropes,  and, 
by  keeping  the  feet  in  touch  with  the 
cliff  (for  which  purpose  the  legs  must 
be  held  almost  horizontally)  to  avoid 
bruising  the  body  and  smashing  the 
eggs  against  the  face  of  the  rock, — 
these  are  things  which  mark  the 
expert  in  cliff -climbing. 

Now  it  is  not  given  to  every  one,  not 
even  though  he  be  born  in  the  village 
of  Cregby,  to  swing  at  ease,  a  living 
pendulum,  at  the  end  of  two  or  three 
hundred  feet  of  rope  with  a  great  pre- 
cipice still  below  you,  and  the  blue 
sea,  so  strange  and  dizzy  to  look  upon 
from  this  point  of  view,  beneath  and 
around  you.  Hence  when  after  the 
two  first  seasons  young  Simon,  upon 
trial  below,  proved,  to  the  surprise  of 
his  companions,  as  capable  there 
as  he  had  been  lazy  and  incompetent 
at  the  top,  John  Bower  wisely  made 
the  most  of  the  lad's  faculty.  "  He's 
good  for  nothing  at  aught  else,  so  we'd 
better  keep  him  below,"  he  remarked 
to  his  mate. 

This  arrangement  was  entirely  to 
the  lad's  satisfaction.  He  revelled  in 
the  work,  for  the  excitement  of  it 
stirred  fresh  life  in  his  clumsy  frame. 
To  any  one  who  had  beheld  his 
sluggishness  on  land,  the  grace  and 
dexterity  with  which  like  some  wild 
ape  he  bounded  from  ledge  to  ledge 
in  that  strange  middle-world  would 
have  seemed  incomprehensible.  John 
Bower's  explanation  was  that  "  clim- 
min'  was  bred  in  the  bone." 

Even  when  the  season  was  over 
and  the  ropes  carefully  coiled  and 
housed  till  another  year,  Simon  could 
not  be  kept  from  the  cliffs.  He 
would  slink  away  from  his  proper 
work  on  every  opportunity,  in  spite  of 
his  mother's  tongue  and  his  father's 
hand,  to  enjoy  the  dangerous  pleasure 
of  scrambling  along  the  face  of  the 


62 


The  Cliff-Climbers. 


precipice  wherever  he  could  find  hand- 
grip and  foot-hold. 

But  in  the  fifth  year  of  his  climb- 
ing, when  the  youth  had  already 
begun  to  think  himself  a  man,  a  ter- 
rible occurrence  prematurely  ended 
his  career  in  the  cliffs. 

The  Cowlthead  gang  had  -worked 
nearly  the  whole  of  that  fine  June 
day  with  excellent  results.  Towards 
evening  John  Bower  said,  "  We'll  just 
try  '  Fowerscore,7  and  then  go  home." 
It  may  here  be  observed  that  we  have 
taken  such  liberties  with  the  speech 
of  John  Bower  and  his  mates  as  may 
render  it  intelligible  to  those  who 
know  not  the  tongue  of  Cregby. 

"  Nay,"  said  Simon,  out  of  temper 
at  a  recent  rough  reproof  of  John's 
for  his  careless  handling  of  some 
eggs,  "  I've  done  enough  for  to-day. 
Leave  Fowerscore  till  to-morrow." 

But  John  Bower  was  masterful,  as 
became  the  chief  of  a  gang.  "  If 
thou  won't  climb  Fowerscore,  I'll 
climb  it  myself,"  said  he.  And  he  led 
the  way  to  the  place. 

Now  this  Fourscore  was  one  of  the 
most  difficult  spots  in  the  cliff  because 
of  the  great  overhang  which  the 
upper  part  of  the  precipice  had  at  this 
point.  For  this  reason  the  attempts 
of  the  climbers  to  reach  its  ledges 
•had,  until  a  short  time  before,  always 
failed.  Here  the  birds  finding  them- 
selves undisturbed,  clustered  thickest, 
until  every  square  inch  of  rock  flat 
enough  to  support  an  egg  had  its 
occupant,  and  the  possessors  of  places 
had  to  do  continual  battle  with  their 
envious  and  less  fortunate  sisters  for 
their  right  to  remain.  But  three  or 
four  winters  previously  the  frost  had 
dislodged  a  great  slice  of  rock  from 
the  brow,  and  in  the  following  season 
John  Bower,  taking  advantage  of  this 
fall,  had  descended,  and  by  a  long  in- 
swing  had  gained  footing  on  the 
ledges,  where  a  rich  harvest  awaited 
him.  Into  the  bags  slung  on  either 
side  of  him  he  counted  eighty  eggs, 
and  with  this  as  a  sufficient  load,  con- 
sidering the  nature  of  the  ascent,  he 
returned  to  the  top,  and  twice  again 


descended  for  fourscore  more.  After 
that  the  climbers  regularly  visited 
their  freshly  conquered  territory,  and 
whoever  descended  would  have  counted 
it  shame  to  return  without  a  full 
burden ;  wherefore  as  Fourscore  the 
place  was  known. 

When  they  reached  the  spot,  Simon 
stood  sulkily  aside  while  John  and 
his  mate  made  their  preparations. 
Soon  all  was  ready,  and  the  elder  had 
begun  to  adjust  the  rope  upon  himself 
when  the  young  man  with  a  bad 
grace  grew  jealous  and  yielded.  John 
handed  it  over  to  him  at  once,  and  the 
lad  took  up  the  hand-line  also  and 
steadied  himself  down  the  short  upper 
slope. 

"Mind  to  kick  all  loose  stones 
down  as  thou  goes,  lad,  and  see  that 
the  rope  don't  rub  on  them  sharp 
edges  below  thee,  and  mind  the 
lines  don't  swing  out  o'  thy  reach 
when  thou  lands,"  was  John's  admon- 
ishment as  the  young  man  disappeared 
over  the  verge.  Then  the  men  at  the 
top  braced  themselves  to  the  strain, 
John  sitting  first  with  heels  well  set. 

For  a  short  time  the  rope  was  paid 
away  in  little  jerks  showing  that 
Stephen  had  still  some  hold  of  the 
cliff  with  his  feet.  "  Steady  now  !  " 
cried  John,  who  had  been  carefully 
noting  its  course.  "  He'll  swing  clear 
in  another  minute,"  and  as  he  spoke 
the  rope  suddenly  became  taut.  "  Let 
him  have  it  as  he  swings,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  and  then  at  each  sway  they 
let  out  the  slack  more  and  more 
rapidly  that  the  climber  might  pass 
the  deep  bight  before  the  cords  began 
to  twist.  "  Now  he's  touchin'  again  !  " 
said  John.  "  Now  he's  landed  !  That's 
all  right  1 "  The  rope  hung  slack 
now,  and  they  knew  that  Simon  had 
reached  the  broad  ledges  and  made 
fast  his  lines,  while  he  moved  inde- 
pendently and  comfortably  along, 
gathering  his  spoil  two  hundred  feet 
below.  But  a  longer  pause  than  usual 
followed.  "  He's  restin'  a  bit,"  was 
John's  interpretation.  Then  the  cords 
showed  motion  again,  and  immediately 
a  sharp  shake  of  the  hand-line  gave 


The  Cliff-Climbers. 


63 


the  signal  for  hoisting,  and  the  two 
men  began  to  tug  with  all  their  might 
upor>  the  main  rope.  It  was  not  light 
work  to  raise  the  weight  of  a  man, 
with  the  added  weight  of  a  cable, 
vertically  from  such  depths,  and  the 
two  men  breathed  hard  as  they  pulled. 
They  had  recovered  only  a  few  feet 
when  John  was  aware  of  something 
wrong  below.  "He  lifts  unaccount- 
able dead  an'  heavy,"  he  panted.  "  He 

can't    be ,"    with   a   jerk  he  had 

tumbled  back  on  the  grass,  the  other 
man  lay  sprawling  behind,  and  the 
rope  made  a  great  leap  and  then 
shook  light  and  loosely  at  the  cliff 


"My  God,"  said  John  hoarsely. 
"It's  broken!"  In  a  second  he  was 
on  his  feet  and  the  slack  was  spinning 
up  through  his  hands  as  if  it  were 
under  the  drum  of  some  swift  machine. 
Speedily  the  end  of  the  rope  all  frayed 
and  uorn  came  up  the  slope.  "  Surely 
he's  stuck  to  the  hand-line  ! "  cried 
the  man  in  despair,  and  he  seized  that 
cord.  But  there  was  no  resistance 
upor  it,  and  in  a  moment  it  also  lay 
in  a  useless  coil  at  his  feet. 

"Jilun  out  to  yon  nab,  Jacob,  for 
heaven's  sake,  and  see  if  you  can't  see 
the  poor  lad  ! "  And  he  himself,  all 
shaking,  ran  out  upon  a  narrow  spur 
in  tie  opposite  direction.  He  crept 
down  the  upper  slope,  and  hung  most 
perilously  over  the  very  verge  with 
only  a  handful  of  grass  holding  him 
back  from  destruction.  "Oh,  Jacob! 
can  YOU  see  aught1?" 

"  Oh,  John,  nought  at  all  !  "  came 
back  the  woeful  answer  from  the 
othe  •  spur. 

"  Lord  help  us,  neither  can  I ! 
Bad :,  man,  quick  !  I  must  go  down  !  " 
and  ae  crept  up  the  slope  again  and 
ran  TO  the  ropes. 

"  :3ut  can  I  hold "  began  his 

com]  >anion. 

"  Never  mind  buts  !  "  cried  John  as 
he  bent  a  loop  on  the  broken  end. 
"It's  no  time  for  buts;  manage  as 
best  thou  can  !  "  With  that  he  slipped 
his  i  high  into  the  noose  and  with  the 
hand -line  in  his  grasp  went  over  the 


edge,  while  the  other  man  held  on  for 
the  life  of  both  of  them.  Once  and 
again  he  swayed  as  though  the  running 
rope  must  drag  him  headlong  down, 
but  almost  instantly  the  pressure  was 
relieved,  and  he  knew  that  John  had 
reached  the  ledges.  Anxiously  he 
waited,  and  by  and  by  the  signal 
for  hoisting  came  and  he  bent  every 
nerve  and  muscle  to  his  task.  But 
there  was  no  double  load  on  the  rope. 
Slowly  and  slowly  the  slack  gathered 
until  at  length  John's  grave  weather- 
beaten  face  appeared  above  the  edge. 
"There's  nought  to  be  seen  down 
there,"  he  said,  "nought  at  all.  You 
be  off  as  sharp  as  ever  you  can  to 
South  Bay  and  get  'em  to  bring  a 
boat ;  quick  !  tide's  coming  up  fast ! 
And  I  must  go  and  tell  his  poor 
mother  and  father." 

So  they  hurried  away  each  on  his  sad 
errand,  while  the  young  man  whose 
mangled  corpse  they  believed  lay 
under  ^  the  plashing  waters  below, 
crouched  safely  in  a  deep  crevice  half- 
way down  the  steep,  and  chuckled 
with  the  delight  of  a  born  humorist 
at  the  magnificent  success  of  his  little 
joke.  It  had  so  nearly  been  a  failure 
too,  for  after  he  had  carefully  ham- 
mered out  the  substance  of  the  rope 
across  a  sharp  rock,  leaving  just  one 
strand  unbroken  which  he  was  sure 
would  give  way  with  the  slightest 
strain  and  so  complete  the  illusion,  he 
had  given  the  signal  to  the  men  above, 
and  found  too  late  that  he  had  mis- 
calculated the  strength  of  that  good 
hemp  fibre.  He  felt  himself  being 
slowly  dragged  from  the  ledge,  and 
had  just  time  to  grasp  the  hand-line 
at  the  instant  that  he  was  launched 
away  into  the  air ;  and  when,  a  moment 
later,  the  strand  yielded,  it  was  only 
his  hold  upon  that  slender  line  which 
saved  him  from  making  in  stern  reality 
that  dreadful  plunge  of  two  hundred 
feet  from  crag  to  crag  into  the  sea 
below.  However,  for  one  with  Simon's 
training  it  was  not  a  very  difficult 
matter  to  swing  himself  in  again,  and 
he  landed  on  the  ledge  with  a  rebound. 
But  the  scare  took  hold  of  him,  and 


The  Cliff-Climbers. 


when  he  had  crept  into  his  dark 
crevice  he  was  glad  enough  to  find 
himself  out  of  sight  for  a  while  of  the 
terrible  wall  and  the  pale  sea. 

Not  until  he  had  enjoyed  the  spec- 
tacle of  John  Bower's  pale  and  awe- 
struck face,  which  he  saw  distinctly 
as  it  swung  in  mid-air  before  the 
mouth  of  his  crevice,  did  he  quite 
recover  his  spirits.  He  found  it  then 
really  hard  work  to  stifle  his  mirth, 
until  it  struck  him  what  a  terrible 
business  there  would  be  if  John  should 
discover  him,  and  that  kept  him  very 
still  until  the  danger  was  past.  After 
that  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  complete 
enjoyment  of  the  situation.  This 
splendid  plot  had  occurred  to  him 
quite  suddenly  as  he  had  descended.  It 
was  really  a  most  excellent  way  of 
getting  even  with  them  for  sending 
him,  and  he  would  have  the  laugh  of 
them  all.  He  had  discovered  that, 
though  Fourscore  was  such  an  awk- 
ward place  to  get  into  from  above, 
when  once  landed  you  could  travel 
with  ease  for  quite  a  long  distance 
along  the  ledges,  and  that  in  one 
direction  rising  steadily  step  by  step, 
you  might  even  reach  a  little  notch 
up  which  it  was  comparatively  easy 
to  scramble  to  the  top  of  the  cliff. 
He  had  kept  this  piece  of  informa- 
tion to  himself,  pleased  to  think  how 
in  some  respects,  at  any  rate,  he  was 
ever  so  much  wiser  than  the  generality 
of  folk ;  and  now  he  meant  to  make 
use  of  it.  When  he  had  given  John 
and  the  rest  of  them  fright  enough, 
he  would  scramble  up  and  saunter  off 
home  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
And  he  would  not  tell  them  how  he 
had  managed  it  either. 

Such  was  Simon's  pretty  scheme, 
but  somehow  things  did  not  turn  out 
quite  as  he  expected.  In  the  first 
place,  that  sideway  climb  along  the 
ledges,  now  that  he  was  compelled  to 
make  it,  was  by  no  means  so  simple 
as  he  had  reckoned  upon.  When  he 
crept  out  everything  seemed  so  lonely 
and  still,  in  spite  of  the  noise  of 
the  birds  and  the  wash  of  the  sea 
below,  that  it  troubled  him,  and  he 


started  violently  at  such  simple  and 
usual  things  as  the  whirring  of  a 
scout's  wings  close  above  his  head. 
Then  he  discovered  that  the  very 
ledges,  along  which  ordinarily  he  would 
have  passed  as  easily  as  upon  a  road- 
side pathway,  were  bristling  now  with 
difficulties,  and  when  he  thought  of 
the  far  more  dangerous  places  ahead 
of  him  he  actually  shuddered.  Clearly 
until  he  felt  steadier  it  was  no  use 
attempting  to  tackle  them.  So  find- 
ing another  cranny  wherein  he  could 
stretch  his  length  he  lay  himself  down 
fairly  tired,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

He  did  not  know  how  long  he  had 
slept  when  he  was  awakened  from 
unquiet  dreams  by  the  dip  of  oars 
and  faint  sounds  rising  tremulously 
from  the  sea.  He  heard  a  sobbing 
voice  and  knew  that  it  was  his 
mother's.  "  My  poor  bairn !  My 
poor  bairn  ! "  it  constantly  repeated, 
and  then  there  came  the  deep  broken 
tones  of  his  father  trying  to  comfort 
her.  "Is  this  the  spot?"  asked  a 
strange  voice.  "  Ay  !  this  is  where 
it  happened,  just  to  the  left  of  yon 
green  patch,"  replied  another,  which 
he  recognised  as  John  Bower's ;  and 
then  his  mother's  pitiful  refrain  broke 
in  again,  "  My  poor  bairn  ! "  It  turned 
Simon  cold  to  hear  it. 

From  his  cranny  he  could  not  see 
the  boat,  but  evidently  it  came  as 
close  in  as  the  swell  on  the  rocks 
would  permit.  Every  sound  from  it 
swam  up  to  him,  thin,  yet  very  dis- 
tinct. "  Poor  lad  !  "  he  heard  the 
boatman  say.  "  The  sea's  gettin' 
what  was  left  of  him ;  it  would  carry' 
him  south'ard  wi'  this  tide.  I  fear  no 
mair'll  be  seen  on  him."  And  then 
the  sobs  and  the  wail  of  his  mother 
rose  up  again,  and  this  time  no  one 
tried  to  soothe  her.  Simon  lay  dazed 
and  shivering,  not  quite  realising  it 
all,  and  before  he  was  fairly  conscious 
of  his  position  the  sounds  had  grown 
fainter  and  fainter,  and  the  boat  had 
moved  slowly  off  to  southward. 

Then  it  began  to  dawn  upon  him 
that  perhaps  this  wasn't  going  to  be 
such  a  splendid  joke  after  all.  He 


The  Cliff-Climbers. 


65 


sat  up  and  began  to  ponder  in  his 
slow  way  how  it  was  going  to  end, 
and  somehow  became  very  uncom- 
fortable. It  was  very  lonesome  there. 
The  sea-birds  on  the  ledges  all  round 
him  cluttered  and  laughed  and  barked 
after  their  own  peculiar  fashion,  and 
it  struck  him  that  they  knew,  his 
plight  and  were  mocking  him.  The 
woe  of  his  mother  still  rang  in  his 
tingling  ears.  How  could  he  go  home 
and  tell  them  that  he  had  fooled 
them  1  Never,  never  now  dare  he  do 
that  !  But  what  should  he  tell  them 
ther .  ?  Ay,  that  was  going  to  be  a 
very  knotty  point !  The  thought  of 
hav:  ng  to  face  John  Bower's  cross- 
examination  with  anything  less  than 
the  truth  was  positively  terrible ;  he 
dursn't  risk  it !  Yet  to  tell  the  truth 
was  impossible.  The  more  he  pon- 
dered over  it  the  greater  became  his 
perplexity,  until  he  burst  into  a  sweat 
of  remorse  and  shame.  And  by  and 
by  the  birds  ceased  their  cries,  all 
except  a  single  one  here  and  there 
whose  chuckle  came  strangely  to  the 
ear  like  a  nightmare,  and  the  long 
twilight  faded  gently,  and  faint  stars 
twinkled  in  and  out  over  the  sea,  and 
yet  his  puzzle  was  not  solved.  The 
night  brought  a  feeling  akin  to  relief 
to  lim ;  since  now  at  any  rate  he 
must  have  a  few  hours  respite,  for  it 
would  be  sheer  madness  to  attempt  to 
seal  3  that  cliff  in  the  dark.  In  silent 
dejection  the  lad  shrank  back  within 
his  shelter  to  wait  for  the  morning. 
The  pale  flush  in  the  western  sky 
crert  round  to  the  north,  where  he 
coul  d  see  it  over  the  sea ;  and  then 
ver}  slowly  moved  eastward,  gradu- 
ally gathering  strength  as  it  came, 
until  at  length  under  his  weary  eyes 
the  rocks  below  lost  their  blackness 
and  began  to  look  cold  and  gray  in 
the  noist  light  of  dawn,  and  the  crags 
aboi  e  him,  which  all  night  had  pushed 
out  mocking  faces  whenever  he  had 
vemured  to  look  up  at  them,  drew 
themselves  together,  stern  and  decor- 
ous, ignoring  their  midnight  antics. 
The:i  the  guillemots  and  razorbills 
beg£n  to  wing  their  laboured  flight 
ND.  415. — YOL.  LXX. 


straight  out  to  sea,  and  their  yelping 
and  chuckling  began  again.  A  broad- 
winged  gull  passed  slowly  by,  as  if 
but  half  awake,  and  then  a  silent 
thievish  jackdaw. 

Simon  arose  now  and  stretched  his 
cramped  limbs.  He  was  aware  of 
keen  hunger  and  bethought  himself 
of  the  egg-satchels  still  hanging  across 
his  shoulders.  He  had  placed  a  few 
eggs  in  them  almost  mechanically  in 
passing  along  the  ledges,  and  a  couple 
of  these  he  broke  and  swallowed  and 
felt  his  courage  revive.  The  bags  he 
flung  away  from  him,  and  they 
fluttered  out  and  fell  into  the  sea. 

Then  he  crept  forward,  setting  his 
fingers  hard  in  the  crevices,  and  rose 
thus  steadily  ledge  by  ledge,  till  the 
last  perilous  step  was  achieved  and  he 
reached  the  dewy  slope  at  the  summit. 
Once  in  safety  his  heart  gave  way,  he 
flung  himself  face  downward  into  the 
dank  herbage  and  burst  out  in  a 
paroxysm  of  grief.  "  What  shall  I 
do  1  "  moaned  this  wretched  humor- 
ist. "  What  ever  shall  I  do  1  I 
never  dare  go  home  again  !  I  daren't, 
I  daren't  ! " 

Thus  he  lay  while  the  daylight 
brightened,  and  presently  across  the 
rippling  water  glinted  the  dull  bronze 
disk  of  the  sun.  Then  he  knew  that 
the  village  would  soon  be  astir,  and 
that  he  must  remain  there  no  longer 
if  he  would  avoid  discovery.  So  he 
rose  and  shrank  off  inland  under 
cover  of  the  hedgerows,  fetching  long 
circuits  to  shun  the  farmsteads ;  and 
before  the  teams  were  fairly  at  work 
on  the  land  he  had  put  several  miles 
between  himself  and  his  folk,  and  still 
plodded  aimlessly  forward  along  the 
green  byways. 

II. 

FOR  a  time  the  agitation  in  Cregby 
over  the  loss  of  Simon  Cowlthead  was 
great.  Souls  came  into  being  and 
souls  departed  there,  as  elsewhere, 
often  enough;  but  generally  they 
came  and  went  so  quietly  that  the  joy 
or  trouble  of  it  scarcely  spread  from 

F 


63 


The  Cliff-Climbers. 


one  end  of  the  village  to  the  other. 
But  this  was  an  affair  of  a  very 
different  order.  The  event  was  actually 
chronicled  in  the  great  county  paper 
in  a  paragraph  all  by  itself,  with  a 
great  head-line  thus, — TERRIBLE  DEATH 

OF      A      CLIFF-CLIMBER       AT     CREGBY a 

thing  well  calculated  to  make  the 
Cregby  people  proud  of  themselves, 
for  even  their  greatest  stack  fire, 
years  ago,  when  three  of  Farmer 
Hunch's  horses  were  burned  besides 
several  pigs,  had  been  brought  before 
the  world  only  in  a  scrap  a  few  lines 
long  packed  away  in  a  column  of  local 
items.  Therefore  they  passed  the 
paper  from  hand  to  hand,  and  studied 
and  criticised  every  line  of  the  para- 
graph, greatly  gratified  to  find  them- 
selves all  at  once  so  famous.  And 
every  night  in  the  little  kitchen  of 
The  Grey  Horse,  though  John  Bower 
drank  his  beer  in  gloomy  silence,  the 
other  man  gave  to  the  assembled  com- 
pany every  incident  of  that  eventful 
afternoon,  and  repeated  it  for  the 
benefit  of  every  new-comer.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  village  had  at  last  got 
a  topic  of  conversation  other  than 
the  state  of  stock  and  crops.  Then  it 
was  whispered  among  the  women  that 
Simon's  ghost  had  been  seen  near  the 
place  where  he  was  lost.  The  men 
heard  of  it  from  their  wives,  and  said 
nothing,  but  avoided  after  night-fall 
the  fields  which  lay  above  Fourscore. 

But  this  could  not  last  for  ever. 
In  time  the  matter  grew  stale,  and 
even  among  his  immediate  kin,  where 
there  was  real  grief  for  Simon,  the 
cares  which  each  day  brought  gradu- 
ally settled  down  upon  his  memory 
and  dimmed  it.  For  a  week  or  two 
the  poor  mother  sat  down  to  have  "  a 
real  good  cry"  whenever  she  could 
find  time,  but  with  her  family  of  six 
to  look  to,  and  turnip-hoeing,  and 
then  harvest  coming  on  so  quickly,  it 
was  but  little  chance  she  had,  poor 
soul,  until  after  she  got  to  bed  at 
nights  ;  and  even  then  she  had  to  cry 
very  quietly  for  fear  of  waking  her 
goodman,  who  needed  all  his  rest 
badly  enough  after  his  day's  work. 


He,  too,  used  at  first,  as  he  bent  to 
his  hoe,  often  to  have  to  sniff 
and  pause,  and  under  pretence  of 
straightening  his  cramped  limbs  draw 
the  palm  of  his  rough  hand  across  his 
face.  And  there  was  a  servant-lass  at 
a  neighbouring  farmstead  whose  tears 
sometimes  fell  into  her  milk-pail  as 
she  leaned  her  head  against  the  ribs 
of  the  unconcerned  and  careless  kine. 
But  as  soon  as  the  news  and  the 
grief  had  lost  their  freshness,  there 
was,  so  far  as  Cregby  was  concerned, 
an  end  to  the  matter;  and  except 
when  the  story  of  the  great  accident 
was  revived  to  impress  some  chance 
visitor  with  the  importance  of  the 
place,  Simon  was  forgotten.  A  better 
man  filled  his  post,  though  not  a  better 
climber  •  and  every  season  the  birds 
came  to  the  cliffs  to  lay  their  eggs, 
and  the  men  went  down  to  gather 
them  just  as  before.  "For  the  first 
few  years  the  Cowlthead  gang  avoided 
Fourscore,  but  after  a  time  even  this 
feeling  died  out,  and  they  climbed  it 
again  in  its  order  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Three  and  twenty  years 
passed  thus.  The  accident  had  become 
almost  a  legend,  but  John  Bower 
(Old  John  every  one  called  him  now) 
was  still  head-man  of  the  Cowlthead 
gang.  After  a  long  lapse  the  gang 
once  more  rejoiced  in  the  presence  of 
one  of  the  traditional  name,  for  young 
Stephen  Cowlthead,  who  was  born  the 
year  after  his  brother  Simon  was  lost, 
had  come  to  the  cliffs.  The  men 
noticed  that  their  luc-k  improved  from 
the  day  of  his  coming,  and  firmly 
believed  that  it  was  the  power  of  the 
old  name.  Probably  a  truer  reason 
might  have  been  found  under  Old 
John's  oft-repeated  declaration  that 
"  a  better  climber  than  Stephen  had 
never  climbed,  always  barring  his  poor 
brother  Simon."  By  this  time  Cowlt- 
head the  father  had  been  gathered  to 
his  fathers,  and  the  mother,  old  and 
feeble,  had  found  shelter  with  one  of 
her  married  daughters  and  nursed  the 
swarming  bairus  of  another  genera- 
tion. Thus  things  stood  in  Cregby 
when  it  happened  upon  a  certain  day 


The  Cliff-Climbers. 


67 


thai  the  Cowlthead  gang  had  once  more 
fixed  their  ropes  to  climb  Fourscore. 

"  Now,  watch  the  rope  well  across 
thai  sharp  edge  just  above  the  big 
crack,"  said  John,  as  Stephen  stood 
ready  to  descend, — a  fine  strong,  good- 
natured  lad,  who  was  better  liked  by 
the  villagers  than  poor  Simon  had  ever 
been.  John  had  repeated  this  warn- 
ing so  often  at  this  place  that  it  had 
lost  all  meaning  to  the  others;  but 
the  old  man  had  never  forgotten  the 
shock  of  that  terrible  day  so  many 
years  ago.  It  was  this  which  made 
him  doubly  sensitive  at  Fourscore  to 
ever  y  tremor  of  the  line.  "  What  a 
stroke  the  lad  has,  to  be  sure !  "  he 
muttered  now  as  the  rope  ran  rapidly 
through  his  hands.  "Give  him  a  bit 
of  straight  cliff  an'  he'll  all  but  flee  ! 
Now  for  the  slack  spot, — steady  there, 
Jacob  !  There,  that's  all  right !  He's 
on  the  big  shelf  now,  an'  he's  cast  off 
to  walk  to  the  other  end." 

"While  the  rope  hung  idle  the  two 
men  lit  their  pipes ;  but  they  had 
scarcely  tasted  the  tobacco  before  the 
hand-line  struck  sharply.  "  Hup  !  " 
cried  John  casting  away  his  pipe  and 
beginning  to  haul  steadily.  After  a 
mon  Cent's  work  he  took  alarm. 
"Summut's  amiss,"  he  said;  "he's 
in  such  a  hurry  ;  I  dreads  summut's 
frightened  him.  What  ever  makes 
him  hang  so  strange  and  lumpy  1 
Huj: ,  Jacob  !  Hup  quick  !  " 

Faster  and  faster  they  swayed  to 
the  :  -ope.  Speedily  a  hat,  and  with 
the  lext  stroke  a  head  and  shoulders 
rose  above  the  edge.  "  What  the 
divil  ! — "exclaimed  John,  and  then 
words  failed  him  and  he  stood  stock 
still,  though  yet  holding  tight  upon 
the  (  able.  For  it  was  a  brown  and 
bear  led  face  that  grinned  at  him,  a 
face  altogether  strange  to  him.  With- 
out i,  sound  this  apparition  drew  itself 
forward  by  the  hand-line  unaided, and 
<jam(  nimbly  up  the  slope.  It  stood 
bef  o:  e  them  on  the  sod  in  the  shape 
of  a  stalwart  middle-aged  man,  clothed 
in  dirk  attire  of  excellent  quality, 
albei  b  of  rather  outlandish  cut,  with  a 
broa  I  gold  ring  on  the  little  finger 


and  a  heavy  gold  chain  depending 
from  the  watch-pocket;  altogether  a 
figure  in  striking  contrast  with  the 
coarse  workday  aspect  of  the  cliff- 
climbers.  The  apparition  gazed  down 
with  sardonic  enjoyment  upon  the 
helpless  amazement  of  the  terrified 
men.  But  a  moment  later  John 
Bower  had  recovered  his  wits,  sprung 
upon  the  stranger  and  fettered  him 
securely  with  two  or  three  sudden 
coils  of  the  loose  rope. 

Then  grasping  the  still  grinning 
figure  firmly  by  the  arms  the  old  man 
forced  it  backward  to  the  very  edge  of 
the  descent.  "  Whether  thou's  the 
divil,  or  whoever  thou  is,"  he  shouted 
fiercely,  "  if  thou's  done  aught  amiss 
to  that  lad  down  there,  over  thou  goes. 
Speak  out,  afore  I  counts  ten,  or  I 
chucks  thee  down  !  One, — two, — 
three, — four — " 

Whereupon  the  stranger  ceased  to 
grin,  and  spoke.  "It's  all  right, 
John  Bower,"  he  said.  "  I'm  Simon 
Cowlthead  come  up  again." 

But  old  John  was  not  satisfied  and 
did  not  relax  his  grip.  "  Play  neither 
divil  nor  ghost  wi'  me ! "  he  said  sternly. 
"Is  the  lad  safe?  If  not —  "  and  he 
almost  shook  the  startled  joker  from 
his  perilous  foothold. 

"  Let  me  go,  John  !  The  lad's  all 
right  enough.  I  only  borrowed  his 
ropes.  Hark  !  He's  shouting  now  to 
know  what's  become  of  'em."  The 
truth  of  this  statement  was  borne  out 
by  the  sound  of  a  faint  hallo  from 
below. 

"  Come  here,  Jacob,  and  hold  this 
chap  fast  while  I  get's  the  lad  up," 
was  old  John's  mandate  as  he  handed 
over  his  prisoner  to  his  companion. 
"  We'll  larn  more  about  this  after 
that."  The  trembling  Jacob  most 
unwillingly  obeyed,  only  half  reas- 
sured even  when  he  felt  warm  sub- 
stantial flesh  in  his  grasp,  instead  of 
anything  clammy  or  ghost-like.  John 
deftly  sent  down  the  rope  and  set  it 
swinging,  and  in  a  moment  he  felt 
that  it  had  been  grasped  by  a  familiar 
hand  below.  His  countenance  upon 
this  denoted  his  feeling  of  immense 

F   2 


68 


The  Cliff-Climbers. 


relief ;  but  nevertheless  it  was  not 
without  some  anxiety  that  he  watched 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  as  a  fisherman 
might  watch  the  water  who  has  just 
landed  one  uncanny  monster  and  is 
afraid  that  he  may  have  hooked 
another.  But  it  was  "  Stephen  lad" 
who  came  up,  and  no  other  ;  and  then 
the  old  man  turned  to  their  captive 
and  said,  "  Now  let's  hear  what  you 
have  to  say,  and  mind  an'  tell  us  no 
lies." 

Thus  admonished,  the  uncomfortable 
apparition  began  his  history,  stam- 
mering very  much  over  the  earlier 
parts  of  it,  John  Bower  watching  him 
meanwhile  with  severe  and  contemptu- 
ous eye,  and  the  other  two  with  open- 
mouthed  astonishment.  He  glossed 
as  best  he  could  over  the  story  of  the 
broken  rope,  pretending  that  the 
breakage  was  really  accidental,  and 
that  afterwards  while  waiting  he  un- 
intentionally fell  asleep.  No  one 
made  any  comment  upon  this,  but  the 
speaker  read  from  old  John's  face 
that  one  at  least  of  his  listeners 
refused  to  accept  this  lame  tale  and 
guessed  the  truth.  Then  he  told 
truly  enough  how,  after  his  night  in 
the  cliffs,  he  had  found  himself  too 
much  ashamed  to  show  his  face  at 
home,  and  had  made  off  to  a  large 
.seaport,  where  he  got  work  as  a 
carter,  but  couldn't  settle  there  at 
all,  yet  still  was  more  afraid  of  com- 
ing home  than  ever,  and  therefore,  as 
soon  as  he  had  scraped  enough  money 
together  to  pay  his  passage,  he  took 
ship  for  Australia.  There  he  went  to 
farm- work  again  and  liked  it ;  and 
by  and  by  he  got  to  farm  a  bit  of 
land  of  his  own,  and  worked  it  for  a 
good  many  years ;  till  a  railway  came, 
and  a  town  sprang  up  all  round  him, 
and  folks  kept  worriting  and  worrit- 
ing him  to  sell  out.  But  for  a  long 
time  he  wouldn't ;  till  at  last  some 
one  went  and  offered  him  such  a  lot 


for  his  land  that  he  felt  bound  to 
part,  and  did.  But  after  that  he 
felt  unsettled  again,  and  didn't  ex- 
actly know  what  to  put  his  money 
into  out  there,  so  he  thought  he'd 
come  and  have  a  look  round  and  see 
how  things  were  getting  on  in  the  old 
country, — so  here  he  was,  and  glad 
to  see  'em. 

"But  how  came  you  to  be  down 
FowerscoreT'  demanded  John,  at  the 
end  of  this  recital. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  explained  the 
wanderer  awkwardly,  "I  felt  rather 
shy  even  yet  about  coming  back  to 
Cregby,  so  I've  been  stopping  for  a 
few  days  at  Braston  yonder,  where  an 
odd  stranger  more  or  less  isn't  no- 
ticed ;  and  I  walked  up  here  this 
morning  to  have  a  look  at  all  the  old 
spots,  and  then  I  tried  that  way  up 
1  knew  of ;  and  for  a  wonder  it's 
as  easy  to  get  down  there  as  to  get 
up ;  and  I  climbed  about  and  enjoyed 
myself  till  I  got  right  on  to  them  big 
ledges  again,  and  then  I  saw  your 
ropes  come  down,  and  thought,  by 
Jingo  !  what  a  joke  it  would  be  to 
give  'em  a  bit  of  a  surprise  !  So  when 
the  lad  there  let  go  and  went  after 
eggs,  I  just  came  out  of  a  hole,  and 
got  hold  of  'em,  and  here  I  am." 

"  Ay,  there  thou  is,  Simon ! " 
echoed  John  Bower  with  contemptuous 
irony.  "  There  thou  is  !  I  thought 
it  was  the  divil  we'd  brought  up; 
but  it  was  summat  warse, — it  was  a 

d d  fool !     Folks  allus  says  '  fools 

for  luck';  and  that's  how  it's  been 
wi'  thee,  Simon.  However,  we'll 
climb  no  mair  to-day,  lads.  This  fool's 
got  money,  an'  he'll  have  to  stand  us 
all  drinks  an'  summat  mair  besides  at 
Grey  Hoss  yonder  for  the  trouble  he's 
gi'en  us.  Fools  for  luck  !  "  So  off 
they  went ;  and  once  more  for  a  time 
there  was  something  interesting  to 
talk  about  in  Cregby. 


69 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  OF  JOAN  OF  ARC. 


"  THE  Maiden,  beyond  the  nature  of 
won  an,  endured  to  do  mighty  deeds, 
and  travailed  sore  to  save  her  company 
from  loss,  remaining  in  the  rear  as  she 
that  was  captain,  and  the  most  valiant 
of  her  troop ;  there  where  fortune 
granted  it,  for  the  end  of  her  glory, 
and  for  that  the  latest  time  of  her 
bearing  arms."  This  gallant  testi- 
moEv  to  the  valour  of  Joan  of  Arc  on 
the  fatal  day  beneath  the  ramparts  of 
Coirpiegne  (May  23rd,  1430)  is  from 
the  pen  of  the  contemporary  George 
Chastellain,  a  Burgundian  and  hostile 
writer.  It  may  be  taken  as  the  text 
of  some  remarks  on  the  last  fight  of 
the  Maiden,  and  on  her  character  and 
conduct. 

Joan  has  just  been  declared  "  vener- 
able "  by  the  Church,  a  singular 
compliment  to  a  girl  of  nineteen,  but 
the  first  of  the  three  steps  towards 
canonization.  The  Venerable  Joan 
may  become  the  Blessed  Joan,  and 
fina :  ly  Saint  Joan  of  Arc.  But,  by  a 
curious  accident,  one  of  her  most  de- 
voted admirers,  Monsieur  Paul  Marin, 
captain  of  artillery  in  the  French 
service,  has  recently  published  some 
refit  ctions  on  Joan's  last  fight,  which 
ma}  be  serviceable  to  the  advocatus 
dial  oli.  If  that  unpopular  personage 
is  to  pick  a  hole  in  the  saintliness  of 
the  Maiden,  it  is  in  Captain  Marin's 
wor  ks  that  he  will  find  his  inspiration. 
The  captain  would  be  the  last  of  men 
to  s  ur  the  purest  of  memories,  nor 
does  he  regard  himself  as  having  done 
so  ;  he  writes  in  the  interests  of  his- 
torical truth.  Nevertheless  the  advo- 
catu  9  diaboli  will  take  a  different  view 
of  t  be  matter  in  hand,  which  amounts 
to  t  his  question :  did  Joan,  on  one 
occasion  at  least,  proclaim  that  by 
direct  promise  of  St.  Catherine  she 
was  commissioned  to  do  a  feat  in  which 
she  failed  ;  and  did  she  later,  at  her 


trial  by  the  Inquisition,  equivocate  on 
this  point  ? l 

In  his  first  volume   Captain  Marin 
tells    us   how    he   was    impressed    in 
his    youth  by  a   remark   of   the  Due 
d'Alengon.  "  The  fair  Duke,"  for  whom, 
says  his  retainer  Perceval  de  Cagny, 
Joan  would  do  more  than  for  any  other 
man,  had  been  the  Maid's  companion  in 
arms   from    the    taking     of    Jargeau 
to  the  failure  at  Paris,  from  May  to 
September    .1429.      They   were     then 
separated  by  Charles  the  Seventh  and 
his  favourite  La  Tremouille.     In  1456 
the  Duke  deposed  on  oath  that  Joan 
had  a  knowledge  of  war,  of  the  handling 
of  troops,  and  of  artillery,  equal  to  that 
of  a  eap^ain  of  thirty  years'  standing. 
This   opinion   struck  M.    Marin  with 
surprise,  and  in  maturer  life  he  began 
to  study  the  Maid  as  a  strategist  and 
tactician.     The  popular  idea  of  Joan, 
(as  in  Lord  Stanhope's  essay,)  regards 
her    as    simply  a    brave   girl,  crying 
Forward/    and    herself     going     fore- 
most.    But  history  acknowledges  the 
military  value  of  her  plans,  and  these 
Captain   Marin  set  about   examining 
in    the  case  of  her  last  campaign  on 
the  Oise.       His  books,  however,  really 
treat  less  of  Joan's  tactics  than  of  her 
character,  and  are  of  less  service  to 
her  saintly  than  to  her  military  repu- 
tation.   We  may  examine,  in  company 
with  Captain  Marin,  the  Maid's  last 
months  of  active  service. 

After  Easter,  1430,  Joan's  own  de- 
sire was  to  go  into  the  Isle  of  France, 
and  renew  her  attack  on  Paris.  For 
this,  at  least,  we  have  her  own  state- 
ment at  her  trial,  March  3rd,  143 1.2 
She  was  asked  whether  her  ''counsel" 


1  See  Jeanne  $  Arc,  Tacticienne  et  Stmlegiste, 
par  Paul  Marin,  Capitaine  d'Artillerie.  Paris, 
1889-90. 

2  Quicherat,  Proces,  i.  109. 


70 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


bade  her  attack  La  Charitu,  where  she 
failed  for  lack  of  supplies.  She  made 
no  answer  as  to  her  "  counsel "  or 
"  voices  "  ;  she  said  that  she  herself 
wished  to  go  into  France,  but  that  the 
captains  told .  her  it  would  be  better 
first  to  attack  La  Charite.1  Thwarted 
in  her  wish,  whether  that  wish  was 
or  was  not  suggested  mystically, 
Joan  made  an  attempt  on  Pont- 
TEveque,  where  she  was  defeated  by 
the  stout  resistance  of  a  handful  of 
English,  and  she  made  another  effort 
by  way  of  Soissons,  in  which  she  was 
frustrated  by  treachery.  The  object 
of  both  movements  was  to  cut  off  the 
communications  of  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy by  seizing  a  bridge  on  the  Oise, 
and  thus  to  prevent  him  from  besieg- 
ing Compiegne.  That  city,  at  the  time 
as  large  as  Orleans,  had  been  many 
times  besieged  and  sacked.  It  had 
yielded  amicably  to  the  Maid  in  August, 
1429,  and  the  burghers  were  determined 
to  be  true  to  their  king  for  the  future. 
The  place  was  of  immense  importance 
for  the  possession  of  Paris,  and  Joan 
hurried  to  rescue  it  so  soon  as  she 
heard  of  the  siege.  The  question  is, 
did  she  try  to  animate  the  citizens  by 
a  false  tale  of  a  revelation  through 
St.  Catherine,  and,  at  her  trial  did 
she  quibble  in  her  answers  to  questions 
on  this  matter  1 

The  topic  of  dates  is  important. 
Joan  says  that  she  made  her  sortie,  in 
which  she  was  captured,  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  day  when  she  had  entered 
Compiegne  at  dawn.  This  prompti- 
tude was  in  accordance  with  her 
character,  and  her  system  of  striking 
swiftly.  Her  friend,  de  Cagny,  is 
in  the  same  tale;  her  enemies,  the 
Burgundian  chroniclers,  put  the  in- 
terval of  a  whole  day  between  her 
entry  into  Compiegne  and  her  sally. 

The  first  witness  is  Enguerran  de 
Monstrelet,  a  retainer  of  that  Judas, 
Jean  de  Luxembourg,  who  sold  the 

1  After  Easter,  1430,  when  her  "voices" 
daily  predicted  her  capture,  the  Maid  gener- 
ally accepted  such  plans  as  the  generals  pre- 
ferred, distrusting  her  own  judgment  So  she 
said  in  her  trial,  on  March  14,  1431. 


Maid  for  ten  thousand  francs.  In  or 
about  1424  Monstrelet  himself  had 
robbed  on  the  highway  some  peace- 
able merchants  of  Abbeville.2  Now 
just  before  the  affair  of  Compiegne, 
Joan  had  defeated  and  taken  a  robber 
Burgundian  chief,  Franquet  d' Arras. 
She  wished  to  exchange  him  for  a 
prisoner  of  her  own  party,  but  her 
man  died.  The  magistrates  of  Senlis 
and  Lagny  claimed  Franquet  as,  by 
his  own  confession,  a  traitor,  robber, 
and  murderer.  He  had  a  trial  of 
fifteen  days,  and  was  executed ;  Joan 
did  not  interfere  with  the  course  of 
such  justice  as  he  got.  In  one  sense 
Franquet's  position  was  that  of  Joan 
in  English  hands.  But  he  was  a 
robber ;  she  always  stopped  pillage. 
She  was  sold  by  Luxembourg ;  he  was 
not  sold  by  Joan.  However,  Mons- 
trelet, himself  a  convicted  robber, 
says  (like  the  other  Burgundians)  that 
Joan  cruelly  condemned  Franquet  to 
death.  The  chivalrous  highwaymen 
stood  by  each  other.  If  a  knight  was 
to  be  punished  for  theft  and  murder,  the 
profession  of  arms  was  in  an  ill  way. 
Joan's  deposition  before  her  judges 
as  to  Franquet  d' Arras  is  a  model  of 
straightforward  boldness  :  3  "I  con- 
sented to  his  death,  if  he  had  deserved 
it,  as  by  his  own  confession  he  was  a 
traitor,  robber,  and  murderer." 

We  can  now  estimate  the  impar- 
tiality of  Monstrelet,  a  Burgundian 
rentier,  writing  about  the  foe  of  pillage 
and  of  pillagers.  Even  he  dares  not 
stain  his  chronicle  with  the  sale  of 
Joan  by  his  master  Jean  de  Luxem- 
bourg. But  he  was  outside  Compiegne 
when  Joan  was  taken,  and  should 
have  known  the  dates.  He  did  not, 
however,  begin  his  history  till  ten 
years  after  the  events.4 

The  question  of  dates  may  be 
summed  up  briefly.  The  Burgundian 
chroniclers  give  Joan  two  days  in 
Compiegne,  and  fix  her  capture  on 
May  24th.  De  Cagny  also  dates  it 
on  the  same  day.  But  the  Duke  of 

2  Quicherat,  Proces,  iv.,  360. 

3  Proces,  i.,  158. 

4  Proces,  iv.,  360,  namely  after  1440. 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


71 


Burgundy,  writing  to  announce  the 
takiag  of  the  Maid,  an  hour  after  that 
evert,  dates  his  letter  Mny  23rd. 
This  is  conclusive,  for  the  other 
autl  orities  wrote  many  years  after  the 
occurrence.  Again,  William  of  "Wor- 
cester gives  the  date  of  the  Maiden's 
capture  as  May  23rd.1  So  far,  we 
havo  reason  to  trust  the  accuracy  of 
Joan  rather  than  that  of  her  enemies. 

li  is  obvious,  however,  that  Joan 
mig.it  have  passed  two  days  in  Com- 
piegne, as  the  Burgundian  writers 
allege,  yet  might  have  delivered  no 
speech  about  St.  Catherine ;  just  as 
she  might  conceivably  have  found 
timt;  for  such  a  speech  in  a  single 
day.  To  understand  the  evidence 
for  this  speech,  and  indeed  for  all 
the  incidents  of  her  last  sally,  it 
is  necessary  to  explain  the  situation 
of  Cornpiegne.  Here  for  the  first  part 
of  the  problem  we  follow  Quicherat.2 

C^mpiegne  is  on  the  left  bank 
of  the  Oise.  A  long  fortified  bridge, 
with  a  rampart,  connects  it  with 
the  right  bank.  The  rampart  was 
guarded  by  a  fosse,  crossed  by  a 
pent  dormant,  which,  I  suppose,  could 
not  be  raised  like  a  drawbridge,  though 
there  are  tales  about  "raising  the  draw- 
brid  ge. "  On  the  right  bank  is  a  meadow, 
about  a  mile  broad,  walled  in  by  la  cote 
de  2'icardie.  The  plain  being  flat,  and 
of  tea  flooded,  a  causeway  leads  from 
the  bridge  across  the  meadow.  Three 
stee  3les  are  in  sight,  those  of  Margny 
attae  end  of  the  causeway,  of  Clairoix 
two  miles  and  a  half  distant,  and  of 
Yerette  about  a  mile  and  a  half  away 
to  tie  left.  The  Burgundians  had  a 
cam  a  at  Margny  and  another  at 
Claicoix;  the  English  lay  at  Venette  ; 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  at  Coudun, 
a  le.-igue  away,  says  Monstrelet.  Ac- 
cording to  M.  Quicherat,  Joan's  plan 
was  to  carry  Margny  and  then 
Claix>ix,  and  finally  attack  the 
Dul  e  of  Burgundy  himself.  Now  it 
was  five  in  the  evening  when  Joan 
rod*  through  the  gate,  and  past  the 
fata  I  rampart  that  guarded  the  bridge. 

1  Oited  by  Quicherat,  Proces,  iv.,  475. 

2  Appercus  Nouveaux,  p.  85  ;  Paris,  1850. 


Captain  Marin  justly  remarks  (i.,  176) » 
that  to  attack  Margny  was  feasible  5 
it  might  be  surprised,  and  its  capture? 
cutting  the  Burgundians,  was  im- 
portant j  to  attack  Clairoix,  at  three 
times  the  distance,  where  the  troops 
would  have  full  warning,  was  an 
absurd  blunder ;  to  charge  through 
the  Burgundians  at  both  places,  and 
assail  the  Duke  himself,  was  a  very 
wild  project,  with  a  handful  of  men, 
only  fiv,e  or  six  hundred.  Believing, 
as  he  does,  in  Joan's  tactics,  he  sup- 
poses that  she  merely  meant  to  take 
and  hold  Margny,  and  so  cut  the  Bur- 
gundians off  from  the  English.  With 
this  purpose  she  moved  late  in  the 
day,  that  the  English,  in  their  efforts 
to  rejoin  the  Burgundians,  might  be 
baffled  by  the  dark  of  night.  If  Joan 
had  a  larger  scheme,  she  chose  her 
hour  ill,  and,  we  may  add,  she  had  an 
inadequate  force. 

Let  us  now  hear  what  the  Bur- 
gundian historians  have  to  say  as  to 
Joan's  speech  in  Compiegne  before  the 
sally.  First,  Monstrelet,  who  was 
present  at  Coudun  where  Joan  was 
taken  before  the  Duke  on  May  23rd, 
says — nothing  at  all !  Next  we  have 
Lefevre  de  Saint-Bemi,  who  was  sixty- 
seven  when  he  began  to  write  his 
Memoires  in  1460,  thirty  years  after 
the  events ;  he  was  King-at-Arms  of 
the  Burgundian  Order  of  the  Fleece 
of  Gold.  M.  Quicherat  praises  his 
account  of  the  sortie,  as  among  the 
best  and  most  complete.  Lefevre 
declares  that  the  Maid  was  in  Com- 
piegne for  two  nights  and  a  day,  and 
on  the  second  day  publicly  announced 
that  she  had  a  revelation  from  St. 
Catherine,  assuring  her  that  she  would 
discomfit  the  Burgundians.  She  had  the 
gates  closed,  she  assembled  the  people, 
she  cried  that,  "  God,  through  St.  Cath- 
erine, bade  her  sally  out  that  day,  that 
she  would  defeat  the  enemy,  and  cap- 
ture, slay,  or  drive  in  rout  the  Duke 
and  all  his  men,  and  that  this  was  in- 
dubitable. About  two  o'clock  the 
Maid  sallied  forth.  .  .  ."  To  our- 
selves it  is  plain  that,  in  the  opinion 
of  Lefevre,  and  of  Chastellain  (to  be 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


quoted  next),  Joan  announced  the 
defeat  and  capture  of  the  Duke  for 
that  day  :  "  Qu'elle  yssist  ce  jour  allen- 
contre  de  ses  ennemis  et  qu'elle  descon- 
firoit  le  due  ;  et  seroit  prins  de  sa  per- 
sonnel That  she  should  issue  forth 
that  day,  against  her  foes,  and  that  she 
would  defeat  the  Duke,  who,  for  his 
part,  would  be  taken  prisoner  ;  these 
are  clearly  meant  as  immediate,  not 
remote,  results  of  the  sally.  If  Joan 
made  these  predictions,  she ,  cannot 
have  meant  merely  to  hold  Margny  ; 
and  so  Captain  Marin's  praise  of  her 
strategy  is  misapplied.  He  can  only 
take  refuge  in  a  denial  that  the  capture 
was  prophesied  for  that  day. 

Either  M.  Marin,  therefore,  is 
wrong  in  his  estimate  of  the  Maid's 
strategy,  or  this  account  of  her  pro- 
phecy is  incorrect.  The  Maid,  we 
conceive,  is  to  catch  or  kill  the  Duke 
that  day.  Now  any  attempt  at  such 
a  feat,  with  such  a  force  as  Joan's, 
was  mere  recklessness,  far  beyond  her 
gallant  and  resolute  charge  at 
Orleans  in  1429.  The  Duke  was 
a  league  away  with  all  his  army ; 
between  him  and  her  lay  Clairoix, 
Margny,  and  the  Burgundian  detach- 
ments there.  The  idea  was  less  than 
feasible,  as  Captain  Marin  perceives.1 

The  next  evidence  is  that  of  George 
.Chastellain.  To  this  accomplished 
rhetorician  Lefevre  sent  the  memoirs 
which  he  began  in  1460.  These  Chas- 
tellain  used;  he  had  also  Monstrelet 
before  him ;  had  he  other  sources  1 
Quicherat  thought  he  had  no  personal 
knowledge  of  Joan's  last  year.  Pon- 
tus  Heuterus  (1583)  says  that  Chas- 
tellain  claims  to  have  seen  Joan  several 
times.  Captain  Marin  reposes  great 
faith  in  Chastellain,  because  he  is 
called  elegans  et  exactus,  and  because 
of  the  well-merited  praise  given  to  the 
style  of  the  official  Burgundian  his- 
toriographer. Captain  Marin  also  lays 
stress  on  Chastellain's  fine  description 
of  "  the  end  of  the  glory  of  the  Maid  " 
(already  quoted)  as  a  proof  of  his 
fairness.  Now  we  venture  to  hold 

1  i.,  170, 171.  "II  parait  difficile  d'admettre 
1'accomplissement  de  ce  troisicme  point." 


that  the  differences  between  Chastel- 
lain's version  and  those  of  Lefevre 
and  Monstrelet,  are  mainly  differences 
of  style.  By  a  curious  coincidence 
the  present  writer,  in  an  account  of 
Joan's  last  sally,  hit  on  the  same 
piece  of  rhetoric  as  Chastellain  himself, 
without  having  read  that  author. 
Chastellain  was  a  writer  aiming  of  set 
purpose  at  a  style  ;  the  other  chroni- 
clers were  plain  men. 

Chastellain,  then,  says  that  the 
Maid  entered  Compiegne  by  night. 
She  herself  says  that  she  entered  "  at 
the  secret  hour  of  morning."  He 
adds,  that  after  having  rested  there 
two  nights  (that  of  her  entry  and  the 
next),  the  second  day  after  she  pro- 
claimed certain  folles  fantommeries 
(wild  spectral  foolings.)  She  told 
the  people  that,  by  revelation  of  God 
through  St.  Catherine,  "He  wished 
her  that  very  day  to  take  up  t  arms, 
and  go  forth  to  fight  the  King's 
enemies,  English  and  Burgundians, 
and  that  without  doubt  she  would  dis- 
comfit them,  and  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy would  be  taken,  and  most  of 
his  people  slain  and  routed."  Then 
the  whole  multitude,  "all  who  could 
carry  clubs,"  went  out  with  her  at 
four  in  the  afternoon,  five  hundred 
men-at-arms  in  all. 

This,  on  the  face  of  it,  is  absurd. 
If  all  who  could  carry  clubs  went 
out,  it  is  odd  that  Monstrelet  says 
nothing  of  such  a  strange  levy  en 
masse.  Probably  the  five  hundred 
were  men-at-arms,  exclusive  of  the 
mob.  That  mob,  men  and  women,  did 
sally  later,  after  Joan  was  taken,  and 
carried  a  Burgundian  redoubt. 

To  our  mind,  Chastellain  writes  as  a 
rhetorician,  certainly  in  his  phrase, 
"  tout  ce  qui  povit  porter  bastons,"  and 
probably  in  his  account  of  the  fantom- 
meries about  St.  Catherine,  and  the 
prophecy  of  taking  the  Duke  captive. 
He  has  adopted  these  from  Lefevre, 
adding  his  own  decorations,  and  Le- 
fevre wrote  twenty  years  after  Mon- 
strelet, who  wrote  ten  years  after  the 
event,  but  never  said  a  word  of  these 
facts.  Thus  we  regard  Chastellain's 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


73 


theory  of  Joan's  two  days  in  Com- 
piegne  and  his  date  (May  24th)  as 
wholly  wrong,  contradicted  both  by 
Joan  and  by  the  letter  of  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy.  His  tale  of  a  military 
mob  is  peculiarly  his  own  ;  his  fan- 
tomnieries  are  an  improvement  in 
sarcastic  force  on  Lefevre,  and  that 
is  al . 

On  this  question  of  fantommeries  we 
now  turn  to  Joan's  own  evidence,  given 
on  March  10th,  1431.  As  to  the 
valua  of  her  evidence,  in  general,  we 
inus-}  remember  that  she  refused  to 
depone  on  oath  to  matters  "  not  con- 
nectod  with  the  trial,  or  with  the 
Catr.olic  faith."  Her  reasons  were, 
first  that  she  had  a  certain  secret  in 
common  with  the  King ;  next,  that 
her  voices  and  visions  were  sacred 
things  to  her ;  even  among  friends 
she  spoke  of  them,  as  Dunois  attests, 
with  a  blush,  and  in  no  detail.  Now 
on  the  King's  secret  and  on  her  voices 
Joan  was  plied  with  endless  questions, 
«he,  being  but  a  girl,  nearly  starved, 
(it  was  in  Lent)  and  weakened  by  long 
captivity  in  irons.  Finally,  as  to  the 
secret  sign  which  she  gave  the  King, 
she  told  an  obvious  parable,  or  alle- 
gory, intentionally  mixing  up  the  real 
event  at  Chinon,  in  March  or  April, 
142£,  with  the  scene  of  the  coronation 
at  Rheims  three  months  later.  This 
innocent,  and  indeed  open  allegory 
she  later  confessed  to  as  a  mere 
parasle,  if  we  may  trust  Martin 
L'Advenu,  the  priest  who  heard  her 
last  confession.  When  set  face  to  face 
with  the  rack,  she  announced  that 
they  might  tear  her  limb  from  limb, 
but  she  would  not  speak,  or,  if  she 
did,  she  would  instantly  contradict 
whatever  might  be  wrung  from  her.1 
In  her  trial,  when  vexed  with  these 
endless  questions,  she  kept  replying, 
"  Do  you  wish  me  to  perjure  myself? " 
To  reveal  the  King's  secret  would  have 
been  to  reveal  his  doubts  of  his  own 
legitimacy,  and  not  one  word  on  this 
point  was  wrung  from  Joan.  For 
herst  If,  she  "  openly  laid  bare  her  con- 
science," says  Quicherat,  made  a  clean 
1  Proces,  I,  400. 


breast  of  it,  as  we  have  seen  in  her 
reply  about  the  death  of  Franquet 
d' Arras.  This  is  a  brief  account  of 
Joan  as  a  witness,  necessary  for  the 
understanding  of  her  evidence  about 
Compiegne.  Does  she  confess  to  any 
fantommeries  there  1  The  fact  is  that 
she  never  was  asked  if  she  made  a 
speech  at  Compiegne. 

She  was  asked  on  March  10th, 
"  Did  you  make  your  sally  by  advice 
of  your  '  voices  '  1 "  Her  answer,  if 
not  categorical,  is  touching.  "  In  Easter 
week  last,  she  standing  above  the  fosse 
of  Melun,  her  voices,  the  voices  of 
St.  Catherine  and  St.  Margaret,  told 
her  that  she  would  be  taken  prisoner 
before  the  feast  of  St.  John,  and  that 
so  it  must  be,  and  she  was  not  to  be 
amazed,  but  bear  it  with  good  will, 
and  that  God  would  be  her  aid." 
And  later,  "  many  a  time,  and  almost 
daily,"  she  had  the  same  message,  but 
she  knew  not  the  day  or  the  hour. 
Had  she  known  that  day  and  that 
hour,  she  said,  she  would  not  have 
gone  to  Compiegne.  Asked  whether 
she  would  have  gone  had  the  voices 
bidden  her  and  told  her  also  that  she 
would  be  taken,  she  said  that  she 
would  not  have  gone  gladly,  but  as- 
suredly she  would  have  gone,  "  would 
have  obeyed,  whatever  might  happen." 
On  that  evil  day  of  Compiegne,  "  non 
habuit  aliud  prceceptum  de  exeundo,  she 
had  no  other  monition  about  the  sally," 
except  the  constant  warning  of  her 
capture.  Nevertheless,  in  the  judges' 
summary  of  her  guilt,  they  declare 
that  at  Compiegne  she  made  promises 
and  predictions,  saying  that  she 
"  knew  by  revelation  many  things  that 
never  occurred."  2 

Are  we  to  accept  the  word  of  Joan, 
or  the  word  of  her  murderers?  Prob- 
ably they  had  some  gossip  to  go 
on.  There  was  no  confronting  or 
cross  examination  of  witnesses.  Into 
Compiegne  the  judges  could  hard- 
ly send  persons  to  collect  evidence. 
Can  the  evidence  have  been  that  of 
her  Master  of  the  Household,  D'Aulon, 
of  her  brother,  or  of  Pothon  le  Bour- 
2  Proces,  i.,  298. 


74 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


guignon,  who  were  all  taken  with  her  ? 
It  is  to  be  noted  that  Jean  de  Mailly, 
Bishop  of  Noyon,  and  Jean  Dacier, 
Abbe  of  Saint  Corneille,  priests  of  the 
English  party,  were  in  Compiegne,  it 
is  said,  at  the  time  of  Joan's  sortie, 
and  afterwards  sat  among  her  judges. 
They  may  have  told  a  distorted  tale 
to  her  discredit.1 

Captain    Marin   inclines    to    think 
that    Chastellain  is  correct  with    his 
fantommeries,  whether  his  theory  of  a 
two  days'  stay  in  Compiegne  is  right 
or  not  (ii.  58).     If    Joan    was    daily 
told    by    spiritual    voices     that     she 
would    be    taken,    is     it    likely,     the 
Captain    asks,  that    she   would  have 
run  the  risk  1     He  thinks  it  improb- 
able ;    he  underrates  Joan's    courage. 
Captain     Marin     never     notices,    we 
think,   in  this  connection  a  piece   of 
coincident    evidence.     In  the    height 
of  her  triumph,  between  the  rescue  of 
Orleans  and  the  crowning  at  Rheims, 
in    the    summer    of    1429,    the    Due 
d'Alengon  sometimes  heard  Joan  tell 
the    King   that  "she   would  last  but 
one  year,  or  little  more  and  therefore 
he  must  employ  her  while  he  might.2" 
D'Alengon  gave  this  evidence  on  oath 
in  1456.     Now  Joan's  year  was  over 
in  Easter  week  1430  ;  there  remained 
the  "little  more."    In  Easter  week  her 
voices   first    told    her  that  she  would 
soon  be  taken.     Granting    her   habit 
of  hearing  voices,  granting  her  belief, 
now    of    a    year's    standing    at  least, 
that    she    had    but    one  year  for  her 
mission,  she  was  bound  to  receive,  or 
think  that  she  received,  mystical  warn- 
ings  of   her    coming   end.     She    says 
she    did   receive  them ;    it   is  certain 
that  she  knew  her  year  was  over,  yet 
she    never  shrank   from  any  danger. 
Hence  there   is    no  contradiction  be- 
tween her    warnings    and  her    facing 
constant  risks.     As  to  the  nature  of 
her  voices  we  have  nothing  to  say.     It 
is  absolutely  certain  that  her  prophecy 
of  her  wound  at   Orleans  was  made, 
and  was  recorded,  in  a  dispatch  from 

1  Sorel,  La  Prise  de  Jeanne  d'Arc,  p.   179. 
Paris,  1889. 

2  P races,  iii.  99. 


a  Flemish  Ambassador,  three  weeks 
before  it  occurred.3  She  had,  there- 
fore, reason  to  trust  her  premonitions, 
but  they  never  made  her  shun  a 
fight. 

Thus  considered,  Joan's  sally  was 
not  inconsistent  with  what  she  said 
about  her  voices,  but  was  consistent 
with  and  worthy  of  her  character. 
Captain  Marin  lays  stress  on  her 
parable  about  the  King  and  the  crown, 
as  a  proof  of  a  certain  pardonable 
shiftiness.  But  on  that  one  point,  the 
King's  secret,  Joan  many  a  time  gave 
her  tormentors  fair  warning.  She 
would  not  speak,  or,  if  she  spoke,  she 
would  not  speak  the  truth.  As  to 
the  voices  at  Compiegne,  that  was 
another  question. 

Thus  we  believe  that,  except  as  to 
the  King's  secret,  where  she  gave  her 
judges  due  and  repeated  warning,  and 
except  in  cases  where  she  declined  to 
answer,  Joan  was  frank  about  her 
voices.  At  Compiegne,  if  she  made  a 
speech  at  all,  she  probably  announced 
success,  as  generals  ought  to  do,  and 
she  may  also  have  appealed  to  her 
many  previous  victories,  and  to  herself 
as  heaven-sent,  such  being  her  belief. 
That  she  pretended  to  a  new,  explicit, 
direct  promise  from  St.  Catherine  of 
the  capture  of  the  Duke,  we  deny. 
There  is  no  evidence  for  the  belief ; 
the  question  was  never  put  to  her  at 
all.  Naturally  she  did  not  mention  to 
her  followers  her  subjective  certainty 
of  being  taken  before  St.  John's  day  ; 
she  knew  not  the  day  and  the  hour, 
and  she  could  not  discourage  her  men. 
Captain  Marin,  on  the  other  hand 
(and  here  is  our  quarrel  with  him), 
says  (iv.  293),  "If  we  consider  the 
events  at  Compiegne  in  the  light  of 
the  various  chronicles  and  documents 
cited  and  analysed  by  us,  it  is  per- 
missible to  admit  that  Joan  had  en- 
tertained her  men-at-arms,  and  the 
people  of  Compiegne,  with  the  most 

3  See  Quicherat,  Appercus  Nouveaux,  p.  76, 
This  and  some  similar  facts  cannot  b& 
disputed,  says  Quicherat,  without  destroying 
the  whole  basis  of  the  history  of  the 
time. 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


75 


magnificent  promises  of  victory.  The 
Maic  had  assured  them  that  the  Duke 
of  Burgundy  and  his  army  were  a 
spoil  offered  to  their  prowess.  This 
prone  ise  Joan  never  received  from  her 
voices  .  .  .  she  did  not  announce  it 
formally  as  an  echo  of  her  veritable 
revelations,  but,  doubtless,  said  that 
on  the  morning  of  the  sally,  she  had 
monitions  from  her  'counsel'  as  to 
the  neans  for  securing  the  victory." 
Now,  at  her  trial,  she  denied  that  she 
had  any  "  monition."  If  we  agree 
with  Captain  Marin,  on  one  occasion 
or  other  Joan  deserted  truth. 

She  habitually  used  her  "  counsel," 
we  ihink,  as  synonymous  with  her 
"  voices."  There  may  be  traces,  in  a 
conversation  reported  twenty-five  years 
later  by  D'Aulon,  of  distinctions  in 
her  3wn  theory  of  her  inspiration. 
About  this  point  Captain  Marin  writes 
at  considerable  length,  and  in  terms 
of  algebra.  But  if  Joan  really  said, 
"  To-iay  the  Duke  is  yours,  to-day  I 
have  advice  of  my  counsel,"  her  men 
would  inevitably  believe  that  she  an- 
nounced an  explicit  prophecy,  like  that 
about  her  wound  at  Orleans.  Con- 
sequently Joan  quibbled,  to  put  it 
mildly,  and  this  we  do  not  believe. 
At  most,  if  she  made  the  speech  which 
Monstrelet  does  not  report,  and  about 
which  she  was  not  asked  a  question, 
she  may  have  been  misunderstood. 

Thus,  if  Lefevre  and  Chastellain  are 
right,  if  Joan  promised  to  bring  the 
Duk(  of  Burgundy  back  a  captive  to 
Compiegne,  it  is  all  over  with  her 
fame  as  a  tactician  which  Captain 
Mari  i  is  proclaiming.  If  their  dates 
are  c<  >rrect,  they  writing  long  after  the 
evenl ,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  writing 
on  th  3  day  of  the  event,  was  wrong. 
They  give  particulars,  long  after  the 
fact,  about  fantommeries,  of  which 
Monf  trelet,  an  earlier  and  better  wit- 
ness, says  nothing.  On  this  point  they 
contra/diet  Joan's  own  evidence,  non 
habui  t  aliud  prceceptum  de  exeundo,  or 
they  wer  that,  if  she  spoke  truly  at 
Roue  a,  she  spoke  falsely  at  Compiegne. 
As  t(  Joan's  evidence  about  her  daily 
fears  of  captivity,  they  are  not  in- 


consistent with  her  daring,  they  are  in 
perfect  agreement  with  D'Alencon's 
statement  about  her  "  one  year,"  and 
the  veracity  of  her  testimony  on  this 
point  is  not  invalidated  by  her  alle- 
gory about  the  sign  shown  to  the  King. 
It  is  unfortunate,  perhaps  suspicious, 
that  the  witnesses  in  the  trial  of  Re- 
habilitation (1450-56)  say  little  or 
nothing  about  Compiegne.  For  the 
rest,  we  must  choose  between  Joan's 
evidence  and  that  of  some  unknown 
persons  who  were  probably  examined 
in  the  interests  of  her  accusers. 

If  Joan  really  contemplated  such  a 
feat  as  the  capture  of  the  Duke,  we  may 
take  it  for  granted  that  she  also  really 
had  a  "  monition."  Her  essential 
characteristic,  as  Michelet  says,  was  le 
bon  sens  dans  I' exaltation.  Of  her  own 
head  she  never  would  have  made  such 
a  wild  attempt,  and  Captain  Marin 
must  either  give  up  his  theory  of 
her  strategic  skill,  or  his  Chastellain 
and  Lefevre.  The  captain  tries,  by 
an  algebraical  study  of  Joan's  theory 
of  inspiration,  to  save  her  character 
for  frank  honesty.  The  advocdtus 
diaboli  will  little  regard  his  system  of 
mystical  equations,  which  contains  too 
many  unknown  quantities.  The  ad- 
vocatus  diaboli  must  choose  between 
Joan's  word  and  mere  current  gossip, 
backed  by  two  comparatively  late 
"  synoptic  "  and  inaccurate  chronic- 
lers, one  of  them  a  confirmed  rhe- 
torician, and  by  the  decision  of  the 
judges  at  Rouen.  But  that  has  already 
been  annulled  by  the  Inquisition  itself, 
in  the  trial  of  Rehabilitation  (1450- 
1456).  We  must  remember,  story  for 
story,  that,  in  1498,  two  very  old  men 
of  Compiegne  told  how,  in  the  church 
of  St.  Jacques  there,  they  heard  Joan 
say  to  a  company  of  children  whom 
she  loved  :  "  My  children  and  dear 
friends,  I  do  you  to  wit  that  I  am  sold 
and  betrayed,  and  soon  will  be  de- 
livered to  death.  Pray  God  for  me, 
I  pray  you,  for  never  shall  I  have 
power  more  to  help  the  King  and 
kingdom  of  France."  So  the  old  men 
reported,  one  being  aged  ninety-eight 
and  one  eighty-six,  to  the  author  of 


76 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


Le  Miroir  des  Femmes  Vertueuses.1 
And  though,  as  Captain  Marin  says, 
Joan  was  no  whiner,  we  think  the 
story  of  this  sudden  burst  of  feeling 
in  presence  of  a  great  company  of 
children  as  likely  a  tale  as  that  of 
Chastellain.  Even  when  at  Rheims, 
we  know,  she  had  "feared  nothing 
but  treachery." 

One  other  point  is  most  notable. 
Chastellain  and  Lefevre  make  Joan 
brag  about  St.  Catherine.  Now,  in 
all  the  accounts  of  Joan  and  of  her 
mission,  written  before  her  trial,  not 
one  single  word  is  said  about  St. 
Catherine,  St.  Margaret,  or  St.  Michael. 
They  are  never  once  named,  before  her 
trial,  as  the  sources  of  her  inspiration. 
It  is  certain,  on  her  own  evidence, 
that  she  spoke  of  them  to  her  ecclesi- 
astical examiners  at  Poictiers  before 
she  was  accepted  (March,  1429). 
These  clerics  seem  to  have  kept  her 
cherished  secret,  for  to  the  best  of  our 
knowledge,  not  one  of  her  early  lay 
critics  knew  that  she  was  in  relations 
with  these  saints.  That  only  came 
out  at  her  trial.  Is  it  likely,  then, 
that  she  made  a  public  speech  about 
her  so  secret  belief  1  It  is  incredible. 

Was  Joan  betrayed  at  Compiegne 
by  Flavy  the  captain  of  the  town, 
a  man  certainly  of  ill  character  and 
of  an  evil  end,  but  one  who  held 
Compiegne  stoutly  for  the  King  1 
Quicherat  thought  the  charge  un- 
founded ;  Captain  Marin  thinks  it 
extremely  probable,  if  not  certain ; 
his  verdict  at  best  is  "  not  proven." 

The  descriptions  of  Joan's  last 
.fight  vary  considerably,  and  the  modern 
historians  have  generally  made  up 
their  tale  by  selecting  at  pleasure  from 
the  discrepant  accounts.  We  have 
Joan's  own  brief  and  simple  version  : 
we  have  that  of  her  friend  Perceval 
•de  Cagny  ;  and  we  have  the  synoptic 
statements  of  Monstrelet,  Lefevre,  and 
Ohastellain.  De  Cagny  was  not 
present,  and  probably  he  was  on  the 
marches  of  Normandy  with  D'Alengon. 

1  Proces,  iv.,  268.  Probably  these  remarks, 
if  made  at  all,  were  made  on  an  earlier  occa- 


His  account  contains  some  points 
which  are  certainly  erroneous  ;  on  the 
other  hand,  his  most  remarkable 
statement  is  in  accordance  with  a 
reply  made  by  Joan  at  her  trial,  and 
is  probably  based  on  the  evidence  of 
an  actual  spectator.  Monstrelet,  as 
we  know,  was  at  Coudun,  a  league 
away  from  Compiegne,  and,  though  he 
wrote  at  least  ten  years  later,  and 
was  as  subject  as  other  men  to  the 
illusions  of  memory,  he  is  a  fairly  good 
witness.  Lefevre  wrote  much  later, 
and  Chastellain,  still  later,  worked  on 
a  four-fold  basis  of  Lefevre,  Mons- 
trelet, personal  recollections,  and  rhe- 
torical ambition. 

Joan  herself,  when  asked  whether 
she  crossed  the  bridge  at  Com- 
piegne (did  they  suppose  that  she 
flew  or  swam  ? )  answered  that  she 
crossed  the  bridge,  passed  the  rampart, 
and  went  with  her  force  against  the 
men  of  Jean  of  Luxembourg  (at 
Margny)  and  drove  them  twice  or 
thrice  as  far  as  the  camp  of  the 
Burgundians,  and,  in  the  third  charge, 
usque  ad  medium  itineris.  This  appears 
to  mean  a  charge,  made  in  the  retreat 
of  Joan,  by  which  she  repelled  her 
pursuers  on  the  causeway  across  the 
meadow.  "And  then  the  English 
who  came  up  cut  off  the  path  of  Joan 
and  her  men,  and  she,  retreating,  was 
taken  in  the  fields,  on  the  Picardy 
side,  near  the  bridge-rampart :  and 
between  the  spot  where  she  was  taken 
and  Compiegne  were  the  banks  of  the 
river,  and  the  rampart  itself,  with  its 
fosse,  and  nothing  else."  That  is  all. 
Joan  says  not  a  word  of  treason.  If 
treason  there  were,  even  if  she  did  not 
notice  the  facts,  she  would  have  heard 
of  them  from  D'Aulon,  who  remained 
with  her  for  some  time  after  her 
capture.  But,  if  treason  there  were, 
and  if  she  knew  it,  Joan  was  not  the 
girl  to  complain  of  false  friends  in  the 
face  of  her  enemies. 

We  turn  to  Perceval  de  Cagny, 
writing  in  1436,  and  first  printed  from 
the  MS.  by  Quicherat.  Yery  late  on 
the  23rd  of  May  (we  have  discussed 
this  erroneous  date)  Joan  made  a  mid- 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


77 


night  march  from  Crepy  to  Compiegne. 
Her  own  company  of  volunteers  mus- 
tered some  three  or  four  hundred 
lances.  If  so,  what  becomes  of  the 
multitude  of  men-at-arms  drawn  to 
her  ir  Compiegne  by  IbQrfantommeries  ? 
Her  whole  force  of  men-at-arms  in  her 
sally  was  but  five  hundred  men, 
according  to  Chastellain.  Then  her 
reported  speech  gained  for  her  only 
one  or  two  hundred  men. 

De    Cagny  says  that  the   Burgun- 
dians  knew  of  Joan's   secret  arrival, 
expec  ted  an  attack,  and  set  an  ambush. 
The    Burgundian     writers    implicitly 
deny  this,  averring  that  no  sally  was 
expected.     They  are   probably  right. 
Skirmishing  was  going  on,  de  Cagny 
says,  when  the  Maid  heard  of   it,  and 
at   nine  in  the  morning  sallied  forth. 
This    is     certainly     incorrect.        She 
charged   the    Burgundians,    and    the 
ambished    force   intercepted    her    re- 
treat     Her    men  told  her  to  gallop 
back,  or  all  would  be  lost.     In  wrath 
she   answered  :    "  Silence  !     You    can 
defeat  them  ;  think  only  of  charging." 
They    turned    her    horse's    head    and 
forced  her  homewards.     The  Burgun- 
dians   and    English    (from    Yenette) 
hurried  to  the  rampart  of  the  bridge. 
The  captain  of  the  town,  Flavy,  seeing 
the  enemy  about  to  rush  on  his  bridge, 
fearei  to  lose  the  place,  and  had  the 
drawbridge  raised  and  the  gate  shut. 
The  Vtaid  was  alone  among  a  multi- 
tude of  foes.    They  rushed  on  her,  and 
seized   her  bridle,  each  crying,  "  Sur- 
rendiT  to  me,  and  give  me  your  faith  !  " 
She  s  aid,   "  I  have  given  my  faith  to 
another  than  you,  and  I.  will  keep  my 
oath  to  him."     She  was  then  dragged 
to  tl  e  quarters   of    Jean    de  Luxem- 
bourg,   at    Clairoix,    who  afterwards 
sold   ler. 

In  all  this  the  last  words  are 
probi  bly  true.  When  Joan,  at  Rouen, 
was  offered  freedom  from  her  irons  if 
she  vould  pledge  her  faith,  give  her 
parols  as  we  say,  not  to  attempt  an 
escape,  she  declined,  "  Quia  nulli 
unqu  im  Jidem  dederat  (for  to  no  man  at 
any  lime  had  she  pledged  her  faith)."  l 
1  Proces,  i. ,  p.  47. 


Captain  Marin  dwells  on  the  many 
cases  in  which  kings,  as  John  of 
France  and  Francis  the  First,  and 
warriors  like  Talbot,  did  plight  their 
faith  to  a  captor,  that  they  might 
escape  death  on  the  field.  Joan 
yielded  to  no  man.  She  confessed 
that,  when  daily  warned  of  her  cap- 
ture by  her  voices,  she  prayed  that 
she  might  die  in  that  hour.1  Mani- 
festly then,  she  refused  to  yield  her 
parole  of  deliberate  purpose,  in  hope 
to  be  slain.  That  must  have  been  her 
fixed  determination.  Later,  in  dis- 
obedience to  her  voices,  she  leaped 
from  the  top  of  the  high  tower  of 
Beaurevoir.  Her  desire  was,  either 
to  escape  and  rescue  Compiegne,  or  to 
"  trust  her  soul  to  God,  rather  than 
her  body  to  the  English."  Of  such 
mettle  was  the  Maid ;  equivocators 
are  fashioned  in  other  material.  Joan's 
own  words,  spoken  to  Cauchon,  "  I 
never  gave  my  faith  to  any  man," 
confirm  the  statement  of  de  Cagny. 

Monstrelet  makes  Joan  first  attack 
Margny,  where  Baudo  de  Noyelle  had 
his  quarters.  Jean  de  Luxembourg 
and  some  captains  had  ridden  over 
from  Clairoix  on  a  friendly  visit.  The 
noise  of  battle  roused  the  other  Bur- 
gundians, and  the  English  at  Yenette. 
After  fierce  fighting,  the  French,  out- 
numbered, began  to  retreat,  the  Maid 
in  the  rear,  doing  her  uttermost  for 
her  men.  "  In  the  end,  as  I  was 
informed,  the  Maid  was  dragged  from 
her  horse  by  an  archer,  near  whom  was 
the  Bastard  of  Wandonne,  to  whom 
she  yielded  and  gave  her  faith."  Mon- 
strelet adds  that  the  English  had 
"  never  feared  any  captain,  nor  other 
chief  in  war,  as  they  feared  the  Maid." 
There  is  here  no  word  of  treason,  or 
of  closed  gates.  The  Bastard  of  Wan- 
donne claimed  the  Maid,  and  so 
doubtless  arose  the  tale  that  she 
surrendered  to  him. 

Lefevre  de  Saint  Remi  wrote  at  the 
age  of  sixty-seven  in  1460.  In  addi- 
tion to  what  we  have  already  quoted 
from  him,  he  tells  us  that  Joan 
rode  "  a  right  goodly  charger, 
1  Procts,  i.,  115. 


78 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


with  a  rich  heucque,  or  overcloth,  of 
cloth  of  red  gold."  Chastellain  adds 
that  the  horse  was  lyart,  gray.1 
"  She  had  all  the  men-at-arms  in 
Compiegne  with  her,"  which  seems 
unlikely,  especially  if  we  can  here 
trust  de  Cagny.  This  point,  however, 
if  correctly  given,  is  an  important  one 
in  favour  of  Flavy.  How  could  he 
make  a  sortie  and  rescue  the  Maid, 
if  he  had  no  men-at-arms  ?  Margny  was 
surprised,  but  was  reinforced.  The 
French  began  to  retreat ;  many  were 
taken,  slain,  or  drowned  in  Oise.  In 
the  rear  the  Maid,  behind  all  her 
party,  sustained  the  fray,  and  was 
taken  by  one  of  the  Count  of  Ligny's 
men  (Jean  de  Luxembourg's),  with 
her  brother  and  her  Master  of  the 
Household  D'Aulon. 

Nothing  is  said  here  about  closing 
the  gates,  or  about  treachery.  Chas- 
tellain, after  his  remarks  on  Joan's 
fantommeries  and  army  of  club-men, 
mentions  her  harness,  her  cloth  of 
gold,  her  gray  charger,  her  bearing, 
"  like  a  captain  leading  a  great  army," 
her  standard  floating  in  the  wind. 
Still  expanding,  he  mentions  Baudo  de 
Noyelle  and  the  knights  from  Clairoix, 
who,  he  says,  came  all  unarmed,  but, 
it  seems,  had  hardly  reached  Margny 
when  the  fray  began.  "  There  was 
the  Maid  broken  into  the  camp,  and 
she  began  to  kill  and  overthrow  men 
right  proudly,  as  if  all  had  been  her 
own."  Thereon  the  knights  from 
Clairoix  sent  for  their  harness,  and 
summoned  their  forces.  There  was 
charge  and  counter-charge;  the  fight 
wavered  dubious ;  even  from  Coudun 
reinforcements  came,  but  the  Burgun- 
dians  were  already  driving  the  French 
in  orderly  retreat  towards  Com- 
piegne. Then  the  Maid  "  did  great 
deeds,  passing  the  nature  of  women," 
as  we  have  already  heard,  but  an 
archer,  vexed  at  seeing  a  girl  bear 
herself  so  boldly,  tore  her  from  her 

1  "  The  Dinlay  snaws  were  ne'er  sae  white 

As  the  lyart  locks  o'  Harden's  hair," 
says  the  ballad  of  Jamie  Telfer.     The  word 
lyart  is  also  used    of   a  Covenanter's    horse 
in  the  year  of  Bothwell  Bridge. 


horse  by  her  rich  saddlecloth.  She 
gave  her  faith  to  the  Bastard  of  Wan- 
donne,  "  for  that  he  called  himself 
noble  homme."  The  French  retreated^ 
and  we  heard  not  a  word  about  closing 
the  gates. 

Here,  then,  we  have  silence  as  to 
treacherous  or  unlucky  closing  of 
the  gates  and  lifting  of  the  draw- 
bridge on  the  part  of  Joan,  of  Mons- 
trelet,  of  Lefevre,  and  of  Chastellain. 
The  circumstance  is  only  mentioned 
by  de  Cagny  (who  is  mistaken  on 
every  point,  except  probably  on  Joan's 
refusal  to  surrender,)  and  by  local  tra- 
dition at  Compiegne,  in  1498.  M. 
Sorel  (p.  294)  also  says  that  in  1444, 
in  a  lawsuit,  an  advocate  accused 
Flavy  of  selling  Joan  for  many  ingots 
of  gold  !  He  cites  bulletin  de  la  Soc. 
de  VHistoire  de  France,  1861,  p.  176. 
Tradition  at  Compiegne  made  Flavy 
sell  Joan  to  the  English,  which  is 
simply  absurd.  There  is  also  a  Me- 
moire  on  Flavy,  "  which  may  date 
from  the  time  of  Henri  II."1  It  is 
certainly  not  earlier  than  1509,  as  it 
mentions  a  document  of  that  year. 
After  some  account  of  Flavy's  captaincy 
of  the  town  as  nominal  lieutenant  of 
the  royal  favourite  La  Tremouille,  the 
writer  of  the  Memoire  describes  the 
headlong  flight  of  the  French  to  the 
barriers,  that  is  the  most  external 
fortification  of  the  bridge,  the  Maid 
guarding  the  rear.  But  for  the 
archers  in  boats,  who  received  most  of 
the  foot-soldiers,  "  The  foe  would  have 
occupied  the  barriers  and  endangered 
the  town,  wherein  were  only  the  in- 
habitants, who,  with  the  Captain, 
stopped  the  fury  of  the  enemy."  Did 
he  stop  them  by  raising  the  draw- 
bridge? Nothing  is  said  about  this. 
The  Maid  was  dragged  down  by  her 
long  skirts,  and  gave  her  word  to 
Wandonne. 

After  this  simple  statement  of  the 
best  contemporary  evidence,  and  of 
the  later  charges  against  Flavy,  we 
see  that  de  Cagny  is  the  only  early 
authority  for  the  shutting  of  the  gates, 
while  the  charges  of  treason  do  not 
1Quicherat,  Prods,  v.  173. 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


79 


occur  till  many  years  after  the  event, 
except  in  the  mouth  of  a  hostile  barris- 
ter, e  ean  Chartier,  writing  after  1450, 
merely  remarks  that,  "some  say  the 
barrier  was  shut,  others  that  the  press 
was  too  great." 

In  face  of  the  records  it  is  really 
hardly  worth  while  to  discuss  Captain 
Maria's  long  and  erudite  charge  against 
Flavy.  Joan,  it  is  true,  was  eternally 
thwarted  by  La  Tremouille  and  the 
Archoishop  of  Rheims ;  the  latter, 
after  her  capture,  wrote  a  letter  in 
which  he  says  that  God  has  punished 
her'f  c  r  her  presumption.  To  the  eternal 
sham 3  of  France  no  attempt  was  made 
to  m  cue  or  to  ransom  her.  She  may 
have  made  herself  unpopular  with 
robber-captains  by  consenting  to  the 
deatl  of  Franquet  d' Arras ;  but 
D'AlBncon,  Dunois,  Xaintrailles,  were 
not  r  Dbber-captains.  The-men-at-arms 
may  have  murmured  at  her  dislike 
of  tl  eir  leaguer-lasses.  The  Court 
was  glad  to  be  rid  of  her.  But 
that  Flavy,  to  please  the  Archbishop 
of  Rheims,  or  La  Tremouille,  or  Jean 
de  L  ixembourg,  or  the  English,  or  in 
spite,  or  to  keep  all  the  glory  of  saving 
Comjiegne  for  himself,  deliberately 
betrayed  Joan,  is  a  charge  difficult  to 
believe.  No  fewer  than  six  alterna- 
tive i  actives  for  his  treason  are  alleged. 
If  Fl  ivy  was,  as  is  asserted,  a  tyrant, 
robber,  and  violator,  Joan  was  not 
likely  to  be  on  the  best  terms  with  him. 
But  t  he  more  he  was  detested  the  more 
would  myths  to  his  discredit  be  circu- 
lated Cagny,  the  only  early  evidence 
for  tie  shut  gates,  does  not  hint  at 
treac  lery.  On  the  whole,  it  is  more 
probf  ble  than  not,  on  the  face  of  the 
evide  ace,  that  the  gates  were  not  shut 
at  all.  Captain  Marin  conceives  that 
only  a  few  Burgundians,  perhaps  two 
dozer  ,  were  about  Joan,  that  only  a  few 
could  never  have  carried  the  barrier, 
that  they,  even  if  they  had  entered 
the  b  3ulevard  or  redoubt  at  the  bridge- 
head, could  not  have  held  it,  the  gorge 
being  towards  the  bridge  and  the 
town  and  so  they  were  not  really 
dangerous  and  there  was  no  need  of 
ehutt.ng  the  gates.  Again,  only  a 


small  force  of  English  or  Burgundians 
could  charge,  the  causeway  not  afford- 
ing room.  So  he  thinks  that  Flavy 
had  no  reason  for  anxiety ;  he  should 
have  made  a  sortie,  and  kept  the  gates 
open,  till  he  had  rescued  the  Maid, 
and  then  dispatched  her  pursuers  at 
leisure. 

But  we  do  not  know  for  a  fact  that 
the  gates  were  ever  shut ;  we  do  not 
learn  that  any  drawbridge  was  raised. 
We  do  know  that  the  boats  were  rescu- 
ing foot -soldiers.  We  are  told  that  all 
the  garrison  was  out  with  Joan  ;  who 
then  was  to  make  the  sortie?  As  to 
the  "  two  dozen  Burgundians,"  Joan 
herself  said  that  the  English  cut  off 
her  retreat.  M.  Sorel  accepts  this 
and  blames  Flavy  for  not  having 
checked  the  English  advance  by  his 
guns  on  the  walls.  Englishmen  are 
not  always  easily  stopped  ;  the 
Memoire  says  that  they  could  not  be 
stopped.  We  learn  that  Joan  came  up 
last  of  all,  with  her  brother,  D'Aulon, 
Pothon,  and  her  chaplain,  who,  though 
he  showed  little  nerve  a,t  her  trial, 
stood  by  her  in  fight.  We  fancy  a 
frantic  crowd  at  the  barriers,  men 
flying  madly,  pursuing  furiously,  a 
moving  mass  wedged  tight  by  fear  and 
rage.  Joan  comes  up  last ;  she  cannot 
make  her  way  through  the  serried 
throng  ;  a  rush  of  foemen  sweeps  her 
into  an  angle  between  the  redoubt  and 
the  wall,  she  is  dragged  from  her  horse, 
and  all  is  over.  There  may  have  been, 
perhaps  there  was,  a  moment  when, 
through  the  panic-stricken  tide  of  men, 
Flavy  might  have  led  a  sortie,  if  he  had 
fresh  men-at-arms  by  him,  which,  as 
we  have  seen,  some  chroniclers  deny. 
We  cannot  tell.  In  a  second  of  some 
strange  blankness  of  resolve  the 
Victoria  was  lost ;  it  may  have  been 
so  with  Flavy  ;  nothing  can  be  known. 
Why  devote  volumes  to  the  task  of 
adding,  by  dint  of  mutually  exclusive 
theories,  another  Ganelon  to  the  history 
of  France  ? 

When  Joan  leaped  from  the  tower 
of  Beaurevoir  she  was  stunned,  though 
not  otherwise  hurt.  Her  first  thought 
was  for  Compiegne,  where  she  had 


80 


The  Last  Fight  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


heard  that  the  people  were  to  be  mas- 
sacred. She  said  to  St.  Catherine  and 
St.  Margaret,  "  Will  God  let  these  good 
folk  die,  who  are  ever  so  loyal  to  their 
King  ?  "  Then  she  was  comforted  by 
St.  Catherine,  who  bade  her  repent  of 
her  leap,  promising  that  Compiegne 
should  be  rescued  by  Martinmas,  and 
thereupon  "  she  began  to  recover,  and  to 
take  food,  and  straightway  was  she 
healed."  1  Compiegne  was  rescued,  as 
St.  Catherine  promised,  and  we  cer- 
tainly do  not  envy  the  acuteness  of 
the  critic  who  may  allege  that  the 
Maid  forged  the  prediction  after  the 
event.2 

1  Proces,  i.,  151,  152. 

2  In   1459   Cardinal    Jouffroy,    in  a  letter 
to    Pius     the    Second,    sneered     elaborately 
at  the  Maid.     The  French,  he  says,  "  Testi- 
monio   Ccesaris,   rem  auditam  pro    comperta 
facile    habent."      Captain    Marin   (iv.,    187) 
translates  "testimonio  Ccesaris,"  "par  la  com- 
plicite  royalt."     Joan  was  believed  in   "by 
the    complicity  of   the   King "   Charles  the 


Such  was  Joan  of  Arc  :  her  last 
thought  was  for  herself ,  her  first  for  Com  - 
piegne.  Yet  the  people  of  Compiegne, 
writing  to'the  King  on  May  26th,  have 
not  a  word  of  sorrow  for  the  capture 
of  the  Maid,  do  not  even  mention  the 
terrible  event  then  but  three  days 
old.3  Even  her  modern  admirer  hesi- 
tates as  to  whether  she  did  not  make 
a  bragging  speech  about  the  secret  of 
her  soul,  St.  Catherine,  whom  she 
seems  never  to  have  mentioned  in 
private  to  her  dearest  friends.  Is  it 
irreverent  to  say  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
"  She  came  to  her  own,  and  her  own 
received  her  not  "  ? 

A.  LANG. 


Seventh  !  Jouffroy  of  course  says  nothing 
here  about  Charles  the  Seventh,  who  was  not 
Emperor.  He  is  quoting  Caius  Julius  Caesar 
(DeBello  Gallico,  iv.  5.)}  on  the  general  credu- 
lity of  the  Gauls. 

3  Sorel,   in    La  Prise    de  Jeanne  d-  Arc ; 
quoted  by  Captain  Marin  iv.,  283,  284. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


JUNE,    1894. 


PERLYCROSS. 

BY    R.    D.   BLACKMORE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


NEEDFUL      RETURNS. 

Now  it  happened  that  none  of  these 
people,  thus  rejoicing  in  the  liberty  of 
the    subject,   had    heard  of    the  very 
pad    state    of    things,    mainly    caused 
by    their    own  acts,    now    prevailing 
at  Old  Barn.     Tremlett  knew  that  he 
had  struck  a  vicious  blow  at  the  head 
of  a  man  who  had  grappled  him  ;  but 
he    thought    he    had    missed   it    and 
struck   something    else,   a   bag,  or    a 
hat,    or    he   knew  not    what,   in  the 
pell-mell    scuffle    and    the    darkness. 
His  turn  of  mind  did  not  incline  him 
to   be   by  any  means  particular  as  to 
his  conduct  in  a  hot  and  hard  personal 
encounter ;    but    knowing    his     vast 
strength  he  generally  abstained  from 
the   use  of  heavy  weapons,  while  his 
temper  was  his  own.     But  in  this  hot 
struggle  he  had  met  with  a  mutually 
shattering    blow     from    a    staff,     as 
straight   as    need  be  upon  his  right- 
hand    knuckles ;  and   the    pain   from 
this,  coupled  with  the  wrath  aroused 
at  the  access    of    volunteer    enemies, 
had    carried    him,     like    the    raging 
elements  outside,   out    of   all  remem- 
brance   of    the     true    sacredness    of 
humanity.     He    struck    out,    with    a 
sense    of    not  doing  the   right  thing 
which  is  always    strengthened  after- 
wards ;   and    his    better    stars    being 
ablink    in   the    gale,    and    the    other 
No.  416. — VOL.  LXX. 


man's  gone  into  the  milky  way,  he 
hit  him  too  hard  ;  which  is  a  not 
uncommon  error. 

Many  might  have  reasoned  (and 
before  all  others,  Harvey  Tremlett' s 
wife,  if  still  within  this  world  of 
reason,  and  a  bad  job  it  was  for  him 
that  she  was  now  outside  it),  that 
nothing  could  be  nobler  than  the 
behaviour  of  this  champion  wrestler, 
taking  people  as  we  find  them  ;  and 
how  else  can  we  get  the  time  to  take 
them  ?  But,  without  going  into  such 
sweet  logic  of  affinity  and  rhetoric  of 
friends  (whose  minds  have  been  made 
up  in  front  of  it),  there  was  this 
crushing  fact  to  meet,  that  an  inno- 
cent man's  better  arm  was  in  a 
smash. 

No  milder  word,  however  medical, 
is  fit  to  apply  to  Frank  Gilham's  poor 
fore-arm.  They  might  call  it  the 
ulna  (for  a  bit  of  Latin  is  a  solace 
to  the  man  who  feels  the  pain  in  a 
brother  Christian's  member),  and  they 
might  enter  nobly  into  fine  nerves  of 
anatomy ;  but  the  one-sided  difficulty 
still  was  there  ;  they  had  got  to  talk 
about  it ;  he  had  got  to  bear  it.  Not 
that  he  made  any  coward  outcry  of 
it.  A  truer  test  of  manliness  (as 
has  been  often  said  by  those  who 
have  been  through  either  trial),  truer 
than  the  rush  of  blood  and  reckless 
dash  of  battle,  is  the  calm,  open-eyed, 
and  firm-fibred  endurance  of  long, 

G 


82 


Perlycross. 


ever-grinding,  never-graduating  pain ; 
the  pain  that  has  no  pang  or 
paroxysm,  no  generosity  to  make  one 
cry  out  "  Well  done  !  "  to  it,  and  be 
thankful  to  the  Lord  that  it  must 
have  done  its  worst ;  but  a  fluid  that 
keeps  up  a  slow  boil  by  day  and 
night,  and  never  lifts  the  pot-lid,  and 
never  whirls  about,  but  keeps  up  a 
steady  stew  of  flesh  and  bone  and 
marrow. 

"  I  fear  there  is  nothing  for  it  but 
to  have  it  off,"  Dr.  Gronow  said  upon 
the  third  day  of  this  frightful  anguish. 
He  had  scarcely  left  the  patient  for  an 
hour  at  a  time  ;  and  if  he  had  done 
harsh  things  in  his  better  days,  no  one 
would  believe  it  of  him  who  could  see 
him  now.  "  It  was  my  advice  at  first, 
you  know  ;  but  you  would  not  have  it, 
Jemmy.  You  are  more  of  a  surgeon 
than  I  am  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  you 
should  risk  his  life  like  this." 

"I  am  still  in  hopes  of  saving  it; 
but  you  see  how  little  I  can  do,"  re- 
plied Fox,  whose  voice  was  very  low, 
for  he  was  suffering  still  from  that 
terrible  concussion,  and  but  for  the 
urgency  of  Gilham's  case  he  would  now 
have  been  doctoring  the  one  who  pays 
the  worst  for  it.  "  If  I  had  my 
proper  touch  and  strength  of  nerve,  I 
never  should  have  let  it  come  to 
this.  There  is  a  vile  bit  of  splinter 
that  won't  come  in,  and  I  am  not  firm 
enough  to  make  it.  I  wish  I  had 
left  it  to  you,  as  you  offered.  After 
all,  you  know  much  more  than  we 
do." 

"  No,  my  dear  boy ;  it  is  your 
special  line.  Such  a  case  as  Lady 
Waldron's  1  might  be  more  at  home 
with.  I  should  have  had  the  arm  off 
long  ago.  But  the  mother — the 
mother  is  such  a  piteous  creature  ! 
What  has  become  of  all  my  nerve  ?  I 
am  quite  convinced  that  fly-fishing 
makes  a  man  too  gentle.  I  cannot 
stand  half  the  things  I  once  thought 
nothing  of.  By  the  by,  couldn't  you 
counteract  her?  You  know  the  old 
proverb — 

'  One  woman  rules  the  men  ; 
Two  makes  them  think  again.' 


It    would     be    the     best     thing    you 
could  do." 

"  I  don't  see  exactly  what  you 
mean,"  answered  Jemmy,  who  had 
lost  nearly  all  of  his  sprightliness. 

"Plainer  than  a  pikestaff.  Send 
for  your  sister.  You  owe  it  to  your- 
self, and  to  her,  and  most  of  all  to 
the  man  who  has  placed  his  life  in 
peril  to  save  yours.  It  is  not  a  time 
to  be  too  finical." 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  once  or  twice. 
She  would  be  of  the  greatest  service 
now.  But  I  don't  much  like  to  ask 
her.  Most  likely  she  would  refuse  to 
come,  after  the  way  in  which  I  packed 
her  off." 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  Dr. 
Gronow,  looking  at  him  steadfastly, 
"  if  that  is  all  you  have  to  say,  you 
don't  deserve  a  wife  at  all  worthy  of 
the  name.  In  the  first  place,  you 
won't  sink  your  own  little  pride  ;  and 
in  the  next,  you  have  no  idea  what  a 
woman  is." 

"  Young  Farrant  is  the  most  oblig- 
ing fellow  in  the  world,"  replied  Fox, 
after  thinking  for  a  minute.  "I  will 
put  him  on  my  young  mare  Perle,  who 
knows  the  way ;  and  he'll  be  at  Fox- 
den  before  dark.  If  Chris  likes  to 
come,  she  can  be  here  well  enough  by 
twelve  or  one  o'clock  to-morrow." 

"Like,  or  no  like,  I'll  answer  for 
her  coming  ;  and  I'll  answer  for  her 
not  being  very  long  about  it,"  said  the 
older  doctor ;  and  on  both  points  he 
was  right. 

Christie  was  not  like  herself  when 
she  arrived,  but  pale  and  timid  and 
trembling.  Her  brother  had  not 
mentioned  Frank  in  his  letter,  doubt- 
ing the  turn  she  might  take  about  it, 
and  preferring  that  she  should  come  to 
sea  to  himself,  which  was  her  foremost 
duty.  But  young  Mr.  Farrant,  the 
churchwarden's  son  and  pretty 
Minnie's  brother,  had  no  embargo 
laid  upon  his  tongue ;  and  had  there 
been  fifty,  what  could  they  have 
availed  to  debar  such  a  clever  young 
lady  ?  She  had  cried  herself  to  sleep 
when  she  knew  all,  and  dreamed  it  a 
thousand  time  worse  than  it  was.. 


Per  ly  cross. 


83 


Now  she  stood  in  the  porch  of  the 
Old  Barn,  striving,  and  sternly  deter- 
mined to  show  herself  rational,  true 
to  relationship,  sisterly,  and  no  more. 
But  her  white  lips,  quick  breath,  and 
quivering  eyelids,  were  not  altogether 
consistent  with  that.  Instead  of 
amazement,  when  Mrs.  Gilham  came 
to  meet  her  and  no  Jemmy,  she  did 
not  even  feign  to  be  surprised,  but  fell 
into  the  bell-sleeves  (which  were  fine 
things  for  embracing)  and  let  the 
deep  throbs  of  her  heart  disclose  a 
tale  i  hat  is  better  felt  than  told. 

"My  dearie,"  said  the  mother,  as 
she  laid  the  damask  cheek  against  the 
wrinkled  one,  and  stroked  the  bright 
hair  with  the  palm  of  her  hand,  "don't 
'e  give  way,  that's  a  darling  child.  It 
will  all  be  so  different  now  you  are 
come  It  was  what  I  was  longing  for, 
day  and  night,  but  could  not  bring 
myself  to  ask.  And  I  felt  so  sure  in 
my  1  eart,  my  dear,  how  sorry  you 
would  be  for  him." 

"  I  should  think  so :  I  can't  tell 
you ;  and  all  done  for  Jemmy,  who 
was  so  ungrateful !  My  brother  would 
be  dead  if  your  son  was  like  him. 
Thero  has  never  been  anything  half 
so  noble  in  all  the  history  of  the 
world." 

"  My  dear,  you  say  that  because  you 
think  well  of  our  Frankie  ;  I  have  not 
callec  him  that  since  Tuesday  now. 
But  you  do  think  well  of  him,  don't 
you  i  ow  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  thinking  well, 
indeed  !  I  never  can  endure  those 
weak  expressions.  When  I  like  people, 
I  do  Jike  them." 

"  My  dear,  it  reminds  me  quite  of 
our  c  wn  country  to  hear  you  speak 
out  so  hearty.  None  of  them  do  it  up 
your  way  much,  according  to  what  I 
hear  of  them.  I  feel  it  so  kind  of 
you  t)  like  Frank  Gilham." 

"  T/ell !  Am  I  never  to  be  under- 
stood 1  Is  there  no  meaning  in  the 
English  language?  I  don't  like  him 
only  :  but  with  all  my  heart  I  love 
him." 

"He  won't  care  if  doctors  cut  his 
arm  ( ff  now,  if  he  hath  one  left  to  go 


round  you."  The  mother  sobbed  a 
little,  with  second  fiddle  in  full  view  ; 
but  being  still  a  mother,  wiped  her 
eyes  and  smiled  with  content  at  the 
inevitable  thing. 

"  One  thing  remember,"  said  the 
girl,  with  a  coaxing  domestic  smile, 
and  yet  a  lot  of  sparkle  in  her  eyes  ; 
"  if  you  ever  tell  him  what  you  twisted 
out  of  me,  in  a  manner  which  I  may 
call, — well,  too  circumstantial — I  am 
afraid  that  I  never  should  forgive  you. 
I  am  awfully  proud,  and  I  can  be  tre- 
mendous. Perhaps  he  would  not  even 
care  to  hear  it.  And  then  what 
would  become  of  me  ?  Can  you  tell 
me  that  1 " 

"  My  dear,  you  know  better.  You 
know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  ever  since 
he  saw  you  he  has  thought  of  nothing 
else.  It  has  made  me  feel  ashamed 
that  I  should  have  a  son  capable  of 
throwing  over  all  the  world  be- 
side  " 

"  But  don't  you  see,  that  is  the  very 
thing  I  like?  Noble  as  he  is,  if  it 
were  not  for  that,  I — well,  I  won't  go 
into  it ;  but  you  ought  to  understand. 
He  can't  think  half  so  much  of  me  as 
I  do  of  him." 

*'  Then  there  is  a  pair  of  you ;  and 
the  Lord  has  made  you  so.  But  never 
fear,  my  pretty.  Not  a  whisper  shall 
he  have.  You  shall  tell  him  all  about 
it  with  your  own  sweet  lips." 

"As  if  I  could  do  that,  indeed! 
Why,  Mrs.  Gilham,  was  that  what 
you  used  to  do  when  you  were  young  ? 
I  thought  people  were  ever  so  much 
more  particular  in  those  days." 

"  I  can  hardly  tell,  my  dear.  Some- 
times I  quite  forget,  because  it  seems 
so  long  ago ;  and  at  other  times  I'm 
not  fit  to  describe  it,  because  I  am 
doing  it  over  again.  But  for  pretty 
behaviour  and  nice  ways,  nice  people 
have  them  in  every  generation ;  and 
you  may  take  place  with  the  best  of 
them.  But  we  are  talking  as  if  no- 
thing was  the  matter.  And  you  have 
never  asked  even  how  we  are  going 
on!" 

"  Because  I  know  all  about  it  from 
the  best  authority.  Coming  up  the 

G  2 


Perlycross. 


hill  we  met  Dr.  Gronow,  and  I  stopped 
the  chaise  to  have  a  talk  with  him. 
He  does  not  think  the  arm  will  ever 
be  much  good  again  ;  but  he  leaves  it 
to  younger  men  to  be  certain  about 
anything  ;  that  was  meant  for  Jemmy, 
I  suppose.  He  would  rather  have  the 
pain,  than  not,  he  says ;  meaning  of 
course  in  the  patient,  not  himself.  It 
shows  healthy  action,  though  I  can't 
see  how,  and  just  the  proper  quantity 
of  inflammation,  which  I  should  have 
thought  couldn't  be  too  little.  He 
has  come  round  to  Jemmy's  opinion 
this  morning,  that  if  one  something  or 
other  can  be  got  to  stay  in  its  place 
and  not  do  something  or  other,  the 
poor  arm  may  be  saved  after  all, 
though  never  as  strong  as  it  was  be- 
fore. He  says  it  must  have  been  a 
frightful  blow.  I  hope  that  man  will 
be  punished  for  it  heavily." 

"  I  hope  so  too,  with  all  my  heart, 
though  I  am  not  revengeful.  Mr. 
Penniloe  was  up  here  yesterday,  and 
he  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it.  I 
was  so  vexed  that  I  told  him  he  would 
not  be  quite  such  a  Christian  about 
it,  perhaps,  if  he  had  the  pain  in  his 
own  arm.  But  he  has  made  the  man 
promise  to  give  himself  up,  if  your 
brother,  or  my  son,  require  it.  I  was 
for  putting  him  in  gaol  at  once,  but 
the  others  think  it  better  to  wait  a 
bit.  But  as  for  his  promise,  I  wouldn't 
give  much  for  that.  However,  men 
manage  those  things,  and  not  women. 
Did  the  doctor  say  whether  you  might 
see  my  Frankie  1  " 

"  He  said  I  might  see  Jemmy, 
though  Jemmy  is  very  queer.  As  for 
Frank,  if  I  saw  him  through  a  chink 
in  the  wall  that  would  be  quite 
enough  ;  but  he  must  not  see  me, 
unless  it  was  with  a  telescope  through 
a  two-inch  door.  That  annoyed  me 
rather.  As  if  we  were  such  babies  ! 
But  he  said  that  you  were  a  most 
sensible  woman,  and  that  was  the 
advice  you  gave  him." 

"  What  a  story !  Oh,  my  dear, 
never  marry  a  doctor,  though  I  hope 
you  will  never  have  the  chance ;  but 
they  really  don't  seem  to  care  what 


they  say.  It  was  just  the  same  in 
my  dear  husband's  time.  Dr.  Gronow 
said  to  me  :  '  If  she  comes  when  I  am 
out,  don't  let  her  go  near  either  of 
them.  She  might  do  a  lot  of  mischief. 
She  might  get  up  an  argument,  or 
something.'  And  so  I  said " 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Gilham,  that  is  a  great 
deal  worse  than  telling  almost  any 
story.  An  argument !  Do  I  ever 
argue?  I  had  better  have  stayed 
away,  if  that  is  the  way  they  think 
of  me.  A  telescope,  and  a  two-inch 
door,  and  not  be  allowed  perhaps  to 
open  my  mouth  !  There  is  something 
exceedingly  unjust  in  the  opinions 
men  entertain  of  women." 

"  Not  my  Frank,  my  dear.  That 
is  where  he  differs  from  all  the  other 
young  men  in  the  world.  He  has  the 
most  correct  and  yet  exalted  views  ; 
such  as  poets  had,  when  there  were 
any.  If  you  could  only  hear  him 
going  on  about  you,  before  he  got 
that  wicked  knock,  I  mean,  of  course, 
— his  opinions  not  only  of  your  hair 
and  face,  nor  even  your  eyes,-  though 
all  perfectly  true,  but  your  mind,  and 
your  intellect,  and  disposition,  and 
power  of  perceiving  what  people  are, 
and  then  your  conversation — almost 
too  good  for  us,  because  of  want  of 
exercise — and  then,  well  I  really  for- 
get what  came  next." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Gilham,  it  is  all  so  ab- 
surd !  How  could  he  talk  such 
nonsense  1  I  don't  like  to  hear  of 
such  things ;  and  I  cannot  believe 
there  could  be  anything  to  come 
next." 

' '  Oh,  yes,  there  was,  my  dear,  now 
you  remind  me  of  it.  It  was  about 
the  small  size  of  your  ears,  and  the 
lovely  curves  inside  them.  He  had 
found  out  in  some  ancient  work  (for  I 
believe  he  could  hold  his  own  in  Greek 
and  Latin  even  with  Mr.  Penniloe) 
that  a  well-shaped  ear  is  one  of  the 
rarest  of  all  feminine  perfections. 
That  made  him  think  no  doubt  of 
yours,  for  men  are  quite  babies  when 
they  are  in  love  ;  and  he  found  yours 
according  to  the  highest  standard. 
Men  seem  to  make  all  those  rules 


Perlycross. 


85 


about  us  simply  according  to  their 
own  ideas.  What  rules  do  we  ever 
make  about  them  1 " 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  look  at 
things  in  that  way,"  Christie  answered, 
with  her  fingers  going  slyly  up  her 
hair,  to  let  her  ears  know  what  was 
thougat  of  them;  "because  I  was 
afraid  that  you  were  too  much, — 
well,  perhaps  that  thinking  so  much 
of  your  son,  you  might  look  at  things 
one-sidedly.  And  yet  I  might  have 
known  from  your  unusual  common 
sense — but  I  do  believe  Dr.  Gronow 
is  coixing  back ;  and  I  have  not  even 
got  my  cloak  off  I  Wait  a  bit  till 
things  come  round  a  little.  A  tele- 
scope and  a  two-inch  door  !  One  had 
better  go  about  in  a  coal-sack  and 
curl-p;ipers.  Not  that  I  ever  want 
such  things, — curves  enough  in  my 
ears  perhaps.  But  really  I  must  make 
myself  a  little  decent.  They  have 
taken  my  things  up  to  my  old  room, 
I  suppose.  Try  to  keep  him  here  till 
I  come  back.  He  says  that  I  get  up 
arguments;  let  me  get  up  one  with 
him." 

"My  orders  are  as  stern  as  they 
are  sensible,"  Dr.  Gronow  declared, 
when  she  had  returned,  beautifully 
dressed  and  charming,  and  had  thus 
attacked  him  with  even  more  of 
blandishment  than  argument.  "Your 
brother  you  may  see,  but  not  to  talk 
much  at  one  time  to  him ;  for  his 
head  is  in  a  peculiar  state,  and  he 
does  E  mch  more  than  he  ought  to  do. 
He  ii  sists  upon  doing  everything, 
which  means  perpetual  attention  to 
his  friend.  But  he  does  it  all  as  if 
by  instinct,  apparently  without  know- 
ing it :  and  that  he  should  do  it  all  to 
perfection  is  a  very  noble  proof  of  the 
thoroughness  of  his  grounding.  The 
old  sciiool,  the  old  school  of  training 
— there  is  nothing  like  it  after  all. 
Any  mere  sciolist,  any  empiric,  any 
smatterer  of  the  new  medical  course — 
and  where  would  Frank  Gilham's  arm 
be  now  ?  Not  in  a  state  of  lenitive 
pain,  sanative,  and  in  some  degree 
encouraging,  but  in  a  condition  of 
incipient  mortification.  For  this  is  a 


case  of  compound  comminuted  fracture; 
so  severe  that  my  own  conviction  was, 
— however  no  more  of  that  to  you 
two  ladies.  Only  feel  assured  that 
no  more  could  be  done  for  the  patient 
in  the  best  hospital  in  London.  And 
talking  of  upstart  schools  indeed,  and 
new-fangled  education,  have  you  heard 
what  the  boys  have  done  at  Perlycross  ? 
I  heard  the  noise  up  stairs,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  shut  the  window,  although 
it  is  such  a  soft  spring  day.  I  was 
going  down  the  hill  to  stop  it  when  I 
met  Miss  Fox.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  jokes  I  ever  knew." 

"Oh,  do  tell  us!  We  have  not 
heard  a  word  about  it.  But  I  am 
beginning  to  think  that  this  is  not  at 
all  a  common  place.  I  am  never 
surprised  at  anything  that  happens 
at  Perlycross."  This  was  not  a  loyal 
speech  on  the  part  of  the  fair 
Christie. 

"  From  what  I  have  heard  of  that 
Moral-Force-man,"  Mrs.  Gilham  re- 
marked, with  slow  shake  of  her  head, 
"I  fear  that  his  system  would  work 
better  in  a  future  existence  than  as 
we  are  now.  From  what  my  son  told 
me,  before  his  accident,  I  foresaw  that 
it  must  lead  up  to  something  quite 
outrageous.  Nothing  ever  answers 
long  that  goes  against  all  the  wisdom 
of  our  ancestors." 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  minute ;  I  must 
first  see  how  things  are  going  on 
up  stairs.  As  soon  as  I  am  at  liberty, 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  saw.  Though 
I  like  the  march  of  intellect,  when 
discipline  is  over  it." 

Dr.  Gronow,  who  was  smiling,  which 
he  seldom  was  except  after  whirling 
out  a  two-ounce  trout,  went  gently 
up  stairs,  and  returned  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  sat  down  to  tell  his 
little  tale. 

"  Everything  there  is  going  on  as 
well  as  can  be.  Your  brother  is 
delighted  to  hear  that  you  are  come ; 
but  the  other  patient  must  not  hear  a 
word  about  it  yet ;  we  don't  want  any 
rapid  action  of  the  heart.  Well,  what 
the  young  scamps  have  done  is  just 
this.  The  new  schoolmaster  has 


86 


Peril/cross. 


abolished  canes,  you  know,  and  birches, 
and  every  kind  of  physical  compulsion. 
He  exclaims  against  coercion,  and 
pronounces  that  boys  are  to  be  guided 
by  their  hearts,  instead  of  being 
governed  by  their — pardon  me,  a  word 
not  acknowledged  in  the  language  of 
these  loftier  days.  This  gentleman 
seems  to  have  abolished  the  old  system 
of  the  puerile  body  and  mind,  without 
putting  anything  of  cogency  in  its 
place.  He  has  introduced  novelties, 
very  excellent  no  doubt,  if  the  boys 
would  only  take  to  them  with  intellects 
as  lofty  as  his  own.  But  that  is  the 
very  thing  the  boys  won't  do.  I  am 
a  Liberal,  so  far  as  feelings  go  when 
not  overpowered  by  the  judgment ; 
but  I  must  acknowledge  that  the  best 
extremes  of  life,  the  boyhood  made  of 
nature  and  the  age  made  of  experience, 
are  equally  staunch  in  their  Toryism. 
But  this  man's  great  word  is,  Reform. 
As  long  as  the  boys  thought  it  meant 
their  benches,  and  expected  to  have 
soft  cushions  on  them,  they  were 
highly  pleased,  and  looked  forward  to 
this  tribute  to  a  part  which  had 
hitherto  been  anything  but  sacred. 
Their  mothers  too  encouraged  it,  on 
account  of  wear  and  tear ;  but  their 
fathers  could  not  see  why  they  should 
sit  softer  at  their  books  than  they 
had  to  do  at  their  trenchers.  But 
yesterday  unluckily  the  whole  of  it 
came  out.  There  arrived  a  great 
package  by  old  Hill  the  carrier,  who 
has  had  his  van  mended  that  was 
blown  over,  and  out  rushed  the  boys, 
without  asking  any  leave,  to  bring  in 
their  comfortable  cushions.  All  they 
found  was  a  great  black-board  swing- 
ing on  a  pillar,  with  a  socket  at  the 
back,  and  a  staple  and  chain  to  adjust 
it.  Toogood  expected  them  to  be  in 
raptures,  but  instead  of  that  they  all 
went  into  sulks  ;  and  the  little  fellows 
would  not  look  at  it,  having  heard  of 
black  magic  and  witchcraft.  Toogood 
called  it  a  '  Demonstration-table  for 
the  exhibition  of  object-lessons.'  Mr. 
Penniloe,  as  you  may  suppose,  had 
long  been  annoyed  and  unhappy 
about  the  new  man's  doings,  but  he  is 


not  supreme  in  the  week-day  school  as 
he  is  on  Sunday  ;  and  he  tried  to  make 
the  best  of  it  till  the  right  man  should 
come  home.  And  I  cannot  believe 
that  he  went  away  on  purpose  to-day, 
in  order  to  let  them  have  it  out ;  but 
the  boys  found  out  that  he  was  going, 
and  there  is  nobody  else  they  care 
twopence  for.  Everybody  says,  except 
their  mothers,  that  they  must  have 
put  their  heads  together  over-night,  or 
how  could  they  have  acted  with  such 
unity  and  precision  1  Not  only  in 
design  but  in  execution  the  accom- 
plished tactician  stands  confessed. 
Instead  of  attacking  the  enemy  at 
once,  when  many  might  have  hastened 
to  his  rescue,  they  deferred  operations 
until  to-day,  and  even  then  waited  for 
the  proper  moment.  They  allowed 
him  to  exhaust  all  the  best  of  his 
breath  in  his  usual  frothy  oration,  for 
like  most  of  such  men  he  can  spout  for 
ever,  and  finds  it  much  easier  than  care- 
ful teaching.  Then  as  he  leaned  back, 
with  pantirigs  in  his  chest  and  eyes 
turned  up  at  his  own  eloquence,  two 
of  the  biggest  boys  flung  a  piece  of 
clothes-line  round  his  arms  from  behind 
and  knotted  it,  while  another  slipped 
under  the  desk  and  buckled  his  ankles 
together  with  a  satchel-strap,  before 
he  knew  what  he  was  doing.  Then  as 
he  began  to  shout  and  bellow,  scarcely 
yet  believing  it,  they  with  much 
panting  and  blowing,  protrusion  of 
tongues,  and  grunts  of  exertion,  some 
working  at  his  legs,  and  some  shoul- 
dering at  his  loins,  and  others  hauling 
on  the  clothes-line,  but  all  with 
perfect  harmony  of  action,  fetched 
their  preceptor  to  the  Demonstration- 
board,  and  laying  him  with  his  back 
flat  against  it,  strapped  his  feet  to  the 
pedestal ;  then  pulling  out  the  staple 
till  the  board  was  perpendicular,  they 
secured  his  coat-collar  to  the  shaft 
above  it ;  and  there  he  was,  as  upright 
as  need  be,  but  without  the  power  to 
move,  except  at  his  own  momentous 
'peril.  Then  to  make  quite  sure  of 
him,  a  clever  little  fellow  got  upon  a 
stool  and  drew  back  his  hair,  bright 
red  and  worn  long  like  a  woman's, 


Perlycross. 


87 


and  tied  it  with  a  book-tape  behind 
the  p  liar.  You  may  imagine  how  the 
poor  preceptor  looks.  Any  effort  of 
his  to  release  himself  will  crush  him 
beneath  the  great  Demonstration,  like 
a  mouse  in  a  figure-of-four  trap." 

"  But  are  we  to  believe,  Dr. 
Gronow,"  asked  Christie,  "  that  you 
came  away,  and  left  the  poor  man  in 
that  helpless  state?" 

"  Undoubtedly  I  did.  It  is  no 
concern  of  mine  ;  and  the  boys  had 
only  just  got  their  pea-shooters  ;  he 
has  not  had  half  enough  to  cure  him 
yet.  Besides,  they  had  my  promise  ; 
for  the  boys  have  got  the  keys  and 
are  charging  a  penny  for  a  view  of 
this  Reformer ;  but  they  won't  let 
any  one  in  without  a  promise  of  strict 
neutrality.  I  gave  a  shilling,  for  I 
am  sure  they  have  deserved  it.  Some- 
body will  be  sure  to  cast  him  loose  in 
plenty  of  time  for  his  own  good. 
This  will  be  of  the  greatest  service  to 
him,  and  cure  him  for  a  long  time  of 
big  words." 

"  But  suppose  he  falls  forward  upon 
his  face,  and  the  board  falls  upon  him 
and  .suffocates  him1?  Why,  it  would 
be  the  death  of  Mr.  Penniloe.  You 
are  wanted  here  of  course,  Dr.  Gronow ; 
but  1  shall  put  my  bonnet  on,  and 
rush  down  the  hill  to  the  release  of 
the  Higher  Education." 

"Don't  rush  too  fast,  Miss  Fox. 
Then  's  a  tree  blown  down  across  the 
lane,  after  you  turn  out  of  the  one 
you  came  by.  We  ought  to  have  had 
it  cleared,  but  they  say  it  will  take  a 
fortnight  to  make  some  of  the  main 
roads  passable  again.  I  would  not  go, 
if  I  were  you.  Somebody  will  have 
set  him  free  before  you  get  there.  I'll 
go  out  and  listen ;  with  the  wind  in 
the  iiorth,  we  can  hear  their  hurrah- 
ing quite  plainly  at  the  gate.  You 
can  come  with  me,  if  you  like." 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  hurrahing,  Dr. 
Gronow!  How  can  you  deceive  me 
so !  It  is  a  very  sad  sound  indeed," 
said  ( Christie,  as  they  stood  at  the  gate, 
and  she  held  her  pretty  palms  like 
funnds  for  her  much  admired  ears. 
41  It  sounds  like  a  heap  of  boys  weep- 


ing and  wailing.  I  fear  that  some- 
thing sadly  vindictive  has  been  done. 
One  never  can  have  a  bit  of  triumph 
without  that." 

She  scarcely  knew  the  full  truth  of 
her  own  words.  It  was  indeed  an 
epoch  of  Nemesis.  This  fourth  genera- 
tion of  boys  in  that  village  are  begin- 
ning to  be  told  of  it,  on  knees  that 
shake  with  time  as  well  as  memory. 
And  thus  it  befell. 

"  What,  lock  me  out  of  my  own 
school-door  !  Can't  come  in  without 
I  pay  a  penny  !  May  do  in  Spain, 
but  won't  do  here." 

A  strong  foot  was  thrust  into  the 
double  of  the  door,  a  rattle  of  the 
handle  ran  up  the  lock  and  timber, 
and  conscience  made  a  coward  of  the 
boy  that  took  the  pennies.  An  Odic 
Force,  as  the  present  quaky  period 
calls  it,  permeated  doubtless  from  the 
master-hand.  Back  went  the  boy, 
and  across  him  strode  a  man,  rather 
tall,  wiry,  stern  of  aspect,  bristling 
with  a  stiff  moustache,  hatted  with  a 
vast  sombrero.  At  a  glance  he  had 
the  whole  situation  in  his  eye  and  in 
his  heart,  and,  worst  of  all,  in  his 
strong  arm.  He  flung  off  a  martial 
cloak  that  might  have  cumbered  action, 
stood  at  the  end  of  the  long  desk, 
squared  his  shoulders  and  eyebrows, 
and  shouted — "  Boys,  here's  a  noise  !  " 

As  this  famous  battle-cry  rang 
through  the  room,  every  mother's 
darling  knew  what  was  coming.  Con- 
sternation is  too  weak  a  word.  Grin- 
ning mouths  fell  into  graves  of  terror, 
castaway  pea-shooters  quivered  on  the 
floor,  fat  legs  rattled  in  their  boots, 
and  flew  about  helter-skelter,  any- 
where, to  save  their  dear  foundations. 
Vain  it  was  ;  no  vanishing  point  could 
be  discovered.  Wisdom  was  come  to 
be  justified  of  her  children. 

The  schoolmaster  of  the  ancient 
school  marched  with  a  grim  smile  to  the 
door,  locked  it,  and  pocketed  the  key. 
Three  little  fellows,  untaught  as  yet 
the  expediency  of  letting  well  alone, 
had  taken  the  bunch  of  keys,  and 
brought  forth,  and  were  riding  dis- 
dainfully the  three  canes  dormant 


88 


Pcrly  cross. 


under  the  new  dispensation.  "  Bring 
me  those  implements,"  said  Sergeant 
Jakes,  "  perhaps  they  may  do  to  begin 
with."  He  arranged  them  lovingly, 
and  then  spoke  wisely.  "  My  dear 
young  friends,  it  is  very  sad  to  find 
that  while  I  have  been  in  foreign 
parts,  you  have  not  been  studying  dis- 
cipline. The  gentleman  whom  you 
have  treated  thus  will  join  me,  I  trust, 
by  the  time  I  have  done,  in  maintain- 
ing that  I  do  not  bear  the  rod  in  vain. 
Any  boy  who  crawls  under  a  desk 
may  rest  assured  that  he  will  get  it 
ten  times  worse." 

Pity  draws  a  mourning  veil,  though 
she  keeps  a  place  to  peep  through, 
when  her  highly  respected  cousin, 
Justice,  is  thus  compelled  to  assert 
herself.  Enough  that  very  few  indeed 
of  the  highly  cultured  boys  of  Perly- 
cross  found  themselves  in  a  position 
that  day  to  enjoy  their  dinners  as 
usual. 

CHAPTER  XL. 

HOME  AND    FOREIGN. 

Six  weeks  was  the  average  time 
allowed  for  the  voyage  to  and  fro  of 
the  schooner  Montilla  (owned  by 
Messrs.  Besley  of  Exeter)  from  Tops- 
ham  to  Cadiz,  or  wherever  it  might 
be ;  and  little  uneasiness  was  ever 
felt  if  her  absence  extended  to  even 
three  months.  For  Spaniards  are  not 
in  the  awkward  habit  of  cracking 
whips  at  old  Time  when  he  is  out  at 
grass,  much  less  of  jumping  at  his 
forelock ;  and  Iberian  Time  is  nearly 
always  out  at  grass.  When  a  thing 
will  not  help  to  do  itself  to-day,  who 
knows  that  it  may  not  be  in  a  kinder 
mood  to-morrow  ?  The  spirit  of  worry, 
and  unreasonable  hurry,  is  a  deadly 
blast  to  all  serenity  of  mind  and  dig- 
nity of  demeanour,  and  can  be  in  har- 
mony with  nothing  but  bad  weather. 
Thus  the  Montilla's  period  was  a 
fluctuating  numeral. 

A  s  yet  English  produce  was  of  high 
repute,  and  the  Continent  had  not 
been  barbed-wired  by  ourselves  against 
our  merchandise.  The  Spaniards 


happened  to  be  in  the  vein  for 
working,  and  thus  on  this  winter 
trip  the  good  trader's  hold  was  quickly 
cleared  of  English  solids,  and  refilled 
with  Spanish  fluids ;  and  so  the 
Montilla  was  ready  for  voyage  home- 
ward the  very  day  her  passenger 
rejoined.  This  pleased  him  well,  for 
he  was  anxious  to  get  back,  though 
not  at  all  aware  of  the  urgent  need 
arising.  Luckily  for  him  and  for  all 
on  board,  the  schooner  lost  a  day  in 
getting  out  to  sea,  and  thus  ran  into 
the  rough  fringes  alone  of  the  great 
storm  that  swept  the  English  coast 
and  Channel.  In  fact  she  made  good 
weather  across  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  and 
ran  into  her  berth  at  Topsham  several 
days  before  she  was  counted  due. 

The  sergeant's  first  duty  was,  of 
course,  to  report  himself  at  Walders- 
court ;  and  this  he  had  done  before  he 
made  that  auspicious  re-entry  upon 
his  own  domain.  The  ladies  did  not 
at  all  expect  to  see  him  for  days  or 
even  for  weeks  to  come,  having  heard 
nothing  whatever  of  his  doings ;  for 
the  post  beyond  France  was  so  un- 
certain then  that  he  had  received 
orders  not  to  write. 

When  Jakes  was  shown  into 
the  room,  Lady  Waldron  was 
sitting  alone,  and  much  agitated  by  a 
letter  just  received  from  Mr.  Webber 
containing  his  opinion  of  all  that  had 
happened  at  Perliton  on  Wednesday. 
Feeling  her  unfitness  for  another 
trial,  she  sent  for  her  daughter  before 
permitting  the  envoy  to  relate  his 
news.  Then  she  strove  to  look  calmly 
at  him,  and  to  maintain  her  cold 
dignity  as  of  yore;  but  the  power 
was  no  longer  hers.  Months  of 
miserable  suspense,  perpetual  brooding, 
and  want  of  sleep  had  lowered  the 
standard  of  her  pride,  and  nothing  but 
a  burst  of  painful  sobs  saved  her 
from  a  worse  condition. 

The  sergeant  stood  hesitating  by 
the  door,  feeling  that  he  had  no  invi- 
tation to  see  this,  and  not  presuming 
to  offer  comfort.  But  Miss  Waldron, 
seeing  the  best  thing  to  do,  called  him 
and  bade  him  tell  his  news  in  brief. 


Perlycross, 


"May  it  please  your  ladyship,"  the 
veteran  began,  staring  deeply  into  his 
new  Spanish  hat,  about  which  he  had 
received  some  compliments  ;  "  all  I 
have  to  tell  your  ladyship  is  for  the 
honour  of  the  family.  Your  lady- 
ship's brother  is  as  innocent  as  I  be. 
He  liath  had  nought  to  do  with  any 
wicked  doings  here.  He  hath  not  got 
his  money,  but  he  means  to  have  it." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  cried  Lady  Wal- 
dron,  but  whether  about  the  money, 
or  the  innocence,  was  not  clear ;  and 
then  she  turned  away  to  have  things 
out  with  herself ;  and  Jakes  was  sent 
into  the  next  room,  and  sat  down, 
thanking  the  crown  of  his  hat  that  it 
covered  the  whole  of  his  domestic 
interests. 

When  feminine  excitement  was  in 
some  degree  spent,  and  the  love  of 
particulars  (which  can  never  long  be 
quenched  by  any  depth  of  tears)  was 
reviving,  Sergeant  Jakes  was  well 
received,  and  told  his  adventures  like 
a  veteran.  A  young  man  is  apt  to 
tell  things  hotly,  as  if  nothing  had 
ever  come  to  pass  before ;  but  a 
steady-goer  knows  that  the  sun  was 
shining,  and  the  rain  was  raining,  ere 
he  felt  either. 

It  appears  that  the  sergeant  had  a 
fine  voyage  out,  and  picked  up  a  good 
deal  of  his  lapsed  Spanish  lore  from 
two  worthy  Spanish  hands  among  the 
crew.  Besley  of  Exeter  did  things 
well,  as  the  manner  of  that  city  is  ; 
victi  ials  were  good,  and  the  crew  right 
loya  ,  as  generally  happens  in  that 
case.  Captain  Binstock  stood  in  awe 
of  h^s  elder  brother  the  butler,  and 
never  got  out  of  his  head  its  original 
belief  that  the  sergeant  was  his 
brother's  schoolmaster.  Against  that 
idea  chronology  strove  hazily,  and 
therefore  vainly.  The  sergeant  strode 
the  deck  with  a  stick  he  bought  at 
Exeter,  spoke  of  his  experience  in 
transports,  regarded  the  masts  as  a 
pair  of  his  own  canes, — in  a  word  was 
master  of  the  ship  whenever  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done  to  her.  A 
finer  time  he  never  had,  for  he  was 
much  too  wiry  to  be  sea-sick.  All 


the  crew  liked  him,  whether  present 
or  absent,  and  never  laughed  at  him 
but  in  the  latter  case.  He  corrected 
their  English  when  it  did  not  suit  his 
own,  and  thus  created  a  new  form  of 
discipline.  Most  of  this  he  recounted 
in  his  pungent  manner  without  a  word 
of  self-laudation,  and  it  would  have 
been  a  treat  to  Christie  Fox  to  hear 
him ;  but  his  present  listeners  were 
too  anxious  about  the  result  to  enjoy 
this  part  of  it. 

Then  he  went  to  the  city  to  .which 
he  was  despatched,  and  presented  his 
letters  to  the  few  he  could  find  en- 
titled to  receive  them.  The  greater 
part  were  gone  beyond  the  world  of 
letters,  for  twenty-five  years  make  a 
sad  gap  in  the  post.  And  of  the  three 
survivors,  one  alone  cared  to  be 
troubled  with  the  bygone  days.  But 
that  one  was  a  host  in  himself,  a  loyal 
retainer  of  the  ancient  family  in  the 
time  of  its  grandeur,  and  now  in 
possession  of  an  office,  as  well  as  a 
nice  farm  on  the  hills,  both  of  which 
he  had  obtained  through  their  in- 
fluence. He  was  delighted  to  hear 
once  more  of  the  beautiful  lady  he  had 
formerly  adored.  He  received  the 
sergeant  as  his  guest,  and  told  him  all 
that  was  known  of  the  present  state 
of  things  concerning  the  young  Count, 
as  he  still  called  him,  and  all  that  was 
likely  to  come  of  it. 

It  was  true  that  the  Count  had 
urged  his  claim,  and  brought  evidence 
in  support  of  it ;  but  at  present  there 
seemed  to  be  very  little  chance  of  his 
getting  the  money  for  years  to  come, 
even  if  he  should  do  so  in  the  end ; 
and  for  that  he  must  display,  as  they 
said,  fresh  powers  of  survivorship. 
He  had  been  advised  to  make  an  offer 
of  release  and  quit-claim,  upon  receipt 
of  the  sum  originally  advanced  with- 
out any  interest ;  but  he  had  answered 
sternly,  "Either  I  will  have  all,  or 
none."  The  amount  was  so  large, 
that  he  could  not  expect  to  receive 
the  whole  immediately,  and  he  was 
ready  to  accept  it  by  instalments ; 
but  the  authorities  would  not  pay  a 
penny,  nor  attempt  an  arrangement 


90 


Peril/cross. 


with  him,  for  fear  of  admitting  their 
liability.  In  a  very  brief  and  candid, 
but  by  no  means  honest  manner,  they 
refused  to  be  bound  at  all  by  the 
action  of  their  fathers.  When  that 
was  of  no  avail,  because  the  city-tolls 
were  in  the  bond,  they  began  to  call 
for  proof  of  this,  and  proof  of  that, 
and  set  up  every  possible  legal 
obstacle,  hoping  to  exhaust  the  claim- 
ant's sadly  dwindled  revenues.  Above 
all,  they  maintained  that  two  of  the 
lives  in  the  assurance  deed  were  still 
subsisting,  although  their  lapse  was 
admitted  in  their  own  minutes  and 
registered  in  the  record.  And  it  was 
believed  that  in  this  behalf  they  were 
having  recourse  to  personation. 

That  scandalous  pretext  must  be 
demolished  before  it  could  become  of 
prime  moment  to  the  Count  to  prove 
the  decease  of  his  brother-in-law  ;  and 
certain  it  was  that  no  such  dramatic 
incident  had  occurred  in  the  city,  as 
that  which  her  ladyship  had  witnessed 
by  means  of  her  imagination.  With 
a  long  fight  before  him,  and  very 
scanty  sinews  of  war  to  maintain  it, 
the  claimant  had  betaken  himself  to 
Madrid,  where  he  had  powerful  friends 
and  might  consult  the  best  legal  ad- 
visers. But  his  prospects  were  not 
encouraging ;  for  unless  he  could  de- 
posit a  good  round  sum,  for  expenses 
of  process  and  long  inquiry  and  even 
counter-bribing,  no  one  was  likely  to 
take  up  his  case,  so  strong  and  so 
tough  were  the  forces  in  possession. 
Rash  friends  went  so  far  as  to  recom- 
mend him  to  take  the  bull  by  the 
horns  at  once,  to  lay  forcible  hands 
upon  the  city-tolls  without  any  order 
from  a  law-court,  for  the  deed  was  so 
drastic  that  this  power  was  conferred  ; 
but  he  saw  that  to  do  this  would 
simply  be  to  play  into  the  hands  of 
the  enemy.  For  thus  he  would  prob- 
ably find  himself  outlawed,  or  perhaps 
cast  into  prison,  with  the  lapse  of  his 
own  life  imminent ;  for  the  family  of 
the  Barcas  were  no  longer  supreme  in 
the  land  as  they  used  to  be. 

"  Ungrateful  thieves  !  Yile  pigs  of 
burghers  !  "  Lady  Waldron  exclaimed 


with  just  indignation.  "  My  grand- 
father would  have  strung  them  up 
with  straw  in  their  noses,  and  set  them 
on  fire.  They  sneer  at  the  family  of 
Barca,  do  they  ?  It  shall  trample 
them  under-foot.  My  poor  brother 
shall  have  my  last  penny  to  punish 
them,  for  that  I  have  wronged  him  in  my 
heart.  Ours  is  a  noble  race,  and  most 
candid ;  we  never  deign  to  stoop  our- 
selves to  mistrust  or  suspicion.  I 
trust,  Master  Sergeant,  you  have  not 
spoken  so  to  the  worthy  and  loyal 
Diego,  that  my  brother  may  ever  hear 
of  the  thoughts  introduced  into  my 
mind  concerning  him  1  " 

"  No,  my  lady,  not  a  word.  Every- 
thing I  did,  or  said,  was  friendly, 
straightforward,  and  favourable  to  the 
honour  of  the  family." 

<{  You  are  a  brave  man;  you  are  a 
faithful  soldier.  Forget  that  by  the 
force  of  circumstances  I  was  compelled 
to  have  such  opinions.  But  can  you 
recite  to  me  the  names  of  the  two 
persons  whose  lives  they  have  re- 
plenished ? " 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  Senor  Diego  wrote 
them  down  in  this  book  on  purpose. 
He  thought  that  your  ladyship  might 
know  something  of  them." 

"For  one  I  have  knowledge  of 
everything,  but  the  other  I  do  not 
know,"  Lady  Waldron  said,  after  read- 
ing the  names.  "  This  poor  Senorita 
was  one  of  my  bridesmaids,  known  to 
me  from  my  childhood.  La  Giralda 
was  her  name  of  intimacy,  what  you 
call  her  nickname,  by  reason  of  her 
stature.  Her  death  I  can  prove  too 
well,  and  expose  any  imitation.  But 
the  Spanish  nation — you  like  them 
much  'I  You  find  them  gentle,  brave, 
amiable,  sober,  not  as  the  English  are, 
generous,  patriotic,  honourable  ? " 

"  Quite  as  noble  and  good,  my  lady, 
as  we  found  them  five-and-twenty 
years  agone.  And  I  hope  that  the 
noble  Count  will  get  his  money.  A 
bargain  is  a  bargain,  as  we  say  here. 
And  if  they  are  so  honourable " 

"Ah,  that  is  quite  a  different  thing. 
Inez,  I  must  leave  you  ;  I  desire  some 
time  to  think.  My  mind  is  very  much 


Per  Iyer  oss. 


91 


relieved  of  one  part,  although  of  an- 
other still  more  distressed.  I  request 
you  to  see  to  the  good  refreshment  of 
this  honourable  and  faithful  soldier." 

Lady  Waldron  acknowledged  the 
sergeant's  low  bow  with  a  kind  inclin- 
ation of  her  Andalusian  head  (which 
is  something  in  the  head-way  among 
the  foremost),  and  left  the  room  with 
a  lighter  step  than  her  heart  had 
allovved  her  for  many  a  week. 

"  This  will  never  do,  Sergeant ;  this 
won't  do  at  all,"  said  Miss  Waldron 
coming  up  to  him,  as  soon  as  she  had 
shut  the  door  behind  her  lofty  mother. 
"  I  know  by  your  countenance,  and  the 
way  you  were  standing,  and  the  side- 
way  you  sit  down  again,  that  you 
have  not  told  us  everything.  That  is 
not  the  right  way  to  go  on,  Sergeant 
Jakes." 

"  Miss  Nicie  !  "  cried  Jakes,  with  a 
forlorn  hope  of  frightening  her,  for 
she  had  sat  upon  his  knee  many  a 
timo  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  craving 
stories  of  good  boys  and  bad  boys. 
But  now  the  eyes  which  he  used  to 
fill  with  any  emotion  he  chose  to  call 
for  oould  produce  that  effect  upon  his 
own. 

"  Can  you  think  that  I  don't  under- 
star  d  you?"  said  Nicie,  never  releas- 
ing him  from  her  eyes.  "  What  was 
the  good  of  telling  me  all  those  stories, 
when  I  was  a  little  thing,  except  for 
me  to  understand  you  ?  When  any- 
body tells  me  a  story  that  is  true,  it 
is  no  good  for  him  to  try  anything 
else.  I  get  so  accustomed  to  his  way 
thai  I  catch  him  out  in  a  moment." 

"  But  my  dear,  my  dear  Miss  Nicie," 
the  sergeant  looked  all  about,  as  in  a 
large  appeal,  instead  of  a  steady  gaze, 
"  if  I  have  told  you  a  single  word 

that    is    not   as    true  as    gospel   may 
j » 

"  Now  don't  be  profane,  Sergeant 
Jakos.  That  was  the  custom  of  the 
wartime.  And  don't  be  crooked, 
whi(  h  is  even  worse.  I  never  called 
in  question  any  one  thing  you  have 
said.  All  I  know  is  that  you  have 
stopped  short.  You  used  to  do  just 
the  same  with  me  when  things  I  was 


too  young  to  hear  came  in.  You  are 
easier  to  read  than  one  of  your  own 
copies.  What  have  you  kept  in  the 
background,  you  unfaithful  soldier  ?  " 

"  Oh,  miss,  how  you  do  remind  me 
of  the  Colonel !  Not  that  he  ever 
looked  half  as  fierce.  But  he  used  to 
say,  'Jakes,  what  a  deep  rogue  you 
are  ! '  meaning  how  deeply  he  could 
trust  me  against  all  his  enemies.  But, 
miss,  I  have  given  my  word  about 
this." 

"  Then  take  it  back,  as  some  people 
do  their  presents.  What  is  the  good 
of  being  a  deep  rogue  if  you  can't  be 
a  shallow  one1?  I  should  hope  you 
would  rather  be  a  rogue  to  other 
people  than  to  me.  I  will  never  speak 
to  you  again,  unless  you  show  now 
that  you  can  trust  me  as  my  dear 
father  used  to  trust  in  you.  No  se- 
crets from  me,  if  you  please." 

"  Well,  miss,  it  was  for  your  sake 
more  than  anybody  else's.  But  you 
must  promise,  honour  bright,  not  to 
let  her  ladyship  know  of  it,  for  it 
might  be  the  death  of  her.  It  took 
me  by  surprise,  and  it  hath  almost 
knocked  me  over,  for  I  never  could 
have  thought  there  was  more  troubles 
coming.  But  who  do  you  think  I  ran 
up  against  to  Exeter  1 " 

"  How  can  I  tell !  Don't  keep  me 
waiting.  That  kind  of  riddle  is  so 
hateful  always." 

"  Master  Tom,  Miss  Nicie  !  Your 
brother,  Master  Tom  !  '  Sir  Thomas 
Waldron '  his  proper  name  is  now. 
You  know  they  have  got  a  new  oil 
they  call  gas,  to  light  the  public  places 
of  the  big  towns  with,  and  it  makes 
everything  as  bright  as  day,  and 
brighter  than  some  of  the  days  we  get 
now.  Well,  I  was  intending  to  come 
on  last  night  by  the  Bristol  mail  and 
wait  about  till  you  was  up  ;  and  as  I 
was  standing  with  my  knapsack  on 
my  shoulder  to  see  her  come  in  from 
Plymouth,  in  she  comes,  and  a  tall 
young  man  dressed  all  in  black  gets 
down  slowly  from  the  roof,  and  stands 
looking  about  very  queerly. 

" '  Bain't  you  going  no  further, 
sir  1 '  says  the  guard  to  him  very  civil, 


92 


Perlycross. 


as  he  locked  the  bags  in.  *  Only 
allows  us  three  minutes  and  a  half,' — 
for  the  young  man  seemed  as  if  he 
did  not  care  what  time  it  was. 

"  'No.  I  can't  go  home,'  says  he, 
as  if  nothing  mattered  to  him.  I  was 
handing  up  my  things,  to  get  up  my- 
self, when  the  tone  of  his  voice  took 
me  all  of  a  heap. 

"  '  What,  Master  Tom  ! '  says  I, 
going  up  to  him. 

"  '  Who  are  you  ? '  says  he.  '  Master 
Tom,  indeed  ! '  For  I  had  this  queer 
sort  of  hat  on  and  cloak,  like  a  blessed 
foreigner. 

"  Well,  when  I  told  him  who  T  was, 
he  did  not  seem  at  all  as  he  used  to  be, 
but  as  if  I  had  done  him  a  great  in- 
jury ;  and  as  for  his  luggage,  it  would 
have  gone  on  with  the  coach  if  the 
guard  had  not  called  out  about  it. 

"  '  Come  in  here/  he  says  to  me,  as 
if  I  was  a  dog,  him  that  was  always  so 
well-spoken  and  polite  !  And  he  turned 
sharp  into  the  Old  London  Inn,  leav- 
ing all  his  luggage  on  the  stones  out- 
side. 

" '  Private  sitting-room  and  four 
candles  1 '  he  called  out,  marching  up 
the  stairs  and  making  me  a  sign  to 
follow  him.  Everybody  seemed  to 
know  him  there,  and  I  told  them  to 
fetch  his  things  in. 

*'  *  No  fire ;  hot  enough  already. 
Put  the  candles  down  and  go,'  said  he 
to  the  waiter,  and  then  he  locked  the 
door  and  threw  the  key  upon  the 
table.  It  takes  a  good  deal  to  frighten 
me,  miss,  but  I  assure  you  I  was  trem- 
bling ;  for  I  never  saw  such  a  pair  of 
eyes — not  furious,  but  so  desperate ; 
and  I  should  have  been  but  a  baby  in 
his  hands,  for  he  is  bigger  than  even 
his  father  was.  Then  he  pulled  out  a 
newspaper,  and  spread  it  among  the 
candles.  'Now,  you  man  of  Perly- 
cross,' he  cried,  '  you  that  teach  the 
boys  who  are  going  to  be  grave- 
robbers, — is  this  true,  or  is  it  all  a 
cursed  lie  ? '  Excuse  me  telling  you, 
miss,  exactly  as  he  said  it.  '  The 
Lord  in  heaven  help  me,  I  think  I 
shall  go  mad  unless  you  can  tell  me  it 
is  all  a  wicked  lie.'  Up  and  down 


the  room  he  walked,  as  if  the  boards 
would  sink  under  him  ;  while  I  was 
at  my  wits'  ends,  as  you  may  well 
suppose,  miss. 

" '  I  have  never  heard  a  word  of 
any  of  this,  Master  Tom,'  I  said,  as  soon 
as  I  had  read  it ;  for  it  was  all  about 
something  that  came  on  at  Perliton 
before  the  magistrates  last  Wednes- 
day. 'I  have  been  away  in  foreign 
parts.' 

"  Miss  Nicie,  he  changed  to  me  from 
that  moment.  I  had  not  said  a  word 
about  how  long  I  was  away,  or  any- 
thing whatever  to  deceive  him.  But 
he  looked  at  my  hat  that  was  lying  on 
a  chair,  and  my  cloak  that  was  still 
on  my  back,  as  much  as  to  say,  'I 
ought  to  have  known  it ! '  and  then 
he  said,  '  Give  me  your  hand,  Old 
Jakes.  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand 
times.  What  a  fool  I  must  be  to 
think  you  would  ever  have  allowed  it ! ' 

"This  put  me  in  a  very  awkward 
hole,  for  I  was  bound  to  acknowledge 
that  I  had  been  here  when  the  thing 
he  was  so  wild  about  was  done.  Bufc 
I  let  him  go  on,  and  have  his  raving 
out.  For  men  are  pretty  much  the 
same  as  boys,  though  expecting  of 
their  own  way  more,  which  I  try  to 
take  out  of  the  young  ones.  But  a 
loud  singing  out,  and  a  little  bit 
of  stamping,  brings  them  into  more 
sense  of  where  they  are. 

"  '  I  landed  at  Plymouth  this  morn- 
ing,' he  said,  '  after  getting  a  letter, 
which  had  been  I  don't  know  where, 
to  tell  me  that  my  dear  father,  the 
best  man  that  ever  lived,  was  dead. 
I  got  leave  immediately,  and  came 
home  to  comfort  my  mother  and  sister, 
and  to  attend  to  all  that  was  needful. 
I  went  into  the  coffee-room,  before 
the  coach  was  ready,  and  taking  up 
the  papers,  I  find  this  !  They  talk  of 
it  as  if  it  was  a  thing  well  known,  a 
case  of  great  interest  in  the  county ; 
a  mystery  they  call  it,  a  very  lively 
thing  to  talk  about—  The  great  Perly- 
cross Mystery,  in  big  letters,  cried  at 
every  corner,  made  a  fine  joke  of  in 
every  dirty  pot-house.  It  seems  to 
have  been  going  on  for  months.  Per- 


Perlycross 


93 


haps  it  has  killed  my  mother  and  my 
sister.  It  would  soon  kill  me  if  I 
were  there  and  could  do  nothing.  ' 

"I [ere  I  found  a  sort  of  opening, 
for  the  tears  rolled  down  his  face  as 
he  thought  of  you,  Miss  Nicie,  and 
your  dear  mamma ;  and  the  rage  in 
his  heart  seemed  to  turn  into  grief, 
and  he  sat  down  in  one  of  the  trum- 
pery chairs  that  they  make  nowadays, 
and  it  sprawled  and  squeaked  under 
him,  being  such  an  uncommon  fine 
young  man  in  trouble.  So  I  went  up 
to  h:m,  and  stood  before  him,  and 
lifted  his  hands  from  his  face,  as  I 
had  lone  many's  the  time,  when  he 
was  a  little  fellow,  and  broke  his  nose 
perhaps  in  his  bravery.  And  then  he 
lookf  d  up  at  me  quite  mild,  and  said, 
*  I  be  lieve  I  am  a  brute,  Jakes  ;  but 
isn't  this  enough  to  make  me  one  2 ' 

"1  stayed  with  him  all  night,  miss  ; 
for  lie  would  not  go  to  bed,  and  he 
wouldn't  have  nothing  for  to  eat  or 
drink,  and  I  was  afraid  to  leave  him 
so.  But  I  got  him  at  last  to  smoke  a 
bit  of  my  tobacco  ;  and  that  seemed  to 
make;  him  look  at  things  a  little  better. 
I  told  him  all  I  knew,  and  what  I  had 
been  to  Spain  for,  and  how  you  and 
her  ladyship  were  trying  bravely  to 
bear  the  terrible  will  of  the  Lord  ;  and 
then  I  coaxed  him  all  I  could  to  come 
along  of  me  and  help  you  to  bear  it. 
But  he  said,  I  might  take  him  for  a 
coward,  if  I  chose;  but  come  to 
Walderscourt  he  wouldn't,  and  face 
his  own  mother  and  sister  he  couldn't, 
until  he  had  cleared  off  this  terrible 
disgrace." 

"He  is  frightfully  obstinate,  he 
always  was,"  said  Nicie,  who  had 
listened  to  his  tale  with  streaming 
eyes  "  but  it  would  be  such  a  com- 
fort to  us  both  to  have  him  here. 
What)  has  become  of  him  ?  Where  is 
he  now  ? " 

"That  is  the  very  thing  I  dare  not 
tell  you,  miss,  because  he  made  me 
swear  to  keep  it  to  myself.  By  good 
rights  I  ought  to  have  told  you  no- 
thing, but  you  managed  so  to  work  it 
out  of  me.  I  would  not  come  away 
from  him  till  I  knew  where  he  would 


be,  because  he  was  in  such  a  state  of 
mind.  But  I  softened  him  down  a 
good  bit,  I  believe  ;  and  he  might  take 
a  turn,  if  you  were  to  write,  imploring 
of  him.  I  will  take  care  that  he  gets 
it,  for  he  made  me  promise  to  write, 
and  let  him  know  exactly  how  I  found 
things  here  after  being  away  so  long. 
But  he  is  that  bitter  against  this 
place  that  it  will  take  a  deal  to  bring 
him  here.  You  must  work  on  his 
love  for  his  mother,  Miss  Nicie,  and 
his  pity  for  both  of  you.  That  is 
the  only  thing  that  touches  him.  And 
say  that  it  is  no  fault  of  Perlycross, 
but  strangers  altogether." 

"  You  shall  have  my  letter  before 
the  postman  comes,  so  that  you  may 
send  it  with  your  own.  What  a  good 
friend  you  have  been  to  us,  dear 
Jakes !  My  mother's  heart  would 
break  at  last,  if  she  knew  that  Tom 
was  in  England  and  would  not  come 
first  of  all  to  her.  I  can  scarcely 
understand  it ;  to  me  it  seems  so  un- 
natural." 

'•'  Well,  miss,  you  never  can  tell  by 
yourself  how  other  people  will  take 
things,  not  even  your  own  brother. 
And  I  think  he  will  soon  come  round, 
Miss  Nicie.  According  to  my  opinion, 
it  was  the  first  shock  of  the  thing, 
and  the  way  he  got  it,  that  drove  him 
out  of  his  mind  a' most.  Maybe  he 
judges  you  by  himself,  and  fancies  it 
would  only  make  you  worse  to  see 
him  with  this  disgrace  upon  him.  For 
that's  what  he  can't  get  out  of  his 
head ;  and  it  would  be  a  terrible  meet- 
ing for  my  lady,  with  all  the  pride  she 
hath  in  her.  I  reckon  'tis  the  Spanish 
blood  that  does  it,  Englishman  as  he 
is  all  over.  But  never  fear,  Miss 
Nicie;  we'll  fetch  him  here,  between 
the  two  of  us,  afore  we  are  much  older. 
He  hath  always  been  loving  in  his 
nature  ;  and  love  will  drive  the  anger 
out." 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE    PRIDE    OF    LIFE. 

HARVEY  TREMLETT  kept  his  promise 
not  to  leave  the  neighbourhood  until 


Per  Iyer  oss. 


the  result  of  the  grievous  injury  done 
to  Frank  Gilham  should  be  known. 
Another  warrant  against  him  might 
be  issued  for  that  fierce  assault,  and 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  stand  a 
trial,  whatever  the  issue  might  be. 
"What  he  feared  most,  and  would  have 
fled  from,  was  a  charge  of  running 
contraband  goods,  which  might  have 
destroyed  a  thriving  trade  and  sent 
him  and  his  colleagues  across  the  seas. 
Eough  and  savage  as  he  became  (when 
his  violent  temper  was  provoked)  and 
scornful  of  home  life  and  quiet  labour, 
these,  and  other  far  from  exemplary 
traits,  were  mainly  the  result  of  his 
roving  habits,  and  the  coarse  and  law- 
less company  into  which  he  had  ever 
fallen.  And  it  tended  little  to  his 
edification  that  he  exercised  lordship 
over  them,  in  virtue  of  superior 
strength. 

But  his  nature  was  rather  wild  than 
brutal ;  in  its  depths  were  sparks  and 
flashes  of  manly  generosity,  and  even 
warmth  of  true  affection  for  the  few 
who  had  been  kind  to  him,  if  they 
took  him  the  right  way  of  his  stubborn 
grain.  He  loved  his  only  daughter 
Zip,  although  ashamed  of  showing  it ; 
and  he  was  very  proud  of  his  lineage 
and  the  ancient  name  of  Tremlett. 
Thus  Mr.  Penniloe  had  taken  un- 
awares the  straightest  road  to  his  good 
will  by  adopting  the  waif  as  an  inmate 
of  his  house,  and  treating  her,  not  as 
a  servant,  but  as  a  child.  That  Zip 
should  be  a  lady,  as  the  daughters  of 
that  Norman  race  had  been  for  genera- 
tions, was  the  main  ambition  of  her 
father's  life.  He  had  seen  no  possibility 
of  it ;  and  here  was  almost  a  surety 
of  it,  unless  she  herself  threw  away 
the  chance. 

Rather  a  pretty  scene  was  toward 
for  those  who  are  fond  of  humanity,  at 
the  ruined  Tremlett  mill  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Saint  David's  day.  Harvey 
had  taken  to  this  retreat,  and  a  very 
lonely  home  it  was,  for  sundry  good 
reasons  of  his  own  ;  the  most  import- 
ant of  which  was  not  entrusted  even 
to  his  daughter,  or  to  the  revered  and 
beloved  parson.  This  was  to  prepare 


a  refuge  and  a  storehouse  for  Free- 
trade,  more  convenient,  better  placed, 
larger,  and  much  safer  than  the  now 
notorious  fastness  of  Blackmarsh. 
Here  were  old  buildings  and  mazy 
webs  of  wandering ;  soft  cliff  was 
handy,  dark  wood  and  rushing  waters, 
tangled  lanes,  furzy  corners,  nooks  of 
overhanging,  depths  of  in  and  out 
fantiques  of  nature,  when  she  does 
not  wish  man  to  know  everything 
about  her.  The  solid  firm,  directed 
by  Timber-legged  Dick,  were  prepared 
to  pay  a  fine  price,  as  for  a  paper-mill, 
for  this  last  feudal  tenure  of  the 
Tremlett  race. 

But  the  last  male  member  of  that 
much  discounted  stock  (or  at  any  rate 
the  last  now  producible  in  court 
without  criminal  procedure)  had  re- 
fused to  consider  the  most  liberal 
offers,  even  of  a  fine  run  of  Free-trade, 
all  to  himself,  as  still  it  is,  for  the 
alienation  in  fee-simple  of  this  last 
sod  of  hereditament.  For  good  con- 
sideration he  would  grant  a  lease, 
which  Blickson  might  prepare  for 
them ;  but  he  would  be — something 
the  nadir  of  benediction — if  he  didn't 
knock  down  any  man  who  would  try 
to  make  him  rob  his  daughter.  The 
league  of  Free-traders  came  into  his 
fine  feelings,  and  took  the  mills  and 
premises  on  a  good  elastic  lease.  But 
the  landlord  must  put  them  into 
suitable  condition. 

This  he  was  doing  now  with  tech- 
nical experience,  endeavouring  at  the 
same  time  to  discharge  some  little  of 
his  new  parental  duties.  Jem  Kettel 
found  it  very  hard  that  though  allowed 
to  work  he  was  not  encouraged  (as 
he  used  to  be)  to  participate  in  the 
higher  moments.  "You  clear  out, 
when  my  darter  cometh.  You  be  no 
fit  company  for  she."  Jem  could  not 
see  it,  for  he  knew  how  good  he  was. 
But  the  big  man  had  taken  a  much 
larger  turn.  He  was  not  going  to 
alter  his  own  course  of  life.  That 
was  quite  good  enough  for  him ;  and 
really  in  tho^e  days  people  heard  so 
much  of  "Reform,  Reform,"  dinged 
for  ever  in  their  ears,  that  any  one 


Peril/cross. 


95 


at  all  inclined  to  think  for  himself 
had  a  tendency  towards  backsliding. 
None  the  less  must  he  urge  others  to 
reform,  as  the  manner  has  been  of  all 
ages. 

Trecnlett's  present  anxiety  was  to 
provide  his  daughter  with  good  advice, 
and  principles  so  exalted  that  there 
might  be  no  further  peril  of  her 
becoming  like  himself.  From  him 
she  was  to  learn  the  value  of  proper 
pride  and  dignity,  of  behaving  in  her 
new  position  as  if  she  had  been  born 
in  it,  of  remembering  distant  fore- 
fathers, but  forgetting  her  present 
father,  at  any  rate  as  an  example. 
To  this  end  he  made  her  study  the 
great  ancestral  Bible,  not  the  canonical 
books  however,  so  much  as  the  covers 
and  fly-leaves,  the  wholly  uninspired 
recorc  s  of  the  Tremlett  family.  These 
she  porused  with  eager  eyes,  thinking 
more  highly  of  herself,  and  laying  in 
large  store  of  pride,  a  bitter  stock  to 
start  with  even  when  the  course  of 
youth  is  fair. 

Bui  whether  for  evil  or  for  good, 
it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  rough  man 
sitting,  this  first  day  of  the  spring- 
time, teaching  his  little  daughter  how 
sadly  he  and  she  had  come  down  in 
the  world.  Zip  had  been  spared  from 
her  regular  lessons  by  way  of  a  treat, 
to  dine  with  her  father  before  going, 
as  wa A  now  arranged,  to  the  care  of  a 
lady  a  b  Exeter.  Jem  Kettel  had  been 
obliged  to  dine  upon  inferior  victuals, 
and  at  the  less  fashionable  hour  of 
11  am.;  for  it  was  not  to  be 
known  «tbat  he  was  there,  lest  atten- 
tion should  be  drawn  to  the  job  they 
were  about.  Tremlett  had  washed 
himself  very  finely  in  honour  of  this 
great  occasion,  and  donned  a  new  red 
woollen  jacket,  following  every  curve 
and  chunk  of  his  bulky  chest  and 
rugged  arms.  He  had  finished  his 
dinner,  and  was  in  good  spirits,  with 
money  enough  from  his  wrestling- 
prize  1  o  last  him  until  the  next  good 
run,  and  a  pipe  of  choice  tobacco  (such 
as  could  scarcely  be  got  at  Exeter) 
issuing  soft  rings  of  turquoise  tint  to 
the  bl.ick  oak  beams  above.  The  mill- 


wheel  was  gone ;  but  the  murmur  of 
the  brook,  and  the  tinkle  of  the 
trickle  from  the  shattered  trough,  and 
the  singing  of  birds  in  their  love-time, 
came  like  the  waving  of  a  branch 
that  sends  the  sunshine  in. 

The  dark-haired  child  was  in  the 
window-seat,  with  her  Sunday  frock 
on,  and  her  tresses  ribboned  back,  and 
her  knees  wide  apart  to  make  a  lap 
for  the  Bible  upon  which  her  great 
dark  eyes  were  fixed.  Puffs  of  the 
March  wind  now  and  then  came  in, 
where  the  lozenges  of  glass  were  gone, 
and  lifted  loose  tussocks  of  her  un- 
trussed  hair,  and  made  the  sunshine 
quiver  on  the  worn  planks  of  the  floor. 
But  the  girl  was  used  to  breezes,  and 
her  heart  was  in  her  lesson. 

"Hunderds  of  'em,  more  than  all 
the  Kings  and  Queens  of  England !  " 
she  said,  with  her  very  clear  voice 
trembling,  and  her  pointed  fingers 
making  hop-scotch  in  and  out  the 
lines  of  genealogy.  "  What  can  Fay 
Penniloe  show  like  that?  But  was 
any  of  'em  colonels,  father  ? " 

"Maight  a'  been,  if  'em  would  a' 
corned  down  to  it.  But  there  wasn't 
no  colonels  in  the  old  times,  I've  a' 
heered.  Us  was  afore  that  sort  of 
thing  were  found  out." 

"  To  be  sure.  I  might  have 
knowed.  But  was  any  of  'em  Sirs, 
the  same  as  Sir  Thomas  Waldron 
was?" 

"  Scores  of  'em,  when  they  chose  to 
come  down  to  it.  But  they  kept  that 
mostways  for  the  younger  boys 
among  'em.  The  father  of  the  family 
was  bound  to  be  a  Lord." 

"Oh,  father!  Real  Lords?  And 
me  to  have  never  seed  one  !  What 
hath  become  of  the  laws  of  the  land  ? 
But  why  bain't  you  a  real  Lord,  the 
same  as  they  was  1 " 

"  Us  never  cared  to  keep  it  up," 
said  the  last  of  the  visible  Tremletts, 
after  pondering  over  this  difficult 
point.  "You  see,  Zip,  it's  only  the 
women  cares  about  that.  'Tis  no 
more  to  a  man  than  the  puff  of  this 
here  pipe." 

"  But  right  is  right,  father.      And 


96 


Perlycross. 


it  soundeth  fine.  Was  any  of  them 
Earls,  and  Marquises,  and  Dukes, 
and  whatever  it  is  that  comes  over 
that?" 

"They  was  everything  they  cared 
to  be — Barons  and  Counts  and 
Dukes,  spelled  the  same  as  Duck,  and 
Holy  Empires,  and  Holy  Sepulchres. 
But  do  'e,  my  dear,  get  my  baccy 
box." 

What  summit  of  sovereignty  they 
would  have  reached  if  the  lecture  had 
proceeded,  no  one  knows ;  for  as  Zip, 
like  a  princess,  was  stepping  in  and 
out  among  the  holes  of  the  floor  with 
her  father's  tin  box,  the  old  door 
shook  with  a  sharp  and  heavy  knock, 
and  the  child,  with  her  face  lit  up  by 
the  glory  of  her  birth,  marched  away 
to  open  it.  This  she  accomplished 
with  some  trouble,  for  the  timber  was 
ponderous  and  rickety. 

A  tall  young  man  strode  in,  as  if 
the  place  belonged  to  him,  and  said, 
"  I  want  to  see  Harvey  Tremlett." 

«  Here  be  I.  Who  be  you  1 "  The 
wrestler  sat  where  he  was,  and  did 
not  even  nod  his  head  \  for  his  rule 
was  always  to  take  people  just  as 
they  chose  to  take  him.  But  the 
visitor  cared  little  for  his  politeness 
or  his  rudeness. 

"  I  am  Sir  Thomas  Waldron's  son. 
If  I  came  in  upon  you  rudely,  I  am 
sorry  for  it.  It  is  not  what  I  often 
do ;  but  just  now  I  am  not  a  bit  like 
myself." 

"  Sir,  I  could  take  my  oath  of  that, 
for  your  father  was  a  gen'leman. 
Zippy,  dust  a  cheer,  my  dear." 

"No,  young  lady,  you  shall  not 
touch  it,"  said  the  young  man,  with 
a  long  stride  and  a  real  bow  to  the 
comely  child.  "I  am  fitter  to  lift 
chairs  than  you  are." 

This  pleased  the  father  mightily; 
and  he  became  quite  gracious  when 
the  young  Sir  Thomas  said  to  him, 
while  glancing  with  manifest  surprise 
at  his  quick  and  intelligent  daughter, 
"Mr.  Tremlett,  I  wish  to  speak  to 
you  of  a  matter  too  sad  to  be  talked 
about  in  the  presence  of  young  ladies." 

This  was  not  said  by  way  of  flattery 


or  conciliation ;  for  Zip,  with  her 
proud  step  and  steadfast  gaze,  was  of 
a  very  different  type  from  that  of  the 
common  cottage  lass.  She  was  already 
at  the  door  when  her  father  said : 
"  Go  you  down  to  the  brook,  my  dear, 
and  see  how  many  nestesses  you  can 
find.  Then  come  back  and  say  good- 
bye to  Daddy,  afore  go  home  to 
passonage.  Must  be  back  afore  dark, 
you  know." 

"  What  a  beautiful  child  !  "  Young 
Waldron  had  been  looking  with 
amazement  at  her.  "  I  know  what, 
the  Tremletts  used  to  be,  but  I  had 
no  idea  they  could  be  like  that.  I 
never  saw  such  eyes  in  all  my  life." 

"  Her  be  well  enough,"  replied 
Tremlett  shortly.  "And  now,  sir, 
what  is  it  as  I  can  do  for  you?  1 
knows  zummat  of  the  troubles  on 
your  mind ;  and  if  I  can  do  'e  any 
good,  I  wull." 

"  Two  things  I  want  of  you.  First, 
your  word  of  honour, — and  I  know 
what  you  Tremletts  have  been  in 
better  days — that  you  had  nothing  to 
do  with  that  cursed  and  devilish  crime 
in  our  churchyard." 

"  Sir,"  answered  Tremlett,  standing 
up  for  the  first  time  in  this  interview, 
"  I  give  you  my  oath  by  that  book 
yonner  that  I  knows  nort  about  it. 
We  be  coom  low,  but  us  bain't  zunk 
to  that  yet." 

He  met  Sir  Thomas  Waldron  eye 
to  eye,  and  the  young  man  took  his 
plastered  hand,  and  knew  that  it  was 
not  a  liar's. 

"Next  I  want  your  good  advice," 
said  the  visitor  sitting  down  by  him  ; 
"and  your  help,  if  you  will  give  it. 
I  will  not  speak  of  money  first, 
because  I  can  see  what  you  are.  But 
to  follow  it  up,  there  must  be  money. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  shall  be  glad 
to  do,  without  risk  of  offending  you? 
Very  well ;  I  don't  care  a  fig  for 
money  in  a  matter  such  as  this. 
Money  won't  give  you  back  your 
father,  or  your  mother,  or  anybody, 
when  they  are  gone  away  from  you  : 
but  it  may  help  you  to  do  your  duty 
to  them.  At  present  I  have  no  money 


Peril/cross. 


97 


to  speak  of,  because  I  have  been  with 
rny  regiment,  and  there  it  goes  away 
like  smoke.  But  I  can  get  any  quan- 
tity almost  by  going  to  our  lawyers. 
If  you  like,  and  will  see  to  it,  I  will 
put  a  thousand  pounds  in  your  hands 
for  you  to  be  able  to  work  things  up ; 
and  .mother  thousand  if  you  make 
any  tiling  of  it.  Don't  be  angry  with 
me.  I  don't  want  to  bribe  you.  It 
is  only  for  the  sake  of  doing  right.  I 
have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world. 
Can  you  ever  get  what  is  right  without 
payirg  for  it? " 

"  No,  sir,  you  can't ;  and  not 
always,  if  you  do.  But  you  be  the 
right  sort,  and  no  mistake.  Tell  you 
what  Sir  Thomas;  I  won't  take  a 
fardeo.  of  your  money,  'cos  it  would 
be  a-robbin'  of  you.  I  han't  got  the 
brains  for  gooin'  under  other  folk 
like.  Generally  they  does  that  to 
me.  But  I  know  an  oncommon  sharp 
young  fellow,  Jemmy  Kettel  is  his 
name  A  chap  as  can  goo  and  come 
fifty  taimes  a' most,  while  I  be  a  toornin' 
round  wance  ;  a'  knoweth  a'most  every 
rogue  for  fifty  maile  around.  And  if 
you  like  to  goo  so  far  as  a  ten-pun' 
note  upon  him,  I'll  zee  that  a'  doth 
his  b<3st  wi'un.  But  never  a  farden 
over  what  I  said." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you. 
Here  it  is ;  and  another  next  week, 
if  he  requires  it.  I  hate  the  sight  of 
mone/  while  this  thing  lasts,  because 
I  knc  w  that  money  is  at  the  bottom 
of  it  Tremlett,  you  are  a  noble 
fellow,  Your  opinion  is  worth  some- 
thing. Now  don't  you  agree  with  me 
in  thinking  that  after  all  it  comes  to 
this,— -everything  else  has  been  proved 
rubbish— the  doctors  are  at  the  bottom 
of  it  ?  ' 

""Well,  sir,  I  am  af eared  they  be. 
I  nev  >r  knowed  nort  of  'em,  thank 
the  Lord.  But  I  did  hear  they  was 
oncomoaon  greedy  to  cut  up  a  poor 
brother  of  mine,  as  coom  to  trouble. 
I  was  out  o'  country  then;  or  by 
Gosh,  I  wud  a'  found  them  a  job  or 
two  tc  do  at  home." 

The  young  man  closed  his  lips, 
and  thought.  Tremlett's  opinion, 

No.  416. — VOL.  LXX. 


although  of  little  value,  was  all  that 
was  needed  to  clench  his  own.  "  I'll 
go  and  put  a  stop  to  it  at  once,"  he 
muttered ;  and  after  a  few  more 
words  with  the  wrestler,  he  set  his 
long  legs  going  rapidly,  and  his  fore- 
head frowning,  in  the  direction  of 
that  .ZEsculapian  fortress  known  as 
the  Old  Barn. 

By  this  time  Dr.  Fox  was  in  good 
health  again,  recovering  his  sprightly 
tone  of  mind  and  magnanimous  self- 
confidence.  His  gratitude  to  Frank 
Gilham  now  was  as  keen  and  strong 
as  could  be  wished ;  for  the  patient's 
calmness  and  fortitude  and  very  fine 
constitution  had  secured  his  warm 
affection  by  affording  him  such  a 
field  for  skill,  and  such  a  signal 
triumph,  as  seldom  yet  have  blessed  a 
heart  at  once  medical  and  surgical. 
Whenever  Dr.  Gronow  came,  and, 
dwelling  on  the  ingenious  structure 
designed  and  wrought  by  Jemmy's 
skill,  poured  forth  kind  approval  and 
the  precious  applause  of  an  expert, 
the  youthful  doctor's  delight  was  like 
a  young  mother's  pride  in  her  baby. 
And  it  surged  within  him  all  the 
more  because  he  could  not,  as  the 
mother  does,  inundate  all  the  world 
with  it.  Wiser  too  than  that  sweet 
parent,  he  had  refused  most  stubbornly 
to  risk  the  duration  of  his  joy,  or 
imperil  the  precious  subject,  by  any 
ardour  of  excitement  or  nutter  of  the 
system. 

The  patient  lay,  like  a  well-set 
specimen  in  the  box  of  a  naturalist, 
carded,  and  trussed,  and  pinned,  and 
fibred,  bound  to  maintain  one  im- 
mutable plane.  His  mother  hovered 
round  him  with  perpetual  presence, 
as  a  house -martin  flits  round  her 
fallen  nestling,  circling  about  that 
one  pivot  of  the  world,  back  for  a 
twittering  moment,  again  sweeping 
the  air  for  a  sip  of  him.  But  the  one 
he  would  have  given  all  the  world  to 
have  a  sip  of  even  in  a  dream  he 
must  not  see.  Such  was  the  stern 
decree  of  the  power,  even  more  ruth- 
less than  that  to  which  it  punctually 
despatches  us,  ^Esculapius,  less  gentle 

H 


1)8 


Per  ly  cross. 


to  human  tears  than  ^Eacus.  To  put 
it  more  plainly,  and  therefore  better, 
Master  Frank  did  not  even  know  that 
Miss  Christie  was  on  the  premises. 

Christie  was  sitting  by  the  window, 
thrown  out  where  the  barn-door  used 
to  be, — where  the  cart  was  backed  up 
with  the  golden  tithe-sheaves,  but 
now  the  gilded  pills  were  rolled,  and 
the  only  wholesome  bit  of  metal  was 
the  sunshine  on  her  hair — when  she 
saw  a  large  figure  come  in  at  the  gate 
(which  was  still  of  the  fine  agricultural 
sort)  and  a  shudder  ran  down  her 
shapely  back.  With  feminine  speed 
of  apprehension  she  felt  that  it  could 
be  one  man  only,  the  man  she  had 
heard  so  much  of,  a  monster  of  size 
and  ferocity,  the  man  who  had  "  con- 
cussed "  her  brother's  head  and  shat- 
tered an  arm  of  great  interest  to  her. 
That  she  ran  to  the  door,  which  was 
wide  to  let  the  spring  in,  and  clapped 
it  to  the  post,  speaks  volumes  for  her 
courage. 

"  You  can't  come  in  here,  Harvey 
Tremlett,"  she  cried,  with  a  little  foot 
set,  as  a  forlorn  hope,  against  the 
bottom  of  the  door,  which  (after  the 
manner  of  its  kind)  refused  to  go 
home  when  called  upon  .  "  You  have 
•done  harm  enough,  and  I  am  aston- 
ished that  you  should  dare  to  imagine 
we  would  let  you  in." 

"  But  I  am  not  Harvey  Tremlett  at 
all.  I  am  only  Tom  Waldron  ;  and  I 
don't  see  why  I  should  be  shut  out, 
when  I  have  done  no  harm." 

The  young  lady  was  not  to  be  caught 
with  chaff.  She  took  a  little  peep 
through  the  chink,  having  learned 
that  art  in  a  very  sweet  manner  of 
late;  and  then  she  threw  open  the 
door  and  showed  herself  a  fine  figure 
of  blushes. 

"  Miss  Fox,  I  am  sure,"  said  the 
visitor,  smiling  and  lifting  his  hat  as 
he  had  learned  to  do  abroad.  "  But 
I  won't  come  in  against  orders,  what- 
ever the  temptation  may  be." 

"  We  don't  know  any  harm  of  you, 
and  you  may  come  in,"  answered  Chris, 
who  was  never  long  taken  aback. 
"  Your  sister  is  a  dear  friend  of  mine. 


I  am  sorry  for  being  so  rude  to 
you." 

Waldron  sat  down,  and  was  cheer- 
ful for  awhile,  greatly  pleased  with 
his  young  entertainer  and  her  simple 
account  of  the  state  of  things  there. 
But  when  she  inquired  for  his  mother 
and  sister,  the  cloud  returned,  and 
he  meant  business.  "  You  are  likely 
to  know  more  than  I  do,"  he  said, 
"  for  I  have  not  been  home,  and  can- 
not go  there  yet.  I  will  not  trouble 
you  with  dark  things  ;  but  may  I  have 
a  little  talk  with  your  brother  ? " 

Miss  Fox  left  the  room  at  once,  and 
sent  her  brother  down ;  and  now  a 
very  strange  surprise  befell  the 
sprightly  doctor.  Sir  Thomas  Wal- 
dron met  him  with  much  cordiality 
and  warmth,  for  they  had  always 
been  good  friends,  though  their 
natures  were  so  different ;  and  then 
he  delivered  this  fatal  shot.  "  I  am 
very  sorry,  my  dear  Jemmy,  but  I 
have  had  to  make  up  my  mind  to 
do  a  thing  you  won't  much  like.  I 
know  you  have  always  thought  a 
great  deal  of  my  sister  Inez ;  and  now 
I  am  told,  though  I  have  not  seen  her, 
that  you  are  as  good  as  engaged  to 
her.  But  you  must  perceive  that  it 
would  never  do.  I  could  not  wish  for 
a  better  sort  of  fellow,  and  I  have  the 
highest  opinion  of  you.  Really  I 
think  that  you  would  have  made  her 
as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  because 
you  are  so  clever,  and  cheerful,  and 
good-tempered,  and — and  in  fact  I 
may  say,  good  all  round.  But  you 
must  both  of  you  get  over  it.  I  am 
now  the  head  of  the  family,  and  I 
don't  like  saying  it,  but  I  must.  I 
cannot  allow  you  to  have  Nicie ;  and 
I  shall  forbid  Nicie  to  think  any  more 
of  you." 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean, 
Tom  1 "  asked  Jemmy,  scarcely  be- 
lieving his  ears.  "  What's  up  now,  in 
the  name  of  goodness  1  What  on 
earth  have  you  got  into  your  precious 
noddle?" 

"  Jemmy,  my  noddle,  as  you  call 
it,  may  not  be  a  quarter  so  clever 
as  yours  ;  and  in  fact  I  know  it  is 


Perlycross. 


99 


not  over-bright,  without  having  the 
benefit  of  your  opinion.  But  for  all 
that  it  has  some  common  sense,  and 
it  knows  its  own  mind  pretty  well, 
and  what  it  says,  it  sticks  to.  You 
are  bound  to  take  it  in  a  friendly 
manner,  because  that  is  how  I  intend 
it ;  a  nd  you  must  see  the  good  sense  of 
it.  I  shall  be  happy  and  proud  my- 
self :o  continue  our  friendship.  Only 
you  must  pledge  your  word  that  you 
will  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  my 
sister  Inez." 

"  But  why,  Tom,  why  1  "  Fox  asked 
again,  with  increasing  wonder.  He 
was  half  inclined  to  laugh  at  the 
others  solemn  and  official  style,  but 
he  siw  that  it  would  be  a  dangerous 
thing,  for  Waldron's  colour  was 
rising.  "  What  objection  have  you 
discovered,  or  somebody  else  found  out 
for  you  1  Surely  you  are  dreaming, 

Tom!" 

"  No,  I  am  not ;  and  I  shall  not  let 
you.  I  should  almost  have  thought 
that  you  might  have  known  without 
my  having  to  tell  you.  If  you  think 
twice,  you  will  see  at  once  that 
reason,  and  common  sense,  and  justice, 
and  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  the 
feeling  of  a  gentleman,  all  compel  you 
to — 1  o  knock  off,  if  I  may  so  express 
it.  [  can  only  say  that  if  you  can't 
see  il ,  everybody  else  can  at  a  glance." 

"  No  doubt  I  am  the  thickest  of 
the  1  hick,  though  it  may  not  be  the 
general  opinion.  But  do  give  me  ever 
such  a  little  hint,  Tom ;  something 
of  a  i  winkle  in  this  frightful  fog." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  doctor,  aren't  you 
now  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  am,  and  proud  of  it; 
only  vvish  I  was  a  better  one." 

"  Very  well.     The  doctors  have  dug 


up  my  father ;  and  no  doctor  ever 
shall  marry  his  daughter." 

The  absurdity  of  this  was  of  a  very 
common  kind,  as  the  fallacy  is  of  the 
commonest,  and  there  was  nothing 
very  rare  to  laugh  at.  But  Fox  did 
the  worst  thing  he  could  have  done, 
he  laughed  till  his  sides  were  aching. 
Too  late  he  perceived  that  he  had 
been  as  scant  of  discretion  as  the 
other  was  of  logic. 

"  That's  how  you  take  it,  is  it,  sir  1 " 
young  Waldron  cried,  ready  to  knock 
him  down,  if  he  could  have  done  so 
without  cowardice.  "  A.  lucky  thing 
for  you  that  you  are  on  the  sick-list, 
or  I'd  soon  make  you  laugh  the  other 
side  of  your  mouth,  you  guffawing 
jackanapes  !  If  you  can  laugh  at  what 
was  done  to  my  father,  it  proves  that 
you  are  capable  of  doing  it.  When 
you  have  done  with  your  idiot  grin, 
I'll  just  ask  you  one  thing — never  let 
me  set  eyes  on  your  sniggering,  grin- 
ning, pill-box  of  a  face  again." 

"  That  you  may  be  quite  sure  you 
never  shall  do,"  answered  Fox,  who 
was  ashy  pale  with  anger,  "  until  you 
have  begged  my  pardon  humbly,  and 
owned  yourself  a  thick-headed,  hot- 
headed fool.  I  am  sorry  that  your 
father  should  have  such  a  ninny  of  a 
cad  to  come  after  him.  Everybody 
acknowledges  that  the  late  Sir  Thomas 
was  a  gentleman." 

The  present  Sir  Thomas  would  not 
trust  himself  near  such  a  fellow  for 
another  moment,  but  flung  out  of  the 
house  without  his  hat ;  while  Fox 
proved  that  he  was  no  coward  by 
following  and  throwing  it  after  him. 
And  the  other  young  man  proved  the 
like  of  himself  by  not  turning  round 
and  smashing  him. 


(To  be  continued.) 


H  2 


100 


A   VISION    OF   INDIA. 


WE  cannot  profess  to  emulate  the 
stirring  tale  which  The  Spectator  had 
to  tell  last  month.  Not  having  en- 
joyed the  thirty  years'  absence  from 
the  East  which  inspired  that  memor- 
able prophecy  of  a  new  and  instant 
rising  of  united  India  against  British 
dominion,  the  analogy  between  the 
situation  in  1857  and  the  situation  in 
1894  is  naturally  less  clear  to  us.  We 
know,  of  course,  that  the  British 
army  in  India  is  still  disgracefully 
weak  ;  that  in  the  whole  of  the  three 
Presidencies  there  are,  in  round  num- 
bers, but  nine  regiments  of  cavalry, 
sixty-five  batteries  of  artillery,  and 
fifty-two  regiments  of  infantry,  a 
force  but  little,  if  at  all  superior  to 
that  with  which  we  had  to  face  the 
great  revolt  of  seven  and  thirty 
years  ago.  We  know  that  there  are 
still  vast  tracts  of  country  and  large 
cities  where  crowds  of  European  men, 
women  and  children  are  at  the  mercy 
of  a  wavering  native  force  and  a 
fanatic  native  population,  without  a 
single  regiment  of  English  soldiers  to 
keep  them  in  check  ;  that  the  greater 
part  of  our  artillery  is  still  manned 
by  native  gunners ;  that  our  maga- 
zines and  treasuries  are  still  watched 
by  native  guards.  But  this  know- 
ledge, which  may  be  learned  from 
books  and  gazetteers  by  any  man  who 
has  never  been  farther  east  than  the 
India  Docks,  really  avails  nothing. 
It  is  the  personal  knowledge  of  the 
native  races,  of  their  manners,  cus- 
toms, tempers,  thoughts,  that  really 
avails.  With  what  eyes  do  they 
now  regard  the  march  of  Western 
ideas,  the  blessings  of  Western  civil- 
isation, above  all  those  noble  fruits  of 
Western  democracy  with  which  the 
wise  and  amiable  philanthropy  of 
Parliament  has  during  the  last  ten 


years  or  so  been  enriching  their 
parched  and  barren  soil1?  Does  the 
new  Western  wine  taste  well  out 
of  the  old  Eastern  bottles  ?  It  is  a 
knowledge  of  these  things  that  gives 
a  man  a  right  to  speak  of  India. 
Such  a  knowledge  comes  only  from  a 
long  sojourn  in  the  country,  from 
going  to  and  fro  therein  with  the 
seeing  eye,  the  hearing  ear,  and  the 
understanding  heart.  Thirty  years' 
absence  will  then  but  ripen  and  widen 
it.  Lord  Lansdowne,  Lord  Roberts, 
Sir  Alfred  Lyall, — these  also  are  able 
men  and  experienced ;  but  their  ex- 
perience has  still  the  bias  of  the 
moment ;  it  lacks  the  mellowing 
effect  of  distance. 

And  indeed  we  never  truly  realised 
how  vital  to  a  right  understanding  of 
the  essential  difference  between  East 
and  West  this  aloofness  is  (if  we  may 
borrow  one  of  the  new  coins  of  our 
literary  mint),  till  we  read  a  letter  in 
The  Spectator  of  the  12th  of  last  May. 
The  article  on  India  next  Week  (pub- 
lished on  May  5th)  did  not  please 
everybody,  but  to  three  persons  at 
least  it  seemed  a  most  wise  and  timely 
warning,  and  especially  to  one  W.  P. 
This  gentleman  has  been  for  twenty 
years  in  business  in  Calcutta  (which 
of  course  entitles  him  to  speak  with 
authority  on  the  general  condition  of 
India)  and  during  that  time  has  made 
many  friends  among  the  native  com- 
mercial classes.  One  of  these  is  a 
Guzerati  Hindoo,  with  whom  he  held 
in  the  course  of  last  year  a  most  re- 
markable conversation.  The  old  man 
saw  the  heavens  very  black  indeed  all 
round  him;  but  he  spoke  well  and 
wisely  on  many  things,  and  notably 
on  that  gigantic  folly  of  a  Free  Native 
Press.  "That  my  native  friend  was 
in  earnest,"  wrote  W.  P.  (too  earnest 


A    Vision  of  India. 


101 


himself  to  be  very   choice    about  his 
language),  "  I  fully  believe,  because  he 
undertook  to  protect  me  when  the  row 
began,  and  because  he  shut  up  on  the 
entraice  of  his  son,  who,  on  listening 
to  a  few  words  of  our  conversation, 
said    something    to     his     father     in 
Guzeiati    which    I   could    not  under- 
stand, but  which  the  father  said  was 
to  the  effect  that  I  would    tell  the 
'Sircjir' — i.e.,    the    Government.      / 
told  him  he  need  not  fear,  that  Govern- 
ment would  not  believe  anything  till  the 
rails  ivere  torn  up  and  the  wires  cut, 
and  t/te  sooner  they  got  their  row  started 
tlie  somer  it  would  be  ended."  If  W.  P. 
reallj      spoke    the     words     we   have 
italicised   to    his    Hindoo    friend,    he 
spoke    something    very    like    what    a 
plain  man  would  call  treason.     To  be 
sure  he  was  no  servant  of  Government ; 
but    overy    Englishman    in    India    is 
under  obligations  to  the  Government, 
and  perhaps  most  of  all  are  the  trad- 
ing-clisses  concerned  in  upholding  the 
safety,    honour,    and   welfare   of   the 
British  dominion.     To  blacken  before 
its  enamies  the  face  of  a  Power  with- 
out w  hich  we  had  never  been,  to  which 
we  ove  all  we  are  worth,  and  deprived 
of  whose  protection  we  should  not  en- 
dure for  a  single  day,  will  seem,  we 
say,  to  the  plain  man  neither  a  very 
generous  nor  a  very  politic  deed.     He 
will  probably  think,  in  his  simple  un- 
sophisticated fashion,   that  it  is   not 
only  jhe  Native  Press  which  goes  too 
freel} .      But    he    would    be    wrong. 
W.  I .  is  evidently  proud  of  his  frank- 
ness,   and    The   Spectator   quotes   his 
letter    with  approval.     And  here  we 
plain]y  see  how  much  more  than  cli- 
mate and  sky  our  countrymen  change 
who  cross  the  black  water,  and  how 
impossible   it  is  for  those   who    have 
never    made    the    journey    to    really 
mark    and   appreciate    the     essential 
distinction  between  East  and  West, 
to  Orientalise,  as  we  may  say,  their 
sturdy  "Western  natures  into  the  like- 
ness of  a  W.  P. 

Well,  to  such  knowledge  we  at  least 
shall  make  no  pretence.  With  the 
little  contribution  to  Indian  history 


which   we    venture    to    offer   to    our 
readers  (if  indeed  they  have  any  stom- 
ach   for   such   simple   fare   after    the 
high-seasoned  hash  of  The  Spectator), 
we  are  concerned  only  as  the  humble 
channel  of  communication,  and  with  a 
few    words  of   introduction    our  task 
will  be  finished.     Some  few  years  ago 
there    was    published   in   Calcutta    a 
little  anonymous   pamphlet  with  the 
title  of  India  in  1983.     Over  there  it 
circulated  gaily,  too  gaily  indeed,  we 
have   been   told,  for   the   taste   of   a 
Government  apparently  indisposed  to 
allow  the  same  liberty  to  the  English 
as  to  the  Native  Press ;  but  in  Eng- 
land   it    seems   to    be    hardly   if    at 
all    known.       It    has    interested    us, 
and    it    may    interest    our     readers, 
even  in  the  inadequate  form  of  such 
a  summary  as  the  laws  of  space,  and 
our     own    imperfect     powers,     have 
allowed  us  to  give  to  it.     The  author, 
it    will    be    seen    indulges     in     the 
prophetic  vein,  like  The  Spectator.     A 
prophet,  they  say,  has  no  honour  in  his 
own     country,    and     the    prophet    of 
Wellington    Street  does  not  seem   to 
have  won  much  yet.     To  him  it  may 
come  ;  but  not  in  our  time,  nor  in  the 
time  of  our  children  will  honour  come 
to  the  author  of  India  in  1983.  Eighty- 
nine  years   hence !     And    the    other 
prophet  was  content  with  five  days, 
though  he  may  now  perhaps  wish  that 
he  had  slightly  extended  his  margin. 
Our  author,  we  apprehend,  writes  part- 
ly in  a  spirit  of  allegory ;  some  serious 
folk  might  say  in  a  spirit  of  burlesque. 
Possibly  it  may  be  so,  but  the  note  of 
truth  is   sometimes    heard  amid   the 
jangle   of   the    jester's  bells.      These 
things  however  are  not  for  us  to  de- 
cide.    We  leave  that   to  abler  heads 
than   ours,    and    especially   to    those 
generous  young  politicians  who  have 
taken  the  Baboo  under  their  especial 
care.       They     know     him    well,     of 
course,  and  have  studied  him  carefully. 
It  is  for  them  to  say  how  much,  if  any, 
value  there   may  be  in  this  vision  of 
the  time  they  are  so  generously  hasten- 
ing ;    the  time  when,    in    the   grace  - 
ful  words     of    Bladeenath    Laikatal, 


102 


A    Vision  of  India. 


"  lion  shall  lie  down  with  unicorn," 
and  India  shall  once  again  belong  to 
the  Indians. 

In  this  famous  year  of  grace,  then, 
1983,  the  great  Radical  dream  of  a 
century  had  become  fact.  India  for 
the  Indians  was  no  longer  the  cry  of 
a  few  derided  philanthropists,  but  a 
glorious  reality.  A  single  day  had 
sufficed  to  consummate  this  great  act 
of  justice.  Home  Rule  for  Ireland 
was  still  only  within  a  measurable 
distance,  and  a  handful  of  Irish 
patriots  still  wielded  at  will  the  fierce 
democracy  of  the  United  Kingdom. 
Exhausted  by  a  hot  month's  fight 
with  the  gallant  descendants  of  Mr. 
Healy  and  Dr.  Tanner  (who  had 
vastly  improved  on  their  grandsires' 
primitive  methods  of  combat),  the 
House  of  Commons  had  no  energy  left 
for  any  further  discussion,  and  the 
Lords  had  long  since  learned  their 
place  too  well  to  presume  to  discuss 
anything.  Moreover  this  Bill  for  the 
Better  Government  of  India  (such  was 
its  ample  title)  had  been  so  fully  con- 
sidered in  Hyde  Park  and  Trafalgar 
Square,  where  the  great  business 
of  the  nation  was  now  mainly  trans- 
acted, and  the  Perish  India  League 
had  brought  the  necessity,  as  well 
as  the  justice,  of  the  act  so  firmly 
home  to  the  minds  of  the  Great 
Unemployed  (from  whom  Parlia- 
ment now  took  its  cue)  that  there  was 
really  nothing  more  to  be  said  for 
it ;  and  nothing  of  course  was  to  be 
allowed  to  be  said  against  it.  Only 
one  voice,  in  a  thin  and  drowsy  House 
of  just  forty  Members,  was  raised  in 
protest ;  the  voice  of  a  short  ple- 
thoric gentleman  of  an  old-fashioned 
military  appearance,  who  stuttered  out 
some  primeval  foolishness  about  the 
country  going  to  the  dogs,  and  was 
immediately  silenced  by  the  closure. 
One  short  afternoon  therefore  sufficed 
to  confer  the  blessings  of  autonomy 
on  the  people  of  India.  The  suzerainty 
of  the  English  Sovereign  was  indeed 
to  be  maintained  ;  but  that,  as  the 
Minister  in  charge  of  the  Bill  ex- 


plained, need  trouble  no  man.  It  had 
been  maintained  in  the  Transvaal  for 
nearly  a  hundred  years.  No  harm 
had  come  of  it  there :  no  man  indeed 
knew  precisely  what  it  meant ;  and 
no  harm  might  be  trusted  to  come  of 
it  in  India. 

There  was  the  same  agreeable  ab- 
sence of  opposition  among  the  English 
officials  in  India,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  there  were  no  longer  any  in  the 
country.  Under  a  series  of  liberal 
and  philanthropic  Viceroys  the  fetters 
of  English  rule  had  one  by  one  been 
broken.  The  system  of  administra- 
tion known  as  Local  Self -Government, 
introduced  in  the  previous  century, 
had  proved  so  marvellously  successful 
that  the  Englishman's  occupation  was 
gone.  The  entire  public  service  was 
now  in  native  hands.  Officials,  planters, 
traders,  the  white  usurpers  had  either 
removed  themselves,  or  been  sum- 
marily ejected  from  a  land  which 
would  no  longer  suffer  them.  Some 
British  troops  there  still  were  and 
a  Commander-in-Chief ;  there  were 
still  the  Viceroy  and  the  Governors 
of  Bombay  and  Madras.  But  these 
anomalous  survivals  of  the  old  order 
were  only  waiting  the  passing  of  the 
expected  Bill  to  lay  down  the  last 
vestiges  of  a  power  which  had  long 
since  passed  out  of  their  hands.  By 
the  end  of  April  in  that  blessed  year 
of  freedom  1983  India  was  at  last 
after  more  than  two  centuries  of 
English  tyranny  in  very  word  and 
deed  the  proud  possession  of  the 
Indians. 

The  new  system  of  administra- 
tion was  simplicity  itself;  a  pure 
Democratic  Parliament  elected  by 
universal  suffrage.  The  elections  had 
been  proceeding  merrily  during  the 
last  months  of  the  Viceroy's  un- 
honoured  albeit  blameless  existence. 
There  was  not  indeed  much  enthusiasm 
among  the  masses  ;  but  the  canvassers, 
or  khanwassurs  in  the  vernacular,  who 
had  rapidly  attained  to  the  dignity  of 
a  separate  caste,  proved  themselves 
perfect  masters  of  their  business,  and 
with  the  help  of  promises  which  would 


A    Vision  of  India. 


103 


not  have  discredited  an  English  Radical 
soliciting  the  agricultural  vote,  and 
more  material  inducements  in  the 
shape  of  annas,  managed  to  get  the 
artless  ryot  to  the  polls  in  sufficient 
numbers.  There  were  some  trifling 
distu  ?bances  between  Mahomedans  and 
Hindoos,  but  the  former  for  the  most 
part  ield  aloof  in  sullen  indifference  ; 
and  when  the  first  Indian  Parliament 
had  teen  duly  elected,  out  of  its  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  members  no 
less  than  three  hundred  and  sixty 
were  found  to  belong  to  the  great 
BaboD  class,  the  most  intelligent  and 
best  educated  class  in  India,  as  we  all 
kno\v.  There  had  been  some  surprise 
among  the  Mahomedans  at  the  general 
exodus  of  the  Sahibs,  and  many  theories 
to  account  for  it.  But  one  wise  old 
Muss  ulman  explained  that  the  Padishah 
of  Roum  (the  Sultan  of  Turkey)  had 
got  the  King  of  England  prisoner  in 
an  iron  cage  in  the  bazaar  at  Constan- 
tinople, and  that  the  restoration  of 
India  to  Islam  was  the  price  of  the 
Kaffir's  freedom.  And  this  explanation 
was  considered  so  eminently  probable 
and  satisfactory  that  the  sons  of 
Islam  were  content  to  wait  peace- 
fully on  events,  though  not  without 
some  rather  significant  hints  to  their 
Hindoo  neighbours  as  to  the  possible 
cours3  those  events  might  take. 

At  last  the  day  fixed  for  the  meeting 
of  Parliament  dawned  over  Calcutta. 
Then>  had  not  been  time  to  build  a 
fittin  y  House,  and  the  Town  Hall  had 
been  chosen  as  a  temporary  Capitol. 
The  streets  were  filled  with  crowds, 
that  cheered  the  Deputies  as  they 
drov*  up,  and  the  principal  shops  were 
deck*  d  with  flags  and  loyal  mottoes, 
Thy  rrill  be  done,  God  bless  the  Prince 
of  Wt'les,  Good-lye,  dear  Sir,  and  others 
equally  expressive  of  devotion  to  the 
new  <  >rder  of  things.  As  the  President 
of  the  Assembly,  Baboo  Joykissen 
Chunder  Sen,  entered  the  hall  he 
found  every  man  at  his  desk,  whereon 
stood,  with  ink,  pens,  and  paper,  a 
copy  of  Roget's  Thesaurus  of  Words 
and  Phrases.  The  House  had  been 
equally  divided  into  Liberals  and  Con- 


servatives, not  without  some  trouble,, 
for  naturally  no  man  wished  to  be  in 
Opposition.  But  when  the  President 
had  explained  that  an  Opposition  was 
essential  to  government,  and  that  all 
would  in  turn  hold  office  and  enjoy 
the  sweets  of  patronage,  this  little 
difficulty  was  overcome.  The  forma- 
tion of  a  Ministry  was  a  more  serious 
affair  ;  and  it  was  only  on  the  express 
understanding  that  no  Ministry  should 
remain  in  power  for  more  than  a  week, 
that  the  President  had  been  enabled 
to  make  the  following  selection. 

Baboo  Bladeenath  Laikatal,  B.A., 

Minister  of  War. 
Baboo     Rathanath     Mounterjee, 

Under- Secretary  for    War,   and 

Inspector-General  of  Cavalry. 
Baboo    Seegyen  Muchasik,  B.A., 

Minister  of  Marine. 
Baboo    Thumbuldoon  Barrakjee, 

B.A.,  Minister  of  Public  Works. 
Baboo     Littleybhai      Smakerjee, 

M.A.,  Ministtr  of  Education,. 
Baboo  DatsdewehDemunny  Ghose, 

B.A.,  Minister  of  Finance. 
Mr.    Europe    Mookerjee,    C.I.S., 

B.A.,    Minister    of  Things    in 

General. 

The  President  opened  the  proceed- 
ings with  a  speech  of  extraordinary 
volume  and  eloquence. 

Gentlemen,  fellow-countrymen  [he  be- 
gan], shall  I  not  say  fellow-members  of 
Parliament  and  Romans,  lend  me  your 
ears.  This  is  the  proudest  moment  of  my 
vita,  ars  lonya,  vita  brevis,  as  the  poet  says, 
when  I  see  before  me  your  physiognomies 
and  visages  all  full  of  constitutional  trans- 
formation. Indeed  I  am  as  it  were  in  a 
hurly-burly,  and  say  to  myself,  I  am  now 
in  a  more  noble  position  than  Washington 
when  he  urged  his  troops  against  the 
myrmidons  of  Spain,  —than  Cleon  in  the 
Senate  when  he  severely  reprimanded  the 
Jacobins  for  their  crimes, — than  Cicero 
when  he  stirred  up  his  fellow-citizens  to 
make  war  on  the  Carthaginians  ;  all  this 
I  say  is  this  princely  house  and  more, 
sitting  on  its  own  bottom,  and  controlling 
the  Financial,  Judicial,  Revenue,  Secret, 
General,  Political,  Educational,  and  Public 
Works  Departments  of  the  Government 
of  India.  And  now,  is  there  a  man  with 


104 


A    Vision  of  India. 


a  dead  soul  who  has  never  to  himself  said, 
my  foot  is  on  my  native  heath  1  And  when 
I  look  and  see  the  country  where  my 
ancestors  bled,  and  which  they  won  by  the 
sword  [his  father  had  entered  Calcutta 
with  a  single  cocoa-nut,  and  laid  the 
foundation  of  his  fortunes  by  cutting  it 
into  small  pieces  and  selling  it  to  little 
boys],  when  I  see  the  fertile  plains  watered 
by  the  rolling  Ganges,  in  the  middle  of 
which  this  best  Parliament  sits,  then  I 
think  my  bosom  beats  with  patriotic  ex- 
hilaration ;  I  am  proud  of  my  countrymen 
who  have  built  up  this  lofty  fabric  of  con- 
stitutional magnificence,  and  who,  I  think, 
will  continue  to  do  so  pretty  well.  For 
we  are  the  advanced  thinkers,  and  we  show 
things  to  others,  and  nobody  shows  nothing 
to  us.  We  are  the  heirs  of  the  ancient 
wisdom  of  Aryavarta,  we  are  the  sons  of 
the  Bengal  which  has  conquered  India. 
We  are  the  B.A.'s  of  the  Calcutta  Uni- 
versity, superior  to  gentlemen  educated  at 
the  Oxford,  and  if  any  one  try  to  show 
his  better  enlightenment,  or  intelligence, 
or  representative  character,  or  benevolence, 
let  us  say,  "  Pooh,  pooh,  teach  your  grand- 
mother to  lay  eggs."  Let  us  then  go  on 
like  blazes  in  the  course  of  civilisation  and 
progress,  and  guided  by  the  teaching  of 
theology,  psychology,  geology,  physiology, 
doxology,  and  sociology,  and  all  the  other 
sciences  that  the  quidnuncs  boast  of,  we 
can  confront  the  unmitigated  myrmidons 
of  despotism,  and  say  to  the  adversaries 
of  freedom  and  jurisprudence,  "You  be 
blowed  !  "  Let  us  each  and  all  be  Norval 
on  Grampain  hill,  and  rejecting  rhodo- 
'  montade,  hyperbole,  metaphor,  flatulence, 
and  hypercriticism,  make  for  the  goal  of 
our  hopes,  where  to  be  or  not  to  be,  that 
is  the  question.  Let  us  show  our  cui  bono, 
and  hermetically  seal  the  tongues  of  our 
enemies  not  to  be  opened  except  by  vis 
major.  When  I  look  round  on  this  im- 
perial, primeval,  and  financial  assembly, 
I  call  to  mind  the  saying  of  my  dear 
mamma,  "  My  son,  cut  your  cloth  accord- 
ing to  your  coat;>  ;  and  indeed,  dear 
brothers,  if  not,  how  can  do?  Let  us 
purge  our  souls  \vith  hiccup,  so  that  we 
can  see,  and  cut  up  rough  when  the  base 
detractors  of  our  fame  make  libel,  and  say, 
"  This  Bengali  Baboo  no  use,  we  are  the 
superior  people."  So  they  go  on  always 
showing  serpent's  cloven  hoof  and  falsehood 
making,  but  it  is  we  who  have  the  more 
lofty  magnanimity,  we  have  had  the  cul- 
tivated education. 

There  was  a  great  deal   more  in  the 
same  impassioned  strain,  but  this  may 


possibly  suffice  for  a  sample  of  the  elo- 
quence of  one  who  was  acknowledged 
to  be  the  first  orator  in  Bengal. 

When  the  Baboo  had  sat  down,  amid 
loud  cries  of  "  Shabash  (well  done)" 
Datsdeweh  Demunny  Ghose  proceeded 
to  unfold  his  financial  budget.  As 
one  of  its  chief  items  was  the  pay- 
ment of  Members  at  the  rate  of 
Us.  5,000  a  month  while  the  House 
was  sitting,  and  half  that  sum  when 
the  House  was  in  recess,  it  was  natu- 
rally received  with  general  satisfac- 
tion. Only  one  dissentient  voice  was 
heard,  suggesting  that  the  sum  should 
be  Us.  10,000  a  month;  but  it  was 
felt  that  it  would  be  more  prudent  to 
begin  on  the  smaller  scale,  and  the 
original  proposition  was  accordingly 
carried  by  acclamation.  A  large  in 
crease  in  the  machinery  of  govern 
ment  was  next  proposed,  which  would 
greatly  accelerate  legislation,  and 
provide  many  honest  and  worthy  men 
with  suitable  employment.  Some  seven 
thousand  places  were  thus  created  at  a 
stroke,  the  appointments  to  which  were 
to  be  vested  in  the  Members.  To  this 
also  there  was  no  opposition  ;  and  an 
equally  cordial  welcome  was  granted  to 
the  proposal  to  make  special  provision 
for  the  marriages  and  funeral  cere- 
monies of  the  Members  and  their  rela- 
tions. So  liberal  indeed  was  the  Minis- 
ter, and  so  complacent  the  House,  that 
towards  the  close  of  the  afternoon  it 
was  discovered  by  the  Assistant  De- 
puty Secretary  in  the  Financial  De- 
partment that  the  Budget  already 
showed  a  deficit  of  about  eight  crores 
of  rupees.  It  was  felt  that  it  would 
be  impolitic  to  raise  a  loan  so  early  in 
the  session,  and  moreover  it  was  not 
very  clear  to  the  House  whence  the 
loan  was  to  come.  It  was  therefore 
determined  to  cut  down  expenditure 
sternly  in  other  directions.  This 
somewhat  ungracious  duty  devolved 
upon  the  Minister  of  War,  who  ac- 
cordingly delivered  a  long  and  bril- 
liant denunciation  of  standing  armies 
and  the  military  spirit,  which  were, 
he  declared,  as  obsolete  as  Behemoth 
or  the  Shibboleth.  "  I  pronounce,"  he 


A    Vision  of  India. 


105 


concluded,  in  a  glowing  peroration 
which  carried  the  whole  House  with 
him,  "  that  War  is  dead  and  buried, 
and  1  make  epithalamium  over  his 
grave.  God  is  God  of  Peace,  and  I 
will  aid  Him  to  carry  out  His  work  in 
this  Department  with  all  my  power." 
He  then  proceeded  to  give  effect  to 
this  gracious  promise  of  co-operation 
with  the  Supreme  Being  by  disband- 
ing or.e-half  of  the  army,  and  reducing 
the  pay  of  the  other  half  by  fifty  per 
cent.  Having  thus  satisfactorily  ba- 
lanced their  accounts  the  House  rose, 
in  hi£;h  good  humour  with  their  first 
day's  work. 

Bui,  there  were  others  watching 
events  in  a  different  spirit.  The  first 
soldier  in  India,  though  not  the  no- 
minal Commander-in-Chief ,  was  Ahmed 
Shah,  an  Afghan  of  royal  blood,  who 
had  served  through  all  the  ranks  of 
our  old  Indian  army,  and  now  held 
the  important  command  of  the  Bar- 
rackpore  Division  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  Calcutta.  He  had 
his  own  ambitions,  and  cared  not  a 
jot  for  his  nominal  Chief  (an  effete 
old  Hindoo  who  lived  on  his  estates 
near  Lucknow  and  never  gave  a 
thought  to  his  command),  and  even 
less,  :f  possible,  for  the  Minister  of 
War.  But  he  could  afford  to  wait, 
for  ho  knew  well  that  he  would  not 
have  1  o  wait  long.  When  the  scramble 
for  power  came,  as  come  he  knew  it 
soon  vvould  if  only  this  precious  Par- 
liament were  left  to  itself,  the  man 
who  -mild  command  a  compact  and 
discip  ined  body  of  troops  would  be  a 
strong;  force  in  the  game.  So  for  the 
present  he  waited ;  and  his  soldiers 
waited  too,  with  implicit  confidence  in 
their  -:hief,  and  ready  to  go  anywhere 
and  co  anything  with  him  when  he 
gave  the  signal. 

On  the  evening  of  the  first  day  of 
Parliament  the  General  was  sitting 
smoking  in  his  verandah  and  brooding 
over  t  he  future,  when  his  aide-de-camp, 
whom  he  had  sent  into  Calcutta  for 
news,  stood  before  him.  "  What  is  it, 
son  ( f  Mahomed  Ali  1 "  said  the 
General.  "  Has  Scindia  declared  war 


on  Holkar,  or  are  the  Russians  march- 
ing on  Lahore  ?  "  It  was  worse  news 
than  this  that  the  son  of  Mahomed 
Ali  had  to  report.  "Those  sons  of 
burnt  fathers,  may  Allah  confound 
them  !  [it  was  thus  the  irate  Mussul- 
man spoke  of  the  People's  Representa- 
tives] have  passed  a  law  disbanding 
half  the  army,  and  cutting  down  the 
pay  of  the  rest  one-half,  to  spend  the 
money  on  their  own  filthy  and  obscene 
stomachs."  But  Ahmed  Shah  only 
smiled.  "Is  this  true?"  he  said.  "The 
Kaffirs  !  surely  Shaitan  has  blinded 
the  dogs."  Then  he  gave  sundry 
orders  with  the  result  that  within  ten 
minutes  the  whole  staff  of  the  Division 
was  collected  in  the  General's  bunga- 
low. Two  hours  later,  in  the  gather- 
ing night,  the  rumbling  of  guns  and 
artillery-waggons,  the  tramp  of  in- 
fantry and  clatter  of  cavalry  were  heard 
in  Barrackpore.  The  entire  division 
was  marching  straight  on  Calcutta. 

When  the  Baboos  assembled  to  re- 
new their  constitutional  labours  on 
the  following  morning,  they  found 
guns  posted  at  the  corners  of  the 
streets  opening  into  the  Town  Hall, 
and  all  the  neighbouring  squares  and 
lanes  thronged  with  sepoys  smoking 
and  chatting,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  best 
of  tempers.  Their  first  thought  was 
that  this  was  a  spontaneous  act  of 
homage  on  the  part  of  the  army  to 
their  elected  rulers  ;  but  this  pleasing 
illusion  was  soon  dispelled  by  the  be- 
haviour of  the  sepoys  as  they  caught 
sight  of  their  legislators,  which  cer- 
tainly suggested  anything  rather  than 
respect.  It  then  first  dawned  upon 
these  budding  statesmen  that  the  army 
might  object  to  the  rather  summary 
legislation  of  the  previous  day,  and 
might  express  their  objections  after 
some  unconstitutional  fashion ;  and 
as  they  thought  on  these  things  the 
livers  of  the  Elected  of  the  People 
were  turned  to  water  within  them. 
However,  they  took  their  places  with- 
out further  misadventure  and  waited 
anxiously  for  the  President. 

When  that  illustrious  personage 
arrived  (half-an-hour  late  as  befitted 


106 


A   Vision  of  India. 


his  dignity)  he  found  the  General  and 
his  Staff  waiting  for  him  on  the  steps  of 
the  Town-Hall.  Ahmed  Shah  saluted 
the  President  with  most  scrupulous 
politeness  and  informed  him  that  he 
desired,  on  behalf  of  the  army,  to 
confer  with  the  Honourable  House  on 
some  important  matters  of  State. 
The  unfortunate  Baboo  had  scarce 
breath  left  in  his  trembling  body  to 
inform  the  General  of  the  forms  neces- 
sary to  be  observed  by  all  who  would 
petition  the  Government.  But  to 
these  the  soldier  demurred  on  the 
ground  that  his  business  was  urgent, 
and  that  he  had  no  time  for  children's 
talk.  By  this  time  however  the  Presi- 
dent had  managed  to  sidle  up  to  the 
door,  which  was  held  open  from  inside, 
and  watching  his  opportunity  bolted 
like  a  rabbit  into  the  chamber.  The 
door  was  then  hastily  closed  and  fast- 
ened, and  the  General  turned  to  his 
Staff  with  an  ominous  grin  on  his  face. 
Within  the  Hall  all  was  consterna- 
tion. The  House  stared  at  the  Presi- 
dent and  the  President  stared  back 
at  the  House  in  dumb  dismay.  Pre- 
sently a  shot  was  heard,  and  the 
whole  assembly  rose  to  its  feet,  and 
turned  with  one  accord  towards  the 
back-door.  A  chuprassie  was  sent  to 
reconnoitre.  It  was  nothing,  he  re- 
ported ;  only  a  drunken  sepoy  who 
had  discharged  his  piece  by  accident 
and  had  been  straightway  arrested. 
But,  he  added,  the  General  was  on  his 
way  to  demand  admittance  again,  and 
had  given  orders  to  the  artillery  that 
if  he  was  not  inside  the  door  within 
five  minutes  they  were  to  fire.  At  this 
moment  another  shot  rang  out,  and 
almost  immediately  a  sounding  sum- 
mons was  heard  on  the  door.  It  was 
at  once  flung  open  and  General  Ah- 
med Shah  with  his  Staff  advanced  to 
the  centre  of  the  Hall.  He  saluted 
the  President,  looked  round  the  House 
with  an  ironical  semblance  of  respect, 
and  spoke.  The  measures  of  military 
reform  proposed  by  the  Honourable 
House  did  not,  he  grieved  to  say, 
please  the  troops  under  his  command, 
who  had  ventured  to  submit  others  in 


their  stead  which,  he  felt  confident, 
would  be  approved  of.  Their  Excel- 
lencies had  decreed  that  one  half  of 
the  army  should  be  disbanded,  and  the 
pay  of  the  other  be  reduced  by  one 
half.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  had  to 
propose  that  the  army  be  increased  by 
fifty  thousand  men  ;  that  the  pay  of 
all  be  doubled  ;  that  the  number  of 
officers  be  increased  by  one  thousand, 
and  that  they  should  all  receive  pro- 
motion and  added  batta.  If  these 
proposals  were  at  once  carried  into 
law,  the  soldiers  would  remain  faith- 
ful to  their  salt  and  defend  the 
country  loyally  against  all  its  enemies. 
But  if  not,  there  might  be  danger, 
for  the  troops  were  impatient. 

After  some  wrangling  the  General, 
who  continued  to  profess  the  utmost 
respect  for  their  Excellencies,  agreed 
to  withdraw,  while  the  House  proceeded 
to  consider  the  proposal  submitted  to 
them.  But  he  insisted  on  taking 
hostages  with  him,  and  he  warned  the 
House  that  there  had  best  be  no  delay. 
"  Justice,"  he  said,  "  must  be  done, 
and  at  once."  These  humiliating  terms 
were  agreed  to ;  the  soldiers  clanked 
out  of  the  Hall,  and  the  trembling 
senators  were  left  to  themselves. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  there 
was  no  long  debate.  The  Minister  of 
War  proposed  an  adjournment  for  a 
fortnight,  but  that,  the  President 
pointed  out  to  be  impossible,  with  the 
troops  outside  and  the  General  wait- 
ing for  instant  decision.  Eventually 
it  was  proposed  to  adjourn  to  the  next 
morning,  and  this  was  unanimously 
agreed  to.  "  Very  well,"  said  the 
President.  "To-morrow  we  will  meet 
and  confront  the  danger,  and,  if 
necessary,  die  at  our  posts.  You  will 
all  come  to-morrow,"  he  added  doubt- 
fully, as  the  House  made  a  simultane- 
ous movement  towards  the  back-door. 
"  Yes,  yes,"  they  all  shouted  with  one 
voice.  "  To-morrow,  to-morrow  we 
will  all  meet  and  die  at  our  posts." 
And  the  next  moment  the  President 
was  left  alone.  He  sent  a  hasty  mes- 
sage to  the  General,  glanced  at  the 
few  reports  submitted  to  the  House, — 


A    Vision  of  India. 


107 


to  the  effect  that  Scindia  was  massing 
his  troops  on  the  frontier,  that  the 
Afghars  had  looted  Peshawur,  and 
other  such  cheerful  intelligence — and 
then  the  back  door  claimed  him  too 
for  its  own.  The  soldiers  stayed  at 
their  posts  all  night,  being  well  sup- 
plied with  food  by  the  trembling 
citizens . 

Punctual  to  the  moment  the  Presi- 
dent arrived  next  morning  at  the 
Town-Hall.  On  his  way  there  he  was 
more  than  once  tempted  to  turn  his 
four-in  hand  round,  drive  off  into 
space,  ;md  leave  India  to  take  care  of 
itself.  But  he  was  slightly  comforted 
by  noticing  a  man  in  the  street 
salaam  to  him,  and  duty,  he  reflected, 
"Duty  .that  stern  voice  of  the  daughter 
of  God  which  makes  mare  to  go,  duty 
shall  enhance  my  meritorious  respon- 
sibility and  make  things  all  square." 
So  he  saluted  the  General  (who,  he 
observed  with  a  shiver,  was  on  horse- 
back at  the  head  of  his  men,  every 
bayonet  fixed  and  every  gun  pointing 
to  the  hapless  Chamber,)  and  entered 
the  building. 

What  a  sight  met  his  eyes  !  The 
Hall  was  empty  save  for  the  chu- 
prassie ;  but  on  the  President's  table 
was  a  heap  of  official  envelopes  of  all 
sizes  and  shapes.  "There  are  three 
hundred  and  sixty  letters,"  said  the 
man  w  th  a  grin.  Three  hundred  and 
sixty !  The  exact  number  of  the 
House  less  the  hostages.  "With  a 
trembling  hand  he  took  a  letter  from 
the  heap,  feeling  only  too  sadly  certain 
what  le  was  to  read.  It  was  from 
the  member  for  Mozufferpore  and  ran 
as  follows. 

SIR,- -I  have  the  honour  to  bring  to 
your  n<  tice  the  following  facts,  hoping  that 
they  wi  11  meet  with  your  favourable  con- 
sideration,  and  I  shall,  as  in  duty  bound, 
ever  pray.  Your  Honour  is  well  aware 
that  Ism  poor  man  with  large  family,  and 
that  plenty  marriages,  according  to  our 
custom,  take  place.  My  little  brother  is 
about  10  be  matrimonially  inclined,  and 
no  one  jan  consummate  his  marriage  but 
myself.  I  therefore  beg  your  Honour's 
kind  permission  for  three  months'  leave 
on  full  pay,  to  which  I  am  justly  entitled 


by  my  long  service  to  the  State.  I  also 
pray  for  advance  of  Rs.  2,000,  under  kind 
resolution  of  yesterday's  date,  to  be  debited 
to  No.  2  Sub-head,  Civil  Contingencies,  &c., 
&c.  I  have,  in  anticipation  of  your  sanc- 
tion, which  may  kindly  be  sent  by  post, 
left  Calcutta  and  proceeded  to  my  native 
village.  I,  therefore,  shall  be  unable, 
under  the  kind  terms  of  your  demi-official 
order  of  yesterday,  to  die  at  my  post  on 
the  date  assigned,  but  when  I  return  after 
three  months'  leave,  the  matter  shall  re- 
ceive my  earliest  attention.  I  have  the 
honour  to  be,  Sir,  your  most  obedient 
servant,— RUNEVE  FUNKERJEE  LEEVA 
PAL,  B.A. 

The  next  was  from  the  Minister  of 
Public  Works  : 

HONOURABLE  SIR, — With  reference  to 
your  Honour's  order,  dated  21st  April, 
1983  (without  number)  directing  me  to 
die  at  my  post,  I  have  the  honour  to  in- 
form you  that  I  am  suffering  from  boils  in 
the  hinder  parts  which  disqualifies  me 
from  any  public  duty.  I  append  a  medical 
certificate,  showing  that  I  am  unfit  at 
present  to  die  at  my  post.  I  therefore 
request  that  six  months'  leave  on  full  pay 
may  be  granted  to  me,  and  that  pay  in 
advance  (which  is  admissible  under  the 
Code)  may  be  given  me.  The  money  may 
kindly  be  payable  to  bearer  who  is  near 
Parliament  House,  (round  the  corner, 
chuprassie  will  show  him,)  who  is  trust- 
worthy man  of  a  first  family,  but  please 
give  so  that  bloodthirsty  sepoys  not  see. 
I  have,  &c.,  THUMBULDOON  BARAKJEE, 
L.C.E.B.A.  and  M.I.I.C.E. 

He  opened  another  and  another  and 
read  the  same  story  in  each.  But  the 
unkindest  cut  of  all  came  from  his 
own  familiar  friend,  the  Minister  of 
Marine,  his  companion  at  the  Uni- 
versity, and  in  those  painful  studies 
in  equitation  once  thought  necessary 
for  the  Government  service.  This  is 
how  that  faithless  Pythias  wrote  to 
his  deserted  Damon. 

HONOURED  PRESIDENT, — It  is  with  the 
deepest  grief  and  consternation  that  I  take 
up  my  penna  to  inform  you  that  my  beloved 
spouse  has  gone  to  Davy  Jones  last  night 
at  9.30  p.m.,  Madras  time.  The  life  of 
man  has  been  officially  declared  to  be 
fifty-five  years,  but  hers  was  a  non-regu- 
lation death,  for  she  kicked  the  bucket  at 
the  early  age  of  twenty-seven.  Sine  ilia 


108 


A    Vision  of  India. 


lacrimce.  So  I  cannot  leave  my  home, 
and  I  deeply  regret  that  I  must  apply  for 
leave  on  full  pay  for  some  months  to 
manage  my  household  affairs.  For  how 
can  do?  My  little  daughter  aged  three 
months  is  too  young  and  tender,  nor  has 
she  the  ready-money  down,  rupee,  sover- 
eigns, gold  mohurs,  or  what-not  to  make 
both  ends  of  my  grandmother  meet.  There- 
fore, dear  Cock,  how  can  I  be  with  you  to 
die  at  my  post  ?  On  the  expiration  of  my 
leave,  if  it  be  not  necessary  to  take  an 
extension,  then  I  will  return  and  die  at 
my  post  with  you,  dear  chap,  good-bye,  my 
dear.  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir,  your 
most  obedient  servant,  SEEGYEN  MUCHASIK, 
B.A. 

Another  and  another  and  still  the 
same,  till  the  wretched  President  laid 
his  head  on  his  arms  and  fairly  wept. 
Suddenly  a  trampling  of  feet  was 
heard  in  the  square,  and  the  chuprassie 
came  flying  in  to  announce  the  ap- 
proach of  the  General  Sahib  and  his 
army.  The  President  rose  to  his  feet, 

"Tell  the  Gen "  he  began,  when 

a  shot  was  fired,  and  dropping  his 
robes,  he  made  incontinently  for  the 
back-door.  Then  a  sudden  sense  of 
shame  seized  him.  Should  he  imitate 
his  cowardly  colleagues?  Should  he 
not  rather,  alone  as  he  was  among  a 
million  enemies,  stay  and  die  at  his 

?      Another    shot,    and    then   a 

blank  cartridge  from  a  gun  !  Again 
he  started  to  fly,  and  again  he  paused. 
Gathering  his  gown  around  him  he 
turned  to  the  chuprassie.  "  Give  my 
orders  to  the  General  Sahib,"  he  began, 

"  that  he  should  at  once "  but  the 

valiant    speech    was    never    finished. 


Another  blank  cartridge  was  followed 
by  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door.  It 
was  too  much.  When  General  Ahmed 
Shah  burst  into  the  Hall,  it  was  empty 
save  for  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
seats,  desks,  and  inkstands,  and  an 
equal  number  of  Rogeb's  TJiesaurus  of 
Words  and  Phrases.  The  first  and  last 
Parliament  of  India  had  done  its 
work. 

And  then,  redeunt  Saturnia  regna. 

She  comes,  she  comes,  the  sable  throne 

behold 
Of  Night  primeval  and  of  Chaos  old  ! 

The  golden  years  return,  the  years 
before  the  white  Sahibs  had  set  their 
accursed  yoke  on  the  land,  and  India 
belonged  in  very  deed  to  her  own 
people.  Space  fails  us  to  tell  how 
they  celebrated  their  freedom :  how 
Scindia  warred  with  Holkar  and  the 
Rajpoot  princes  with  each  other  ;  how 
the  Nizam  wasted  Mysore  and  the 
Mahrattas  burned  Bombay ;  how  the 
Chinese  overran  Nepaul  and  the  Rus- 
sians and  Afghans  harried  the  Pun- 
jaub,  sacked  Lahore,  and  marched  on 
Delhi,  where  Ahmed  Shah  (who  had 
promptly  strangled  the  old  Com- 
mander-in-Chief)  had  installed  himself 
as  Emperor.  But  it  is  needless.  The 
Eastern  temperament  is  intensely  con- 
servative, and  any  history  of  India 
before  the  days  of  the  English  rule 
will  supply  the  necessary  knowledge. 

Thy  hand,  great  Anarch,  lets  the  curtain 
And  universal  darkness  buries  all ! 


109 


THE   BEGINNINGS   OF   THE   BRITISH    ARMY. 


K — THE    INFANTRY. 


THI  British  infantry  soldier  is  a 
persor  of  whom  the  British  public, 
since  it  has  read  Mr.  Kipling's  stories, 
flatters  itself  that  it  has  a  certain 
knowledge  and  even  a  certain  admira- 
tion. How  deep  this  knowledge  and 
how  eincere  this  admiration  may  be, 
is  another  question  ;  but  both,  at  any 
rate,  are  something  quite  new,  the 
domirant  feeling  of  the  British  people 
towards  its  soldiers  having  hitherto 
been  one  of  intense  jealousy  and  dis- 
like. Folks  are  not  always  quite  con- 
scious of  the  fact ;  but  there  it  re- 
mains, and  one  proof  thereof,  which 
is  always  present  to  us,  is  the  circum- 
stanco  that  officers  are  never  seen  in 
uniform  when  off  duty.  The  practice 
has  boen  not  unreasonably  condemned 
as  an  anomaly  at  once  absurd  and 
discreditable  ;  but  those  who  blame  it 
ignoro  the  fact  that  it  originally  came 
from  a  desire  to  spare  a  susceptible 
public  the  sight  of  too  many  proofs 
of  a  standing  army.  And  so  in  time 
the  officer's  uniform  grew  to  be  re- 
garded as  something  of  a  fancy  dress, 
to  b(  paraded  on  certain  occasions 
for  the  satisfaction  of  the  tax-payer, 
who  'ondly  imagines  that  it  is  worn 
at  hi -s  (and  not  at  the  unfortunate 
officei  's)  charges ;  until  finally  it  has 
become  so  extremely  ornamental  that 
(as  w.is  pathetically  observed  the  other 
day  by  a  distinguished  soldier  in  the 
Hous )  of  Commons)  it  is  impossible 
to  stew  away  in  it  so  much  even  as  a 
-cigarette  or  a  pockethandkerchief. 
Similarly  the  men's  uniforms  are 
treat(  d  not  as  the  honourable  badge 
of  a  noble  profession,  but  as  a  mere 
masquerading  suit,  wherewith  any 
man  :nay  drape  his  own  limbs,  or  the 
limbs  of  another  man,  or  indeed  any- 
thing For  we  are  a  commercial 
natio:i,  and  the  uniform  that  has 


struck  terror  into  foreign  warriors 
may  profitably  strike  terror  into 
native  crows.  Moreover  we  are  a  free 
nation,  and  to  prevent  a  man  of  peace 
from  arraying  himself  in  the  dress  of 
a  fighting  man,  with  medals,  orders, 
and  crosses  complete,  is  an  unwarrant- 
able interference  with  the  liberty  of 
the  subject.  Whence  did  this  jealousy 
of  the  British  soldier  arise  ?  Primarily, 
beyond  all  question,  from  the  tradi- 
tional and  almost  hereditary  horror  of 
the  military  despotism  under  which 
England  once  groaned  for  a  few  short 
years.  In  spite  of  Carlyle  and  Mr. 
Frederick  Harrison,  the  nation  still 
shudders  at  the  thought  of  Cromwell. 
There  is  much  in  the  man  which  it  is 
ready  to  admire,  much  that  it  is  will- 
ing to  condone  ;  but  there  is  one  thing 
that  it  cannot  and  will  not  forgive 
him,  and  that  is,  the  creation  of  the 
British  soldier  and  the  British  army. 

For  the  British  soldier,  the  dis- 
ciplined fighting  man  in  the  red  coat, 
dates  from  the  Civil  War;  and  the 
first  British  army  was  the  New  Model 
Army  organised  under  the  ordinance 
of  the  15th  of  February  1644-5.  On 
that  day,  we  may  fairly  affirm,  was 
born  the  individual  whom  it  is  the 
fashion  to  call  Thomas  Atkins ;  who, 
to  say  the  least  of  him,  has  carried 
death  and  his  national  peculiarities 
into  more  lands  than  ever  soldier  in 
the  history  of  the  world.  His  first 
task  was  to  found  the  unity  of  the 
three  kingdoms  on  the  supremacy  of 
England  ;  his  next  to  build  up,  with 
his  brother  the  Blue-jacket,  the  British 
Empire.  We  know  something  of  the 
man  as  he  stands  before  us  to-day  at 
St.  James's,  with  his  magazine-rifle 
and  dagger-bayonet ;  we  can  mark  his 
buttons,  his  plume,  his  facings,  or 
some  other  distinction,  assert  with 


110 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


confidence  that  he  belongs  to  such  and 
such  a  regiment,  and  pass  on  as  a 
matter  of  course.  But  what  manner 
of  man  he  was  in  the  year  1645,  and 
how  he  was  made  and  trained,  is  not 
so  clear.  This  is  the  matter  on  which 
we  seek  to  throw  a  little  light. 

Were  a  civilian  to  be  set  the  task  of 
training  and  making  soldiers  nowadays 
he  could  purchase  for  a  few  shillings 
at  any  bookseller's  shop  a  drill-book 
which  would  lay  his  duties  plainly 
before  him.  Had  the  citizen  soldiers 
of  the  Civil  War  any  such  text-books  ? 
Assuredly  they  had;  bulky  folio 
volumes,  sometimes  of  several  hundred 
pages,  such  as  Ward's  Animadver- 
sions of  Warre  (1632),  Bingham's 
Tactics  (1616),  as  well  as  one  or  two 
others  which,  though  known  to  us  by 
name,  are  not  to  be  found  even  in  the 
British  Museum.  For  the  first  half 
of  the  seventeenth  century  was  for  a 
variety  of  reasons  rather  prolific  in 
military  writings.  Englishmen  were 
serving  abroad  by  thousands  in  the 
religious  wars  on  the  Continent,  and 
had  set  up  as  models  for  English  as- 
pirants to  military  fame  their  two 
most  brilliant  captains,  Maurice  of 
Nassau  and  Gustavus  Adolphus  of 
Sweden.  But  if  we  seek  for  the 
authorities  to  which  these  in  their 
turn  resorted  for  instruction,  we  find 
that  Maurice's  favourite  was  ^Elian, 
who  wrote  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor 
Hadrian.  Bingham's  Tactics  is  simply 
a  translation  of  the  Tactics  of  ^Elian ; 
and  in  a  word,  the  drill-book  of  the 
armies  of  Europe  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  including  the  New  Model 
Army,  was  the  drill-book  of  the  Roman 
legions,  which  in  its  turn  was  borrowed 
mainly  from  classical  Greece.  Prob- 
ably few  infantry  officers  are  aware 
that  when  they  give  the  word  "  Fours" 
their  men  still  execute  the  order  in 
the  manner  prescribed  by  the  marti- 
nets of  Sparta.  So,  too,  in  the  drill- 
books  of  the  seventeenth  century  the 
examples  adduced  for  illustration  of 
strategical  and  tactical  principles  are 
those  of  Alexander,  Epaminondas,  and 
Metellus ;  and  Xenophon's  Hippar- 


chicus  is  quoted  as  authoritative  in  the 
matter  of  cavalry  manoeuvre.  It  seems 
difficult  at  first  sight  to  bridge  over 
the  gulf  thus  opened  between  the  first 
British  army  and  the  present,  but 
none  the  less  we  are  able  to  do  so. 
Officers  could  not  lug  these  huge  folios 
about  in  service  with  them,  so  they 
made  abridgments  of  them  in  manu- 
script for  their  own  use ;  and  finally 
one  such  abridgment  was  printed  and 
published  by  a  certain  captain,  in  such 
form  and  compass  as  that  "it  could 
be  worn  in  the  pocket," — a  soldier's 
pocket-book  for  field-service,  two  cen- 
turies before  the  appearance  of  Lord 
Wolseley. 

Having  therefore  furnished  our 
officer  of  the  seventeenth  century 
with  his  drill-book,  let  us  see  what 
manner  of  instruction  he  had  to  im- 
part. And  let  us  first  premise  that 
we  can  speak  of  no  officer  of  higher 
rank  than  a  captain,  and  of  no  unit 
larger  than  a  company,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  the  regiment  as  we  now 
understand  the  term,  was  only  in  its 
infancy.  In  the  seventeenth  century 
a  regiment  was  simply  an  agglomera- 
tion of  companies  bearing  the  colours 
of  one  colonel ;  it  might  include  thirty 
companies,  or  it  might  number  no 
more  than  four.  So,  too,  a  company 
might  muster  three  hundred  men  or 
no  more  than  sixty.  Gustavus  Adol- 
phus first  made  the  regiment  a  regular 
establishment  of  eight  companies,  of 
one  hundred  and  twenty-six  men  each  ; 
and  it  was  the  ordinance  of  1645  which 
finally  fixed  an  English  regiment  at 
ten  companies  of  one  hundred  and 
twenty  men.  As  to  battalion  or  regi- 
mental drill,  not  a  trace  of  it  is  to  be 
found  in  any  contemporary  text-book. 
The  captain  and  his  company  are  their 
theme,  and  must  also  be  ours. 

Now  the  captain,  when  by  threats 
or  by  blandishment,  and  the  offer  of 
eightpence  per-  diem  (equivalent  to  at 
least  five  times  that  sum  at  the  pres- 
ent day),  he  had  got  his  hundred  and 
twenty  men  together,  had  rather  a 
heavy  task  before  him.  For  the  com- 
pany itself  was  compounded  in  equal 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


Ill 


parts  of  men  totally  distinct  in  wea- 
pons and  equipment,  namely  pikemen 
and  musketeers,  or,  as  they  were 
called,  Pikes  and  Shot,  which  na- 
turally required  an  equally  distinct 
training.  All,  of  course,  had  to  be 
taught  the  difference  between  their 
right  foot  and  their  left,  a  sufficiently 
diffic  lit  matter  as  our  authorities 
assure  us,  though  the  equal  step  was 
not  vet  invented  ;  but  this  was  child's 
play  to  the  handling  of  the  weapons. 

Tie  arms  and  equipment  of  the 
musketeer  consisted  of  a  musket 
with  a  rest  from  which  to  discharge 
it,  a  bandoleer  with  fifteen  or  sixteen 
charges  of  powder,  and  a  leathern 
bullet-bag  ;  and  lastly  a  rapier.  The 
musket-rest,  of  course,  had  an  iron  fork 
at  ils  head,  and  an  iron  spike  at  the 
butt  whereby  to  fix  it  into  the  ground. 
Defensive  armour  the  musketeer  had 
none.  The  instructions  for  the  use  of 
the  musket  are  very  full,  very  minute, 
and  very  voluminous ;  as  may  be 
judged  from  the  fact  that  they  in- 
<3lud<;  from  fifty  to  sixty  distinct  words 
of  command.  And  all  these,  it  must 
be  n^ted,  were  requisite  for  firing- ex- 
ercise only,  the  musket  being  by  no 
means  a  parade-weapon.  The  business 
of  loading  was  extremely  long  and 
com]  >licated,  and  every  motion  was 
regulated  to  the  minutest  detail.  Such 
a  command,  for  instance,  as  "  Blow 
off  your  loose  corns/'  sounds  rather 
stra:  ige  in  our  ears,  more  particularly 
whe  i  we  learn  that  the  order  was  to 
be  <  arried  out  on  some  occasions  by 
"  a  puff  or  two,"  and  on  others  by  "  a 
sudc  en  strong  blast."  But  setting 
theso  refinements  aside,  the  command 
had  a  real  meaning  and  value,  to 
clear  off  any  loose  grains  of  powder 
that  might  remain  round  the  pan 
after  it  had  been  filled,  lest  when  the 
musketeer  was  blowing  on  his  match 
to  n  ake  it  burn  up  (another  distinct 
motion  of  the  firing-exercise)  these 
"  loc  se  corns  "  might  be  kindled  by  a 
spari  and  bring  about  a  premature 
expl  )sion.  A  still  more  mysterious 
wore  is  the  contemporary  French 
"  Fr;  ,ppez  la  baguette  centre  Testomac," 


which  on  examination  turns  out  to 
mean  no  more  than  the  orthodox 
method  whereby  a  man  should  shorten 
his  hold  of  his  loading-rod.  Supposing, 
however,  that  a  man  had  duly  loaded 
his  piece,  according  to  regulation,  and 
on  the  word  "  Give  fire,"  had  "  gently 
pressed  the  trigger  without  starting 
or  winking,"  there  was  still  no  cer- 
tainty that  the  musket  would  be  dis- 
charged ;  and  the  men  had  therefore 
to  be  taught  to  keep  the  muzzles  well 
up  while  removing  their  rests  and 
going  through  the  other  motions  sub- 
sequent to  firing,  lest  they  should  shoot 
their  comrades.  In  action  the  fifty 
or  sixty  words  of  command  were  per- 
force reduced  to  the  three  which,  in 
abbreviated  form,  survive  to  this  day 
—"Make  ready,"  "Present,"  "Give 
fire ! "  for  as  Ward  very  justly  ob- 
serves, "  Should  a  commander  nomin- 
ate all  the  postures  in  time  of  service, 
he  would  have  no  breath  to  oppose 
his  enemy."  On  the  march  the  mus- 
keteer carried  his  musket  over  his 
left  shoulder  and  his  rest  in  his  right 
hand,  using  the  latter  as  a  walking- 
stick,  his  match  (a  skein  of  tinder 
cord)  hanging  in  a  loop  between  the 
fingers  of  the  left  hand,  with  both 
ends,  if  action  were  expected,  alight 
and  smouldering.  And  in  this  atti- 
tude he  may  still  be  seen  in  old 
prints,  in  short  doublet  and  breeches 
of  astonishing  volume. 

The  pikeman's  equipment  was  very 
different.  He  was  covered  with  de- 
fensive armour,  an  iron  head-piece, 
iron  "  back  and  breast,"  and  "  tasses," 
a  kind  of  iron  apron  protecting  him 
from  waist  to  knee.  He  carried  a  pike 
sixteen  feet  long,  with  an  ashen  shaft, 
an  iron  head,  and  a  blunt  iron  spike 
at  the  butt-end,  whereby  to  fix  it  in 
the  ground;  and,  besides  the  pike,  a 
rapier.  The  pike  from  its  great 
length  was  a  weapon  which  required 
deft  handling  in  order  to  be  of  effec- 
tive use,  and,  as  may  be  imagined, 
was  excessively  showy  on  parade.  The 
modern  lance-exercise  is  a  pretty  sight 
enough,  but  the  old  pike-exercise,  per- 
fectly executed  by  a  large  body  of 


112 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army 


men,  must  have  been  superb.  We  are 
not  surprised  therefore  to  find  that 
the  postures,  or  instructions,  for  this 
exercise  are  extravagantly  minute. 
To  give  one  example ;  at  the  close  of 
the  instruction  on  the  word  "  Order 
your  pikes,"  we  find  after  a  mass  of 
complicated  details,  the  following  con- 
clusion :  "  You  place  the  butt  end  of 
your  pike  by  the  outside  of  your  right 
foot,  your  right  hand  holding  it  even 
with  your  eye,  and  your  thumb  right 
up ;  then,  your  left  arm  being  set 
akimbo  by  your  side,  you  shall  stand 
with  a  full  body  in  a  comely  posture." 
And  this,  as  hundreds  of  old  prints 
still  bear  witness,  was  the  typical 
attitude  of  the  pikeman ;  standing 
with  a  full  body  in  a  comely  posture, 
a  sight  for  gods  and  men  and  nursery- 
maids. For,  as  another  authority  tells 
us,  "A  posture  is  a  mode  or  garb  that 
we  are  fixed  unto  in  the  well  handling 
of  our  arms ;  in  which  there  are 
motions  attendant  unto  the  same  for 
the  better  grace."  The  pike-exercise 
has  an  historical  interest,  for  that  its 
words  of  command,  "  Advance,"  "  Or- 
der," "Trail,"  and  so  forth,  still  sur- 
vive in  the  modern  manual  exercise ; 
but  it  has  a  still  greater  interest  for 
that  it  shows  us  how.  from  the  first, 
appeal  was  made  to  the  darling  weak- 
ness of  the  British  soldier,  to  his 
vanity.  The  word  "  smart  "  was  not 
invented  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
but  "  handsome  "  and  "comely"  made 
admirable  substitutes.  Time  is  pro- 
lific ;  and  to  that  appeal  to  the  comely 
posture  we  must  trace  the  ridiculous 
little  curls,  which  the  modern  British 
soldier  (by  the  conversion  of  one 
cleaning-rod  per  company  into  a  curl- 
ing-iron) contrives  to  train  above  the 
rim  of  his  forage-cap. 

It  will  be  seen  on  reflection  that  in 
these  composite  companies  of  infantry, 
one-half,  the  Pikes,  were  equipped  for 
the  defensive,  and  the  other  half,  the 
Shot,  for  the  offensive.  The  weight 
of  their  armour  made  the  Pikes  very 
slow  and  cumbrous  to  move,  while  the 
nature  of  their  weapons  made  them 
comparatively  ineffective  except  when 


acting  in  large  masses.  The  Shot,  on 
the  other  hand,  were  unencumbered 
and  could  work  in  dispersed  order. 
Shot  without  Pikes,  and  Pikes  with- 
out Shot,  were  therefore  alike  at  great 
disadvantage  when  threatened  by 
cavalry ;  for  the  Shot  had  no  defence 
against  horsemen  when  their  muskets 
were  once  discharged,  for  loading  was 
a  matter  of  time;  and  pikemen, 
though  cavalry  might  not  care  to 
face  them  bristling  in  square,  could 
be  comfortably  shot  down  by  a 
horseman's  pistols  at  a  range  little 
exceeding  the  length  of  their  pikes. 
The  bayonet,  by  converting  at  a 
stroke  every  man  into  a  combined 
musketeer  and  pikeman,  made  a 
revolution  in  infantry  drill  and 
tactics ;  but  it  was  not  introduced 
into  England  until  a  quarter  of  a 
century  after  the  Civil  War.  Pikes 
and  Shot  were  therefore  inseparable 
at  the  time  whereof  we  write;  and 
this  principle  governed  the  whole  of 
their  movements. 

The  accepted  traditions  of  the 
British  Army  are  of  a  thin  red  line 
of  two  ranks  of  men  shoulder  to 
shoulder ;  but  no  such  thing  was 
known  in  its  early  days.  Infantry 
in  Cromwell's  day  was  drawn  up  ten 
ranks  instead  of  two  ranks  deep,  and 
the  men  were  generally  six  feet  and 
never  less  than  three  feet  apart  from 
each  other,  whether  from  right  to 
left,  or  from  front  to  rear.  This  was 
due  partly  to  the  cumbrousness  of  the 
weapons,  which  required  a  deal  of 
elbow-room ;  partly  to  the  necessity 
of  space  demanded  for  the  "doubling 
of  files,"  that  is  to  say,  the  process  by 
which  in  these  days  the  two  ranks 
are  converted  into  four ;  and  the 
converse  "doubling  of  ranks,"  the 
reconversion  of  four  ranks  into  two. 
It  is  expressly  laid  down  that  the 
men  are  not  to  be  taught  to  close  up 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  for,  as  Bingham 
mournfully  says,  "  when  necessity 
shall  require  it,  they  will  close  them- 
selves but  too  much  of  their  own 
accord  without  command."  Any  one 
who  knows  the  extraordinary  difficulty 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


113 


of  making  men  keep  their  distances 
accurately  will  understand  the  trials 
to  which  the  instructors  of  those  days 
were  subjected.  And  let  it  be  re- 
membered that  all  profane  swearing 
met  vrith  immediate  punishment. 

When  the  men  had  mastered  the 
elements  of  their  business  the  captain 
was  loft  with  the  task  of  handling  his 
company  to  the  best  advantage,  a 
sufficiently  difficult  matter.  For  it 
was  important  not  to  jumble  the 
Pikes  and  the  Shot,  it  was  vital  not 
to  separate  them  too  far,  and  it  must 
have  been  only  too  easy  to  get  the 
whole  into  hopeless  confusion.  The 
rule  was,  on  parade  as  in  the  field, 
to  mass  the  Pikes  in  the  centre,  and 
put  half  of  the  musketeers  on  each 
flank  both  alike  in  ranks  ten  deep. 
An  infantry  attack  was  generally 
opened  by  an  advance  of  musketeers 
from  each  flank,  two  ranks  at  a  time ; 
the  first  rank  fired  and  filed  off  to  the 
rear,  the  second  rank  took  their  place 
and  did  likewise;  then  two  more 
ranks  moved  up  to  take  their  place  in 
turn,  and  so  on  ad  infinitum.  Mean- 
while the  main  body  of  Pikes  was 
slowly  but  steadily  advancing,  and 
the  musketeers,  as  the  enemy  came 
closer,  gradually  dropped  back,  still 
firing,  till  they  were  aligned  with  the 
centre  of  the  column  of  Pikes.  If 
neither  side  gave  way,  matters  came 
to  "  push  of  pike,"  as  the  contem- 
porary phrase  ran, — sure  sign  of  a 
stubborn  fight — and  ultimately  to  a 
charge,  in  which  the  musketeers  fell 
on  w;th  the  butt,  using  the  musket  as 
a  club.  In  this  latter  accomplishment 
the  British  soldier  seems  to  have 
excelled  particularly. 

W  len  threatened  by  cavalry  the 
musketeers  fired  under  the  shelter  of 
the  Pikes  ;  but  to  get  them  safely  and 
orderly  among  them,  and  so  to  distri- 
bute chem  as  to  use  their  fire  to  the  best 
advantage,  was  a  difficult  manoauvre. 
Plans  and  dispositions  for  meeting  the 
attack  of  cavalry  are  abundant  and 
ingenious  enough;  indeed  in  one 
French  drill-book  (Le  Mareschal  de 
e,  1647),  wherein  pikemen  are 

No.  416. — VOL.  LXX. 


designated  by  red  dots  and  musketeers 
by  black,  the  plans  resemble  beautiful 
designs  for  a  tesselated  pavement ;  but 
none  the  less,  in  spite  of  all  elaboration, 
the  musketeers  seem  generally  to  have 
bolted  in  among  the  Pikes  as  best  they 
could.  The  manoeuvres  were  so  com- 
plicated that  often  it  was  impossible  to 
get  the  men  to  return  to  one  front 
except  by  the  words  "  Face  to  your 
leader,"  l  which  rather  reminds  one  of 
Marry  at' s  nigger-sergeant,  "  Face  to 
mountain,  back  to  sea-beach,''  And 
yet  when  skilfully  handled,  how  mag- 
nificently these  men  could  fight !  Take 
the  one  solitary  body  on  the  King's 
side  at  Naseby,  which,  when  the  whole 
of  the  rest  of  the  army  was  in  full 
flight,  stood  like  a  rock  (to  use  Hush- 
worth's  words)  and  would  not  move 
an  inch.  This  tertia  could  not  have 
been  above  three  hundred  strong ; 
but  it  was  not  until  Fairfax  had 
ordered  a  strong  troop  of  cavalry  to 
attack  it  in  front,  a  regiment  of  foot 
to  take  it  in  rear,  and  another  detach- 
ment of  infantry  to  assail  it  in  flank, 
that  at  last  it  was  broken  and  dis- 
persed. There  is  no  finer  example  of 
the  "  unconquerable  British  infantry," 
which  Napier  has  so  eloquently  cele- 
brated. 

For  the  rest  the  British  soldier  of 
that  epoch  had  more  in  common  with 
his  brother  of  to-day  than  is  generally 
supposed.  Of  course  the  prevalence 
of  religious  fanaticism  gave  occasion 
for  serious  mutiny  at  times  ;  for 
though  the  union  of  the  religious 
with  the  military  conscience  is  irre- 
sistible, yet  the  conflict  of  the  two 
means  death  to  military  discipline. 
There  was  only  one  remedy  for  such 
mutiny,  and  that  was  unflinchingly 
applied.  How  troublesome  this 
fanaticism  was  in  other  slighter  ways 
may  be  gathered  from  the  following 
description  of  a  little  riot  that  took 
place  in  the  City  on  Sunday,  October 
16th,  1653.  "  An  anabaptistical  sol- 
dier was  preaching  at  a  little  place  in 
St.  Paul's  Church-yard.  The  boys 

1  Cf.  the  Adjutant  of  the  Scots  Greys  at 
Balaclava,  "  Rally,  the  Greys.  Face  me  !  " 

I 


114 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


[apprentices]  congregated,  and  by 
their  throwing  of  stones  gave  interrup- 
tion to  the  speaker  and  his  audience; 
who  being  assisted  by  the  soldiers 
routed  the  boys.  Some  heads  were 
broken  and  so  much  noise  made  that 
the  mayor  and  sheriffs  not  being  far 
from  thence  at  church  marched  thither. 
The  soldiers  desired  satisfaction  of  .the 
'prentices.  'Twas  made  answer, 
'  'Twas  an  unlawful  assembly ' ;  and 
the  sheriff  said  he  knew  not  by  what 
authority  soldiers  should  preach  there. 
The  soldier  replied, '  By  this  authority,' 
and  presented  his  pistol  at  him,  but 
did  not  give  fire.  In  fine,  the  soldiers 
had  the  better,  cut  and  beat  many  and 
carried  with  them  the  marshal  of  the 
City,  threatening  to  imprison  him ; 
but  did  not.  The  Lord  Mayor  and  his 
brethren  are  at  this  minute  with  the 
general  complaining.  The  City  gener- 
ally are  highly  exasperated,  but  a 
parcel  of  tame  cocknies."  (Thurloe 
S.P.  IV.  139.) 

At  the  same  time  it  is  surely  a 
fallacy  to  look  upon  Cromwell's  army 
as  composed  exclusively  of  saints.  It 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  through- 
out the  period  of  Puritan  ascendency 
one  of  the  filthiest  sheets  to  be  found 
in  any  language  was  printed  and 
published  regularly  in  London  every 
week,  and  that  there  were  lewd  livers, 
drunkards,  and  extortioners  in  the 
Long  Parliament  itself.  That  the 
army  was  well-behaved  as  a  rule  there 
can,  we  think,  be  no  doubt  ;  but  this 
was  principally  due  to  severe  discipline 
rigidly  enforced.  No  doubt  there 
were  certain  corps  which  gave  a  tone 
to  the  whole,  but  dread  of  punish- 
ment had  a  large  share  in  persuading 
the  others  to  accept  it.  Still  the  full 
body  and  comely  posture,  like  the 
curls  above  the  forage-cap,  were  too 
much  for  many  a  female  heart,  and 
the  inevitable  result  was  at  least 
common  enough  to  be  made  a  military 
offence.  Swearing  and  drunkenness 
likewise  were  not  uncommon  ;  and  all 
these  offences  were  punished  alike 
with  flogging  or  the  wooden  horse. 
Moreover  such  punishments  were  in- 


flicted in  public  so  as  to  combine  the 
maximum  of  degradation.  Thus  we 
hear  of  men  flogged  up  and  down  the 
ranks  of  the  regiment  in  the  High 
Street  of  Windsor,  or  in  Holborn  ;  or 
of  their  riding  the  wooden  horse  at 
Charing  Cross  with  cans  about  their 
necks  for  being  drunk  and  unruly. 
The  "  horse  "  was  simply  a  triangular 
ridge  of  wood,  in  which  men  were  set 
astride  with  muskets  tied  to  their  legs. 
Flogging  was  not  so  severe  as  in  the 
Peninsular  days,  the  historic  "  cat " 
having  been  only  just  invented  for 
the  benefit  of  the  navy.  "  Running 
the  gantlope  "  that  is,  being  flogged 
down  the  ranks  of  the  regiment,  every 
man  being  armed  with  a  cudgel,  was 
reserved  for  offenders  against  a  com- 
rade. Severe  as  this  punishment 
must  have  been,  Gustavus  Adolphus 
was  compelled  to  make  it  a  capital 
offence  for  a  man  to  run  the  gantlope 
more  than  twice,  as  men  could  always 
be  found  to  submit  to  it  (presumably 
to  amuse  their  comrades)  for  a  few 
shillings.  But  insensitive  as  men 
may  have  been  to  pain  in  those  days, 
it  is  by  no  means  so  certain  that  they 
were  equally  insensitive  to  public 
ridicule  and  degradation,  which  was 
always  part  of  the  punishment  in 
Cromwell's  time.  In  those  days  the 
newspapers  reported  the  punishment 
of  insubordination  with  pleasure  ; 
now  they  claim  sympathy  for  the 
insubordinate.  The  British  public 
will  not  suffer  the  soldier  to  share  its 
amusements,  as  being  a  creature  un- 
fit for  its  noble  company ;  but  it 
joyfully  encourages  him  to  mutiny 
against  his  officers.  It  treats  him 
with  contempt  which  he  does  not 
deserve  ;  but  interposes  to  save  him 
from  punishment  which  he  does. 
It  was  Cromwell  who  made  the  British 
soldier's  profession  an  honour  to  him, 
and  offence  against  it  a  reproach. 
England  will  never  see  another  Crom- 
well j  but  it  will  be  a  good  day  for 
her  when  she  comes  again  to  recog- 
nise all  her  debt  to  the  soldier  whom 
he  created. 


115 


AN    UNFINISHED    RUBBER. 


IN  ordinary  circumstances  Ko  Shway 
Ghine  would  scarcely  have  given  Oo 
Pyat's  story  a  second  thought ;  ground- 
less rumours  of  dacoits  had  been  so 
very  frequent  lately.  Oo  Pyat,  while 
cutting  bamboos  on  the  river  bank 
above  the  village  that  morning,  had 
been  hailed  by  some  men  passing 
down  i  n  a  boat ;  these  told  him  that  a 
womai ,  an  hour  higher  up  the  stream, 
had  bi  1  them  take  care  of  themselves, 
for  her  brother-in-law's  father  had  just 
seen  ^  ith  his  own  eyes  Boh  Paw  and  a 
hundred  men  marching  south,  that  is 
towards  Sanwah  village. 

Wbit  lent  significance  to  an  other- 
wise commonplace  report  was  the  fact 
that  this  very  morning  Anness-lee 
Thekir .,  the  young  English  Assistant 
Superintendent  of  Police,  with  ten  of 
the  lijtle  strangers  from  the  West 
called  Goo-kha,  had  unexpectedly 
arrived  at  Sanwah  and  were  even  now 
resting  at  the  dak  bungalow  just  out- 
side tie  village.  Moreover,  Mr.  An- 
nesley  immediately  on  his  arrival  had 
sent  fcr  Ko  Shway  Ghine  as  headman 
to  ask  for  news  of  Boh  Paw,  saying 
he  was  told  the  dacoit  chief  was  in 
that  nc  ighbourhood.  Ko  Shway  Ghine 
had  nc  news  to  give  then ;  but  now  he 
rose  frDm  his  mat,  and  bade  Oo  Pyat 
follow  him  to  repeat  his  story  to  the 
Englis  i  officer. 

Sanwah  consisted  of  two  rows  of 
dingy  brown  and  yellow  huts  strag- 
gling a  long  either  side  of  a  wide  weed- 
grown  street,  down  whose  centre  an 
unever  brick  pavement  stood  up  like 
a  red  I  ackbone.  Before  it  reached  the 
end  o'  the  village,  this  pavement 
broke  }ff  in  scattered  bricks,  giving 
place  ;o  a  rough  cart-track  which 
meandered  along  the  margin  of  the 
paddy- ields  to  the  forest  beyond. 
The  d;  k  bungalow  stood  back  from 
the  car  b-track  in  a  ragged  compound, 


whose  boundaries  lingered  in  a  few 
clumps  of  untrimmed  bamboo  hedge. 
It  was  a  forlorn-looking  house ;  a 
shallow  story  of  three  rooms  and  a 
verandah,  gloomy  in  the  shade  of  the 
low-pitched  roof  and  elevated  on 
twelve-foot  piles.  Every  one  of  the 
Venetian  blinds,  which  did  duty  as 
doors  and  windows,  had  battens  miss- 
ing ;  the  dust  lay  thick  on  the  stairs, 
and  the  bamboo  lattice  work,  which 
ought  to  have  been  holding  down  the 
thatch,  had  slipped  limply  over  the 
eaves.  Ramasawmy,  the  Madras  man 
who  had  charge  of  the  bungalow, 
lived  with  his  Burmese  wife  behind  it ; 
but  Ramasawmy  never  even  had  the 
rooms  swept  until  a  guest  was  actually 
in  sight. 

Ko  Shway  Ghine  and  Oo  Pyat 
passed  through  the  ant-eaten  shells  of 
gate-posts,  and  were  graciously  allowed 
by  Ramasawmy  to  go  up  stairs.  It 
was  one  of  those  intensely  hot  close 
days  October  brings  after  the  rains, 
and  Mr.  Annesley  reclined  in  the 
wreck  of  a  long-armed  chair,  undressed 
in  white  drill  trousers,  sleeveless  vest, 
and  straw  slippers.  Shway  Ghine, 
crouching  before  him,  repeated  Oo 
Pyat's  story  with  the  trifling  altera- 
tions required  to  make  it  worthy  the 
attention  of  an  English  officer.  That 
is  to  say,  he  represented  that  Oo  Pyat 
had  been  one  of  the  boatmen,  and  that 
the  woman  had  herself  seen  the 
dacoits.  Omission  of  the  remaining 
links,  in  his  judgment,  merely  lent  the 
narrative  the  point  and  finish  essential 
to  ensure  it  fair  hearing.  Told  with 
pedantic  regard  for  accuracy  of  detail, 
it  might,  he  felt,  be  dismissed  as  aligah, 
— mere  nonsense. 

Mr.  Annesley  listened  to  the  story 
with  an  indifference  which,  if  disap- 
pointing, was  at  least  reassuring.  He 
asked  one  or  two  questions,  announced 

i  2 


116 


An  Unfinished  Rubier. 


his  intention  of  remaining  that  night 
at  Sanwah,  and,  having  offered  the 
visitors  this  crumb  of  comfort,  told 
them  they  had  leave  to  go.  Then  he 
took  up  the  letter  he  had  laid  aside 
when  they  came  in,  and  began  to  read 
again.  Oo  Pyat's  tale,  even  as  edited 
by  Shway  Ghine,  bore  too  striking  a 
family  resemblance  to  the  wind-borne 
fictions  brought  him  everywhere  to 
impress  him  as  important. 

He  was  still  reading  his  letter  when 
Ramasawmy  came  to  tell  him  that 
another  gentleman  was  coming ;  he 
thought  it  was  Mr.  Masters  the 
Forests  gentleman,  because  there  was 
an  elephant  with  the  baggage.  Annes- 
ley  did  not  know  Masters  ;  but  in  the 
jungle  all  men  are  friends,  and  he  got 
up  to  meet  the  new  arrival.  He  was 
a  stout,  sun-browned  man  of  about 
thirty ;  he  walked  alone  in  front  of 
his  elephant  and  followers,  and  his 
thin  white  trousers  clung  about  his 
limbs  as  though  he  had  just  forded  the 
river. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  taken  the  coolest 
room,"  said  Annesley.  "I  did  not 
know  any  one  else  was  coming ;  but 
I'll  move  out  at  once."  For  Masters 
was  his  senior  both  in  years  and 
service. 

"Pray  don't  move;  I'll  take  the 
other.  Yery  glad  to  find  a  white  man 
here  ;  I  haven't  spoken  English  for  six 
weeks.  Police,  I  see,"  glancing  at  the 
Goorkhas  below. 

They  told  each  other  their  names 
and  what  they  were  doing  ;  and 
Masters,  having  shouted  orders  to  his 
servants,  who  sat  under  a  pink  um- 
brella among  the  baggage  on  the  ele- 
phant-pad, went  in  to  bathe  and 
change.  Annesley  leaned  over  the 
verandah  watching  the  men  relieve 
the  kneeling  beast  of  a  confusion  of 
boxes,  bundles,  cooking  utensils,  and 
gun-cases.  He  had  not  been  quite 
twelve  months  in  the  country  yet  and 
an  elephant  was  still  something  to  be 
looked  at.  The  clatter  of  hoofs  made 
him  look  up,  thrilled  with  vague  ideas 
of  dacoit  news  sent  by  mounted  mes- 
senger. A  tall  thin  man  on  a  rough- 


haired  pony  was  jogging  towards  the 
bungalow.  The  horseman's  trousers 
(he  did  not  wear  riding-dress)  had 
wriggled  half-way  up  his  calves,  and 
his  enormous  pith  hat  had  settled  down 
over  his  ears  and  half  hid  his  face. 
He  dismounted  with  an  audible  sigh 
of  relief,  and  raised  his  headgear  with 
both  hands. 

"  Hallo,  Colville ! "  called  Annesley, 
as  the  new-comer  thus  discovered  him- 
self. "  What  brings  you  here  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Annesley  !  Got  an  appoint- 
ment with  Boh  Paw  1 " 

"  Well, — hoping  for  it ;  I'm  only 
stopping  the  night.  And  you  ?  " 

"I'm  camped  on  the  line  about 
fifteen  miles  out.  I  got  a  touch  of 
fever  sleeping  out  last  night,  so  came 
in  to  roost  under  cover.  If  I  had 
known  it  was  twice  the  distance  my 
men  said,  I  shouldn't  have  come.  How 
that  wretched  pony  has  galled  me ! 
He  won't  walk ;  dances  along  like  a 
tipsy  ballet-girl.  That  your  hathi  ?  " 

"  No  ;  Masters  of  the  Forests.  He 
arrived  only  twenty  minutes  ago. 
Government  doesn't  give  us  poor 
devils  elephants." 

' '  What  an  event  for  Sanwah  !  I 
don't  suppose  it's  ever  had  a  white 
population  of  three  before." 

Colville  accepted  Annesley's  invita- 
tion to  share  his  room,  and,  declaring 
his  desire  for  an  immediate  bath, 
borrowed  his  friend's  towels  and  dis- 
appeared. The  luxurious  splashing 
had  ceased  when  Colville's  men  arrived. 
The  bearer,  in  spotless  white,  led  the 
way,  followed  by  three  coolies  balanc- 
ing luggage  on  their  heads,  and  a 
fourth  with  a  grass  swathed  package 
from  which  a  deer's  hoof  peeped. 

"  What's  this  1 "  inquired  Masters, 
who  had  strolled  out  of  his  room. 
"  Venison  for  dinner  to-night !  " 

"It  was  a  bit  of  luck,"  explained 
Colville,  appearing  draped  in  a  big 
Turkish  towel.  "  I  was  looking  for 
jungle  fowl  this  morning  when  he  got 
up  under  my  nose.  I  blew  his  head 
nearly  off."  ' 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  inquired 
Masters  of  his  khitmugar,  who  had  been 


An   Unfinished  Rubier. 


117 


waiting  at  a  respectful  distance  till 
his  employer  should  notice  him. 

The  khitmugar  wished  to  know  what 
his  honour  would  like  for  dinner  that 
evening.  What  was  there  to  be  had  ? 
Doubtless  the  Protector  of  the  Poor 
could  have  whatever  he  pleased  to 
command. 

"  Yos,  you  idiot  !  "  growled  the  Pro- 
tector of  the  Poor.  "  Dak  bungalow, 
moorgiii,  or  old  goat,  eh  1 " 

The  khitmugar  ventured  to  suggest 
rnoorgii  soup,  chicken-curry,  and 
roast  fowl.  Annesley  sahib  had 
ordered  these  for  his  dinner. 

Colville  unceremoniously  struck  in 
to  cor  ntermand  this  banquet.  The 
curry  night  stand,  but  when  he  had 
venisoa,  and  Masters'  stock-pot,  con- 
taining no  doubt  the  basis  of  soup  fit 
for  angels,  was  staring  them  in  the 
face  from  the  cook-house  doorway,  he 
thought  Annesley  could  do  without 
three  courses  of  hen  for  once.  An- 
nesley agreed  ;  he  had  feasted  on  fowls 
every  «lay  for  a  fortnight,  except  once 
when  lie  bought  a  youngish  goat.  "  I 
might  have  had  beef  at  Pyalin  the  day 
before  yesterday,"  he  added  scrupul- 
ously ;  "  but  the  headman  confessed 
that  the  cow  had  died  a  natural  death, 
and  I  couldn't  face  it.  The  whole 
village  was  eating  it." 

"  Burmans  will  eat  anything  almost," 
remarked  Masters.  "See  here,  khit- 
mugar get  a  bottle  of  simkim  shrab 
from  the  box,  and  wrap  it  up  in  wet 
straw,  and  hang  it  in  the  shade.  If  I 
come  and  find  the  straw  dry  I'll  cut 
your  pay  eight  annas." 

"  W  bo  wouldn't  be  in  the  Forests  !  " 
sighed  Colville  cheerfully. 

"  Y<  >u  are  supposed  to  drink  cham- 
pagne when  you  are  out,  aren't  you?" 
asked  A.nnesley  with  involuntary  re- 
spect. 

"  W  3  want  it,  living  weeks  at  a 
time  ir  these  pestilential  jungles." 

Colv  lie  expressed  his  conviction  that 
the  work  of  Annesley 's  department 
and  th.it  of  the  Telegraphs  would  be 
far  more  efficiently  carried  out  if  their 
allowances  were  conceived  on  a  scale 
to  allow  of  champagne  every  night 


when  they  were  out  in  the  district ; 
and  then  throwing  the  towel-fringe 
over  his  shoulder,  he  went  in  to  dress. 

The  sun  was  creeping  along  the  ver- 
andah floor  when  Annesley,  in  his  chair, 
discovered  that  he  had  been  asleep. 
The  other  two  were  busy  writing,  so 
he  went  out  for  a  solitary  stroll.  At 
the  farther  end  of  the  street,  a  stone's- 
throw  beyond  the  houses,  the  lime- 
washed  pagoda  glared  white  in  the 
evening  sun.  There  is  little  difference 
save  in  degree  of  dilapidation  among 
village  pagodas,  but  it  offered  the  ob- 
ject of  a  walk,  and  Annesley  turned 
in  that  direction.  The  village  was 
awake  after  the  heat  of  the  day.  The 
men  were  squatting  in  groups  about 
the  street,  smoking  and  chatting,  and 
the  girls  were  busy  husking  rice  in 
the  paddy  mortars  under  the  houses. 
The  squeak  and  thump  of  the  heavy 
foot-pestles,  as  the  levers  rose  and  fell, 
mingled  with  the  laughter  and  song 
of  the  workers.  Here  and  there  a 
woman  sat  weaving  at  the  loom  under 
her  house,  talking  across  the  street  to 
her  neighbours  as  she  passed  the 
shuttle  in  and  out.  The  alarm 
of  the  morning  had  evidently  been 
forgotten. 

"  Any  more  news  ?  "  asked  Annes- 
ley of  Shway  Ghine,  who  rose  to 
salute  as  he  passed.  There  was  no 
more,  and  he  walked  on  to  the  pagoda. 
It  was  deserted  save  for  one  elderly 
woman  kneeling  at  a  little  distance 
saying  her  prayers  aloud ;  she  took 
no  notice  of  the  white  man  as  he 
passed  between  her  and  the  shrine 
and  wandered  round  it  whistling.  The 
building,  shaped  like  an  attenuated 
bell,  was  not  one  to  excite  admira- 
tion. An  inverted  soda-water  bottle 
on  the  short  iron  stab  on  the  apex 
fulfilled  its  unwonted  purpose  by 
sparkling  gloriously  in  the  sun.  A 
few  thick  tufts  of  grass  and  seedlings 
grew  from  the  cracks  in  the  brickwork, 
and  the  moulding  about  the  base  was 
mossy  and  stained  with  damp  ;  but 
the  fabric  of  both  the  pagoda  and  the 
low  wall  which  at  a  few  feet  distance 
surrounded  it  in  four  sections,  was 


118 


An   Unfinished  Rubber. 


sound.  Ancient  brick  paving  smoth- 
ered in  grass  billowed  away  for  thirty 
feet  all  round  it,  and  on  the  side 
remote  from  the  village  the  jungle, 
entered  by  one  narrow  footpath,  grew 
close  up  to  this  neglected  court. 

It  was  dark  when  Annesley  re- 
turned to  the  bungalow.  One  battered 
lamp  smokily  lighted  the  dark  walls 
and  rafters,  and  showed  Masters  and 
Colville  lying  in  their  chairs  at  the 
end  of  the  verandah. 

*  That's  one  great  pull  you  Tele- 
graph Wallahs  have  over  other  fel- 
lows," Masters  was  saying ;  "  you 
can  always  know,  if  you  like,  what's 
going  on  in  the  world.  For  all  I  hear 
when  I'm  in  the  jungle,  we  might  be 
at  war  with  Russia,  or  the  Yiceroy 
might  be  assassinated,  or  the  world 
turned  upside  down  generally." 

"  It  cuts  both  ways.  The  wire  is 
the  chief's  apron-string,  and  you're 
tied  to  it.  You  may  be  a  hundred 
miles  away,  but  there's  the  lightning- 
string,  as  the  Burman  calls  it,  and  he 
can  bully  you  if  he  wants  to.  I  will 
say,  though,  that  with  Morris  at  the 
other  end  it  is  more  an  advantage 
than  a  bother.  He  always  posts  me 
up  in  the  latest  events." 

"  What  sort  of  job  has  it  been, 
laying  the  new  line  ?  There's  some 
difficult  jungle  on  these  hills." 

"  Easy,  the  last  day  or  two.  We 
hit  an  elephant-track,  and  the  bam- 
boos are  laid  as  if  half-a-dozen  trac- 
tion engines  abreast  had  been  going 
that  way  every  day  for  months." 
"  A  big  herd,  I  suppose." 
"  Forty  or  fifty  I  should  judge.  I 
only  hope  the  hathis  will  have  been 
considerate  enough  to  go  on  in  our 
direction.  They  save  a  world  of 
work." 

Annesley  dragged  his  chair  over, 
and  the  three  reclined  in  lazy  com- 
fort until  Ramasawmy  came  to  an- 
nounce dinner. 

"  I  haven't  seen  such  a  respectable 
party  for  weeks,"  remarked  Colville, 
looking  round  as  they  drew  in  their 
chairs.  "  Three  men  in  clean  white 
jackets !  I've  been  dining  in  my 


shirt  sleeves  for  the  last  month.     A 
tablecloth  too  !  " 

"You  don't  wear  white  in  the 
jungle,  do  you,  Annesley  ?  "  inquired 
Masters. 

"  I  do,  when  I  wear  a  coat  at  all." 
"  That's  rather   rash  for  a   police- 
man, isn't  it?     It's  too  conspicuous." 

The  talk  drifted  into  other  chan- 
nels and  presently  turned,  as  is  usual, 
upon  promotion.  "  Yours  is  the  line 
for  galloping  promotion  in  these  days, 
Annesley,"  said  Colville.  "  You  are 
in  luck  being  put  on  to  Boh  Paw.  It's 
your  step  if  you  catch  him,  I  don't 
mind  betting  a  gold  mohur." 

"  I  mean  to  get  my  step  before  next 
cold  weather,"  replied  Annesley  with 
the  firmness  of  ^a  man  who  has  made 
up  his  mind. 

"  Oho !  and  why  before  next  cold 
weather  ?  "  from  Masters. 

"Why  not?"  retorted  Annesley, 
blushing.  "  Look  at  Blake,"  he  con- 
tinued, his  tongue  loosened  by  the 
champagne  ;  "  he  got  his  step  and  four 
months'  sick  leave  to  Darjeeling  for 
a  shot  through  the  thigh.  Look  at 
Paterson  ;  step  and  thanks  of  Govern- 
ment for  two  fingers  and  half  an 
ear !  " 

The  others  laughed.  "  I  see,  Annes- 
ley ;  but  go  about  it  cautiously. 
Risk  your  legs  for  promotion,  but 
don't  go  the  whole  hog  in  a  white 
coat." 

"  You  pin  your  faith  on  Boh  Paw, 
young  man,"  said  Masters.  "  You'll 
score  better  at  head-quarters  by  kill- 
ing him  than  by  getting  cut  to  bits 
yourself." 

"We'll  play  whist  after  dinner," 
said  Colville  after  a  short  silence. 
His  tone  indicated'  that  he  meant  to 
make  a  night  of  it.  "  I've  got  cards." 
So  had  Masters  ;  he  always  played 
patience  after  dinner  in  the  jungle. 

"  Well,  you're  not  going  in  for  any 
dissipation  of  that  kind  to-night. 
Whist,  two  anna  points,  and  a  dib  on 
the  rub  is  the  programme." 

"  Rupee  points  and    a  chick,1    you 
mean.     Two  anna  points  !  " 
1  Chick  =  Es.  4. 


An   Unfinished  Rulber. 


119 


"I  am  'very  povr  man,  sah,' " 
returned  Colville,  catching  the  other's 
eye  and  nodding  at  Annesley,  who 
was  absorbed  in  the  task  of  eating 
a  devilled  sardine  with  a  two-pronged 
fork.  The  pay  of  an  Assistant-Super- 
intendent of  Police  is  limited. 

Masters  shrugged  his  shoulders  in 
acquiescence. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Annesley,  laying 
do\vn  his  fork  with  a  contented  sigh, 
11  this  has  been  a  dinner,  thanks  to 
you  fellows.  Some  one  said  whist; 
I'm  roady." 

The  servants  carried  out  the  chairs 
and  the  party  adjourned  to  the  veran- 
dah, where  Masters'  camp-table  had 
been  set  up. 

"  Well,  young  'un,  you  and  dummy 
ought  to  rook  us  handsomely.  Look 
at  it,  Colville !  Five  trumps  and  a 
long  suit  in  clubs." 

The  blue  smoke  of  the  cheroots  curled 
softly  upwards  over  the  silence  of 
whist.  Outside,  the  glow  of  cooking- 
fires  in  the  street  reddened  the  night 
over  the  village ;  the  low  murmur  of 
voices  in  the  compound,  and  the  blow- 
ing of  the  elephant,  like  a  smithy 
bellows,  were  restful.  The  moon  rose, 
pickin  g  out  roof  line  and  tree,  and  one 
by  ono  the  pariahs  raised  their  dismal 
baying.  The  three  in  the  dak  bunga- 
low, engrossed  in  their  game,  played 
on,  d<af  to  the  familiar  noises  and 
blind  :o  the  beauty  of  the  night. 

"  T'vo  by  honours,  three  by  cards," 
said  1  Annesley,  sweeping  up  the  last 
trick. 

"  N')  wonder,  considering  your 
hand.  Go  on,  I've  cut.  Who's  got 
a  bit  c  f  paper  to  score  ?  " 

"I've  got  some  letters,"  said 
Annesley,  pulling  some  from  his 
breast  pocket.  "  Here, — no,  not  that 
one,  p  ease— take  this." 

"What's  the  difference?"  growled 
Maste  -s,  making  the  exchange. 

The  moonlight  strengthened  and 
outsho  ae  the  fire-glow ;  the  pariahs 
bayed  as  though  they  had  never  seen 
a  full  moon  before,  and  the  murmur 
of  voi  ;es  below  died  in  the  silence  of 
sleep.  The  servants  were  snoring  in 


the  back  verandah,  and  the  Goorkha 
sentry  paced  up  and  dowD,  pausing 
now  and  again  to  yawn  audibly.  The 
fitful  patter  of  cards  went  on,  broken 
only  by  an  abstracted  request  for 
matches  or  for  a  moment's  indulgence 
while  the  speaker  lit  a  fresh  cheroot. 

1 '  Now,  Annesley,  you've  had  rare 
luck.  Three  rubbers  with  dummy 
and  won  them  all, — bumpers.  How 
does  it  go  this  time  ?  You  and  Mas- 
ters. Change  seats  with  me." 

"  Half -past  eleven,"  said  Masters 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  One  more 
rubber  and  then  to  bed.  I  want  to 
be  off  early  to-morrow.  Go  ahead, 
partner.  Attention,  please  !  " 

' '  Pardon,  one  minute, ' '  said  Annesley, 
laying  down  his  hand.  "I  think  I 
hear  something  at  the  other  end  of 
the  village." 

"  Fudge  !  It's  only  the  pariahs 
baying  a  little  louder.  Go  on." 

But  Annesley  was  already  on  his 
way  down  stairs,  and  Masters  threw 
down  his  cards  impatiently. 

"  He's  a  keen  hand,"  remarked 
Colville  approvingly,  seizing  the  op- 
portunity to  mix  some  whisky  and 
water.  "  By  Jove,  Masters,  I  believe 
there  is  something  up.  Listen  !  " 

The  dogs  were  not  baying,  but 
barking,  and  the  villagers  were  call- 
ing to  one  another. 

"  Dummyamya,"  repeated  Colville, 
catehing  the  word  from  many  lips. 
"  Dacoits,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  Masters  in- 
differently, as  he  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  went  to  look  over  the 
balustrade  of  the  verandah.  "  A  stray 
buffalo  in  the  jungle,  most  likely." 

A  dim  figure  flitted  by  in  the 
shadow  of  the  bamboos  ;  another  and 
another,  and  then  a  thin  silent 
stream.  Annesley  came  running 
back  from  the  village,  threw  an  order 
to  the  sentry,  and  sprang  up  stairs 
three  steps  at  a  time. 

"They  say  it's  Boh  Paw,"  he  said, 
as  he  ran  past  to  his  room.  "  It's 
my  step  if  it  is,  I  swear." 

Women  hushing  frightened  children 
were  hurrying  from  the  village  now, 


120 


An   Unfinished  Rubber. 


some  to  take  shelter  under  the  dak 
bungalow,  others  to  go  farther  and 
hide  in  the  bushes.  A  hoarse  yell 
from  the  other  end  of  the  village  told 
that  dacoits  were  there  and  about  to 
attack.  Masters  called  to  his  servant 
to  get  his  guns  quickly.  The  sentry 
in  rousing  his  comrades  had  awakened 
every  one,  and  the  bustle  was  general. 
Annesley  came  out  buckling  the  last 
strap  of  a  new  "  Sam  Browne  "  belt, 
his  eyes  shining  with  exultation. 

"  Take  off  your  coat  !  "  cried  Col- 
ville  who,  like  Masters,  had  thrown 
off  his  to  go  out  in  a  gray  flannel 
shirt. 

One  shot,  and  another,  rang  from 
the  end  of  the  village,  and  a  ham- 
mered bullet  shrilled  by.  "  No  time 
now,"  laughed  Annesley,  and  he  ran 
down  stairs  with  his  sword  tripping 
behind.  A  word  to  the  corporal  and, 
with  carbines  loaded,  the  little  Goork- 
has  filed  out  at  a  trot. 

Masters'  bearer,  frightened  out  of 
his  wits  by  the  firing,  was  slow  in 
finding  the  cartridges,  and  the  police 
were  half-way  up  the  village  when 
the  two  started  in  pursuit. 

"  It's  going  to  be  warm,"  remarked 
Colville,  as  long  flashes  led  reports, 
and  bullets  screamed  in  different  keys 
overhead,  or  kicked  up  splutters  of 
,  earth.  Before  them  rose  and  fell  the 
dim  wave  of  the  Goorkhas  in  line 
across  the  street ;  it  was  almost  im- 
palpable, bright  as  the  moon  was,  as 
it  sank  and  burst  into  flame,  swelled 
and  advanced,  to  sink  and  flame  again. 
Annesley's  figure,  always  upright, 
stood  out  white  and  distinct  against 
the  shadows.  They  could  hear  him 
curbing  the  impetuosity  of  his  men 
when  the  dacoits  ceased  to  advance, 
and,  hanging  for  a  moment,  crowded 
back  upon  the  pagoda. 

"They're  going  to  make  a  stand," 
panted  Masters.  "  Look  at  'em, 
taking  cover  behind  the  wall." 

A  halt  to  fix  bayonets  let  them  up 
with  the  police,  and  they  fell  in  at 
the  end  of  the  skirmishing  line  to 
obey  Annesley's  orders.  The  dacoits' 
fire  spit  fitfully  over  the  low  wall  of 


the  pagoda,  but.  the  volume  of  yells 
told  that  the  gang  was  large  enough 
to  feel  confidence  in  its  strength. 
Two  more  volleys  and  runs  brought 
the  police  well  out  upon  the  open 
ground  beyond  the  houses,  and 
Annesley's  high  young  voice  sang  out 
joyously,  "I  say,  we'll  rush  it  now! 
Charge  ! " 

The  Goorkhas  shouted,  and  sprang 
forward  like  one  man.  A  roar  came 
from  the  pagoda.  "  The  white  police- 
chief  !  Shoot  the  white  police-chief  !  " 
The  crest  of  the  wall  lightened  with  a 
running  blaze ;  there  was  a  clatter  of 
steel  on  the  brick-paving,  and  Colville, 
pulling  up  short,  turned  to  see 
Annesley  fall  tearing  at  the  weeds. 
The  Goorkhas,  led  by  Masters,  swept 
on  giving  yell  for  yell.  The  bayonets 
were  left  in  their  dead,  and  the 
kookries  did  what  they  might  on  backs 
and  shoulders. 

"  It  is  not  fighting,"  the  corporal 
grumbled  to  Masters,  two  minutes 
after.  "It  is  hunting ;  these  dogs 
cannot  fight." 

The  men  were  slowly  drawing  in 
from  the  jungle,  at  whose  fringe 
Masters  had  stopped  the  pursuit. 
Telling  the  corporal  to  collect  the  dead 
he  went  back  to  Colville,  who  knelt 
by  Annesley. 

"  Is  he  much  hurt?" 

A  glance  at  the  now  upturned  face 
forestalled  the  answer.  "  Dead, — 
there,"  said  Colville,  pointing  to  a 
blotch  on  the  breast  that  showed 
black  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Leave  the  guns  for  the  Goorkhas, 
and  we'll  carry  him  in." 

They  carried  the  body  back  to  the 
bungalow,  laid  it  on  the  bed,  and 
stood  looking  at  each  other  across 
it. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  next  ?  "  asked 
Masters. 

"I  suppose  we  ought  to  find  out 
where  his  people  live.  He  had  some 
letters  in  his  pocket." 

He  bent  over  the  low  camp- stretcher 
and  drew  out  a  budget.  Masters  took 
some  of  the  letters,  and  they  glanced 
through  the  enclosures. 


An  Unfinished  Rubber. 


121 


"N3  clue  among  these  ;  they're  all 
in  the  same  hand,  and  no  surname." 

"  ScMne  with  this  lot,"  said  Colville, 
opening  the  last.  "  What's  that  ?  " 

Masters  picked  up  a  card  which  had 
fallen  on  the  dead  man's  body,  and 
Colvil'.e  saw  it  was  worn  ragged  at 
the  corners. 

"  Poor  chap !  No  wonder  he  was 
in  a  iiurry  for  his  promotion,"  said 
Masters,  passing  it  over. 

Colville  looked,  and  with  shaking 
fingers  put  it  back  in  the  envelope. 
"Gives  me  the  rest,"  he  said;  and 
shaping  the  package,  he  pressed  it 
gently  back  into  the  breast-pocket. 
Then  they  drew  a  blanket  over  the 
body  and  went  out,  closing  the  door. 
They  helped  themselves  to  some  drink 
from  the  dining-room  table,  and  lay 
down  in  the  verandah  to  smoke  in 
silenc3  for  a  while. 

"I  say,  Masters,  have  you  got  a 
pray e: --book  with  you  by  any  chance  1  " 

An  hour  ago  either  would  have 
laughed  at  the  question.  Now  it 
expressed  a  lack  that  amounted  to  a 
calam  ity. 

"Do  you  recollect  any  of, — of  the 
prayers?" 

"  I  suppose  I  could  say  'and  now 
we  commit '  all  right ;  I've  heard  it 
often  enough.  But, — "  Masters  broke 
off  with  a  sigh. 

"  I )  would  take  a  man  three  days 
to  go.  and  three  to  come  back,  if  we 
sent  him  on  my  pony  to  Henzada 
for  oi:e." 

"That's  out  of  the  question;  to- 
morrow evening  is  the  very  latest  in 
this  weather.  What  are  we  to  do? 
We  c  m't  bury  the  boy  like  a  dog." 

Tho  smoke  rose  over  two  faces 
wrinl  led  with  perplexed  thought. 
Presently  Colville  sat  up  in  his  chair 
and  t  >ssed  his  cheroot  away.  "  I  have 
it.  ]  '11  start  back  to  camp  now  and 
get  old  Peter  Da  Silva,  the  telegraph- 


master,  to  wire  out  what  we  want.  I'll 
come  back  as  soon  as  I  get  it." 

"  Good  thought  !  Do  you  think 
you  can  find  your  way,  though  t  " 

Colville  did  not  doubt  it  in  that 
moonlight ;  and  accepting  Masters' 
revolver,  "lest  any  of  those  black- 
guards should  have  bolted  that  way," 
the  two  went  down  stairs  to  saddle  the 
indignant  pony. 

"Good-night,  old  fellow.  Keep 
your  eyes  open  and  the  pistol  handy." 
Colville  threw  his  leg  over  the  sturdy 
little  beast  (it  was  just  twelve  hands 
two  inches  high)  and  rode  out,  while 
the  other  turned  and  went  slowly  up 
stairs  again. 

It  was  past  one,  but  he  had  no 
inclination  to  go  to  bed.  He  saw  that 
the  lamp  was  burning  in  the  room 
where  Annesley  lay,  and  shut  the  door 
again  quietly.  He  got  the  cleaning- 
rods  and  materials,  and  wiped  out  the 
gun  and  rifle  Colville  and  he  had  used, 
and  put  them  back  into  their  covers. 
Then  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair 
and  smoked  for  five  minutes ;  but  he 
could  not  lie  still  while  that  lay  so 
much  more  still  within  a  few  feet  of 
him,  and  he  got  up  to  pace  the 
verandah.  Passing  the  table  where 
the  cards  remained  as  they  had  been 
left,  «he  stopped.  "  'Gad,  what  a 
hand ! "  he  said  under  his  breath. 
"  It's  all  trumps."  The  stair  creaked. 
He  looked  round  and  saw  the  Goorkha 
corporal  saluting. 

"  What  is  it  ? " 

"  Sahib,  some  men  of  the  village 
have  come  back.  They  say  one  killed 
dacoit  is  the  chief  Boh  Paw." 

"I  will  hear  their  words  in  the 
morning,"  replied  Masters ;  and  the 
corporal,  saluting  again,  went  down 
stairs. 

''Boh  Paw  killed,"  he  muttered. 
"Poor  boy!  Another  trump,  if  he'd 
been  spared  to  play  it." 


122 


TROUT-FISHING  IN   NEW    ZEALAND. 


NEW  ZEALAND  is  a  land  which  has 
the  merit,  from  an  English  point  of 
view,  not  only  of  receiving  kindly  any 
products  that  may  be  imported  from 
the  old  country,  but  of  reproducing 
them  with  astonishing  rapidity,  and 
of  improving  them  in  the  process. 
We  speak,  be  it  observed,  of  New 
Zealand  the  country,  not  of  the  New 
Zealand  Government  or  of  the  Labour 
Party  that  rules  it,  for  such  remarks 
would  be  wholly  inapplicable  to  them. 
But  New  Zealand  the  country  is  the 
most  English  place  out  of  England. 
Its  climate  is,  to  be  sure,  rather  Italian 
than  English,  but  its  insularity  (for 
the  English  are  above  all  things 
insular)  and  its  aforesaid  capacity 
for  acclimatising  things  English  give 
it  a  flavour  of  home  that  you  will 
find  in  no  other  British  possession. 
"Australia!"  said  an  ^old  New 
Zealander  to  us  once,  with  great 
contempt.  "  My  dear  sir,  Australia 
will  not  grow  English  grass.  New 
Zealand  is  the  true  New  England ; " 
and  arbitrary  as  the  distinction  may 
sound,  there  is  really  something  in  it. 
For  though,  in  contradiction  to  the 
Latin  proverb,  the  transplanted 
Englishman  suffers  change  of  char- 
acter under  change  of  climate,  yet 
none  the  less  he  loves  to  surround 
himself  with  all  that  recalls  to  him 
the  land  of  his  birth  ;  and  the  more 
favourable  his  new  home  to  the 
natives,  animal  and  vegetable,  of  the 
old  country,  the  better  he  is  pleased. 
It  cannot  be  denied,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  New  Zealand  has  shown 
itself  rather  too  beneficent  towards 
some  of  the  importations  from  home. 
The  thistles  introduced  by  the  senti- 
mental Scotch,  and  the  sweetbriar 
brought  over  by  the  sentimental 
English,  both  increase  rather  too  fast, 
and  have  become,  the  latter  especially. 


public  nuisances.  The  British  sparrow 
makes  another  case  in  point,  and  so, 
still  more  lamentably,  does  the  English 
rabbit.  Little  did  those,  who  once 
gave  five  pounds  a  pair  for  live  rabbits 
in  New  Zealand,  foresee  that  they 
were  preparing  for  the  colony  an 
annual  loss  of  a  million  sterling.  In 
a  country  so  peculiarly  ordained  by 
nature  that  no  four-footed  thing  was 
found  there  until  the  white  man 
introduced  it,  it  is  easy  to  upset  but 
not  so  easy  to  restore  the  balance  of 
nature. 

But  there  is  one  English  importa- 
tion, due  to  sentimental  attachment 
to  a  national  sport,  which  has  done 
nothing  but  good  in  New  Zealand ; 
and  that  is  the  brown  trout.  The 
nations  that  angle  are  many ;  the 
nation  that  fishes  with  an  artificial  fly 
is  but  one.  Wherever  the  Briton 
finds  water,  there  he  will  throw  a  fly  ; 
and  thus  the  obscurest  streams  (say, 
for  instance,  those  that  run  through 
the  tropical  forests  of  the  Caribbean 
Archipelago)  make  to  their  great 
astonishment  the  acquaintance  of 
the  March 'brown  and  coch-y-bonddhu. 
For  centuries,  probably,  the  life  of 
that  stream  has  been  undisturbed ; 
but  suddenly  one  day  a  white  man-of- 
war's  boat  comes  in  over  the  sandy 
bar,  and  in  a  few  minutes  an  enthu- 
siastic officer  is  at  work  with  the  rod, 
trying  every  stickle  and  stone  as  faith- 
fully and  scientifically  as  if  he  were 
on  his  native  Dartmoor.  Many  are 
the  colonial  rivers,  tropical  and  other, 
where  Englishmen  have  sought  to 
introduce  British  trout,  but  in  none 
have  they  succeeded  as  in  New 
Zealand.  Trout-fishing  is  pre-emi- 
nently the  sport  of  New  Zealand, 
thanks  to  the  small  bands  of  enthu- 
siasts who,  under  the  name  of  Accli- 
matisation Societies,  set  quietly  and 


Trout-Fishing  in  New  Zealand. 


123 


unpretendingly  to  work  to  stock  the 
New  Zealand  rivers.  It  is  not  that 
your  New  Zealander  loves  no  sport 
except  trout-fishing.  On  the  contrary 
he  loves  horse-racing,  if  anything, 
rather  too  dearly  ;  and  he  has  plenty 
to  shoot  at  when  he  chooses  to  take 
out  his  gun.  For,  apart  from  indi- 
genous wild-fowl  and  pigeons, 
pheasants,  Calif ornian  quail,  hares, 
and  even  red  deer  have  been  imported 
by  tie  indefatigable  Acclimatisation 
Sociel  ies ;  while  cattle  and  swine  have 
strayed  into  the  bush,  and,  reverting 
to  thoir  primitive  wildness,  now  afford 
sport  that  is  by  no  means  to  be 
despised.  But  there  are  many 
countries  which  provide  better 
shoot:  ng  than  New  Zealand,  while 
few  can  show  better  trout-fishing. 

Tho  classic  ground  of  New  Zealand 
fishing     is     in     the     South      Island, 
chiefly  in  the  rivers  which  come  tear- 
ing cown  to  the  east  coast  from  the 
great  central  range  of  the   Southern 
Alps  ,     those    terrible    snow    waters 
which  have   given   to    drowning    the 
name  of  "  New  Zealand  death,"  to-day 
a   mere   thread   in   a   wide  desert  of 
shingle,  to-morrow  a  vast  and  furious 
torreat  lapping  over  a  mile  of  trestle 
bridge.     It  is  in  these  rivers  above 
all  1 1  at  the  trout  grow  to  be  monsters. 
It  wj.s  in  one  of  them  that  one  rod  in 
a  sir  gle  night  took  ten  fish  weighing 
nineiy-one  pounds;  it  was  in  a  lake 
at  tin  3  head  of  one  of  them  that  there 
was    netted    a    trout     of     thirty-five 
pounds.      But   these   huge   fish    have 
con  ti  acted    the    despicable    habit    of 
refusing  to  take  a  fly,   and  must  be 
entn  pped  with  minnow  or  live  bait, 
and   ^hat  too  at  night.     In  the  lakes 
the    nonsters  refuse  to  look  at   any 
lure  offered  them  by  man.     We  have 
seen  them  cruising  about  of  an  evening 
picking  up  white  moths,  but  we  never 
yet  1  eard  that  any  man  had  succeeded 
in    cipturing    one   with   a    rod;     and 
havi  ig    ourselves    failed    disastrously 
in  tl  e  attempt,  we  are  of  course  the 
forenost  to  maintain  the  feat  to  be 
impc  ssible.     But  in  the  smaller  tribu- 
taries  the  trout  will  take  the  artificial 


fly,  and  these  are  the  streams  preferred 
by  the  enthusiast. 

The   merits    of   the   waters   of   the 
South    Island     have,    however,    been 
sufliciently  trumpeted  by  others ;  not 
so  the  rivers  of  the  North  Island.     In 
truth  the  North  Island  from  a  variety 
of  causes,  of  which  the  Maori  troubles 
were  the  chief,  was  not  developed  so 
rapidly  as  the  South,  and  as  a  natural 
consequence  lagged  behind  it  in  many 
ways,    including   the   stocking  of  the 
rivers  with   trout.      Nevertheless    so 
much  has  been  done  in  the  past  few 
years  to   make  up  for  lost  time  that 
the  rivers  of  the  North  begin  to  claim 
the  same  consideration  as  their,  sisters. 
It  was  in  the  North   that   we   gained 
our  first  experience  of  New  Zealand 
waters,    and    learned     to     bless     the 
Acclimatisation    Societies.      For    fate 
ordained  that  our  residence  for  some 
years   should  be  fixed   at  the  capital 
city  of  Wellington ;  and  Wellington, 
though  by  nature  one  of  the  loveliest 
spots  on  this  earth,  is  a  place  from 
which  men  are  always  glad  to  escape. 
For  in  the  first  place  it  is  the  windiest 
city  in  the  world :  in  the  second,  it  is 
a  beautiful  site  defaced  by  a  hideous 
agglomeration   of   hideous    buildings ; 
and  in  "the  third  it  is  pent  in  so  close 
between  lofty  hills  and  the  sea  that  it 
oppresses  every  one  with  the  sense  of 
confinement.     It  is  only  at  the  head 
of  the  great  sound  (one  might  almost 
say  lake)  which  is  called   Wellington 
Harbour,  eight  miles  from  the  town, 
that  there  is  at   last  a  break  in  the 
ring  of  precipitous  hills,  a  valley,  and 
a  river ;  and  thither  accordingly  rush 
the  imprisoned  of   Wellington  when- 
ever  they   can,  to   enjoy  a   taste   of 
freedom.     The  river  itself  is  of  some 
volume  and  abounds  in  great    trout 
from    three    to    fourteen    pounds   in 
weight,  which  unfortunately  are  rather 
shy  of  taking  a  fly.     To  our  British 
eyes  the  water  so  irresistibly  suggested 
salmon,  that  in  defiance  of  all  advice 
from    experts   we    determined   to  try 
the  big  trout  with  a  salmon-fly,  and 
accordingly  flogged  it  for  a  whole  day 
(of  course  in  a   gale  of  wind)  with  a 


124 


Trout-Fishing  in  New  Zealand. 


Jock  Scott.  Nor  was  our  labour  all 
in  vain,  for  we  hooked  and  lost  three 
good  fish ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  our 
creel  was  empty,  and  no  one  had  been 
with  us  to  bear  us  witness  that  New 
Zealand  trout  would  rise  to  a  salmon- 
fly.  In  vain  we  tried  to  establish 
this  doctrine ;  our  statement  was 
always  received  with  that  peculiar 
readiness  of  assent  which  the  courteous 
sceptic  assumes  to  save  an  informant 
from  the  vain  repetition  of  unprofitable 
falsehood. 

But  very  soon  we  were  introduced 
to  another  and  far  more  attractive 
stream,  where  fish  would  take  a  trout- 
fly,  in  ^a  valley  lying  without  our 
prison-wall  of  hills.  Wainui-o-mata 
(great  water  of  mata,  whatever  mata 
may  signify)  is  its  Maori  name, 
generally  abridged  simply  to  Wainui. 
This  was  the  favourite  refuge  of 
enthusiastic  fishermen  in  Wellington, 
when  they  could  escape  from  the 
eternal  blast  and  dust  of  the  town ; 
the  river  being  distant  but  a  short 
half  hour  by  rail,  and  a  short  nine 
miles  further  by  road.  The  country 
all  round  Wellington,  though  steep 
and  picturesque,  is  decidedly  barren 
and  desolate,  the  soil  being  sour  yellow 
clay  of  the  most  malignant  type. 
Fifty  years  ago  it  was  covered  with 
virgin  forest ;  but  most  of  it  has  been 
cleared,  and  the  hills  now  carry  little 
but  gaunt  charred  stumps  buried  in  a 
tangle  of  thistles  and  bracken.  Why 
men  should  have  cleared  such  miserable 
country  it  is  hard  to  understand ; 
but  clear  it  they  did,  and  thus  not 
only  opened  the  Wainui  river,  but 
left  a  little  group  of  plank  huts 
behind  them  by  the  water-side,  which 
serve  for  a  camp  for  the  brotherhood 
of  the  rod.  These  huts  (known  by 
the  Maori  name  of  whares)  were,  it  is 
true,  a  little  decrepit,  and  strictly 
speaking  neither awind  nor  water-tight. 
Moreover  there  was  always  the  pleas- 
ing prospect  that  they  might  catch 
fire  at  any  moment,  the  very  chimneys 
being  built  of  wood,  and  choked  with 
pitchy  timber-soot.  But  the  New 
Zealander  loves  camping-out,  and 


thinks  lightly  of  such  drawbacks  as 
these  when  a  day's  sport  is  to  the 
fore. 

It  was  on  a  certain  30th  of  Septem- 
ber that  we  were  first  introduced  to 
Wainui-o-mata  ;  for  the  first  of  October 
marks  the  opening  of  the  fishing- 
season  in  Wellington  and  is  looked 
forward  to  as  a  great  day.  On  that 
particular  occasion  the  fishermen 
mustered  in  great  force,  some  eighteen 
or  twenty  strong,  half  being  of  English, 
half  of  native  New  Zealand  -birth.  On 
arriving  at  the  water  that  evening 
every  man  was  careful  to  inform  his 
neighbour  that  he,  individually,  should 
make  for  bed  early,  so  as  to  be  first 
in  the  river  and  have  the  pick  of  the 
water  next  morning.  Vain  resolve  ! 
The  sun  was  hardly  down  when  by 
some  mysterious  attraction  the  whole 
party  of  old-countrymen  found  them- 
selves gathered  together  in  one  whare, 
there  to  exchange  experiences.  It 
was  a  curious  and  intensely  interesting 
company ;  for  there  were  few  trades 
which  one  or  other  had  not  tried,  few 
lands  which  one  or  other  had  not 
visited.  They  had  fought  in  India, 
South  America,  and  New  Zealand ; 
they  had  worked  before  the  mast ; 
they  had  been  bullock-punchers  in  the 
South  Island,  shepherds  in  New  South 
Wales,  stock-riders  in  Queensland, 
overseers  in  Demerara,  gold-diggers  at 
Ballarat,  editors,  surveyors,  school- 
teachers, and  what  not.  So  log  after 
log  was  piled  on  the  fire,  and  the 
whisky  went  round  and  round,  till 
at  last  one  of  the  party  pulled  out  his 
watch  and  announced  that  the  time 
was  1  A.M.,  whereupon  there  was  a 
hasty  adjournment  to  bunks  and 
blankets. 

Fortunately  before  dawn  the  wind 
went  round  suddenly  to  the  south, 
which  not  only  covered  the  hills  above 
us  with  snow,  but  drove  so  keen  a 
blast  through  the  chinks  of  the  plank- 
huts  as  to  rouse  every  soul  within. 
So  by  six  o'clock  a  shivering  half- 
naked  figure  was  in  front  of  every 
door,  splitting  kindling-wood  for  a 
fire  ;  and  half  an  hour  later  every  soul 


Trout- Fishing  in  New  Zealand. 


125 


was  on  the  river.  Naturally  there 
was  but  a  small  portion  of  unflogged 
water  available  for  each  rod  ;  but  to 
us,  b^ing  a  stranger,  colonial  hospi- 
tality had  characteristically  assigned 
and  reserved  one  of  the  prettiest 
reach  3s  on  the  stream.  At  the  same 
time  we  were  duly  warned  not  to  expect 
too  much  on  our  first  essay,  for  that 
Englishmen  rarely  succeeded  on  New 
Zealand  waters  until  they  had  added 
colonial  to  English  experience.  It 
was  therefore  with  no  great  expecta- 
tions that  we  put  on  our  two  old 
friends,  the  March  brown  and  black 
gnat,  and  prepared  for  action.  And 
yet  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
Wairui  really  required  exceptional 
treat;  nent.  There  it  was,  just  such  a 
rapid  mountain  stream  as  one  meets 
in  a  Devonshire  moor,  its  waters  of 
the  same  peaty  brown,  a  shade  dark- 
ened by  incessant  washing  of  charred 
logs,  and  nowhere  so  wide  but  that  a 
fly  could  be  thrown  with  ease  from 
one  bank  to  the  other.  So  we  set  our 
head  up  stream  and  made  our  first 
cast  under  a  huge  charred  trunk 
against  the  opposite  bank.  A  fish 
would  be  at  home  there  in  England, 
but  in  New  Zealand  ?  Yes,  he  is  at 
home  in  New  Zealand  too.  Down 
goes  :he  black  gnat  with  a  desperate 
rush  towards  the  bank.  No,  my 
friend  !  You  are  a  good  deal  heavier 
than  the  fish  we  look  for  in  English 
streans  of  this  class,  but  you  shall 
not  JQ  under  the  bank.  He  fights 
desperately  with  all  the  dash  of  a 
moorland  and  the  weight  of  a  chalk- 
strea  n  trout ;  but  very  soon  he  slips 
into  '.he  net,  firm,  fat,  and  well-shaped, 
a  poi  nd  and  a  half  in  weight.  Not  a 
bad  1  eginning  !  So  we  work  our  way 
up  wi  th  the  comfortable  assurance  that 
English  experience  is  sufficient  in 
Wair  ui,  and  presently  have  hold  of 
another  fish,  and  then  another;  till 
we  cover  the  short  reach  allotted  to  us 
and  £«re  brought  up  short  by  the  dam 
of  tho  reservoir  which  supplies  Welling- 
ton ^  ith  water.  The  very  best  water  is 
above  i  us,  but  young  New  Zealand  has 
been  busy  there  since  4.30  A.M.,  so  we 


must  be  content  with  what  we  have 
got,  and  wait  for  another  day,  when 
fewer  rods  will  be  on  the  water.  In 
the  reservoir  itself  we  can  see  fish 
bigger  than  any  we  have  caught,  but 
they  are  not  to  be  tempted  with  a  fly ; 
so  as  man  after  man  comes  up,  we 
compare  notes  and  creels,  and  find  that 
with  nine  fish  weighing  twelve  pounds 
we  have  done  as  well  as  any  of  them. 
Nor  is  it  until  a  keen  little  New 
Zealander,  who  started  upward  from 
the  dam  before  any  one  else  was  up, 
throws  some  sixteen  pounds'  weight 
of  trout  on  the  ground  with  the  com- 
plaint that  he  has  not  done  much 
good,  that  we  wake  to  the  fact  that 
our  catch  is  but  a  trifling  one. 

Such  was  our  first  experience  of 
New  Zealand  trout-fishing,  the  first  of 
many  days  that  were  to  make  Wainui 
as  familiar  to  us  as  the  Devon  stream 
on  whose  banks  we  were  bred.  Very 
soon  we  were  one  of  a  small  band  that 
confined  itself  to  the  upper  waters 
only.  For  Wainui  was  rather  a 
mysterious  river.  Above  the  reservoir, 
though  the  water  was  smaller,  yet  the 
fish,  albeit  less  plentiful,  were  much 
heavier,  as  well  as  more  difficult  to 
capture.  The  higher  one  went,  the 
less  thoroughly  the  bush  had  been 
cleared,  and  the  throwing  of  a  fly 
became  more  awkward,  while  progress 
of  any  kind  without  wading  became 
impossible.  Moreover  the  water  was 
not  a  little  choked  by  fallen  trees  and 
snags,  all  of  which  told  considerably 
in  favour  of  the  fish  and  against  the 
fisherman.  Thus  the  majority  of  men 
were  discouraged  from  trying  their 
luck  in  so  unpromising  a  field,  and 
willingly  left  it  to  those  who  were 
weak  enough  to  prefer  it.  But  there 
was  a  strange  fascination  about  that 
upper  water.  Below,  one  might  with- 
out extraordinary  effort  of  imagina- 
tion have  fancied  one's  self  in  England  ; 
though  to  be  sure  there  was  not  the 
busy  bird  life  of  water-ousels,  water- 
hens,  kingfishers  and  herons  which 
cheers  an  English  stream.  But  above, 
one  was  unmistakably  in  New 
Zealand,  moving  at  every  step  nearer 


126 


Trout-Fishing  in  New  Zealand. 


to  untrodden  bush  and  further  from 
the  haunts  of  men  ;  alone  in  a  silence 
broken  only  by  the  music  of  the  water 
and  the  inimitable  piping  note  of  the 
tui,  the  sweetest  song-bird  of  New 
Zealand.  Within  the  space  of  our 
own  life  this  valley  had  been  a 
pathless  forest  with  impassable 
undergrowth  of  vines  and  supple- 
jacks ;  and  now  the  blackened  bones 
of  that  forest  stared  at  us  reproach- 
fully from  river,  bank,  and  hill,  lying 
thicker  -  and  thicker  as  the  limit  of 
destruction  was  at  last  reached,  and 
the  living  trees  stood  across  stream 
and  valley  to  bar  further  progress. 

And  there  one  was,  with  a  ten-foot 
rod  bearing  the  name  of  a  maker  in 
the  Strand,  and  the  same  tackle,  nay 
the  identical  flies,  that  one  would  have 
employed  in  the  beloved  Devon  river 
thirteen  thousand  miles  away,  casting 
for  a  trout  under  a  tree-fern  as  though 
there  had  never  been  such  people  as 
Maoris  or  such  things  as  Maori  wars. 
And  overhead  was  a  blue  Italian  sky 
and  a  blazing  sun  which  in  England 
would  have  made  the  water  too  bright, 
but  in  New  Zealand  seems  only  to 
encourage  fish  to  rise  the  better. 
Such  fish  they  were  too  in  that  water  ! 
No  pool  seemed  to  hold  more  than 
two,  but  these  two,  or  at  least  one  of 
them,  could  be  caught,  and  rarely 
weighed  less  than  three  pounds.  It 
was  anxious  and  delicate  work :  one 
had  to  entice  them  from  under  the 
snags  and  hurry  them  away  into  safer 
water ;  one  had  to  wheedle  them  into 
staying  in  safe  water  when  one  could 
find  it,  or  pursue  them  breathless  and 
desperate  when  they  took  it  into  their 
heads  to  follow  the  swift  rush  of  the 
torrent  down  to  the  next  pool  and  the 
next  again ;  for  one  cannot  bully  a 
heavy  fish  with  light  tackle.  Regu- 
larly on  every  fresh  day  we  found  two 
fresh  fish  established  in  each  pool  in 
place  of  the  two  captured  on  the  last 
visit ;  whence  they  came  we  knew  not, 
but  there  they  were,  awaiting  our 
pleasure.  Three- pounders  were  the 
least  for  which  we  looked ;  four- 
pounders  were  frequent  enough  ;  five- 


pounders  by  no  means  unknown  ;  and 
finally,  in  a  deep  pit  at  the  very  head 
of  the  fishable  water  abutting  on  the 
forest,  was  a  monster  whom  many  had 
hooked  but  none  had  taken.  We  too 
had  a  tussle  with  him  in  the  course  of 
our  career ;  and  we  well  remember 
the  shiver  of  fright  with  which  we 
saw  him  come  up  from  the  brown 
depths,  seize  the  black  gnat,  and  retire 
to  the  depths  once  more.  For  fully 
ten  minutes  we  managed  to  persuade 
him  that  it  was  to  his  true  interest  to 
cruise  quietly  about  the  little  pool  till 
he  felt  quite  tired,  and  we  saw  him  in 
shallow  water  at  our  feet, — at  least 
an  eight -pounder,  as  we  judged  on 
comparing  him  mentally  with  a  five- 
pounder  already  taken  on  that  day. 
But  alas !  he  took  it  into  his  head  to 
go  downward,  and  the  outlet  of  the 
pool  was  hardly  six  feet  across,  deep 
and  swift  and  penned  in  between  huge 
felled  trees.  Inch  by  inch  he  fought 
his  way  down,  and  nearer  and  nearer 
he  drew  to  his  refuge  under  one  of 
them.  For  a  long  time  the  tackle 
held,  light  though  it  was  and  impaired 
by  a  journey  half  round  the  world, 
and  for  a  moment  there  seemed  a 
chance  that  the  fight  might  yet  be 
prolonged  to  the  next  pool.  But  at 
the  supreme  moment,  just  as  he  seemed 
about  to  yield,  the  gut  parted  and  the 
great  fish  was  gone.  How  exultingly 
the  sand-flies  seemed  to  attack  us  as 
we  sorrowfully  sat  down  to  repair 
damages,  too  heavily  smitten  for  tears 
or  oaths.  We  sought  refuge  in 
tobacco,  while  a  tui  perched  on  a  bush 
close  by  burst  into  song  ;  first  practis- 
ing fifths  as  his  way  is,  then  wilfully 
breaking  down  and  ending  with  a 
mocking  laugh,  which  to  our  ears 
sounded  heartlessly  insulting.  Many 
times  after  that  day  we  tried  to  tempt 
that  great  trout  again,  but  without 
success  ;  no  lost  opportunity  is  more 
hopelessly  irrecoverable  than  one's 
biggest  fish. 

But  after  all,  when  one  could  count 
on  taking  on  a  decent  day  from  twenty 
to  forty  pounds'  weight  of  trout  either  01 
the  upper  or  the  lower  water,  one  coulc 


Trout-Fishing  in  New  Zealand. 


127 


afford  to  leave  Wainui  in  possession 
of  he:1  unique  monster.  We  must 
now  notice  certain  peculiarities  about 
these  Wainui  trout.  In  the  first  place 
those  caught  above  the  dam,  though 
fat  ard  thick  and  nob  ill-shaped,  are 
peculiarly  ruddy  in  colour,  in  fact  as 
red  as  an  unclean  salmon.  Secondly, 
Wainui  fish  in  general;  though  their 
flesh  is  pink  and  firm,  are  singularly 
uninte  resting  to  eat.  Various  theories 
have  )een  propounded  to  account  for 
this,  o:  which  the  most  sensible,  in  our 
judgment,  is  that  these  trout  cannot 
get  do  ;vn  to  the  sea.  The  fish  below 
the  dcim  can  of  course  get  down  to 
the  mouth  of  the  river,  but  this  is 
closed  by  a  shingle  bar  which,  though 
occasionally  washed  away  by  a  flood, 
is  soon  reformed  by  the  action  of  the 
surf.  But  the  fish  above  the  dam 
may  ")e  said  practically  to  be  im- 
prisoned by  it.  Nay,  it  may  be  asked, 
but  w^iat  do  ordinary  trout  want  with 
the  sea  ?  We  can  only  reply  that 
these  New  Zealand  trout  do  beyond  all 
question  go  down  to  the  sea.  They 
have  I  een  caught  on  the  coast  of  the 
South  Island,  sixteen  miles  from  the 
mouth  .  of  any  river ;  and  we  have 
ourselves  seen  them  netted  out  of 
Wellington  harbour,  unmistakable 
red-spotted  trout,  not  sea-trout,  in 
beautiful  condition.  Some  account  for 
this  i  eculiarity  by  saying  that  the 
stock  :rom  which  these  fish  were  bred 
came  1  rom  the  Thames  ;  and  that  they 
are  nc  t  trout,  but  land-locked  salmon, 
which,  from  long  exclusion  from  salt 
water,  have  (fco  use  an  expressive 
phrase )  "  gone  back  to  trout."  But  it 
is  not  certain  either  that  Thames  trout 
are  la  id-locked  salmon,  or  that  New 
Zealar  d  trout  are  sprung  exclusively 
from  that  stock. 

Nov  comes  the  further  complication 
that  1  he  true  salmon  has  never  yet 
been  ;uccessfully  domiciled  in  New 
Zealar  d  waters.  Why  not  ?  Because, 
it  is  sg  id,  the  New  Zealand  seas  do  so 
abount  I  in  voracious  fish,  barracouta, 
sharks ,  and  the  like,  that  the  salmon 
has  no  chance  of  returning  undevoured 
from  t  is  first  visit  to  the  salt  water. 


But  if  trout  can  pass  through  such  an 
ordeal  unscathed,  why  cannot  salmon  1 
It  is  possible  that  the  trout  do  not 
venture  to  sea  so  early  as  the  salmon, 
but  only  when  they  have  attained  to 
years  of  discretion  and  are  able  to 
take  care  of  themselves.  There  must 
be  some  reason,  could  one  but  discover 
it.  A  few  years  ago  there  was  much 
talk  of  trying  to  solve  this  problem  in 
New  Zealand  by  an  experiment  on  a 
grand  scale  ;  to  wit,  by  turning  down 
a  quarter  of  a  million  salmon-fry  at 
once  into  an  unstocked  river,  and 
awaiting  results.  Whether  this  plan 
has  been  put  in  practice  or  not  we  are 
unable  to  say  ;  the  experiment  would 
be  interesting,  though  expensive,  and 
should  lead  to  some  decisive  con- 
clusion. 

But  whatever  the  fate  of  the  true 
salmon,  it  seems  to  us  possible,  nay, 
likely,  that  the  English  trout  in  New 
Zealand  may  develope,  so  to  speak,  a 
salmonhood  of  their  own.  This  view 
is  one  which  has  occurred  to  many ; 
and  has  been  confirmed  in  our  minds  as 
in  that  of  others,  by  study  of  certain 
trout  taken  in  the  Southern  rivers.  Of 
one  in  particular,  an  eight-pounder,  we 
have  a  very  lively  recollection.  He 
seemed  to  have  shed  the  red  spots  al- 
most entirely,  and  to  have  taken  to 
himself  a  silver  dress  more  like  a 
salmon's  than  a  trout's.  We  tried 
hard  to  make  him  out  to  be  a  sea- 
trout  :  we  would  gladly  have  thought 
him  a  salmon ;  but  we  could  not  con- 
scientiously pronounce  him  to  be  either. 
That  the  river  in  which  he  was  caught 
had  never  been  stocked  with  salmon  or 
sea-trout  was  an  objection  that  we 
were  prepared  to  waive,  on  the  ground 
that  he  might  have  strayed  thither 
through  the  sea  from  some  other  river. 
But  this  fish,  though  a  puzzle,  could 
not  be  mistaken  for  either  of  these. 
He  was  well-shaped  and  in  perfect  con- 
dition, but  his  flesh  was  bright  orange, 
and  he  had  not  the  perfection  of  form 
that  belongs  to  the  salmon ;  for  there 
is  no  denying  the  fact  that  a  big  trout 
is  an  ugly,  underbred,  plebeian  brute 
compared  to  his  aristocratic  relation. 


128 


Trout-Fishing  in  New  Zealand. 


"  My  dear,  we  never  even  speak  of 
them,  if  we  can  help  it,"  says  the  lady- 
salmon  of  the  trout  in  The  Water  Babies, 
and  proceeds  to  trace  the  degeneration 
of  these  despised  kinsmen  to  the  sloth 
which  kept  them  from  the  annual 
journey  to  the  sea.  The  phrase  al- 
ways occurs  to  us  when  we  see  salmon 
and  trout  side  by  side  ;  but  while  pon- 
dering over  this  eight -pounder,  it 
seemed  to  us  that  the  English  trout 
were  rising  on  stepping  stones  of 
Southern  seas  to  higher  things. 

Finally  there  is  just  a  very  faint 
foreboding  of  danger  ahead  that  has 
occurred  to  more  than  one  thoughtful 
fisherman  in  New  Zealand;  namely 
whether  the  astonishing  progress  and 
development  of  the  trout  in  New 
Zealand  waters  may  not  be  succeeded 
by  as  rapid  a  decline  and  fall.  For 
after  all  is  said  and  done  we  know 
singularly  little,  even  in  this  omni- 
scient nineteenth  century,  on  the 
subject  of  acclimatisation,  whether  of 
men  or  fish  or  plants.  We  have 
already  spoken  of  the  bounty  of  the 
New  Zealand  climate  towards  alien 
animals  and  plants  imported  from 
England  ;  but  there  always  remains 
the  question  whether  these  strangers 
may  not,  so  to  speak,  be  killed  by  too 
much  kindness.  Thistles,  for  instance, 
once  throve  in  New  Zealand  with  as 
appalling  fecundity  and  strength  as 
rabbits ;  but  now  men  of  experience 
will  tell  you  that  you  have  only  to  let 
thistles  run  riot  for  a  time,  and  that 
they  will  soon  die  out.  Rabbits, 
unfortunately,  show  no  signs  of  dying 
out ;  but  it  is  possible  that  even  their 
disappearance  may  be  only  a  matter 
of  time,  though  such  a  contingency 
cannot  be  reckoned  on.  But  in  the 
matter  of  trout  we  have  been  told  of 
rivers  in  the  South,  which  were 
stocked  early  and  left  almost  un- 
touched, wherein  the  trout  have 
disappeared  completely  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  useless  old  monsters. 
However  this  may  be,  the  fish-hatch- 
eries are  always  at  hand  to  stock 
such  rivers  afresh;  so  on  this  score 
one  may  make  one's  self  comparatively 


easy.  Moreover,  as  population  spreads 
in  New  Zealand, — spreads,  be  it  ob- 
served, not  multiplies  in  overgrown 
towns  after  the  fashion  of  Australia 
and  England — fishing  should  become 
common  enough  to  keep  the  rivers 
properly  thinned,  more  especially  when 
the  people  really  wake  to  the  fact 
that  the  trout  are  a  source  of  national 
wealth. 

And  this  leads  us  to  our  last  word 
about  New  Zealand  trout,  namely  as 
to  the  dangers  that  may  threaten 
them  from  the  action  of  men.  That 
there  should  be  a  good  deal  of  poach- 
ing is  of  course  no  more  than  could 
be  expected,  for  where  labour  is  so 
dear  it  is  impossible  that  the  rivers 
can  be  efficiently  watched.  The 
Acclimatisation  Societies  were  com- 
pelled in  self-defence  to  call  upon  the 
State  to  protect  their  work,  and  the 
State  duly  provided  the  necessary 
statutes.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  pass 
an  Act  of  Parliament,  and  another  to 
carry  it  into  effect ;  and  we  fear  that 
the  colonial  working  man,  in  whose 
hand  the  future  of  New  Zealand  lies, 
is  inclined  to  be  jealous  of  rod-fisher- 
men. It  is  not  that  either  fish  or 
fishermen  do  him  the  least  harm ;  on 
the  contrary  both  bring  money  into 
the  country;  but  fishing  seems  to 
him  to  be  an  aristocratic  pleasure,  and 
it  is  resented  accordingly.  If  this 
resentment  took  no  more  serious  form 
than  occasional  netting  or  spearing, 
there  would  be  little  to  complain  of, 
though  some  damage  has  already  been 
done  by  netting  on  a  large  scale. 
But  when  it  comes  to  wholesale  and 
wanton  destruction  with  lime  or  ex- 
plosives, the  affair  assumes  a  different 
aspect  altogether.  Unfortunately,  too, 
there  is  not  one  magistrate  in  twenty 
who  has  the  courage  to  enforce  the 
law,  even  if  a  case  be  brought  before 
them,  in  protection  of  the  trout ;  and 
not  one  minister  in  forty  who  would 
have  the  backbone  to  uphold  the 
magistrate,  if  the  latter  were  seriously 
attacked.  The  New  Zealanders  have 
many  virtues,  but  moral  courage  is 
not  one  of  them ;  for  alas !  moral 


Trout- Fishing  in  New  Zealand. 


129 


courage  is  not  a  plant  that  thrives 
on  an  ultra-democratic  soil.  It  is  a 
pity,  lor  the  trout,  as  we  have  said, 
are  become  a  source  of  national  wealth, 
and  the  rod-fishermen  would  gladly 
see  every  man  in  New  Zealand  take 
his  share  of  it,  so  the  work  of  the 
Acclimatisation  Societies  be  not  utterly 
undori  e  by  mere  ignorant  selfishness. 

Lastly,  there  is  always  the  danger 
of  too  much  interference  from  the 
State.  It  is  always  possible  that  the 
frantio  jealousy  which  the  State  feels 
towarls  private  associations  of  any 
kind  in  the  Australasian  colonies  may 
damp  the  ardour  of  those  who  have 
the  welfare  of  the  trout  most  truly  at 
heart.  Even  four  years  ago  the 
Acclimatisation  Societies  were  in- 
formed that  they  must  be  converted 
into  .fishery  Boards,  so  as  to  bring 
them  more  completely  under  the 
thumb  of  the  reigning  minister, — a 
change  which  no  one  who  knows  the 
ways  of  New  Zealand  ministers  can 
fail  to  regret.  When  one  reflects 
that  more  than  one  salmon-river  in 
England  has  been  ruined  by  the 
basest  form  of  petty  party  wire- 
pulliDg  that  ever  was  dignified  by  the 
name  of  Politics,  one  cannot  but  feel 


a  little  anxious  sometimes  as  to  the 
fate  of  the  New  Zealand  waters. 
Ministers  meanwhile  are  certainly 
alive  to  the  importance  of  preserving 
the  trout,  for  the  fish  make  a  con- 
spicuous figure  in  the  coloured  adver- 
tisements of  New  Zealand's  glories  ; 
and  so  long  as  individual  enthusiasm 
is  not  crushed  by  official  ignorance, 
the  trout  are  safe.  It  is  to  be  hoped, 
too,  that  the  sea-fisheries  of  New 
Zealand  may  before  long  be  devel- 
oped, for  hitherto,  though  the  coasts 
swarm  with  fish,  they  have  hardly 
been  touched.  At  present  the  few 
sea-fishermen  are  mostly  foreigners, 
presumably  because  the  profits  of  the 
trade  are  too  small  to  tempt  the 
luxurious  Briton ;  and  this  is  a  mis- 
fortune because  it  identifies  the  in- 
dustry with  a  foreign  element ;  and  a 
foreign  element  means  a  block  vote. 
The  rise  of  a  real  fishing-industry 
and  the  formation  of  a  fishing-interest 
would  do  more  to  establish  the  im- 
portance of  the  trout  than  anything 
else  ;  for  the  brotherhood  of  the  net 
might  then  discover  that  they  had  as 
much  to  gain  from  the  abundance  of 
trout  as  the  brotherhood  of  the  rod. 


No.  416. — VOL  LXX. 


130 


THE    WICKED    CARDINAL. 


"  AFTER  six  days'  reflection  I  deter- 
mined to  do  evil  deliberately."     Most 
men,     when    they    range    themselves 
among   the    goats,    make    no    formal 
notification  of  the  fact ;  but  Paul  de 
Gondi  had  peculiar  notions  as  to  what 
was  right  and  seemly.     He  must  also 
have  had  a  keen  dramatic  instinct,  or 
he   would   hardly    have   chosen   that 
special  moment   for  devoting  himself 
to  the  evil  powers.     Six  days  before, 
he  had   been  appointed  Coadjutor,  or 
Archbishop-designate,    of    Paris,    and 
had  then  retired  from  the  world  to  fit 
himself,   as   he    said,    by    prayer  and 
meditation  for  the  duties  of  his  office. 
It    was  during    this    retreat    that  he 
arrived  at  the  determination  to  sternly 
uproot  any  sentimental  preference  for 
righteous  dealing   he  might    hitherto 
have  entertained.     His  old  companion, 
la  Rochefoucauld,  would  have  smiled 
at  the  thought  of  the  process  being 
necessary  ;  but  then  la  Rochefoucauld 
was   of  a  cynical   turn  and  had  little 
faith  in  others,  and  none  at  all  in  Paul 
de  Gondi.     The  Parisians  were  more 
lenient  in  their  judgment,  perhaps  more 
just ;  and  in  their  eyes  the  new  Coad- 
jutor was  the    very  ideal  of  all  that 
was  brilliant,  kindly,  and  true.     They 
hailed   his  appointment  as  a  personal 
compliment  to  themselves  :  the  clergy 
of  the  town  went  in  solemn  procession 
to  thank  the  Queen  Regent  for  giving 
them  such  a  chief ;    and,   what    was 
much    more     significant,     craftsmen, 
traders,  marketwomen,    nay,  the  very 
dregs  of  the  population,  flocked  around 
her  palace  with  loud  cries  of  gratitude 
for  the  favour  shown  to   "  our    good 
Gondi."     The  people  kissed  his  stirrup 
as  he  rode  through  the  town,  and  in 
later  years,  when  evil  days  had  come 
upon  him,  great  ladies  sold  their  jewels 
to  bribe  his  gaolers,  while  men  begged, 


cheated,   stole,   nay,   even  worked,  to 
supply  him  with  money. 

Paul  de  Gondi  must  be  a  terrible 
stumbling-block  to  a  certain  class  of 
theorists.  According  to  them  he 
ought  to  have  been  a  model  of  all 
Christian  virtues.  His  father,  Phil- 
ippe de  Gondi,  was  one  of  the  best  of 
men,  honest,  brave,  and  profoundly 
pious;  his  mother  was  a  good  and 
gentle  lady,  whose  whole  life  was  de- 
voted to  deeds  of  charity ;  and  his 
first  tutor  was  a  saint.  Some  of  the 
old  Gondis,  it  is  true,  had  been  by  no 
means  creditable  personages  ;  but  then 
they  had  lived  in  Florence,  where  the 
climate  is  against  the  cultivation  of 
moral  qualities.  One  of  them,  a  certain 
Albert  de  Gondi,  had  played  an  im- 
portant part  in  arranging  the  episode 
of  St.  Bartholomew's  Eve.  He  was 
wont  later  to  speak  of  that  day's  pro- 
ceedings as  being  of  a  very  unsatis- 
factory nature ;  had  Catherine  de 
Medici  but  given  him  a  free  hand,  he 
used  to  say,  he  would  have  extirpated 
heresy  root  and  branch.  His  fervent  zeal 
for  the  holy  Church  did  not,  however, 
prevent  his  entering  at  the  favourable 
moment  the  service  of  the  heretic 
King.  Paul  de  Gondi's  grandmother, 
too,  was  a  notable  woman  in  her  day  ; 
an  angel  for  beauty,  a  fox  for  cunning, 
and  a  devil  for  cruelty.  It  was  perhaps 
from  her  that  he  inherited  that  subtle 
fascination  of  manner  which  no  woman, 
and  few  men,  could  ever  resist. 

Paul  de  Gondi,  or  de  Retz,  as  he 
was  styled  after  his  brother  became 
heir  to  that  dukedom,  was  born  at 
Montmirel  in  Brie,  on  the  20th  of 
September  1613.  A  few  days  later,  a 
certain  young  abbe,  one  Vincent  de 
Paul,  took  up  his  residence  in  the 
castle  as  tutor  to  the  Count  de  Gondi's 
sons.  "I  care  nothing  for  earthly 


The  Wicked  Cardinal. 


131 


learning,"  the  Countess  said  to  him, 
as  sh€>  bade  him  welcome.  "All  I 
wish  is  that  you  should  fit  my  sons  to 
enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven."  The 
future  saint  no  doubt  did  his  best  to 
obey  the  mother's  injunction,  but  he 
failed  lamentably ;  skilful  teacher 
thougii  he  was,  he  could  not  manage 
the  young  de  Gondis.  Perhaps  they 
were  endowed  with  more  than  their 
fair  fc.hare  of  natural  perversity ;  at 
any  rate  by  the  time  Paul  was  twelve 
years  old,  their  conduct  had  become 
so  outrageous  that,  in  spite  of  the 
entreaties  of  the  Count  and  Countess, 
the  a3be  went  his  way,  shaking  off 
the  \ery  dust  from  his  feet,  as  a 
testimony  against  his  pupils.  This 
was  a  piece  of  singular  ingratitude  on 
his  part,  if  he  had  only  known  it ; 
for  it  was  to  his  ceaseless  struggles 
with  these  turbulent  young  ruffians 
that  1  e  owed  in  part,  at  least,  his  in- 
finite patience  in  dealing  with  human 
frailty,  a  quality  which  went  far  to 
win  for  him  his  place  among  the 
saints. 

Three  years  before  the  tutor's 
departure,  M.  de  Gondi's  second  son 
had  been  killed  in  the*  hunting-field, 
an  irreparable  misfortune  for  his 
younger  brother  Paul,  who  thus  be- 
came the  cadet  of  his  family.  Among 
the  Gondis  the  cadets  always  en- 
tered the  Church.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, until  he  was  fourteen  that  Paul 
began  to  realise  all  that  this  meant. 
At  t.iat  time  several  rich  ecclesi- 
astical sinecures,  which  belonged  to 
his  family,  were  given  to  him;  and 
probaoly  his  father  tried  to  make 
him  understand  the  responsibility  en- 
tailed by  their  possession.  The  result 
was  open  rebellion.  The  boy  swore 
fiercely  that  no  power  in  heaven  or 
on  earth  should  make  him  enter 
the  Church.  But  paternal  authority 
was  a  different  thing  in  those  days, 
and  -.he  Count  de  Gondi  was  as  de- 
termined as  his  son.  Paul  soon 
learnt  d  that  in  an  open  contest  with 
his  father  he  was  at  a  hopeless  dis- 
advantage. He  therefore  changed  his 
tactic ; ;  since  it  was  useless  to  refuse 


the  priesthood,  he  resolved  that  the 
priesthood  should  be  refused  to  him. 
For  nine  years  of  his  life,  from  four- 
teen to  twenty-three,  he  devoted  all 
his  energy  and  ingenuity  to  proving 
to  the  world  in  general,  and  to  the 
Holy  Roman  Church  in  particular,  his 
unfitness  for  the  office.  Society  was 
not  easily  scandalised  in  those  days, 
but  it  literally  stood  aghast  at  the 
life  led  by  the  young  priest.  There 
was  no  bound  or  limit  to  the  wicked- 
ness into  which  he  plunged.  At  an 
age  when  an  English  boy  would  have 
had  no  thought  beyond  his  games,  he 
was  deep  in  every  kind  of  intrigue. 
He  attempted  to  carry  off  the  sister  of 
his  brother's  wife,  hoping  that  his 
marriage  with  her  would  be  an  in- 
superable bar  to  the  vows  of  celibacy. 
He  wore  the  colours  of  women  of 
doubtful  reputation,  and  for  their 
sakes  fought  duels  with  all  comers. 
He  was  implicated  in  disgraceful  in- 
cidents of  every  kind,  and  openly 
boasted  of  his  evil  doings  ;  all  the  care 
men  usually  employ  to  hide  their 
vices,  he  employed  to  make  his  public. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain :  as  he  patheti- 
cally observes,  "  I  could  not  get  rid  of 
my  cassock." 

It  is  strange  that  his  father,  who 
was  a  conscientious  man,  should  in 
spite  of  his  son's  courses  have  per- 
sisted in  forcing  "  the  most  unpriestly 
soul  perhaps  in  Christendom,"  as  Paul 
styles  himself,  to  become  a  priest.  The 
Count,  however,  seems  to  have  been 
firmly  convinced  that  it  was  the  one 
means  of  saving  him  from  eternal 
damnation.  He  himself  retired  into  a 
monastery  when  his  wife  died. 

In  the  midst  of  this  dissipation  Paul 
de  Betz  suddenly  declared  his  intention 
of  exercising  his  right  of  preaching 
before  the  court  on  Ascension  Day. 
This  announcement,  which  was  re- 
garded as  a  huge  joke,  -threw  his 
friends  into  a  perfect  fever  of  anxiety. 
To  their  astonishment,  however,  the 
sermon  was  most  successful,  and  even 
in  its  way  a  masterpiece  of  eloquence. 
The  ladies  of  the  court  sobbed  aloud 
as  they  listened  to  the  oddly  pathetic 

K  2 


132 


The  Wicked  Cardinal 


pleadings  of  this  strange  young  abbe 
of  whom  such  marvellous  stories  were 
told.  It  was  about  this  time  that,  as 
if  to  show  his  scorn  for  the  powers 
that  be,  he  threw  down  the  glove  to 
the  great  Cardinal.  Richelieu  seems 
at  first  to  have  been  attracted  by  his 
brilliant  young  subordinate,  although 
when  he  read  his  Fiesque  he  pro- 
nounced him  a  dangerous  individual. 
Still  he  sent  him  friendly  messages  in- 
viting him  to  the  palace.  But  de  Retz 
studiously  ignored  these  advances ; 
nay,  he  did  more,  he  carried  off  the 
honours  of  the  Sorbonne  from  Riche- 
lieu's protege  (a  high  crime  in  those 
days),  and  at  last  as  a  crowning  act  of 
defiance,  began  openly  to  woo  the  lady 
whom  the  Cardinal  honoured  with  his 
regard.  Then  his  friends  interfered, 
and  smuggled  him  out  of  the  country; 
and  only  just  in  time  if  the  Bastille 
were  to  be  avoided. 

In  Italy  he  continued  at  first  the 
life  he  had  led  in  Paris.  He  narrowly 
escaped  assassination  at  Venice  owing 
to  an  intrigue  with  "  the  prettiest 
woman  in  the  world "  ;  and  the  first 
thing  he  did  in  Rome  was  to  quarrel 
with  the  German  ambassador.  Up  to 
this  time  he  seems  to  have  been  merely 
a  reckless  young  libertine,  whose  one 
object  in  life  was  to  escape  from  a  pro- 
fession he  detested.  While  under  the 
influence  of  the  Vatican,  however,  he 
changed,  developed  would  perhaps  be 
a  better  word,  and  began  to  show  signs 
of  the  boundless  ambition  which  dis- 
tinguished him  later.  News  had  come 
of  the  illness  of  Richelieu,  and,  boy 
though  he  was  (he  was  only  twenty- 
three),  his  imagination  was  fired. 
Why  should  not  he  rule  France  as 
Cardinal-Minister,  when  this  other 
Cardinal  was  gone?  We  hear  little 
for  the  time  being  of  his  leaving  the 
Church  ;  nay,  he  even  throws  himself 
with  ardour  into  the  study  of  theology, 
and  begins  to  consort  with  church- 
men. After  his  return  to  France  he 
added  that  of  conspirator  to  his  other 
parts,  for,  finding  that  Richelieu,  in- 
stead of  dying,  was  stronger  than  ever, 
de  Retz  was  easily  persuaded  to  join 


the  plot  by  which  Louis  de  Bourbon 
hoped  to  rid  the  King  of  his  autocratic 
minister.  The  special  duty  which  fell 
to  de  Retz's  share  in  this  conspiracy 
was  to  win  over  the  populace,  and  he 
performed  it  triumphantly.  An  aunt 
of  his,  the  Marquise  de  Maignelai, 
who  devoted  her  life  to  visiting  the 
poor,  was  surprised  one  day  by  her 
nephew  volunteering  to  accompany 
her  on  her  rounds.  During  the  months 
that  followed  the  old  lady  and  the 
young  priest  might  have  been  seen  in 
the  poorest  districts,  making  their  way 
from  door  to  door,  distributing  alms 
and  kindly  words.  It  was  while  on 
these  expeditions  that  the  future 
Cardinal  learned  to  understand  the 
people,  the  great  mass  whose  very  ex- 
istence, as  he  bitterly  complains, 
ministers  and  courtiers  chose  to 
ignore.  Ruthless  though  he  might  be 
in  his  dealings  with  the  great,  with 
the  humble  he  was  infinitely  pitiful ; 
for  he,  perhaps  more  than  any  man  of 
his  century,  realised  the  terrible  suffer- 
ing of  the  poor,  realised,  too,  the 
terrible  power  that  very  suffering 
places  in  their  hands.  The  poor  have 
.  keen  eyes,  and  it  was  a  true  instinct 
that  made  them  choose  de  Retz  as 
their  hero.  To  others  he  might  be 
false,  to  them  he  was  true ;  he  might 
use  them  for  his  own  ends,  but  he 
never  misused  them ;  they  were 
always  in  his  eyes  human  beings,  nay, 
brothers. 

Meanwhile  the  plots  had  come  to 
naught.  The  first,  to  assassinate 
Richelieu,  failed  through  an  accident ; 
the  second,  to  raise  a  rebellion,  was 
rendered  futile  by  the  death  of  Louis 
de  Bourbon.  The  failure  of  these  plots 
had  considerable  influence  in  deciding 
de  Retz  to  remain  in  the  Church.  He 
hated  his  profession  as  much  as  ever, 
but  he  was  now  twenty-six,  too  old, 
he  thought,  to  change  it.  Then,  two 
of  his  pretty  friends  had  just  played 
him  false ;  "  Enough  to  make  any 
man  forswear  the  world,"  as  he  says. 
"  I  became  quite  a  reformed  character, 
at  least  as  far  as  appearances  went," 
he  continues.  "  I  did  not  pretend  to 


The  Wicked  Cardinal. 


133 


be  a  saint,  for  I  was  not  sure  how  long 
I  could  act  up  to  the  part,  but  I  pro- 
fessed the  greatest  veneration  for 
saints,  arid  that  in  their  eyes  is  a  great 
proof  of  piety.  I  could  not  get  along 
without  my  fun;"  but  at  least  he 
threvv  a  veil  of  decency  over  his  in- 
trigues. Debates  were  then  all  the 
fashion,  and  the  Abbe  de  Retz  had  the 
good  luck  to  come  oft'  victorious  from 
one  with  the  famous  Huguenot  leader, 
Mes  :rizat,  so  that  grave  ecclesiastics 
began  to  smile  upon  him  as  one  who, 
free-lance  though  he  were,  was  doing 
good  service  to  the  cause ;  and  his  old 
tutor,  St.  Vincent  de  Paul,  was  heard 
to  remark,  "  He  has  not  enough  re- 
ligion, but  he  is  not  very  far  from  the 
kingdom  of  God." 

So  long  as  Richelieu  lived  de  Retz's 
way  to  advancement  was  barred  ;  but, 
after  the  Cardinal's  death  in  1642,  he 
rose  high  in  the  King's  good  graces. 
Louis  the  Thirteenth  had  long  regarded 
him  with  secret  favour,  owing  to  the 
chivalrous  generosity  he  had  once 
shown  to  a  young  girl  who  had  been 
betr.iyed  into  his  hands  by  her  rela- 
tives. De  Retz  was  paying  his  court  to 
her,  but  the  moment  he  discovered  she 
would  be  an  unwilling  victim,  he  took 
her  ".o  the  convent  of  which  his  aunt 
was  abbess,  and  never  saw  her  again. 
This  incident,  coming  to  the  King's 
knowledge,  had  made  a  great  impres- 
sion upon  him.  De  Retz's  star  was  now 
in  the  ascendant ;  his  uncle,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Paris,  was  an  old  man,  and 
stood  sorely  in  need  of  a  coadjutor. 
The  King  had  every  wish  to  bestow 
the  office  upon  his  new  favourite,  but 
then  his  conversion  had  been  so  very 
recent;  for  decency's  sake  the  affair 
musi  not  be  hurried.  Almost  the  last 
command  Louis  issued  when  he  was 
dying1  was  that  the  Queen-Regent 
should  appoint  de  Retz  coadjutor. 
This  secured  to  him  the  primacy  of 
Frar  ce  after  his  uncle's  death. 

TJte  new  Coadjutor's  lot  was  no 
«asy  one.  Archbishop  Gondi  was 
both  vicious  and  stupid  ;  he  was  too 
indolent  to  work  himself,  and  too 
jealous  to  allow  others  to  do  his  work 


for  him.  "  I  found,"  writes  de  Retz, 
"  the  archbishopric  of  Paris  from  a 
worldly  point  of  view  degraded  by  my 
uncle's  vileness,  and  from  a  spiritual 
point  suffering  grievously  in  con- 
sequence of  his  idleness  and  stupidity. 
....  I  foresaw  endless  obstacles  to 
the  reformation  of  the  diocese,  and  I 
was  not  so  blind  as  not  to  know  that 
the  greatest  and  most  formidable 
obstacle  of  all  lay  in  my  own  nature." 
He  dearly  loved  extremes ;  and  it  was 
the  knowledge  that  he  could  never 
attain  the  perfection  of  his  ideal  bis- 
hop, that  drove  him  to  do  evil  deliber- 
ately. 

Verily  the  children  of  the  world  are 
wiser  than  the  children  of  light.  No 
saint  could  have  done  his  duty  in  the 
diocese  more  thoroughly  than  this 
"  perfect  fiend,"  as  Anne  of  Austria 
used  to  style  the  Coadjutor.  He  set 
to  work  at  once  to  redress  grievances, 
and  to  force  his  uncle  to  consent  to 
many  pressing  reforms.  He  preached 
the  gospel  eloquently,  if  he  did  not 
follow  his  own  precepts ;  nay,  to  some 
extent  he  did  follow  them,  though  in 
his  own  fashion.  His  charity  was 
unbounded  ;  his  hospitality  knew  no 
stint ;  the  humblest  cure  was  welcomed 
to  his  house  as  a  brother  ;  the  most 
lowly  was  treated  there  with  kindly 
courtesy.  "  But  I  stood  too  well  with 
Paris  to  stand  long  well  with  the 
court,"  he  says  with  truth.  From  the 
first  Mazarin  regarded  him  with 
jealous  eyes,  and  there  was  soon  open 
warfare  between  the  two. 

The  French  nobles,  de  Retz  among 
the  rest,  had  fallen  into  the  mistake 
of  underrating  Mazarin's  ability. 
They  had  begun  by  treating  him  with 
contemptuous  toleration,  as  a  hard- 
working hireling,  and  they  never 
realised  that  he  could  be  a  danger  to 
the  State,  until  the  Queen-Regent  was 
already  hopelessly  in  his  power, 
whether  through  love  or  fear  is  to 
this  day  a  mystery.  Then,  when  it 
was  too  late,  their  rage  and  indig- 
nation blazed  forth  fiercely,  and  they 
resolved  at  any  cost  to  drive  the 
Italian  from  power.  Monsieur,  the 


134 


The  Wicked  Cardinal 


late  King's  brother,  took  the  lead 
among  the  nobles  ;  de  Retz  rallied  the 
people  to  the  cause ;  while  all  the 
great  ladies  of  the  day  threw  them- 
selves eagerly  into  the  contest.  No- 
thing was  heard  in  Paris  but  one  loud 
clamour  for  the  dismissal  of  Mazarin. 
But  the  Queen  had  already  thrown  in 
her  lot  for  better  or  worse  with  her 
favourite ;  she  either  could  not,  or 
would  not,  desert  him. 

Then  came  the  Fronde,  gayest,  mad- 
dest, most  reckless,  and  most  ruthless 
of  civil  wars  ;  a  war  distinguished  for 
the  treachery  with  which  it  was  con- 
ducted, for  the  meanness  of  the  objects 
it  was  to  achieve,  and  for  the  strange 
mingling  of  cowardice  and  daring, 
egotism  and  devotion,  baseness  and 
chivalry,  in  the  characters  of  its 
leaders.  Madame  de  Longueville  was 
its  heroine,  Monsieur  its  nominal  hero, 
Madame  de  Sevign6  its  benevolent 
observer,  la  Rochefoucauld  its  candid 
friend  ;  while  Paul  de  Retz  was  at 
once  its  originator  and  director. 

There  was  no  lack  of  pretext  for 
the  war,  even  without  the  true  one, 
hatred  of  Mazarin.  Injustice  was  rife 
on  all  sides  ;  the  court  was  recklessly 
extravagant ;  the  people  were  dying  of 
starvation,  yet  the  Queen  would  give 
five  hundred  thousand  crowns  to  stroll- 
ing comedians.  Men's  minds  were 
excited  moreover  by  the  news  of  what 
measure  the  English  had  meted  out  to 
the  favourite  of  their  King  ;  and  such 
examples  are  contagious.  The  im- 
mediate cause  of  the  outbreak  was 
the  arrest  by  Mazarin  of  Pierre 
Broussel,  a  parliamentary  leader  who 
had  opposed  an  increase  of  taxation. 
This  arrest  was  a  mistake  in  tactics, 
of  which  de  Retz  was  not  slow  to  take 
advantage.  Accompanied  by  the  cures 
of  the  diocese,  he  went  at  once  to  the 
Queen  to  demand  the  surrender  of 
Broussel.  "  I  would  sooner  strangle 
him  with  my  own  two  hands,"  replied 
Anne  of  Austria  fiercely ;  but  she 
changed  her  mind  when  she  saw  that 
she  was  face  to  face  with  a  revolution. 
Already  the  people  were  barricading 
the  streets,  and  de  Retz  was  by  their 


side,  in  full  canonicals,  giving  the 
episcopal  benediction  to  the  work.  The 
Regent's  conduct  proved  the  truth  of 
the  Coadjutor's  favourite  maxim,  "  The 
weak  never  yield  at  the  right  time." 
She  surrendered  her  prisoner,  but  not 
until  it  was  too  late  :  the  people  had 
tasted  the  delights  of  anarchy,  and 
were  in  no  hurry  to  return  to  law  and 
order  ;  and,  what  was  still  more  im- 
portant, de  Retz  had  discovered  that 
anarchy  was  his  true  element. 

As  he  again  and  again  confesses,  he 
was  a  born  conspirator  ;  he  absolutely 
revelled  in  party  strife,  and  he  soon 
developed  a  marvellous  genius  as  a 
leader.  Before  long  the  princes,  the 
nobles,  the  parliament,  the  people,  even 
the  amazons  of  the  party,  were  as 
mere  puppets  in  his  hands ;  he  held 
the  strings,  and  could  make  them 
dance  at  will.  During  the  months 
that  followed  the  Queen's  flight  he 
ruled  Paris.  Not  all  his  subjects  were 
willing  :  the  Due  d'Aumale  and  Mon- 
sieur le  Prince,  both  sworn  enemies  of 
his,  more  than  once  attempted  to  rid 
themselves  of  him  by  murder  ;  Maza- 
rin's  agents  were  plotting  against  him 
everywhere  ;  while  Madame  de  Chev- 
reuse,  with  many  another,  was  in  turn 
his  warm  friend  and  bitter  foe.  Amidst 
all  these  dangers  his  old  friends, 
— watermen,  tapsters,  and  the  like — 
did  him  good  service.  They  guarded 
his  house,  escorted  his  carriage,  and 
even  when  he  was  in  the  parliament, 
always  remained  within  hail. 

The  royal  army  marched  against 
Paris,  and  de  Retz  raised  at  his  own 
expense  a  regiment  to  oppose  it; 
"  the  Corinthians "  he  called  his 
troops,  and  their  first  defeat,  "the 
first  of  Corinthians."  War  now  be- 
gan in  earnest.  There  were  sieges 
and  counter-sieges,  blockades,  battles, 
even  treaties  of  alliance  with  foreign 
powers.  If  ever  there  were  a  man 
content  with  his  handiwork,  it  was 
de  Retz  in  those  days.  The  Emperor 
made  much  of  him ;  Spain  flattered 
him  ;  the  Stuarts  intrigued  with  him  ; 
even  Cromwell  sought  his  friendship. 
"  I  know  only  one  man  in  the  world 


The  Wicked  Cardinal. 


135 


who  despises  me,"  Cromwell  was  once 
heard  to  say,  "  and  he  is  Cardinal  de 
E-etz."  The  Coadjutor,  however,  soon 
found  to  his  cost  that  "  in  party  war- 
fare it  is  harder  to  get  along  with 
one's  friends  than  to  fight  against 
one's  enemies."  From  the  first  it  was 
apparent  that  the  only  bond  that  held 
the  rebels  together  wa>s  hatred  of 
Mazjirin;  and  the  moment  Mazarin 
ceased  to  be  feared,  they  were  ready 
to  turn  and  rend  each  other.  Even 
Monsieur  was  no  better  than  the  rest. 
Again  and  again  the  Coadjutor's  most 
skilfully  laid  plans  were  thwarted 
by  the  timid  hesitation  and  childish 
jealousy  of  his  nominal  chief.  Every 
Frondeur  had  his  pet  ambition,  every 
Frondeuse  her  pet  vanity,  and  these 
must  all  be  gratified,  no  matter  at 
what  cost  to  the  community.  Little 
wonder  that  de  Retz  began  soon  to 
lend  a  ready  ear  to  Anne  of  Austria's 
advances.  She  was  willing  to  pay  a 
high  price  (a  cardinal's  hat  among 
other  things)  for  his  friendship,  and 
he  was  too  heartily  wearied  of  the 
mean  egotism  of  his  allies  to  feel 
much  scruple  about  deserting  them. 
Still,  to  his  credit  it  must  be  said  that 
he  did  his  best  to  gain  good  terms  for 
then. 

Anne  of  Austria  had  a  talent  for 
intrigue  which  came  into  full  play 
during  her  intercourse  with  de  Retz. 
It  was  important  both  to  her  and  to 
him  that  the  world  at  large  should 
knov/  as  little  as  possible  of  their 
negotiations ;  she  therefore  received 
him  at  midnight  in  a  lonely  convent, 
and  there  she  would  pass  hours  closeted 
with  him  alone.  At  his  entreaty  she 
retu.vned  to  the  capital,  without  Ma- 
zarir  of  course,  and  soon  it  began  to 
be  whispered  about  that  he  had  sup- 
planted the  absent  Cardinal.  Madame 
de  Chevreuse  was  at  this  time  heart 
and  ioul  in  de  Retz's  service,  and  she 
undertook  to  make  the  Queen  believe 
that  he  had  conceived  for  her  Majesty  a 
passi  onate  attachment.  She  persuaded 
him  bo  assume  the  part  of  a  despair- 
ing lover,  and  the  Queen,  far  from 
offended  by  his  sighs  and 


amorous  glances,  was  only  the  more 
lavish  of  her  smiles.  De  Retz's  hopes 
rose  high  ;  already  he  saw  himself 
ruler  of  France,  dictator  of  Europe, 
supreme  in  the  Church.  He  was  an 
optimist  by  nature,  and,  as  we  know 
by  later  events,  absurdly  overrated 
his  chances.  Still  the  ball  of  fortune 
certainly  lay  for  one  moment  at  his 
feet ;  only  for  one,  though  ;  the  next, 
a  woman's  jealous  spite  had  hurled  it 
miles  beyond  his  reach. 

"  Mdlle.  de  Chevreuse,  who  had 
more  beauty  than  wit,  was  practically 
a  fool."  This  is  de  Retz's  judgment 
of  the  woman  who  had  no  small  share 
in  ruining  his  life.  During  the  days 
of  the  siege,  she  had  been  his  warmest 
friend  (his  devoted  lover,  said  his 
enemies),  but  then  she  was  a  woman 
who  changed  her  friends  as  she 
changed  her  gowns,  and  had  a  fancy 
for  burning  them  both  alike  when 
tired  of  them.  She  was  hugely  de- 
lighted at  first  with  de  Retz's  scheme 
for  taking  Mazarin' s  place,  but  be- 
fore long,  either  through  jealousy  or 
the  desire  of  circumventing  her  mother, 
she  resolved  to  thwart  it.  Her  plan 
of  operation  was  simple.  She  told  a 
friend,  who  she  knew  would  repeat  it 
to  the  Queen,  that  she  had  often 
heard  de  Retz  ridicule  her  Majesty  as 
"  Une  vraie  Suissesse  (a  Flanders 
Mare),"  and  laugh  at  the  idea  of  any 
man  being  in  love  with  her.  Mdlle. 
de  Chevreuse  died  a  few  weeks  later 
of  a  mysterious  disease  which  the  in- 
discreet called  poison  ;  but  her  object 
was  achieved.  Anne  of  Austria  never 
forgave  what  she  held  to  be  a  piece  of 
flagrant  treachery  on  de  Retz's  part. 
She  did  not  quarrel  with  him  openly  ; 
she  was  too  cunning  a  diplomatist  for 
that;  he  was  still  received  at  court, 
but  he  was  subjected  there  to  many 
petty  slights,  and  was  clearly  allowed 
to  see  that  Mazarin  was  again  omni- 
potent. This  was  a  bitter  blow  for 
the  Coadjutor.  He  had  forfeited  much 
of  his  popularity  among  his  fellows 
by  paying  court  to  the  Regent,  and 
what  had  he  gained  in  exchange  1  Not 
even  a  cardinal's  hat ! 


136 


The  Wicked  Cardinal. 


Chaos  now  reigned  supreme  in  Paris. 
The  princes  were  arrested,  released, 
threatened  with  exile,  and  then  be- 
came more  powerful  than  ever.  Find- 
ing himself  helpless  in  the  general 
confusion,  de  Retz  washed  his  hands 
of  all  worldly  affairs,  and  retired  to 
the  monastery  of  Notre  Dame. 

He  could  not  stay  there  long.  In 
Mazarin's  eyes  a  blow  to  a  woman's 
vanity  was  no  unpardonable  offence, 
and  he  forced  the  Queen  to  appeal  to 
the  Coadjutor  for  help  to  free  herself 
from  the  tyranny  of  the  princes.  De 
lletz  was  not  deceived  by  the  Queen's 
promises  ;  but  he  saw  that  peace  must 
be  restored,  and  that  could  only  be 
done  by  siding  with  her  against  the 
princes.  He  set  to  work  at  once  as  a 
general  reconciler.  He  made  speeches 
without  end,  wrote  pamphlets  with- 
out number,  to  show  that  of  all  the 
evils  that  can  befall  a  nation  anarchy 
is  the  worst,  and  that  anarchy  could 
only  be  avoided  by  all  classes  rallying 
around  the  throne.  His  voice  had  lost 
none  of  its  old  magic ;  and  when  the 
young  King  entered  Paris,  he  met 
with  an  enthusiastic  welcome. 

The  Queen  was  profuse  in  her  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude.  She  even  gave 
de  Retz  his  nomination  for  the  coveted 
cardinalate  ;  but  she  gave  it  with  the 
firm  intention  of  revoking  it  before  it 
could  be  acted  upon  In  that  how- 
ever she  counted  without  her  host. 
Pope  Innocent  was  a  warm  friend  of 
the  Coadjutor ;  he  hastily  summoned 
a  consistory  and  gave  him  the  hat, 
although  he  knew  that  the  Queen's 
withdrawal  of  the  nomination  was 
already  in  the  Vatican.  Once  a  car- 
dinal always  a  cardinal ;  the  Regent 
and  her  minister  might  gnash  their 
teeth  as  they  chose;  Paul  de  Gondi 
assumed  the  purple  as  Cardinal  de 
Retz. 

As  soon  as  Mazarin  was  in  Paris, 
he  and  the  Queen  resolved  at  any  cost 
to  rid  themselves  of  the  presence  of 
the  new  Cardinal.  At  first  they  tried 
bribes,  offering  to  pay  his  debts,  and 
to  appoint  him  with  a  high  salary 
guardian  of  the  King's  interests  in 


Italy,  if  he  would  leave  France  for 
three  years.  De  Retz's  only  reply 
was  a  contemptuous  shrug  of  the 
shoulders.  A  bold  stroke  was  then 
resolved  upon.  He  was  summoned  to 
the  palace,  and  was  arrested  in  the 
very  ante-chamber  of  the  Queen  on  the 
19th  of  December  1652.  The  news 
of  his  arrest  spread  consternation  in 
the  city ;  the  populace  clamoured 
fiercely  for  his  release,  and  there 
were  all  the  signs  of  a  general  insur- 
rection. But  cunning  Mazarin  effec- 
tually quelled  the  disturbance  by 
causing  it  to  be  made  known  that 
unless  people  were  quiet  their  favour- 
ite would  be  straightway  shot. 

De  Retz  was  taken  to  the  strong 
fortress  of  Vincennes,  where  he  was 
treated  with  great  cruelty.  In  the 
coldest  weather  he  was  not  allowed 
to  have  a  fire ;  his  food  was  coarse 
and  scanty ;  his  life  was  frequently 
threatened  ;  and  his  gaolers,  evidently 
acting  under  orders,  subjected  him  to 
all  sorts  of  petty  annoyances.  He 
must  have  had  a  fund  of  philosophic 
gaiety  in  his  nature,  for  even  when 
things  were  at  the  worst,  he  could 
crack  jokes,  and  make  fun  of  the 
most  feiocious  of  his  guardians.  He 
found  occupation  in  studying  the 
classics,  and  amusement  in  tending 
pet  rabbits  and  pigeons.  Meanwhile 
his  friends  were  active.  The  clergy 
of  Paris,  in  spite  of  the  prohibition  of 
the  Archbishop  who  was  glad  to  be 
quit  of  his  nephew,  presented  a 
unanimous  petition  to  the  Queen 
praying  for  his  release  ;  the  parliament 
demanded  that  he  should  be  put  upon 
his  trial,  if  he  had  done  aught  amiss  ; 
the  people  growled  ominously  when 
the  Regent  appeared,  and  greeted  her 
with  loud  cries  for  their  favourite. 
The  citizens  to  a  man  were  on  his 
side,  but  they  lacked  a  leader  ;  and 
his  most  powerful  friends  preferred 
relying  upon  diplomacy,  rather  than 
force,  for  his  release. 

De  Retz  was  not  handsome ;  he  tells 
us  himself  that  his  ugliness  was  the 
jest  of  the  court ;  but  no  man  was 
ever  more  loved  by  women,  and  their 


The   Wicked  Cardinal 


137 


love  stood  him  in  good  stead  when  he 
\vas  in  prison.  By  a  lavish  use  of 
money,  smiles,  and  every  form  of 
cajolery,  some  of  them,  with  Madame 
de  Pommereux  at  their  head,  estab- 
lished in  the  very  teeth  of  Mazarin  a 
regular  system  by  which  he  was 
informed  of  what  was  passing  in  the 
outside  world.  It  was  by  their 
assistance  that  he  was  able  to  secure 
for  himself  the  Archbishopric.  His 
uncle  died  somewhat  suddenly  one 
morning  at  four  o'clock.  At  six 
o'clock  Mazarin's  agents  presented 
themselves  to  take  possession  of  the 
see  :  but  they  were  just  one  hour  too 
late ;  Paul  de  Retz  had  already  been 
enthroned  by  proxy  as  primate. 
His  friends  had  obtained,  by  the  aid 
of  an  upholsterer,  his  signature  to 
the  necessary  documents. 

The  rage  of  the  court  knew  no 
bounds.  The  election  was  perfectly 
valid,  and  no  power  on  earth  could 
annul  it;  the  only  thing  to  be  done 
was  by  bribes  or  threats  to  induce 
the  new  Archbishop  to  resign  his  see. 
Mazarin  was  equally  liberal  with 
both.  At  first  de  Retz  staunchly 
refused  to  yield  one  iota  of  his  rights ; 
but  at  the  end  of  a  year  the  close 
confinement  began  to  tell  upon  his 
strength,  and,  worn  out  mentally  and 
physically,  he  signed  his  resignation. 
In  return  the  rigour  of  his  imprison- 
ment was  at  once  relaxed,  and  a 
promise  was  given  to  him  in  the 
Kir  g's  name  that,  so  soon  as  the  Pope 
had  accepted  his  resignation,  he  should 
be  set  at  liberty  and  receive  the 
revenues  of  seven  abbacies.  When 
de  Retz  signed  this  agreement,  he 
wa^  perfectly  well  aware  that  the 
Poj  e  would  annul  it.  He  was  taken 
from  Yincennes  to  Nantes,  where  he 
wa^  treated  with  great  consideration. 
Bu>  imprisonment  to  a  man  of  his 
resiless  disposition  was  intolerable, 
and,  once  convinced  that  between  the 
obstinacy  of  the  court  and  of  the 
Vatican  he  had  no  chance  of  release, 
he  determined  to  make  his  escape. 
By  the  aid  of  a  cord  he  lowered  him- 
seli  from  the  top  of  the  tower  in 


broad  daylight.  It  chanced  that  a 
man  was  drowning  in  the  river  at 
that  moment,  and,  in  the  general 
excitement,  the  Cardinal's  flight  re- 
mained unnoticed.  But,  although 
out  of  the  prison  he  was  by  no  means 
out  of  danger,  for  the  country  side 
was  thronged  with  the  King's  troops, 
and  de  Retz  was  too  well  known  to 
escape  detection.  But,  as  usual, 
popular  sympathy  was  on  his  side, 
and  more  than  once  as  he  passed  the 
cry  was  raised,  "  Good  lack,  my  lord  ! 
may  God  bless  you  !  " 

He  had  arranged  to  go  direct  to 
Paris  and  take  refuge  in  the  episcopal 
palace  ;  but,  for  this  plan  to  succeed, 
he  must  be  there  before  the  news  of 
his  escape,  and  this  was  soon  made 
impossible.  He  was  thrown  from  his 
horse  and  dislocated  his  shoulder,  an 
accident  that  entailed  a  delay  of  some 
days,  for  the  stupid  surgeon  who  at- 
tended him  declared  the  limb  to  be 
only  bruised,  and,  treating  it  accord- 
ingly, threw  his  patient  into  a  high 
fever.  When  he  could  be  removed, 
his  friends  transported  him  to  Belle 
He,  whence  he  escaped  to  San  Sebas- 
tian in  a  fishing-boat.  He  managed 
to  do  a  little  business  on  his  way,  for 
he  took  with  him  a  cargo  of  sardines, 
and  with  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  re- 
warded the  men  who  had  helped  his 
escape. 

Nothing  could  be  more  flattering 
than  the  reception  he  met  with  in 
Rome.  Pope  Innocent  soon  became 
really  attached  to  him,  and,  what  was  of 
still  more  importance,  he  succeeded  in 
winning  the  favour  of  both  Signora 
Alympia  and  the  Princess  de  Rossanne, 
the  two  ladies  who  shared  the  affec- 
tions of  his  Holiness.  The  Roman 
world  was  dazzled  by  the  splendour 
of  his  household,  and  thought  the  re- 
presentative of  the  French  King  a 
very  unimportant  personage  by  the 
side  of  this  magnificent  fugitive.  For 
the  time  he  was  all-powerful  at  the 
Vatican.  The  Pope  had  even  serious 
thoughts  of  adopting  him  as  his  heir, 
but  died  before  he  could  execute  his 
intention. 


138 


The   Wicked  Cardinal 


The  conclave  that  followed  the 
Pope's  death  afforded  de  Retz  a 
splendid  field  for  exhibiting  his  pecu- 
liar talents.  Some  of  the  cardinals 
were  old  hands  at  dissimulation,  but 
they  were  as  children  by  his  side.  He 
adopted  Cardinal  Chigi  as  his  candi- 
date, and,  although  the  majority  was 
decidedly  against  him,  carried  the 
election  by  unscrupulous  manoeuvring. 
"Signor  Cardinal  de  Retz,  behold 
your  handiwork,"  were  the  first  words 
JPope  Alexander  uttered  after  his  .elec- 
tion. But  gratitude  was  not  a  strong 
point  in  the  new  Pope's  character, 
and,  when  the  time  came  for  him  to 
choose  between  the  friendship  of 
France  and  that  of  the  man  to  whom 
he  owed  his  tiara,  he  not  only  with- 
drew his  protection  from  de  Retz,  but 
even  threatened  to  send  him  to  St. 
Angelo. 

Cardinal  de  Retz  was  as  generous 
as  he  was  extravagant,  and  by  this 
time  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  re- 
sources. His  friends  were  willing  to 
help  him  in.  reason,  but  they  could  not 
and  would  not  support  his  magnificence. 
They  advised  him  that  a  quieter  mode 
of  life  would  be  far  wiser  in  his 
present  circumstances ;  but  he  would 
not  be  advised.  The  friends  of  the 
unfortunate  are  hard  to  please,  he 
complains  somewhat  unjustly,  for 
there  were  never  more  faithful  friends 
than  his.  His  servants,  too,  began  to 
give  him  trouble.  "I  had  always 
lived  with  my  servants  as  with  my 
brothers,"  he  declares;  an  ideal  ar- 
rangement no  doubt,  if  the  brothers 
had  been  willing  to  take  the  rough 
with  the  smooth. 

All  this  time  there  was  ceaseless 
warfare  in  Paris  between  his  friends 
and  the  King's ;  and  the  more  moder- 
ate of  both  parties  had  begun  to  feel 
that  there  must  be  peace  at  any  cost. 
The  prime  difficulty  was  the  question 
of  the  archbishopric.  The  court  made 
it  essential  that  de  Retz  should  resign 
his  see.  He  might  then  have  his 
choice  of  the  ecclesiastical  prizes  of 
the  kingdom ;  but  until  then  it  must 
be  war  to  the  knife.  To  resign  his 


see  was  the  one  thing  de  Retz  would 
not  do  so  long  as  Mazarin  lived.  The 
negotiations  therefore  soon  came  to  a 
dead-lock. 

When  Rome  became  intolerable  on 
account  of  his  debts,  Cardinal  de 
Retz  went  north  and  wandered  about 
from  town  to  town  in  Germany,  Hol- 
land, and  Belgium.  Twice  he  visited 
England,  where  he  met  with  a  warm 
welcome.  Charles  the  Second  and  he 
had  many  points  in  common,  and,  if 
tradition  speak  truly,  the  King  would 
have  been  well  pleased  to  keep  the 
exiled  prelate  at  his  court.  De  Retz 
however,  to  whom  popularity  was  as 
the  breath  of  his  nostrils,  had  no 
fancy  for  playing  the  part  of  a  mere 
creature  to  the  Merry  Monarch.  He 
coquetted  with  the  Jansenistes  and  Mo- 
linistes  at  this  time,  and  even  professed 
to  be  touched  by  the  beautiful  sim- 
plicity of  the  Protestant  faith.  He 
was  reduced  sometimes  to  living  in 
wayside  inns  and  poor  cottages;  his 
caves  he  used  to  call  them,  in  memory 
of  the  dwellings  of  the  persecuted 
saints  of  old.  His  life  was  a  hard  one, 
no  doubt,  for  he  was  constantly  har- 
ried by  Mazarin' s  agents ;  but  it  had 
its  pleasures,  and  he  was  still  the 
ladies'  cardinal.  Wherever  he  went 
great  ladies  made  much  of  him,  and, 
as  his  taste  was  catholic,  when  they 
were  not  at  hand,  he  could  console 
himself  with  pretty  seamstresses  and 
serving-maids.  His  friends  did  not 
approve  of  these  proceedings,  and  they 
were  upon  the  point  of  making  a 
strong  effort  to  induce  him  to  adopt  a 
more  regular  course  of  life,  when  the 
death  of  Mazarin  put  an  end  to  his 
wanderings. 

To  have  surrendered  his  rights  to 
his  old  enemy  would  have  been  dis- 
honour;  to  surrender  them  to  his 
King  was  a  graceful  act  of  loyalty. 
He  at  once  signified  his  willingness  to 
resign  the  archbishopric.  The  terms 
were  soon  arranged.  The  Cardinal 
received  as  a  reward  for  his  submis- 
sion the  rich  abbacies  of  St.  Denis  and 
Chaume,  and  the  accumulated  revenue 
of  the  see  of  Paris  from  the  death  of 


The  Wicked  Cardinal 


139 


Archbishop  Gondi  to  the  date  of  his 
own  resignation.  The  article  in  the 
treaty  upon  which  de  Retz  insisted 
most  strongly  was  the  one  stipulating 
thab  the  clergy  who  had  been  expelled 
from  their  office  on  his  account  should 
be  reinstated.  While  the  negotia- 
tions were  in  progress,  he  established 
himself  at  Commercy,  and  when  they 
were  completed  he  was  invited  to 
court. 

He  went,  but  he  did  not  stay  there 
long ;  the  atmosphere  was  too  stifling 
for  his  taste.  The  divinity  that  hedges 
a  king  had  grown  apace  since  he  was 
last  at  Fontainebleau,  and  Paul  de 
Retz  was  too  old  a  man  to  adapt  him- 
self to  the  new  fashion.  He  went 
back  to  Commercy  and  set  to  work  to 


pay  his  debts.  He  lived  in  a  very 
quiet,  unpretending  fashion,  doing 
little  acts  of  friendly  service  to  his 
neighbours,  of  whom  he  was  at  once 
the  adviser,  law-maker,  and  judge. 
As  in  our  own  day  Count  Tolstoi 
holds  his  rural  parliament,  so  Cardinal 
de  Retz  two  hundred  years  ago  used 
to  gather  round  him  in  an  evening 
the  farmers  and  peasants  on  his  land, 
and  tell  them  what  was  passing  in  the 
far  off  great  world.  He  did  not  live 
to  be  a  very  old  man ;  his  life  had 
been  too  riotous  for  that.  At  the  age 
of  sixty-six,  in  1679,  he  passed  quietly 
away.  Was  it  a  friend  or  an  enemy 
who  wrote  on  his  grave,  "  He  rests  at 
last"? 


140 


ONE    OF   THE    CLOTH. 


Do  you  happen  to  know  Cavesson 
of  the  Native  Police,  a  big  burly  man 
with  a  marvellous  command  of  lan- 
guage and  a  voice  strong  enough  to 
stop  a  steam-roller?  If  you  do,  and 
are  intimate  with  him,  you  might 
restrain  him  from  spreading  scanda- 
lous reports  about  my  character,  and 
also  refute  his  statements  that  I  did 
my  best  to  ruin  his  career  by  foolish 
practical  joking.  I  promise  you  that 
I  am  entirely  innocent,  and  you  may 
show  him  this  story  as  a  proof.  He 
will  most  likely  not  believe  you,  and, 
very  probably,  bid  you  mind  your  own 
business  ;  but  in  your  friend's  interests 
you  will  not  mind  that. 

I  had  met  him  several  times  before, 
but  this  was  the  first  occasion  in  his 
official  capacity.  Was  I  to  be  blamed 
therefore  if  T  failed  to  appreciate  the 
might,  majesty  and  dominion  of  the 
law  in  the  person  of  one  with  whom 
I  had  disrespectfully  skylarked  in 
days  gone  by?  He  was,  in  fact,  a 
man  of  two  lives,  in  the  one  as  reck- 
less and  impulsive  as  in  the  other  he 
was  clear-headed  and  determined.  So 
when  one  night-fall  towards  the  end 
of  summer  he  rode  up  to  the  station 
accompanied  by  a  dozen  or  so  of  his 
black  troopers,  I  forgot  his  second 
capacity  and  rushed  out  to  offer  him  a 
demonstrative  welcome.  In  place  of 
the  bluff,  hearty  man  I  expected  I 
found  a  morose  Inspector  of  Police 
wrapped  in  an  impenetrable  blanket 
of  officialdom. 

After  delivering  some  orders  to  his 
sergeant,  he  dismounted  and  preceded 
me  into  the  house.  I  placed  refresh- 
ment and  myself  at  his  disposal,  and, 
while  doing  so,  gave  utterance  to  some 
idiotic  joke,  which  I  couldn't  help 
feeling  at  the  time  was  out  of  place. 
He  was  in  no  humour  for  jesting,  and 
said  sternly  :  "  Perhaps  you  are  not 


aware  that  at  this  very  moment  you 
and  your  women-folk  are  in  most 
imminent  danger,  and  that  you  might 
all  have  had  your  throats  cut  before  1 
could  possibly  have  reached  you." 

I  was  serious  in  a  moment.  "  What 
the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Simply  this,  that  after  being  re- 
viled by  Parliament  and  the  Press  for 
what  they  call  my  criminal  delay,  I 
have  chased  the  Centipede  half  way 
across  this  colony  and  now  have  him 
boxed  up  in  the  Punch  Bowl  Gully 
behind  your  house.  By  this  time,  but 
for  the  night,  he  and  his  gang  would 
have  been  in  my  hands." 

For  a  moment  I  sat  dazed.  The 
news  was  so  unexpected  that  I  could 
hardly  realize  the  extent  of  our  late 
danger.  Centipede,  the  desperado 
whose  atrocities  had  for  months  past 
been  the  horror  of  the  Colonies,  was 
a  public  nightmare.  And  when  I 
remembered  my  women-folk  and  re- 
flected that  the  Punch  Bowl  Gully  was 
not  five  miles  distant  from  the  home- 
stead, my  feelings  may  be  better 
imagined  than  described.  "  What  do 
you  propose  doing,  Cavesson  ?  "  I  said 
at  last. 

"Speak  lower;  there  is  nothing  to 
be  gained  by  frightening  the  women. 
This  is  my  plan.  The  gang,  being 
unaware  that  I  am  so  close  upon  their 
heels,  will  lie  by  for  a  day  to  spell 
their  horses.  I  shall  billet  myself  on 
you  to-night ;  and  to-morrow,  with  my 
own  men  and  as  many  of  yours  as  will 
volunteer,  I  s.hall  enter  the  gully  and 
exterminate  every  mother's  son  who 
offers  resistance." 

"  Do  you  think  they'll  show  fight  ?  " 

"  If  you  knew  that  capture  meant 
Jack  Ketch  and  the  lime-pit,  would 
you  ? " 

I  looked  round  my  comfortable 
home  while  he  entered  upon  detailed 


One  of  the  Cloth. 


141 


particulars  of  certain  episodes  in  the 
Centipede's  career.  "  Great  Heaven  !  " 
I  said.  "  What  a  risk  I've  run,  and 
how  grateful  I  should  be  to  you  !  " 

"  Don't  mention  it,  old  man  !  You 
see,  your  risk  is  my  gain,  and  if  I  can 
collar  them  it  will  be  the  turning- 
point  in  my  fortunes.  By  the  way, 
can  you  spare  a  man  to  show  my  boys 
a  paddock  where  they  can  put  our 
horses?  It'll  be  a  daylight  start  in 
the  morning." 

We  walked  down  to  the  hut  to  give 
the  necessary  instructions,  and  while 
strolling  back  I  noticed  a  small  dust- 
cloud  breaking  across  the  plain. 
Presently  it  formed  itself  into  a 
horseman  galloping  furiously  towards 
us.  From  his  actions  in  the  saddle 
he  was  evidently  no  experienced  rider. 
Pulling  up  in  a  smother  of  dust  before 
the  verandah,  he  tumbled  headlong  to 
the  ground,  and  then  for  the  first 
time  I  noticed  his  profession. 

Imagine,  seated  in  a  most  undigni- 
fied attitude,  very  limp  and  with  a 
living  fear  of  death  in  his  face,  a 
young  curate  of  the  Church  of 
England,  possibly  twenty-three  years 
of  age  and  clad  in  full  but  extremely 
dusty  canonicals,  his  straw-coloured 
hair  plastered  on  his  forehead,  one 
shoe  missing,  and  his  hat,  well  jammed 
back  on  his  head,  showing  two  bullet- 
holes  in  it. 

When  he  had  recovered  sufficiently 
he  rose  and  explained,  in  a  most 
shame- faced  manner,  the  reason  of  his 
being  in  such  condition.  His  name, 
he  said,  was  Augustus  Randell,  and 
he  had  only  been  three  months  out 
from  home.  He  occupied  the  position 
of  curate  to  the  vicar  of  Mulga  Flat, 
from  whence,  that  morning,  he  had 
started  on  a  visit  to  the  surrounding 
stations.  He  was  the  bearer  of  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  myself,  and 
was  on  his  way  to  deliver  it  when 
his  trouble  happened.  Passing  the 
entrance  to  a  gully  in  the  ranges  a 
number  of  men  had  rushed  out,  bailed 
him  up,  and  taken  everything  he 
possessed.  Then,  crowning  indignity 
of  all,  they  had  forced  him  to  dance  a 


saraband  in  his  shirt.  He  blushed 
painfully  as  he  narrated  the  last 
circumstance,  and  almost  forgot  to 
mention  that,  when  they  permitted 
him  to  depart,  a  volley  was  fired  and 
two  bullets  pierced  his  hat. 

"  Never  mind,  Padre,"  said  Caves- 
son,  hugely  pleased,  as  we  escorted  the 
victim  into  the  house;  "they  were 
mad  when  they  let  you  get  away  to 
give  the  alarm.  But  we'll  have  rare 
vengeance  to-morrow.  We'll  hew 
Agag  in  pieces,  take  my  word  for 
it!" 

"  But  surely  you'll  never  be  able  to 
cope  with  such  a  band  of  desperate 
men.  They're  most  determined,  I 
assure  you." 

"They'll  have  to  be  if  they  want 
to  get  away  this  time.  They're 
between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea, 
Parson,  and  must  fight  or  go  under." 

I  took  his  Keverence  to  a  room,  and 
when  later  he  re-appeared,  washed  and 
brushed  up,  he  was  by  no  means  a 
bad-looking  little  fellow.  The  effects 
of  his  awful  fright  still  lingered  in 
his  eyes  and,  though  he  tried  hard 
not  to  let  us  see  it,  he  was  very 
averse  to  being  left  alone  even  for  a 
minute. 

The  life  of  a  bush-parson  is  strange 
and  hard.  And  when  you  reflect  that 
he  is  constantly  travelling  from  place 
to  place  in  the  back  blocks  through 
the  roughest  country,  living  like  a 
black  fellow,  enduring  superhuman 
hardships  and  necessarily  consorting 
with  the  lowest  of  a  low  community, 
you  will  gather  some  idea  of  its 
nature.  He  is  generally  underpaid, 
may  sometimes  be  well  spoken  of, 
though  much  more  often  abused ; 
nevertheless,  regardless  of  all,  he 
works,  fights,  and  struggles  on  with 
no  present  thought  of  himself,  labour- 
ing only  for  the  reward  his  belief 
promises  him  hereafter.  There  are 
exceptions  of  course,  as  there  always 
must  be,  but  I  am  convinced  that  the 
majority  are  such  men  as  I  describe. 

Before  dinner  Cavesson  and  myself 
were  closeted  together  busily  arranging 
our  plan  of  action  for  the  morrow. 


142 


One  of  the  Cloth. 


While  we  were  thus  engaged,  Randell 
went  out  among  the  men  and,  on  his 
return,  informed  us  that  he  intended 
holding  a  short  service  at  nine  o'clock. 
Out  of  respect  to  the  cloth,  if  for  no 
other  reason,  my  entire  household 
attended,  and  his  influence  among  the 
men  must  have  been  extraordinary, 
for  not  one  of  them  was  absent.  I 
have  reason  to  remember  that  service, 
and,  as  long  as  Cavesson  continues  to 
abuse  me,  I  shall  go  on  doing  so. 
Even  now  I  can  see  the  little  crowd 
of  faces  turned  towards  the  preacher 
and  can  hear  the  soft  tones  of  his 
voice  just  raised  above  the  murmur 
of  the  wind  outside.  His  address  was 
to  the  point,  but,  as  I  thought,  unduly 
protracted.  When  it  was  over  we 
returned  to  the  house,  and  in  view  of 
our  early  start  on  the  morrow  were 
soon  all  in  bed  and  asleep. 

Long  before  daylight  we  were 
about,  and,  while  eating  our  breakfast, 
1  sent  one  of  my  men  to  run  up  the 
horses.  The  parson  surprised  us  by 
announcing  his  intention  of  returning 
to  the  township,  and,  so  soon  as  the 
meal  was  over,  secured  his  horse 
which  for  safety  he  had  left  in  the 
yard  all  night,  and  rode  away. 

We  waited  for  the  appearance  of 
our  nags  till  Cavesson  began  to 
grumble  at  the  delay.  Half  an  hour 
went  by,  an  hour,  two  hours  ;  by  this 
time  half  the  station  was  out  looking 
for  them,  but  the  animals  were 
nowhere  to  be  found.  Then  I  decided 
that  all  available  hands  should  be  sent 
to  run  in  some  spare  horses  from  a 


distant  paddock.  Before  this  was 
completed  dusk  was  falling,  and  the 
Inspector's  wrath  was  indescribable. 
He  told  me  he  was  ruined,  that  he 
would  be  accused  of  conniving  at  the 
gang's  escape,  that  it  was  all  my  fault, 
and  so  on,  and  so  on. 

While  we  were  at  dinner  the  mail 
arrived  and  brought,  among  other 
things,  a  large  brown  paper  parcel 
to  which  was  pinned  a  letter.  It  was 
written  in  a  neat  clerical  hand  and 
was  to  the  following  purport  : 

DEAR  SIR, — I  cannot  thank  you  enough 
for  the  hospitality  which  last  evening  you 
so  kindly  showed  to  my  unworthy  self. 
It  will,  I  hope,  live  in  my  memory  for 
many  days  to  come.  For  reasons  which 
will  now  be  obvious  I  was  compelled  to 
assume,  for  the  time,  a  profession  that,  as 
Inspector  Cavesson  will  agree,  is  widely 
different  from  my  own.  It  may  interest 
you  to  know  that,  while  your  little  com- 
munity were  attending  my  impromptu 
service  my  own  men  were  removing  your 
horses  to  the  Waterfall  Gully  in  the 
ranges,  where  I  have  no  doubt  you  will 
find  them  if  you  have  not  done  so  already. 
This  was  the  only  plan  I  could  think  of 
to  prevent  my  being  forced  to  burden  the 
Government  with  my  society.  And  if,  as 
you  so  ably  put  it  last  evening,  all  is  fair 
in  love  and  war,  why  not  in  bush-ranging  1 

With  kind  remembrances  to  Mr.  Inspec- 
tor Cavesson,  I  will  ask  you  to  believe  me 
to  be,  very  gratefully  yours,  the  CENTI- 
PEDE. 

P.S.  Might  I  beg  you  to  forward  the 
accompanying  parcel  to  my  obliging  friend 
Mr.  Randell,  whom  you  will  find  tied  to  a 
leopard  tree  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
Punch  Bowl  Gully? 


143 


THE   CAPE   OF   STORMS. 


THOUGH  every  school-boy  presum- 
ably knows  to  a  nicety  where  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope  is  situated,  there 
does  undoubtedly  prevail  in  less  en- 
lightened circles  some  vagueness  of 
conception  as  to  the  exact  locality 
of  that  celebrated  headland.  Even 
the  gentle  reader  (to  take  an  instance) 
is  faintly  conscious  of  uncertainty,  and 
answers  (if  questioned  politely)  with  a 
briskness  not  born  of  conviction  : 
"The  Cape  of  Good  Hope?  Why,  of 
course  I  know  where  it  is  ;  down  at 
the  end  of  South  Africa." 

Gontle  reader,  you  are  not  very  far 
out,  fifty  or  a  hundred  miles,  per- 
haps. And,  as  you  say,  it  is  not  of 
the  slightest  consequence  from  a 
practical  point  of  view.  In  the  inter- 
ests, however,  of  abstract  science,  I 
ask  Leave  to  mention  (having  recently 
obtained  the  information  on  the  spot), 
that  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  lies  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  the  end; 
and  is  in  fact  the  middle  one  of  three 
proDiontories,  severally  inconspicuous, 
which  jointly  terminate  a  slender 
peninsula,  some  twenty  miles  in 
length,  forming  the  barrier  between 
Falsa  Bay  and  the  Atlantic  Ocean  on 
the  west.  These  three  headlands, 
lyin-jj  near  together,  and  commonly 
undivided  on  a  map  of  moderate 
scale,  are  locally  designated  Cape 
Poii.t.  It  was  here  that  Bartholomew 
Dia?  first  encountered  in  full  force 
the  prevalent  south-easterly  gales, 
and  denounced  the  rugged,  threaten- 
ing, three-fold  promontory  under  the 
sour  ding  appellation  of  the  Cape  of 
Storms  ;  to  be  afterwards  re- 
chri>tened  by  pious,  trustful  hearts, 
the  Jape  of  Good  Hope.  The  Cape  of 
Storms,  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  Cape 
Fan  well  !  Is  there  nothing  in  a 


A  5    touching    old   Diaz   this   brave 


Portuguese  sailor  was  not,  by  a  good 
many  centuries,  the  first  to  double 
the  Cape  of  Storms.  More  than  two 
thousand  years  before  him  certain 
Phoenician  explorers  circumnavigated 
Libya,  that  is  Africa,  from  the  east, 
in  the  reign,  and  by  the  command,  of 
Pharaoh  Neco  King  of  Egypt.  The 
pages  of  profane  history  show  nothing 
more  indisputably  authentic  than  their 
story.  It  actually  corroborates  itself ; 
listen  to  Herodotus.  "  They  sailed," 
these  silent  Phrenician  mariners,  "  out 
of  the  Red  Sea  and  southward,  return- 
ing to  Egypt  in  the  third  year,  by  way 
of  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  [the  Straits 
of  Gibraltar].  They  reported  (a  tale 
to  me  incredible,  believe  it  who  may) 
that  in  rounding  Libya  they  had  the 
sun  on  their  right  hand."  The  sun 
in  the  north  !  Good  wonder-loving, 
story-telling  Herodotus  can  believe  a 
good  deal,  but  not  this.  Through  a 
vista  of  twenty-three  centuries  we 
seem  to  see  him  slowly  smile  and  wag 
his  head,  and  even  to  catch  some 
muttered,  half-audible  allusion  to  the 
Horse-Mariiies. 

But  this  is,  after  all,  another  story, 
more  interesting  to  scholars  and 
archaeologists  than  to  us.  To  come 
to  my  own ;  I  went  down,  at  George's 
invitation,  to  spend  a  month  at  his 
farm,  which  occupies  the  whole 
southern  .portion  of  the  Cape  penin- 
sula. It  was  a  comfort  to  turn  my 
back  upon  the  dust  and  noise  and 
manifold  offences  of  Cape  Town.  The 
train,  slowly  skirting  Simon's  Bay 
landed  me  in  an  hour  or  two  at 
Simon's  Town  terminus,  not  of  rail- 
roads only,  but  of  roads  generally, 
with  all  other  signs  and  products 
of  civilisation.  Beyond  this  I  had 
twelve  or  thirteen  miles  to  walk  over 
an  unknown  land.  A  kind  of  a  path 
there  was,  for  the  first  mile  or  two ; 


The  Cape  of  Storms. 


but  this  soon  faded  in  the  wilderness, 
and,  finding  that  it  led  nowhere, 
became  extinct.  It  was  mid-day  and 
mid-winter,  the  month  of  June  to  wit, 
elsewhere  leafy,  but  not  here.  On 
and  on  I  walked  down  this  strange, 
stony,  flower-bespangled  peninsula,  a 
land  of  songless  birds  and  scentless 
flowers,  of  unfamiliar  forms  and  hues. 
Gorgeous  branching  hyacinthine  blos- 
soms, crimson,  orange,  and  purple, 
without  leaf  of  green,  burst  here, 
there,  and  everywhere  from  great 
white  cloven  bulbs  and  burned,  un- 
naturally luxuriant,  on  the  shadeless 
yellow  ground.  Short- eared  rock- 
rabbits  (mysterious  creatures  allied  to 
the  elephant  and  rhinoceros)  flickered 
in  and  out  of  their  stony  burrows. 
Brilliant  spotted  beetles  jaunted  on 
unheard-of  legs,  high  and  dry  above 
the  dusty  soil.  The  sun  himself  was 
crossing  the  meridian  from,  right  to 
left  behind  me,  and  throwing  the 
shadow  backward  on  the  dial.  As  if 
to  enhance  the  strangeness  of  the 
solitude,  a  single  telegraph  wire 
crawled  over  inaccessible  places  on 
great  gaunt  stilts,  eighty  or  a  hundred 
yards  asunder,  leaning  and  straddling 
in  all  directions,  black  as  gibbets 
against  the  sky.  Leading  as  they 
ultimately  did  to  the  lighthouse,  and 
passing  at  no  great  distance  from 
George's  farm,  these  might  have 
guided  me,  had  I  been  able  to  follow 
them ;  but  they  suddenly  veered  to 
the  right,  sprawled  over  an  impossible 
ravine,  and  sped  away  to  the  western 
coast- line,  leaving  me  to  steer  south- 
ward by  the  sun. 

.Strolling  hour  after  hour  through 
this  painted  desert  I  mounted  at 
length  upon  a  higher,  narrower 
ground.  Here  the  still  blue  bay  and 
the  mistier  ocean  closed  in  on  either 
hand ;  and  the  southern  half  of  the 
peninsula  stretched  and  spread  in 
view  before  me,  lying,  tinged  with  a 
flush  of  innumerable  flowers,  high 
upon  the  waste  of  level  sea.  Far 
ahead  stood  the  lighthouse  on  the 
extremity,  remote  and  barely  dis- 
cernible, till  on  a  sudden,  its  lantern 


returned  a  ray  of  the  northern  sun, 
and  a  dazzling  white  star  flashed  out 
in  the  daylight  on  the  summit  of  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope.  As  I  walked 
farther,  the  peninsula  lay  lower  and 
broader.  Nothing  was  visible  here 
except  the  sky  and  the  jagged  surface 
of  the  undulating  land.  As  I  sur- 
mounted its  successive  crests,  sweep 
after  sweep  of  rock-strewn  valley  met 
my  wearied  eyes.  The  twelve  miles 
seemed  to  have  extended  themselves 
at  least  to  twenty,  and  the  sun  had 
nearly  completed  his  course,  when  at 
last,  in  the  far  distance,  I  sighted 
George's  house,  lying  long  and  white 
against  the  opposite  slope  of  a  broad 
low  vale.  But  in  proportion  as  my 
spirits  were  raised  by  the  nearness  of 
my  goal,  so  they  fell  with  the  in- 
creasing irregularity  and  difficulty  of 
the  ground,  here  cut  up  into  rifts  and 
miniature  chasms  of  the  limestone 
rock,  there  impeded  by  loose  stones 
and  boulders,  choked  by  yielding 
heather  or  altogether  hidden  by  bush. 
As  I  lay  down  to  drink  at  a  peaty 
pool  of  rain-water,  the  sun  dropped 
suddenly  behind  the  ridge,  and  night 
came  on  in  strides.  I  stumbled  on  in 
the  direction  of  George's  farm,  now 
invisible,  with  every  prospect  of 
missing  it,  and  finding  myself  hope- 
lessly benighted  in  the  wilderness ; 
but,  to  my  great  relief  a  light  gleamed 
forth  from  a  window  and  guided  me 
through  reed-brakes,  thickets,  melon- 
patches,  potato-grounds,  fences  (sunk 
and  otherwise),  and  finally,  oh  joy  !  a 
gate ;  and  then,  like  a  shipwrecked 
sailor  staggering  on  firm  land,  I 
emerged  upon  a  solid  gravel  path. 

Here  was  George's  farm  at  last, 
visible  in  dim  outline,  apparently  a 
commodious  and  desirable  family 
mansion  springing  out  of  this  un- 
earthly waste.  Through  the  large 
window  I  espied  the  back  of  George's 
head  as  he  sat  reading  in  an  easy- 
chair.  He  heard  my  footstep,  rose, 
and  disappeared ;  while  dazzled  by  the 
lamp  light,  I  stumbled  over  the  thresh- 
old, and  opened  the  door  by  the 
simple  process  of  falling  against  it. 


The  Cape  of  Storms. 


145 


"  Hullo  !  "  said  a  familiar  voice. 
"Who  goes  there?"  "Friend,"  I 
answered,  recovering  myself.  "  Ad- 
vanoe,  friend,  and  give  the  counter- 
sign," said  George,  grimly  smiling, 
and  meeting  me  with  outstretched 
hani.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  he 
came  into  his  extravagantly  out-of- 
the-way  possessions,  bought  by  his 
father  a  year  before.  There  he  stood, 
somewhat  sterner  of  mien,  and  looking 
considerably  older  than  his  twenty- 
five  years,  well  finished  in  feature  and 
limb,  and  as  spick  and  span  in  this 
solitude  as  if  he  had  just  returned 
froDi  a  garden-party  at  Government 
House. 

I  threw  my  knapsack  into  a  corner, 
and  myself  into  a  low  chair.  "I 
nevor  was  so  thankful  in  my  life, 
as  v/hen  I  saw  your  house  just  before 
sunset.  I  made  sure  I  should  have  to 
camp  out  in  this  outlandish  desert  of 
yours." 

"  You  did  run  it  rather  close,"  said 
George ;  "I  expected  you  two  hours 
before  this.  You  would  have  found 
it  awkward  getting  here  after  dark, 
at  any  rate  if  you  had  lost  the  path." 

"  Path  !  "  I  said.  «  What  path  ?  I 
haven't  seen  the  ghost  of  a  path  for 
the  last  ten  miles  at  least.  I've  been 
steering  by  the  sun  (and  that  went  the 
wrong  way)  till  I  saw  your  light." 

"  Oh,  there's  a  path  right  enough," 
said  George,  "  though  I  admit  it's  not 
easy  to  find  it,  if  you  don't  know 
where  to  look.  There's  a  waggon  - 
track  too,  if  you  come  to  that,  away 
behind  over  there."  George  jerked 
his  head  backward  towards  the  west. 
"  You  wouldn't  have  seen  my  place 
though  from  that.  Well,  here  you 
are  anyway  ;  come  on  and  eat." 

Sapper  over,  we  sat  smoking  at  the 
open  window  looking  out  upon  the 
cool  night.  The  sky,  though  star-lit, 
was  intensely  dark,  while  low  on  the 
horizon  a  yellower  star  waxed  four 
timos  every  minute  to  a  steady 
piercing  glow  that  seemed  to  cut  the 
darkness  like  a  knife. 

"  How  far  off  is  that  lighthouse  1  " 
I  asked. 

^o.  416. — VOL.  LXX. 


"  Four  and  a  half  miles  as  the  crow 
flies,"  answered  George.  "  Which 
reminds  me  that  Starling  (he's  the 
lighthouse-keeper)  wants  you  to  go 
over  and  stay  a  day  or  two  with  him. 
He  lives  up  there  with  his  wife  and 
family,  and  though  he  has  a  partner, 
it's  pretty  lonely.  You'll  see  him  in 
a  few  days  ;  he  always  calls  here  when 
he  goes  to  Simon's  Town.  Let's  have 
a  game  of  cribbage." 

He  drew  a  small  table  up  to  the 
window,  and  we  played  cribbage  for 
love,  with  due  solemnity  and  a  per- 
vading sense  of  calm.  I  know  no 
more  tranquillizing  game. 

After  a  night  of  troubled  dreams, 
not  uncommon  amid  strange  surround- 
ings, I  awoke,  rejoiced  to  find  myself 
at  George's  farm.  I  was  in  a  large 
and  lofty  chamber  on  the  ground 
floor  ;  there  is  seldom  a  second  story 
in  these  Dutch-built  houses.  It  was 
nearly  seven  o'clock,  and  the  sun 
shone  upon  my  face,  over-topping  the 
rising  ground  that  shut  in  the  home- 
stead on  the  east  and  west.  I  dressed 
and  went  out  on  to  the  terrace,  which 
ran  along  the  western  front  of  the 
house.  Southward  the  view  was  more 
open,  the  end  of  the  valley  being 
closed  by  the  promontory,  with  the 
lighthouse  crowning  it,  looking  curi- 
ously near  and  neat.  Scattered  on 
the  stony  slopes  near  the  homestead 
cattle  were  straying  untended,  graz- 
ing on  such  patches  of  herbage  as 
they  could  find.  The  kraals  for  hous- 
ing them  stood  near  by  in  rather 
a  ruinous  condition.  A  certain 
space,  not  large,  was  inclosed,  and 
cultivated  at  least  to  the  extent  of 
being  clear  of  stones  and  bush ;  else- 
where melon-vines  crawled  over  the 
barren  ground.  At  some  distance 
George  was  standing,  dressed  with  great 
neatness,  and  superintending  the  work 
of  two  or  three  Kafirs,  who,  judging 
from  their  merry  faces,  as  well  as 
from  the  absence  of  assignable  mo- 
tive, were  digging  in  the  sand  for 
fun.  George  joined  me  at  the  gate. 

"  I  wonder  what  you  think  of  the 
place,"  he  said.  "  You  see  it's  all 

L 


146 


The  Cape  cf  Storms. 


very  fine  and  large,  but  I  can't  get 
anything  to  grow  here,  except  water- 
melons and  flowers.  The  property 
doesn't  pay  anything,  of  course,  at 
present ;  but  the  governor  knows 
what  he  is  about.  They  are  forming 
a  company  to  work  the  limestone 
down  at  the  Point.  They  will  make 
a  railway  down  here  from  Simon's 
Town,  and  probably  a  fashionable 
watering-place,  built  on  my  ground 
for  invalids  and  people  from  the 
colony  and  from  England.  I  shall 
be  a  millionaire,"  said  George  gloomily, 
"if  that  is  any  satisfaction  to  any- 
body." 

"  Well,  cheer  up,"  I  said ;  "  things 
might  be  worse  than  that.  Let's  go 
and  look  over  that  ridge." 

We  strolled  down  the  slope  and 
over  a  plank  which  bridged  a  dry 
groove  at  the  bottom  of  it.  "  What 
is  this?  "  I  asked  George. 

"This  is  a  river,"  George  answered, 
"  belonging  to  me,  the  southernmost 
river  on  this  peninsula.  It  rises  over 
there  to  the  west,  and  flows,  as  you 
see,  beneath  this  bridge  and  out  into 
Simon's  Bay.  Sometimes  it  contains 
water,  but  that  is  only  after  rain." 

Quitting  with  reluctance  the  banks 
of  this  delectable  stream,  we  walked 
up  and  over  the  further  slope.  In 
less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  George's 
farm,  so  far  as  it  consisted  of  build- 
ings or  other  tokens  or  signs  of  man's 
presence,  had  disappeared  as  completely 
as  if  it  had  been  swallowed  up  in  the 
earth.  We  stood  in  the  primeval 
wilderness.  The  ground  sank  away 
to  the  shore  of  the  bay  about  a  mile 
distant,  and  between  us  and  the  blue 
water  a  herd  of  antelopes  were  graz- 
ing, apparently  on  stones.  "Look 
there  ! "  said  George  excitedly  stoop- 
ing down.  "  Just  my  luck  !  there's 
a  splendid  shot  for  you ! "  As  he 
spoke  the  leader  threw  up  his  head 
and  sniffed  the  air;  and  the  whole 
herd,  startled  into  precipitant  flight, 
swept  away  and  vanished  like  a  ripple 
over  the  corn.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
great  solitary  ostrich,  black  with 
white  wings,  stalked  slowly  past  us 


at  no  great  distance,  raising  and 
ruffling  his  plumage,  picking  his  steps 
and  swaying  his  supple  neck  with 
fastidious  deliberation  and  ostenta- 
tiously ignoring  our  presence.  Before 
us  spread  the  great  square  expanse  of 
False  Bay,  with  the  bold  outline  of 
Cape  Hangklip  standing  sentinel  at 
its  south-eastern  corner,  and  facing, 
as  if  in  stern  salutation  across  twenty 
miles  of  water,  the  hither  guard  on 
the  promontory  of  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope.  Even  beyond  Cape  Hangklip 
a  faint  line  of  coast  was  discernible 
trending  ever  south-eastward,  and 
terminated  by  the  summit,  just  visi- 
ble above  the  horizon,  of  Danger 
Point. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  feel,"  said 
George,  "  but  breakfast  is  what  I 
am  thinking  about.  We'll  take  a 
walk  round  afterwards  with  the 
guns.  There's  plenty  of  game  on  the 
estate ;  partridges,  pheasants,  reet- 
buck,  spring-buck,  to  say  nothing  of 
lions,  tigers,  and  other  fearful  wild- 
fowl ;  but  for  goodness  sake,  what- 
ever you  do,  don't  shoot  a  baboon. 
I  shot  one  last  year,  and  I  haven't 
got  over  it  yet.  She  was  a  female, 
who  had  come  over  the  fence  with  a 
young  one  after  the  pumpkins,  and  I 
let  drive  at  her  from  the  window.  I 
knew  it  was  murder  all  the  time,  and 
half  hoped  I  should  miss  her;  you 
know  how  I  mean.  Well,  she  died, 
screaming  for  all  the  world  like  a 
woman,  and  trying  to  screen  her  little 
one,  thinking  I  was  going  to  fire 
again.  Ugh !  it  makes  me  feel  like 
Cain." 

In  spite  of  this  gruesome  remi- 
niscence we  managed  on  returning  to 
the  house  to  eat  a  few  pounds  of 
venison-steak  for  breakfast ;  and  after 
a  matutinal  game  of  cribbage  (a  re- 
laxation which  we  allowed  ourselves 
at  any  odd  hour  of  the  day)  we  took 
a  gun  and  a  rifle  and  went  a-hunting. 

"You  shoot  partridges,"  said  George, 
"and  I'll  look  after  the  buck.  It's 
lucky  there  are  two  of  us  now.  When 
I  am  alone,  as  sure  as  ever  I  go  out 
with  the  rifle,  I  put  up  covey  after 


The  Cape  of  Storms. 


147 


covey  of  partridges,  but  no  buck.  I 
tako  the  gun,  perhaps,  an  hour  after- 
wards, and  see  buck  by  the  dozen,  but 
nevor  a  bird,  It's  a  funny  world." 

"  I've  known  things  go  contrary, 
myself,"  I  said.  "  I  wonder  which 
sort  of  a  morning  this  will  be." 

Ir  proved  to  be  a  partridge  morn- 
ing. The  birds  were  tame,  and  hard 
to  miss,  and  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  make 
the  bag.  Though  we  saw  spring-buck 
in  the  distance,  we  failed  to  get  within 
ranjre,  or  if  we  succeeded,  missed, — 
no  difficult  feat  at  half-a-mile.  Having 
had  enough  of  it,  we  returned  home 
to  dinner,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the 
day  reading  novels,  conversing,  and 
playing  the  unfailing  game. 

I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Starling 
one  morning  when  he  called  in  on  his 
way  back  from  Simon's  Town.  Tall, 
bearded,  and  grave  of  deportment, 
leading  an  ass  equipped  with  panniers 
and  accompanied  by  a  villainous- 
looking  black  attendant,  he  reminded 
me  of  nothing  so  much  as  a  Calendar 
from  the  pages  of  The  Arabian  Nights. 
Originally  (indeed  for  the  greater 
part  of  his  life)  he  had  been  a  com- 
mon sailor,  a  class  of  men  whose  ex- 
celleat  qualities  are  usually  exhibited 
in  the  rough.  Starling  was  a  gentle- 
man, if  refinement  of  mind,  showing 
itseh  in  courtesy  of  speech  and  act, 
give  title  to  the  name.  He  invited 
me  with  great  cordiality  to  pay  him  a 
visit,  and  I  arranged  to  go  one  day  in 
the  next  week,  especially  as  George 
had  been  called  away  on  some  un- 
wonied  business  which  would  detain 
him  at  least  two  days  in  Simon's 
Town. 

Oi.  the  day  appointed  George  rode 
off  northward  on  his  favourite  horse, 
smal  ,  wiry,  and  unshod,  and  I  set  out 
in  tl.e  opposite  direction  to  visit  my 
frieni  the  lighthouse-keeper  on  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope.  Acting  on 
George's  advice,  instead  of  making  a 
bee-lme  across  country  direct  for  the 
light  .louse,  I  bore  westward  to  the 
right,  and  about  two  miles  from  the 
farm  struck  the  waggon-track  which 


winds  along  the  coast.  Towards  the 
southern  extremity  of  the  peninsula, 
where  the  promontory  rises  higher 
and  higher,  the  road  ascends,  well-cut 
and  well-kept,  by  a  gentle  gradient 
up  the  western  face  of  the  cliff.  It 
was  by  this  road  that  the  Govern- 
ment waggon  brought  stores  and 
material  to  the  lighthouse-keepers 
every  month,  and  weekly  communi- 
cation was  kept  up  by  messenger  from 
Simon's  Town. 

There  was  something  companionable 
and  exhilarating  about  this  smooth 
firm  road.  Cactus,  aloes  and  other 
foreign-looking  vegetation  fringed  it 
on  the  inner  side,  growing  with  a 
regularity  which  almost  suggested 
the  care  of  man.  High  on  the  left 
the  lighthouse  with  its  out-buildings 
came  suddenly  into  view,  whiter  than 
the  clouds  that  flecked  the  dark  blue 
sky,  while  far  beneath  the  South 
Atlantic  sparkled  and  danced  in  the 
sun. 

As  the  road  curved  sharply  round 
the  southern  angle  of  the  Cape  and 
hid  itself  from  view,  the  voices  of 
laughing  children  broke  upon  my  ear  ; 
and  a  slender  girl  in  a  white  dress 
and  straw  hat  appeared  round  the 
bend,  leading  a  donkey,  on  which  a 
much  smaller  boy,  perhaps  three  years 
old,  was  riding.  Where  did  these 
sailor's  children,  born  and  bred  in  the 
wilderness,  get  the  delicacy  of  their 
looks  and  speech  and  manner?  It 
was  Starling's  clear  gray  eyes  that 
looked  at  me  from  under  the  shade  of 
the  broad  hat. 

"  Father  told  me  to  say,  if  I  met  you, 
that  you  are  very  welcome,  and  to 
show  you  the  way  to  our  house.  He 
is  busy  in  the  office.  "Willie,  you 
must  kiss  this  gentleman." 

Matters  being  thus  placed,  once  for 
all,  on  an  easy  and  amicable  footing, 
we  all  turned  and  ascended  the  hill  to- 
gether, and  emerged  on  a  kind  of  plateau 
sloping  up  wards  towards  the  apex  of  the 
promontory,  where  it  was  cut  short  by 
the  precipitous  descent.  The  lighthouse 
stood  nearly  at  the  extremity,  mounted 
high  on  a  tumulus  of  rock,  so  that 

L  2 


148 


The  Cape  of  Storms. 


its  base  was  only  reached  by  steps. 
Below,  and  some  fifty  yards  north- 
ward, two  flat-roofed  dwelling  houses 
lay  just  down  the  western  slope,  thus 
protected  from  the  south-east  storms. 
The  whole  was  brilliantly  whitewashed, 
terraced  in  front,  and  built  with  the 
square  and  solid  regularity  of  a  fort. 

I  was  led  in  by  the  children, 
and  made  my  salutations  to  their 
mother  of  whom  I  will  only  say 
(if  I  may  presume  to  speak  at  all) 
that  she  filled  the  position  she  held, 
as  she  would  doubtless  have  filled 
any  other,  with  womanly  kindness 
and  grace.  It  was  not  England,  but 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  A  little 
bed-room  had  been  tastefully  decked 
with  flowers  for  my  reception.  Every- 
where, on  every  face,  there  was 
evidence  of  that  sincerity  of  kindliness 
which  may  underlie  the  formal  polite- 
ness of  ordinary  society,  and  on  the 
other  hand  may  not. 

After  we  had  chatted  a  good  while, 
about  England,  George,  Cape  Town, 
children,  cooking,  and  other  topics  of 
mutual  interest,  Starling  came  in  from 
the  telegraph-house,  and  we  all  sat 
down  to  dinner  in  the  little  parlour 
with  a  feeling  (I  can  answer  at  least 
for  one  of  the  party)  of  great  content- 
ment and  ease.  I  found,  not  without 
surprise,  that  I  was  not  the  only  guest. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Starling  that, 
small  as  were  his  means,  he  entertained 
at  his  cottage  in  perpetual  hospitality 
an  old  sailor-mate  of  his  younger  days. 
"Jimmy"  was  his  unofficial  name; 
the  children  addressing  him  as  "  grand- 
father," though  he  was  unconnected 
with  the  family  by  any  closer  tie  than 
the  bonds  (elsewhere  more  elastic)  of 
love.  Though  somewhat  bent  by 
years,  he  was  a  wiry  old  man,  with  a 
strong,  shrewd,  kindly  face.  Jimmy 
kept  himself  in  the  background  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  meal,  possibly 
out  of  deference  to  strangers ;  but 
towards  the  end  came  forward  with 
an  observation, — "There's  a  donkey 
down  the  road  hard  and  fast  to  a 
telegraph-post  " — and  immediately  ef- 
faced himself. 


"That's  Peter,"  said  Starling  ex- 
planatorily to  me,  alluding  to  the 
black  servant.  "  Brown,  my  mate, 
sent  him  in  again  to  Simon's  Town 
the  day  before  yesterday,  but  I  sup- 
pose he  got  on  the  spree,  poor  fellow. 
When  he  does  that,  it  often  takes 
him  two  days  to  get  back.  He  keeps 
lying  down  to  sleep,  you  see,  but  first 
always  makes  the  donkey  fast.  He'll 
be  turning  up  just  now,  you'll  see." 

After  dinner  Starling  fetched  a 
telescope,  and  carefully  scanned  the 
road  far  beyond  its  limit  of  visibility 
to  the  naked  eye.  "  There  they  are," 
he  said,  "both  of  them.  And  now 
you'll  like  to  see  the  lighthouse  per- 
haps ?  Come  along  this  way." 

Following  Starling  closely  I  entered 
the  lighthouse  by  a  low  doorway,  and 
mounted  a  narrow  spiral  stone  stair- 
case dimly  lighted  by  loopholes  in  the 
thick  wall.  It  was  like  climbing  up 
the  tower  of  an  old  church,  only  far 
cleaner.  "Mind  your  head,"  said 
Starling  as  the  darkness  dispersed. 
"  Here  we  are."  We  stepped  into  a 
polygonal  chamber  about  fifteen  feet 
across.  Every  side  was  glass,  nothing 
but  glass,  framed  between  slender 
iron  pillars  which  seemed  far  too 
slight  to  support  the  roof.  This, 
however,  with  the  aid  of  the  plate- 
glass  they  certainly  did  ;  there  was 
nothing  else  to  support  it,  except  the 
thin  steel  shaft  which  ran  vertically 
up  the  centre  of  the  room  to  a  socket 
in  the  roof. 

The  first  natural  impulse  was  to 
walk  slowly  round  the  chamber, 
drinking  in  the  view  through  each 
separate  pane.  On  the  north  side  the 
wilderness  stretched  away  to  where 
in  the  dim  distance  Table  Mountain 
reared  its  canopy  of  cloud.  Passing 
eastward,  the  eye  took  in  at  one 
survey  the  vast  blue  surface  of  False 
Bay,  hundreds  of  squnre  miles  in 
extent,  and  followed  the  opposite 
coast-line  as  far  as  the  grim  promontory 
of  Cape  Hangklip  guarding  the  en- 
trance on  the  east.  The  three  re- 
maining quadrants  of  the  circuit, 
from  east  by  south  and  west  and 


The  Cape,  of  Storms. 


149 


round    again    to  north,   presented  an 
unbroken  horizon-line  of  sea. 

After  sating  my  eyes  with  this 
magnificent  prospect  I  turned  to 
examine  the  interior  of  the  lighthouse, 
and  stood  lost  in  admiration  at  the 
simple  mechanism  of  the  revolving 
lanterns  which  flash  their  warning 
from  the  Cape  of  Storms.  Through- 
out the  night,  four  times  every 
minute,  a  beam  of  light  streams  out 
to  every  point  within  the  circumfer- 
ence of  the  visible  horizon,  distant  at 
our  altitude  some  five  and  thirty 
miles.  Yet  the  light  which  pierces 
to  tliis  great  distance  at  any  given 
moment  on  a  dark,  clear  night,  is 
emitted  by  a  flame  no  brighter  and 
no  bigger  than  the  flame  of  an 
ordinary  duplex  drawing-room  lamp. 
Imagine  such  a  lamp  burning  at  a 
distance  of,  say,  half  a  mile.  Its 
light  is  radiating  upwards,  down- 
wards, north,  south,  east,  west,  and 
in  all  intermediate  directions  ;  so  that 
the  eye  receives  only  an  inconceivably 
small  fraction  of  the  whole  amount 
of  light  emitted,  nothing  like  a 
millionth  part.  And  yet  the  lamp  is 
seen.  What,  then,  if  the  whole  of 
the  light,  instead  of  being  dispersed, 
wer<;  concentrated  and  directed  to- 
wards you  in  a  single  beam  ?  Its 
intensity  would  be  enormously  in- 
creased. No  longer  seen  with  diffi- 
culty it  would  glow  out  with  a 
dazzling  brilliance  in  one  direction, 
and  except  in  that  direction  it  would 
not  be  seen  at  all.  All  that  is 
required  then,  to  render  a  lamp 
visible  for  thirty,  a  hundred,  yes, 
in  the  absence  of  obstruction,  even  a 
thousand  miles,  is  an  apparatus  that 
shall  collect  and  divert  the  whole,  or 
much,  of  its  light  into  a  single  narrow 
beam  of  parallel  rays.  Here  is  the 
apparatus ;  these  four  huge,  black, 
rom id-ended  extinguishers  just  over 
our  heads.  They  are  fixed  hori- 
zontally, with  open  end  directed  out- 
wards at  the  extremities  of  four  arms, 
set  at  right  angles  to  one  another  (like 
four  fingers  of  a  sign-post)  on  the 
upright  central  shaft.  They  are  not 


really  extinguishers.  On  the  contrary 
they  are  concave  mirrors,  polished  on 
the  inside  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
brilliancy,  as  you  can  see  if  you  stand 
on  tip-toe  and  look  in.  The  lamp, 
an  ordinary  oil  flame,  is  set  far  down, 
almost  out  of  reach.  The  curvature 
of  that  deep  mirror  is  paraboloid  ;  the 
lamp  sits  in  the  focus  thereof,  and  by 
virtue  of  a  property  of  the  curve  called 
a  parabola,  all  the  rays  which  fall 
from  the  lamp  on  to  the  mirror, — 
forwards,  backwards,  upwards,  down- 
wards and  sideways,  in  short  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  light  it  gives  out  are 
diverted  by  reflection  into  one  and  the 
same  course,  and  issue  from  its  mouth 
a  single,  brilliant  beam  of  light. 
There  are  four  lamps  with  their 
mirrors ;  and  therefore  four  beams  at 
right  angles  shooting  to  the  remotest 
verge  of  the  horizon.  Shaft,  arms, 
mirrors,  lamps,  and  sweeping  light- 
beams  are  caused  to  rotate  regularly 
once  in  a  minute,  or  in  any  other 
time  required,  by  simple  clock-work 
mechanism  set  in  motion  by  a  heavy 
weight  which  falls  down  the  centre  of 
the  tower  ;  and  the  rate  of  movement 
is  regulated  by  this  vane,  which  is 
made  to  revolve  very  rapidly,  here  on 
the  centre  table,  and  which  can  be  so 
adjusted  as  to  encounter  a  greater  or 
smaller  resistance  from  the  air. 

"  You  seem  to  be  interested  in  those 
lanterns,"  said  Starling,  reappearing 
suddenly  at  the  low  doorway. 

"Hullo,"  I  said,  "you  went  out 
very  quietly.  Yes,  I  am  interested,  I 
confess.  My  notion  of  the  inside  of 
a  lighthouse  was  something  quite 
different  from  this.  Considering  the 
tremendous  distance  you  can  see  the 
light,  I  expected  to  find  hundreds  of 
lanterns,  at  least." 

"No,"  said  Starling,  "only  these 
four ;  and  you  only  see  one  of  them  at 
a  time.  It  takes  a  lot  of  work  to 
keep  those  mirrors  bright  and  the 
machinery  in  perfect  order,  I  can 
tell  you.  That  is  done  in  the  day- 
time, of  course.  Then  one  of  us  has 
to  be  here  all  through  the  night. 
Letting  the  light  out,  even  for  a 


150 


The  Cape  of  Storms. 


minute,  would  mean  dismissal,  if  any 
ship  saw  and  reported  it.  It's  a  lot 
of  responsibility,  year  after  year. 
Brown  and  I  divide  the  nights  into 
two  watches,  from  sunset  to  mid- 
night, and  from  midnight  to  sunrise, 
and  we  take  them  alternately.  So 
you  see  I'm  off  duty  every  other  day 
for  twenty-four  hours  at  a  stretch. 
It  comes  less  tedious  to  make  a  dog- 
watch of  it,  instead  of  taking  the 
same  hours  every  night ;  and  we  get 
time  to  go  to  Simon's  Town  and  back 
comfortably  when  we  want  to.  You 
haven't  seen  Brown  1  He's  off  some- 
where to-day  in  his  new  boat,  fishing. 
That's  his  wife  down  there  in  the 
yard.  Clever  woman ;  knows  all  the 
code-signals,  and  the  telegraph  too, 
and  works  'em  better  than  he  can. 
Every  ship  that  comes  into  Simon's 
Bay  signals  her  name  and  port  of 
sailing  to  us,  and  we  telegraph  them 
at  once  to  Cape  Town.  I'm  slow 
myself  at  that  business." 

"  We  ought  to  be  able  to  see  George's 
farm  from  here,"  I  said  looking 
northward.  "  The  lighthouse  is  plain 
enough  from  it." 

"  Well,  so  you  can  see  it,"  said 
Starling,  "  over  there,  just  where  that 
dark  line  ends.  That's  the  vlei,  what 
he  calls  his  river,  running  past  his 
house.  Look  through  this  glass." 

With  the  aid  of  the  telescope  I  could 
see  the  house  with  surprising  distinct- 
ness. 

"  I  sometimes  see  George  with  the 
glass,"  said  Starling,  "  if  he  happens 
to  be  standing  against  that  light  face 
of  the  house,  the  end  where  your  bed- 
room window  is.  I  saw  you  three  or 
four  days  ago;  at  any  rate  I  saw  George 
and  another  man.  I  knew  George  by 
his  white  helmet  five  miles  away. 
When  a  telegram  comes  from  him  and 
I  have  no  messenger  to  send,  I  flash  to 
him  with  a  looking-glass.  It's  easily 
done  in  bright  sunshine,  and  if  any- 
one happens  to  look  this  way  at  all, 
it  is  bound  to  be  seen.  Then  he  sends 
up,  or  rides  over  himself.  It  looks 
quiet  enough  now,"  he  went  on,  turn- 
ing sea-wards  ;  "  but  you  ought  to  be 


here  when  a  south-easter  is  blowing. 
You'd  think  the  whole  point  was 
going  to  carry  away.  On  the  rock, 
there,  the  spray  actually  dashes  in 
your  face  from  the  sea  below,  eight 
hundred  feet,  as  salt  as  salt  can  be. 
Come  down  and  have  a  look." 

We  descended  the  winding  stair, 
and  went  out  of  the  lighthouse  on  to 
the  smooth  and  nearly  level  plateau  of 
rock  surrounding  it.  The  foot  of  the 
hillock  on  which  the  lighthouse  stood 
was  about  twenty  yards  from  the  edge. 
We  walked  on  to  where  the  plateau 
grew  unpleasantly  narrow,  with  a 
steep  slope  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  apparently  nothing. 

"Come  and  look  over  here,"  said 
Starling,  anxious  to  do  the  honours  of 
the  place,  and  lounging  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  precipice.  "  It's  eight 
hundred  and  fourteen  feet,  the  book 
says."  He  leaned  affectionately  over 
the  horrid  abyss,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  jerking  his  pipe  up  and  down 
with  his  teeth.  "  It  goes  right  slap 
down,"  he  continued  ;  "if  I  dropped 
this  pipe  out  of  my  mouth,  it  would 
fall  into  the  sea  without  touching  any- 
thing. Come  and  look." 

"  Oh,  all  right  !  "  I  said  "  I  believe 
you.  For  the  Lord's  sake,  man,  take 
care  of  yourself  !  Supposing  that  rock 
gave  way  ! " 

"That's  firm  enough,"  he  answered, 
stamping  hard  on  it  with  his  great 
sea-boot,  about  three  inches  from  the 
brink.  "  Come  on  !  You  aren't  afraid, 
are  you?" 

"  Afraid  !  "  I  answered,  with  indig- 
nation. "I'm  simply  sick  with  fear. 
I  wouldn't  go  a  step  nearer  that  beastly 
cliff  if  you  offered  me  fifty  pounds." 
So  marked  an  influence  had  strong 
emotion  on  the  classic  purity  of  my 
customary  speech. 

Starling  was  visibly  disappointed 
but  too  considerate  to  betray  his  con- 
tempt. "  Oh  well,  of  course,"  he  said, 
"  I  didn't  know  you  felt  like  that. 
You've  been  aloft  on  shipboard, 
haven't  you,  main  top-gallant  cross- 
trees,  say  ?  " 

"Yes,    I   have    been    up  there,"   I 


The  Cape  of  Storms. 


151 


answered ;  "  but  I  didn't  enjoy  it, 
and  I  took  precious  good  care  not  to 
let  go  the  shrouds.  There's  nothing 
to  hold  on  to  where  you  are." 

"  Hold  on  to  me,"  said  Starling. 

'  And  drag  you  with  me  to  destruc- 
tion !  No,  thanks  ;  three  yards  is  near 
enough  for  me," 

Just  at  the  point  where  we  were 
standing  a  vertical  scoop,  as  it  were, 
has  been  taken  out  of  the  promontory 
clean  down  to  the  base,  and  the  cliff 
is  absolutely  precipitous.  Elsewhere 
it  slopes  more  or  less,  so  that  you  can 
get  up  and  down  if  you  choose  to  try. 
Here,  just  underneath  the  lighthouse, 
yoi  could  get  down  with  great  celerity, 
but  you  couldn't  get  up  again.  The 
rock  on  the  top  was  level,  smooth,  and 
cleii,n. 

<:Lie  down  flat,"  said  Starling  "if 
you  are  afraid  of  feeling  queer,  and 
pop  your  head  over.  You  can  see  the 
gulls  down  there,  by  the  water.  I'll 
hold  your  legs,  if  you  like." 

He  was  so  evidently  ashamed  of  me 
that  I  thought  it  right  to  feign  at 
least  indifference.  "  Certainly,"  I 
said ;  "I  should  like  to  look  over  of 
course.  Shall  I  walk  to  the  edge  and 
then  lie  down,  or  " — 

"  Oh,  crawl  if  you  prefer  it,"  said 
Starling  patiently. 

].  crawled.  There  are  not  many 
places  in  the  British  Empire  where 
you  can  see  straight  down  eight 
hundred  feet,  at  any  rate  not  places 
easy  of  access.  I  looked  over,  and 
thought  I  was  in  the  car  of  a  balloon. 
Tho  cliff  was  more  than  perpendicular ; 
it  seemed  to  be  pitching  forward ;  it 
certainly  swayed.  There  were  the 
gulls,  little  white  specks,  down  by  the 
sea  at  the  base  of  the  cliff.  I  could 
noi  see  the  upper  half  of  it  at  all. 

' '  It's  nothing  when  you're  used  to  it, 
is  i  b  1 "  said  Starling,  loosing  hold  of 
my  legs. 

'  Oh  nothing,"  I  agreed,  crawling 
backward  several  yards  and  sitting  up, 
but  not  too  high.  "  I'm  glad  I 
looked  over ;  it's  a  splendid  preci- 
pice" 

';  You'll   hardly    believe    it,"    said 


Starling  gravely,  kicking  a  pebble 
into  space, — "  George  doesn't  believe 
it, — I  can  hardly  believe  it  myself, — 
but  it's  true,  all  the  same.  Our  cat 
got  killing  the  fowls,  so  I  tied  her  up 
in  a  bag  with  a  stone,  and  pitched  the 
whole  lot  over  here,  just  where  I  am 
standing  now.  She  turned  up  next 
morning  without  a  scratch.  That  is 
how  it  was.  I'll  take  my  oath  on 
it,  before  a  magistrate  if  you  like ; 
and  there's  no  more  to  be  said." 

"  George  told  me  that  story,"  I 
said,  "  and  I  believe  it." 

"Well,  I  must  say  I  am  glad  to 
hear  that,"  said  Starling.  "  Let's  go 
in  now  ;  you'd  like  to  rest  and  smoke, 
I  daresay.  I  shall  take  the  early  watch 
to-night ;  and  if  you  are  inclined  to 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  company 
for  any  part  of  it,  I  shall  be  only  too 
glad." 

I  sat  up  till  midnight  playing  euchre 
with  Starling  in  the  lighthouse  on 
the  Cape  of  Storms.  The  wind  had 
risen  since  sunset,  and  roared  bois- 
terously round  and  over  the  point ; 
but  no  tremor  shook  the  strong  fabric 
of  the  lighthouse ;  and  the  revolving 
mirrors  crept  as  smoothly  and  noise- 
lessly as  phantoms  above  our  heads. 
This  efficacy  in  preventing  waste  of 
light  was  amply  demonstrated.  In 
this  lantern  chamber,  visible  over  an 
area  two  hundred  miles  in  circuit,  we 
played  cards  by  the  light  of  a  candle. 
I  went  to  the  plate-glass  windows, 
and  peering  into  the  darkness  through 
shading  hands  gazed  at  the  league  long 
shafts  of  light  sweeping  past  as  if 
material  things,  and  giving  an  impres- 
sion of  stupendous  momentum  as  they 
swung  through  the  thickness  of  the 
night. 

Next  morning  brought  a  sudden 
change.  We  had  unanimously  carried 
at  breakfast  time  a  project  for  a 
general  descent  to  the  beach,  down 
the  path  which  Jimmy  had  lately 
invented  and  warranted  feasible  for 
all  men.  The  day  was  then  to  be 
spent  in  rambling  and  scrambling 
round  the  base  of  the  Cape  promon- 
tory, fishing  from  the  rocks,  picnicking, 


152 


The  Cape  of  Storms. 


on  the  sands,  with  such  further  diver- 
sions as  might  prove  acceptable  alike 
to  old  and  to  young. 

Starling  and  I  stepped  out  to  look 
at  the  sky.  It  was  clear  and  calm, 
wind  gentle  and  northerly,  last  night's 
south-easter  fallen  and  left  no  sign. 
"  One  minute,"  said  Starling  ;  "  there's 
the  telegraph  calling."  I  followed  him 
mechanically  into  the  office.  He 
rapped  back,  and  set  the  tape  un- 
winding. "  George,  Simon's  Town," 
he  read  out,  "to, — I  thought  so — it's 
for  you.  If — you — come — take — horse 
— find — me — here.  That's  your  mes- 
sage ;  here  it  is  on  the  tape." 

I  asked  Starling  to  inquire  if 
George  was  there.  The  answer  came 
"  No  ;  written  message." 

"That  means,"  I  said,  "that  my 
leave  is  cut  short ;  and  some  one  from 
Cape  Town  has  seen  George  and  told 
him  of  it.  This  is  the  day  for  letters 
isn't  it,  Saturday  ]  " 

"Yes,"  said  Starling;  "the  post- 
man will  be  here  in  about  an  hour  I 
expect." 


"  If  the  notice  comes  for  me,  I 
shall  have  to  leave  you  at  once 
I'm  afraid,  so  as  to  get  to  Simon's 
Town  in  time  for  the  evening  train." 

"Every  man  must  do  his  duty," 
said  Starling,  "but  I  hope  they'll 
spare  you  a  day  or  two  more." 

The  postman  brought  the  expected 
summons,  sure  enough.  So  there  was 
no  more  to  be  said,  except  "  Good- 
bye ! " 

They  all  came  out  on  the  terrace, 
and  called  after  me  as  I  walked  away 
down  the  rocky  path,  "  Good-bye, 
good-bye !  When  shall  we  see  you 
again  ? "  I  could  only  answer  "  Some 
day,  please  God  !  "  and  hasten  on  my 
way. 

Hours  after  I  turned  my  horse  to 
take  a  last  look  southward  from  the 
furthest  point  of  vantage  ere  riding 
on  to  Simon's  Town.  That  faint  fire- 
signal  was  not  lit  by  the  hand  of 
man.  It  was  the  setting  sun  that 
flashed  the  last  farewell  from  the 
lighthouse  on  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope. 


153 


LOUIS    KOSSUTH. 


A  WELL-KNOWN  political  controver- 
sialist and  constitutional  lawyer  writes 
tome :  '*  The  enthusiasm  for  nationality 
has,  I  think,  at  any  rate  in  Western 
Europe,  spent  its  force.  Kossuth's  death 
accidentally  marked  the  end  of  an  era." 
The  amount  of  truth  in  these  words 
can  only  be  determined  by  a  minute 
consideration  of  the  relative  parts 
played  by  the  integrating  and  the 
disintegrating  forces  in  civilised  coun- 
tries during  the  last  forty  years. 
That  what  has  taken  place  for  half  a 
century  ought  to  have  taken  place  we 
need  not  here  maintain.  Justice  or 
expediency  may  or  may  not  favour  the 
revival  of  a  Heptarchy  within  our 
own  kingdom  ;  but  appeals  to  recent 
history  on  behalf  of  this  anachronism 
are  made  either  in  ignorance  or  de- 
fiance of  the  most  patent  facts  on 
either  side  of  the  Atlantic.  The  efforts 
of  the  era  of  revolt  among  the  so- 
called  oppressed  nationalities  initiated 
by  the  Polish  insurrection  of  1794, 
seem  in  our  day  to  have  found  their 
close  in  a  partial  and  modified  success  ; 
and  it  is  notable  that  they  have  been 
successful  almost  in  exact  proportion 
as  they  have  been  associated  with  an 
appeal  to  a  new  unity.  "  A  united 
Italy  !  it  is  the  very  poetry  of  politics," 
was  Byron's  cry ;  it  was  with  Mazzini 
a  watchword  even  more  dominant  than 
"  Out,  out  !  "  to  the  Austrians.  The 
deliverance  of  Greece  from  the  yoke 
of  a  purely  alien  race  was  due  to  the 
sometimes  romantic  and  sometimes 
interested  intervention  of  the  Euro- 
pean powers.  Internal  disintegration 
was  the  ruin  of  Poland.  The  history 
of  civilised  America  is  one  of  almost 
uninterrupted  consolidation.  The 
Colonies  or  original  States,  of  kindred 
race  but  existing  in  absolute  inde- 
pendence of  one  another,  were  first 
leagued  in  resistance  to  real  or  ima- 


gined wrong.  Knit  more  firmly  to- 
gether in  the  articles  of  federation, 
they  were,  after  an  argument  of 
nearly  ten  years,  bound  in  a  close 
union  by  their  adhesion  to  a  written 
constitution,  in  comparison  with 
which  that  of  England  is  a  *'  tricksy 
spirit "  ;  a  constitution  that  has  been 
a  guardian  fetish  to  the  turbulent 
spirits  of  the  West.  The  assault 
by  the  seceding  South  was  a 
touchstone  of  its  strength,  and  the 
creed  that  every  million  may  have 
their  own  way  received  its  death-blow 
at  Gettysburg.  Later,  Germany  was 
made  one  by  the  national  uprising 
against  invasion  and  the  genius  of 
Bismarck  and  Moltke.  These  events, 
with  the  pacification  of  Hungary  in 
1866,  by  concession  to  more  than  half 
of  the  demands  of  Kossuth,  made 
possible  the  new  Triple  Alliance,  a 
larger  if  looser  unification  which 
many  regard  as  the  best  guarantee  for 
the  peace  of  Europe. 

Kossuth  and  his  allies  were  re- 
volutionists, and  disruptionists  in 
so  far  as  they  strove  to  break  up 
an  empire.  Yet  they  stood  on  more 
logically  conservative  ground  than  any 
of  their  compeers  in  revolt.  Their 
appeal  in  argument  and  in  battle  was 
to  maintain  the  ancient  rights  of  a 
nation  which  for  ages  had  never  been 
subdued  or  subordinate,  and  which 
was  connected  with  the  other  frag- 
ments of  the  complex  Austrian 
dominion  merely  by  the  fact  of  an 
accidental  and  strictly  guarded  allegi- 
ance to  the  same  monarch.  Their 
contention,  never  seriously  disputed, 
was  that  the  later  representatives  of 
the  House  of  Hapsburg  had  been  con- 
tinually encroaching  on  their  consti- 
tutional rights.  In  open  defiance 
of  these,  goaded  by  fear  of  the  in- 
surrectionary movements  of  1848,  the 


154 


Louis  Kossuth. 


Austrian  and  Hungarian  King  pro- 
claimed a  dismemberment  of  his 
eastern  kingdom  and  instigated  against 
its  legitimate  authority  the  revolt  of 
the  Slav  provinces  that  had  been 
bound  to  it  for  eight  hundred  years. 
Waiving  antiquarian  discussions,  it  is 
a  patent  fact  that  in  intelligence  and 
power  the  Hungarians  were  the  flower 
of  Austria ;  they  were  solid  as  no  other 
part  of  the  Empire  was  ;  their  country 
was  equal  in  extent  to  Great  Britain 
— equal  to  that  of  the  rest  of  the  em- 
pire ;  their  population  was  then  about 
two-thirds  that  of  England.  In  the 
first  phase  of  their  war  of  liberation 
they  were  triumphantly  victorious  in 
seven  great  battles,  all  fought  during 
Kossuth's  governorship.  Having  al- 
most crushed  the  Austrian  armies  in 
the  field,  and  the  levies  of  the  traitor 
Jellachich,  they  repelled  the  first 
Russian  invasion,  and  were  subdued 
only  by  the  intervention  of  fresh  bar- 
barian hordes  summoned  to  assist 
despotism  in  despair.  At  this  junc- 
ture the  Hapsburgs  were  for  the  first 
time  formally  deposed,  though  Francis 
Joseph  as  an  individual  had  been 
deposed  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war  in 
1848.  At  a  later  date,  after  the 
massacres  of  Arad  and  the  execution 
of  Count  Bathyany,  a  republican, 
and  partially  a  democratic  govern- 
ment, for  which  the  way  had  been 
prepared  by  Kossuth's  emancipation 
of  the  serfs,  was  proclaimed  in  pref- 
erence to  a  monarchy.  On  the 
failure  of  their  respective  struggles 
(due  in  each  case  to  the  intervention 
of  foreign  force)  Mazzini  and  Kos- 
suth  both  became  and  remained 
theoretic  republicans  and  denouncers 
of  kings,  yet  both  took  refuge  under 
a  hospitable  monarchy  ;  the  one  be- 
came an  exile  in  England,  the  other 
suffered  a  protecting  imprisonment  in 
Turkey.  Kossuth  never  ceased  to  be 
grateful  to  the  Sultan,  who  refused 
to  surrender  any  one  of  his  five 
thousand  compatriots  ;  but  when 
the  Senate  of  the  United  States  re- 
solved to  send  a  frigate  to  Constanti- 
nople for  his  conveyance  westward, 


the  offer  was  accepted  on  condition 
that  his  freedom  of  speech  should  be 
in  no  way  restricted.  At  Marseilles 
the  refugee  was  informed  that  the  way 
through  France,  where  ideas  of  liberty 
have  rarely  been  cosmopolitan,  was 
barred  to  him.  Arriving  in  England 
by  sea  he  spent  about  a  month  preach- 
ing or  lecturing  on  the  Hapsburgs 
(whose  relation  to  Hungary  he  com- 
pared to  that  of  the  sovereigns  of 
Hanover  to  England),  denouncing 
Russia  and  diplomacy,  advocating  a 
republic,  but  in  the  strongest  terms 
abjuring  socialism. 

Kossuth  then  went  West,  on  a 
crusade  that  has  been  compared  by 
the  editor  of  his  speeches  to  that  of 
Peter  the  Hermit.  He  reached  the 
United  States  late  in  December  1851, 
and  left  them  early  in  the  following 
June.  There  is  no  more  splendid  or 
sadder  record  of  the  results  of  oratory 
than  that  contained  in  the  history  of 
these  six  triumphant  and  fruitless 
months.  From  the  first  day  of  his 
landing  to  the  last  of  his  leaving, 
Kossuth  was  treated  like  Martin 
Chuzzlewit  fairly  bound  for  Eden. 
Batteries  were  fired  on  his  arrival, 
regiments  of  cavalry  and  infantry 
escorted  him  from  Faneul  Hall  to 
Washington ;  senators  and  orators 
attended  and  applauded  his  meetings, 
and  even  Daniel  Webster  acknowledged 
his  master.  Kossuth's  career  in  the 
United  States,  a  country  singularly  per- 
vious to  oratory  ("the  curse  of  this  coun- 
try," says  one  of  themselves,  "  is  elo- 
quent men  "),  was  that  of  a  Roman 
triumph  without  the  captives.  He  was 
everywhere  received  with  the  acclama- 
tions of  thousands ;  everywhere  he 
pleaded,  preached,  thundered,  and  pro- 
phesied like  Demosthenes.  From  the 
volume  of  his  addresses  there  might  be 
made  an  anthology  of  modern  eloquence, 
such  as  may  be  sought  in  vain  in  the 
parliamentary  reports  of  any  English 
statesman.  But  though  pleased, 
amused,  excited,  and  also  often  flat- 
tered, the  Americans  would  not  march 
against  Philip, — the  Czar,  the  Haps- 
burg,  the  despot,  the  diplomatist.  They 


Louis  Kossuth. 


155 


had  their  own  house  to  manage,  and 
were  already  under  the  shadow  of  a 
storm  about  to  shake  its  rafters.  No 
visitor  to  the  States  in  those  days 
could  escape  the  question,  which 
Kossuth  resolutely  refused  to  answer, 
"  "What  do  you  think  of  slavery?" 
Almost  on  landing  he  said,  "  I  take  it 
to  be  duty  of  honour  and  principle  not 
to  meddle  with  any  party  question  of 
you-:  own  domestic  affairs."  Almost  on 
leaving,  he  replied  to  a  protest  of  the 
Abolitionists,  "  I  have  no  more  right 
than  Father  Mathew  had  to  mix  my- 
self up  with  interior  party  movements." 
This  sounded  very  well  j  but  among 
Kossuth' s  main  arguments  was  an  over- 
straining of  the  tenet  that  one  race 
must  not  be  held  in  subjection  to 
anoi  her.  At  St.  Louis  he  descanted  on 
the  "  wrongs  of  green  Erin,  the  father- 
land of  Grattan  and  Wolfe  Tone ;  " 
adding,  "every  blow  stricken  for  liberty 
is  a  blow  stricken  for  Ireland." 
There  are  some  things  inseparable, 
and  among  these  is  the  demand  for 
certain  rights  among  human  beings  in 
every  land,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
insistence  of  the  sovereignty  of  law 
in  all.  Kossuth  in  America  tried  to 
conciliate  the  lawless  anarchy  of  the 
Celt,  and  forbore  to  denounce  the  law- 
less oppression  of  the  Negro. 

H  e  lived  to  regret  his  error.  I  heard 
him  confess  in  1854  that  the  slave 
question  was  in  America  his  great 
difficulty  and  stumbling-block,  and 
again,  in  1856,  while  denouncing  the 
Papal  Concordat  he  said  :  "  The  golden 
cord  of  Liberty  has  dwindled  down 
to  two  isolated  threads — one  on  the 
othe:  side  of  the  Atlantic,  tinged  with 
the  ignominious  stain  of  slavery,  the 
other  in  England." 

Kossuth  called  on  America  to  inter- 
fere, if  need  be,  by  force  against  inter- 
vent  ion  ;  his  hearers  shouted,  cannon- 
aded, charioteered,  but  despite  his  bribe 
of  I  Cungary  as  another  United  State, 
they  would  do  no  more ;  and  he  left 
then^  a  sadder  if  not  a  wiser  man. 

The  success  of  the  Coup  d'Etat  had 
dispirited  him,  and  the  fulfilment  of 
his  prophecies  (110  less  remarkable 


than  those  of  De  Tocqueville)  that 
the  usurpation  of  the  French  despot 
would  have  to  seek  its  establishment 
in  war,  and  that  the  Russians  would 
have  again  to  encounter  the  Turks  in 
battle,  were  far  off  in  their  fulfilment. 
In  his  great  Scotch  crusade  of  July 
1 854,  when  he  had  bated  no  jot  of  energy, 
if  some  of  heart  and  hope,  he  ex- 
claimed :  "  Neither  will  I  speak  to 
you  about  evils  all  our  own.  Why 
should  I  do  it  1  Is  it  to  rouse  you  to 
compassionate  emotion  or  to  make 
appeals  to  sympathy?  I  have  lived 
too  long  and  too  practical  a  life  to 
do  vain  things.  Sympathy,  what  is 
that?  A  sigh  that  flutters  on  the 
lips  of  a  tender  girl,  and  dies  in  the 
whisper  of  the  breeze.  Individuals 
may  know  of  sympathy,  but  when  a 
people's  aggregate  sentiments  become 
collected  in  the  crucible  of  policy, 
sympathy  vanishes  in  the  air  like  the 
diamond  when  burnt,  and  nothing 
then  remains  but  an  empty  crucible 
surrounded  with  the  ashes  of  gross 
egotism."  And  again:  "Expediency! 
thou  false  wisdom  of  the  blind  and 
the  weak.  .  .  thou  who  dost  always 
sacrifice  to  a  moment's  fear  the  jus- 
tice of  eternity,  and  to  a  moment's 
rest  the  security  of  centuries.  Ex- 
pediency, thy  pathway  is  like  the 
pathway  of  sin — one  step  upon  the 
grassy  slope  and  there  is  no  stopping 
any  more ;  it  is  Milton's  bridge  which 
leads 

Smooth,  easy,  inoffensive,  down  to  Hell." 

These  sentences  were  spoken  at  an 
afternoon  meeting  in  the  City  Hall 
of  Glasgow,  which  aroused  a  storm  of 
enthusiasm  that  perhaps  no  one  present 
had  ever  seen  approached.  Kossuth's 
opening  words  went  home  to  the 
hearts  of  an  audience  accustomed  to 
be  fed  on  meaner  rhetoric  and  more 
transparent  flattery.  "  I  don't  know 
how  it  comes  to  pass,  but  a  gloom  of 
melancholy  spreads  over  my  soul 
since  I  set  my  foot  on  Caledonian 
soil.  Is  it  the  mountains  there,  look- 
ing down  from  afar  on  me  and 
attracting  my  life -weary  eyes  to  look 


156 


Louis  Kossuth. 


up  to  them,  and  hence  more  upwards 
yet  to  the  everlasting  source  of  con- 
solation and  of  hope?  It  is  long 
since  I  saw  a  mountain,  and  yet  it 
is  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain  where  I 
was  born  .  .  .  Or  is  it  perhaps  the 
spirit  of  your  own  nation's  history 

Glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things 
that  were?" 

And  yet  this  afternoon  meeting  was 
a  mere  prelude  to  a  more  elaborate 
oration  delivered  on  the  same  evening, 
in  which  statesmanship  distorted,  and 
patriotism  never  betrayed,  by  passion 
were  the  mingled  threads.  This  speech, 
perhaps  Kossuth's  greatest,  was  deliv- 
ered at  the  beginning  of  the  second 
phase  of  the  Crimean  War.  A  year 
had  passed  since  the  Russians  had 
crossed  the  Pruth,  in  vain  expectation 
that  Austria  would  repay  the  debt 
incurred  by  their  crossing  the  Car- 
pathians. The  Turks  had  lost  and 
won  several  battles ;  the  allied 
fleets  had  entered  the  Black  Sea ; 
in  March  we  had  drifted  into  war, 
and  in  April  the  German  powers  de- 
clared their  neutrality.  This  neutrality 
was,  according  to  the  feeling  of  the 
time,  bought  by  the  assurance  of  Lord 
Westmorland  (then  our  envoy  at 
Vienna)  that  the  British  Government 
would  oppose  any  attempt  at  making 
the  Eastern  question  subservient  to  the 
interests  of  the  so-called  oppressed 
nationalities  Hungary,  Italy,  or  Poland. 
With  suppressing  the  aspirations  of 
the  two  former,  Austria  was  mainly 
concerned ;  Prussia  had  primarily 
to  deal  with  the  latter.  England 
was  therefore  accused  of  purchasing 
peace  in  subservience  to  those  despot- 
isms. We  were  on  the  eve  of 
entering  on  our  Crimean  campaign,  in 
close  alliance  with  Louis  Napoleon, 
whom  Kossuth  had  denounced  as 
4 'the  most  inglorious  usurper  that 
ever  dared  to  raise  Ambition's  bloody 
throne  upon  the  ruins  of  Liberty."  It 
was  therefore  natural  that  the  essence 
of  his  speech  should  be  an  eloquent 
indictment  of  British  foreign  policy 
in  the  past,  and  an  exhortation  to 


the  democracy  to  shake  themselves 
free  from  the  toils  of  diplomacy  in 
the  future.  A  few  extracts  from  this 
appeal  will  not  be  out  of  place,  as 
they  have  long  been  buried  in  the  ob- 
livion of  old  and  now  rarely  recover- 
able reports. 

The  speaker  first  with  one-sided 
vehemence  arraigned  the  motives  and 
results  of  the  war  in  which  Nelson 
and  Wellington  relieved  Europe  from 
the  incubus  of  a  tyranny  which 
threatened  to  dwarf  that  of  the  Haps- 
burgs. 

The  French  Revolution,  with  which 
Great  Britain  had  absolutely  nothing  to 
do,  drove  your  headquarters  into  a  frenzy 
of  fear  ;  just  as  the  fear  of  a  possible  Euro- 
pean revolution  drives  them  now  into  a 
course  of  the  most  mischievous  impolicy 
.  .  .  they  called  so  long  on  the  British 
nation  to  save  "Order,0rder"  till  the  nation 
got  excited  to  a  frantic  hatred  of  I  know 
not  what.  .  .  .  The  war  went  on  for  twenty- 
three  years,  the  most  terrible  seen  for 
centuries,  the  most  expensive  that  ever  a 
nation  has  fought .  .  .  Well,  after  an  ocean 
of  blood  spilt,  and  myriads  of  millions 
spent,  what  was  the  issue  ?  Simply  this :  a 
Napoleon  driven  away,  and  a  Bourbon  re- 
placed ...  all  the  rest,  .  .  .  Cracow  a  mock 
republic,  hollow  promises  of  thirty- three 
German  princes  to  make  Germany  consti- 
tutional, and  so  on,  were  mere  bubbles  of  a 
sickly  dream.  A  Napoleon  fettered  and  a 
Bourbon  restored,  that  was  all.  .  .  The 
Bourbon  is  a  homeless  exile,  and  a  Napo- 
leon reigns  in  France,  and  is  your  dear 
friend  and  ally.  .  .  That  word  Liberty  was 
the  popular  bait — the  very  Brandenburgs 
and  Hapsburgs  spoke  of  liberty,  like  as  the 
Evil  One  in  stress  when  he  spoke  of  be- 
coming a  monk. 

Later,  by  one  of  those  dramatic 
references  in  which  the  orator  of  the 
Magyars  had  no  match,  he  essayed  to 
drive  the  lesson  home. 

Comparing  your  present  situation  to 
that  in  your  French  wars,  you  have  the 
consolation  not  to  fight  for  a  Bourbon  :  that 
is  negative  ;  in  return  you  have  got  the 
pleasant  and  highly  liberal  task  to  fight 
for  a  Hapsburg  :  that  is  positive.  Well,  a 
Hapsburg  for  a  Bourbon,  it  strikes  me  it 
does  not  sound  like  a  Roland  for  an  Oliver. 
Let  me  use  Shakespeare's  words  :  "  Write 
them  together,  which  is  a  fair  name? 


Louis  Kossuth. 


157 


Sound  them,  which  becomes  well  the 
mouth?  Weigh  them,  which  is  heavier? 
Conjure  with  them,  which  will  start  a 
spirit  ?"  The  Bourbons  will  start  none  any 
more.  The  Hapsburgs  probably  may,  but 
it  will  be  the  spirit  of  assassinated  nations, 
— Poland,  Hungary,  Italy — and  violated 
oaths,  and  Liberty  rising  to  break  her 
crin  son  chains. 

]So  words  can  convey  the  convul- 
sion of  enthusiasm  with  which  this 
passage  was  received.  Towards  the 
close  the  speaker  ventured  on  a  false 
prophecy  regarding  the  siege  of 
Sevastopol.  "  You  will  be  beaten, 
remember  my  word.  Your  braves  will 
fall  in  vain  under  Russian  bullets  and 
Crimean  air,  as  the  Russians  fall 
under  Turkish  bullets  and  Danubian 
air.  Not  one  out  of  five  of  your 
braves,  immolated  in  vain,  shall  see 
Albion  or  Gallia  again.  But  I  will 
tell  you  in  what  manner  Sebastopol  is 
to  be  taken.  It  is  at  Warsaw  that 
you  can  take  Sebastopol"  Alma, 
Balaclava,  Inkermann,  and  the  storm- 
ing of  the  Malakoff,  settled  the 
military  question  otherwise ;  but  not 
the  political ;  for  mainly,  I  believe,  at 
the  dictation  of  a  power  whose  latent 
force  and  future  supremacy  was  yet 
undreamed  of, — the  power  of  Prussia 
— we  had  to  patch  up  a  peace  to  close 
a  nibbling  war,  and  leave  the  great 
question  in  debate  for  future  settle- 
ment. 

It  is  easy  to  laugh  at  Kossuth's 
style,  as  represented  in  these  few  dis- 
joirted  extracts.  The  modern  finical 
school  of  critics,  whose  admiration  is 
a  manner  of  writing  "  with  form  and 
void,"  would  condemn  it  as  bombas- 
tical.  He  never  spoke  a  truer  sentence 
than  that  to  the  ladies  of  New  York  : 
"  It  is  Eastern  blood  that  runs  in  my 
veins."  Half  his  nature  was  Oriental, 
his  speech  almost  wholly  so.  If  we 
con- pare  him  with  Western  precedents, 
his  manner  was  that  of  the  Eliza- 
bethans, among  whom  he  knew  Shake- 
spe  .re  almost  by  heart,  and  their  suc- 
cessors, as  Jeremy  Taylor  and  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  rather  than  that  of 
John  Stuart  Mill  and  other  modern 


models.  His  eloquence,  running  like 
a  great  river,  was  continually  over- 
flowing its  broad  banks.  Every  quoted 
sentence  of  his  loses  half  its  impress 
divorced  from  its  emphatic  delivery. 
Every  word  I  have  heard  him  utter, 
in  private  or  in  public,  owed  half  to 
the  "  large  utterance"  that  gave  it 
weight,  and  the  flash  of  the  eye  that 
fired  the  whole.  As  an  orator,  he 
towered  over  all  his  English  compeers. 
I  have  listened  to  John  Bright  at  his 
best,  and  his  speech,  never  weak  or 
false,  yet  seemed  of  limited  range 
compared,  for  instance,  with  that  of 
the  great  oration  at  Glasgow.  "  You 
should  have  heard  him  in  Hungarian," 
said  his  aide  de-camp  Ihaz,  who  followed 
and  attended  him  with  the  fidelity  of 
a  mastiff. 

Kossuth's  later  career  has  the  melan- 
choly of  Hannibal's.  For  ten  years 
he  lingered  about  in  England  editing 
papers  (The  Atlas  in  particular),  in 
whose  columns  he  found  free  vent  for 
his  henceforth  revolutionary  views,  and 
delivering  a  series  of  remarkable  his- 
torical lectures.  Then  came  his  futile 
effort  during  the  Italian  war  of  1859 
to  convert  and  negotiate  with  the 
French  Emperor,  the  rumour  of  which 
is  said  to  have  frightened  the 
Austrian  into  the  peace  of  Yilla- 
Franca.  In  1861,  in  response  to  an 
appeal  of  the  Austrian  Emperor,  one 
hundred  thousand  Hungarian  bank- 
notes, issued  by  Kossuth  to  promote 
a  fresh  rebellion,  were  confiscated. 
Later,  he  withdrew  to  his  refuge  at 
Turin,  where  he  died,  scorning  to  the 
last,  and  inciting  others  to  scorn,  the 
proffered  amnesty  of  his  own  and  his 
country's  foes.  He  spent  much  of  his 
later  years  in  scientific  pursuits,  and 
published  a  pamphlet  in  German  on 
the  change  of  colour  in  stars.  He 
often  spoke  of  his  career  as  a  failure ; 
but  only  his  fanaticisms,  those  of  a  con- 
firmed Irreconcilable,  were  ineffectual. 
His  great  idea  prevailed.  He  lived  to 
see  the  old  (Esterreich  transformed  into 
Austria  Hungary,  a  dual  empire  and 
now,  as  such,  one  of  the  safeguards  of 
Europe. 


158 


Louis  Kossuth. 


I  have  only  to  add  a  few  personal 
reminiscences.  Being  at  Turin,  on  my 
way  home  from  the  Riviera,  I  ven- 
tured to  call  on  Kossuth  in  the  fore- 
noon of  Saturday  the  12th  of  April 
1890.  I  sent  in  my  card  with  some 
trepidation,  for,  despite  his  two  visits 
to  the  Observatory  as  my  father's 
guest,  I  doubted  if  the  old  man  would 
remember  me.  But  he  remembered 
everything,  and  in  five  minutes  "  the 
three-and-thirty  years  were  a  mist 
that  rolled  away."  Age  had  neither 
staled  the  veteran's  heart  nor  marred 
his  memory ;  he  was  as  full  of  all 
interests,  as  affectionate  as  when  on 
our  parting  in  London  in  1 860,  where 
I  was  then  reading  for  the  Bar,  he 
bade  me  "  good  speed  to  the  wool- 
sack !  "  He  was  in  some  purely  phy- 
sical respects  comparatively  feeble, 
but  by  no  means  in  the  precarious 
s,tate  that  some  newspapers  had  chosen 
to  assign  to  him.  A  slight  failing  in 
the  strength,  none  in  the  richness  of 
the  voice  that  once  held  the  reins  of 
the  full  theatre,  and  a  cough  that 
troubled  when  he  spoke  too  long,  were 
almost  the  sole  signs  of  his  nearly 
ninety  years. 

Our  talk  rambled  over  many  sub- 
jects ;  much  of  it  was  personal  on  both 
sides,  on  mine  of  no  interest.  Kossuth 
spoke  of  his  sons  studying  medicine 
at  Naples  and  of  his  plans  to  visit 
them  having  been  often  broken  by 
doubts  of  his  strength.  He  had  fixed 
on  Turin,  despite  its  eager  heats  and 
colds,  as  suiting  his  health  and  his 
diminished  means,  and  stayed  on  till  it 
was  too  late  to  move.  He  spoke  of  him- 
self as  old  and  in  exile  and  poor,  but 
without  bitterness  and  with  a  proud 
defence  of  his  refusal  to  accept  the 
hospitality  of  the  Hapsburgs.  Hugo 
at  Guernsey  is  a  partly  parallel  case ; 
but  the  Frenchman  lived  in  his  fantas- 
tic house  in  comparative  luxury,  and 
Kossuth  has  done  more  for  Hungary 
than  Victor  Hugo  ever  did  for  France. 
We  talked  especially  of  histories  ; 
some  Italian  works  I  forget  he  highly 
praised.  Kossuth  was  always  an  ex- 
cellent critic  of  history,  and  besides 


being  a  master  of  political  philosophy, 
was  familiar  with  several  works  of 
pure  metaphysic,  with,  in  particular, 
much  of  Hegel.  I  have  more  than 
once  heard  him  say  that  during  his  im- 
prisonment in  Austria,  being  allowed 
a  very  few  books,  he  chose  the  Bible, 
Shakespeare,  and  an  English  diction- 
ary. With  lighter  verse  and  prose  he 
was  less  familiar  than  Mazzini,  be- 
cause he  cared  less  for  them. 

The  event  then  foremost  in  my  mind 
was  the  fall  of  Bismarck.  The  ex- 
Chancellor,  said  Kossuth,  had  to  his 
knowledge  some  half-dozen  times 
played  what  he  called  his  trump  card, 
and  on  every  occasion  won  his  will  from 
the  old  King  by  threats  of  resignation. 
At  last  he  tried  the  trick  once  too 
often,  and  the  young  lion  roared. 
"Yet,"  I  ventured,  "he  is  a  very  great 
man."  "  You  are  not  quite  right,"  he 
replied.  "  You  have  left  out  an  ad- 
jective. He  is  a  very  great  German 
man  ;  he  loves  not  only  himself,  he 
loves  his  country,  that  is  true  ;  but 
he  cannot  look  beyond  Germany,  so 
there  is  always  something  of  sauer- 
kraut, something  brutal,  if  not  coarse, 
in  his  politics."  This  might  have 
easily  opened  the  controversy  between 
humanitarian  philanthropy  and  na- 
tional politics  that  with  us  takes  the 
place  of  the  old  war  between  poetry 
and  philosophy ;  but  I  was  there  to 
listen,  not  to  criticise.  Despite  his 
partial  dissent,  Kossuth's  own  half- 
way position  made  him  appreciate 
Bismarck  as  Mazzini  would  never 
have  done. 

As  regards  the  Emperor,  he  fore- 
stalled what  every  one  was  thinking 
two  years  later,  that  William,  the 
successor  to  the  conquests  of  Moltke 
and  Bismarck,  was  a  young  man  of 
remarkable  ability,  force,  zeal,  and 
pride,  determined  at  all  hazards  to 
leave  a  mark,  but  to  what  effect  re- 
mained to  be  seen.  "  He  will  either 
make  a  spoon  or  spoil  a  horn,"  is  the 
short  Scotch  of  this  part  of  our  dis- 
course. Up  to  that  date  Kossuth  held 
that  the  Emperor  had  done  nothing 
very  original.  His  reforms  pointed 


Louis  Kossuth. 


159 


well,  but  would  he  conduct  them  to  any 
decisive  close  ?  As  yet  they  had  been 
anticipated  in  England  ;  our  unsolved 
problems  bearing  on  the  ultimate  re- 
lations of  Labour  and  Capital  were 
hardly  touched  in  Germany.  "  I 
grant,"  said  Kossuth,  "I  know  the 
world  is  sick,  but  I  do  not  know  how 
to  heal  it ;  if  I  did,  I  would  be  God." 
On  France  we  barely  touched,  on  "  the 
unspeakable  Turk,"  not  at  all.  Of  Mr. 
Gladstone  he  spoke  positively  only  on 
one  point,  that  this  Optimus  Maximus 
of  our  age,  as  some  would  call  him,  did 
not  know  his  own  mind.  On  the 
Irish  question  he  was  inexplicit,  but 
he  appeared  to  me,  with  a  little  hesi- 
tancy, to  lean  to  some  form  of  Home 
Rule,  regarding  details  as  belonging 
to  a  generation  later  at  least  than  his 
own.  Most  Continental  "patriots" 
have  taken  a  similar  view.  Is  it  that 
they  have  seen  clearer,  removed  from 
the  mists  of  our  passions  and  prejudice  j 
or  is  it  that  their  struggles  against 
despotism  have  led  them  to  favour 
any  kind  of  revolt?  During  our 
interview  Kossuth  ventured  on  a 
prophecy  that,  in  the  present  drift 
of  things,  Ireland  would  fifty  years 
henco  be  "one  of  the  United 
States."  For  this  concession  to  "  the 
logic  of  events "  Unionists  might 
thank  him ;  but  I  set  it  down  among 
a  great  man's  vagaries,  with  his  at- 
tempt to  "  use  "  Louis  Napoleon, — futile 
as  Bacon's  to  "  amuse  "  Cecil  or  cajole 
Villkrs.  From  long  ago  I  recall 
sever,  d  passages  of  arms  on  the  ques- 
tion between  him  and  my  father. 
"Spa  n  will  be  the  first  nation  free," 
said  Kossuth  in  1854.  "Who  is 
conducting  the  revolt  1 "  asked  my 
father.  "O'Donnell."  "An  Irishman? 
Then  it  will  come  to  nothing."  Kos- 
suth retired  and  returned  with  the 
remai  k,  "  Do  you  know  the  meaning, 
Profe  isor  Nichol,  of  all  those  myriad 
constellations  you  have  studied1?  Is 
there  any  star  without  a  purpose  and 
a  dest  .ny  ?  Is  there  any  nation  1 "  "I 
do  m»t  say  they  have  no  purpose," 
the  astronomer  retorted,  "  only  I  do 
not  always  know  it." 


Personally,  through  converse  and 
correspondence,  I  knew  Louis  Kossuth 
and  Joseph  Mazzini  about  equally. 
I  first  met  the  latter  during  the  early 
days  of  the  second  French  Republic, 
in  a  London  drawing  room  along  with 
Louis  Blanc  overchattering  a  group 
of  six,  and  vehement  Ledru  Rollhl. 
Subsequently  we  had  several  argu- 
ments, one  on  the  Orsini  bombs  and 
assassination,  he  contending  that  it 
was  the  ultima  ratio  populi,  I  that 
it  had  always  miscarried,  and  been 
either  a  desperate  resort  of  anarchy 
and  superstition,  as  in  the  cases  of 
James  the  First  of  Scotland,  and 
William  the  Silent,  or,  in  the  in- 
stance of  Caesar,  done  more  harm 
than  good  to  liberty.  The  Hungarian 
and  the  Italian  were  alike  yet  differ- 
ent. Both  were  dogmatists,  and  spoke 
when  called  on  (neither  were  at  any 
time  intrusive)  with  the  air  "  Ye  have 
heard  it  said,  but  I  say  unto  ye." 
Each  was  equally  confident  of  having 
found  the  truth,  and  hence  perhaps 
equally  tolerant  of  contradiction.  Both 
were  resolute  republicans,  intolerant 
of  Aulic  councils  and  of  kings ; 
both  were  inspired  by  political  pas- 
sions that  disdained  or  waived  the  re- 
straints of  prudence.  The  one  was  an 
orator  and  a  statesman,  the  other  a 
pamphleteer  and  an  apostle.  Of  the 
two,  Mazzini  had  the  purer  gleam, 
but  slightly  streaked  by  fanaticism,  as 
the  splendid  patriotism  of  the  other 
was  marred  by  a  practical  weakness 
for  the  diplomacy  which  he  theoreti- 
cally denounced.  Like  most  men  of 
genius,  both  were  open  to  imposition, 
though  never  to  flattery  or  to  fear. 
Mazzini  in  his  later  days  was,  how- 
ever, beset  if  not  spoiled  by  troops  of 
worshippers,  to  one  of  whom  he  was, 
at  our  last  meeting,  declaiming  that 
Mr.  Swinburne's  mission  was  to  put 
into  verse  the  history  of  religion.  His 
relation  to  the  Carlyles  was  a  strange, 
and  on  the  whole,  as  Mr.  Froude  has 
shown  us,  a  beneficent  one.  Carlyle's 
comments  on  him  are  not  always, 
though  they  are  often,  astray,  Maz 
zini's  visits  to  Cheyne  Row  became 


160 


Luuis  Kossuth. 


rarer  because  the  perpetual  nega- 
tions of  the  Chelsea  prophet  over- 
vexed  his  spirit.  He  was  what 
sentimentalists  call  "  a  beautiful  soul," 
a  perfervid  and  magnetic  power, 
swayed  by  love  of  sympathy,  yet 
practical  enough  to  have  indirectly 
made  a  nation.  Kossuth  was  a 
prouder  and  more  commanding  spirit ; 
"  the  grand  style  "  was  his  by  right. 
Less  perfectly  disinterested,  personally 
as  well  as  publicly  ambitious,  he  yet 
rested  in  the  partial  fulfilment  of  his 
work.  "  I  have  abolished  serfdom  in 
my  country,"  he  said  in  1 854 ;  "  no  one 
can  reverse  that."  The  dual  kingdom 
is  even  more  his  creation  than  united 
Italy  is  Mazzini's,  for  Deak  was  less 
essential  to  the  one  than  Cavour  was 
to  the  other.  In  the  politics  of  this 
century  Kossuth,  Mazzini,and  William 
Lloyd  Garrison  represent  the  side  of 
the  truth  that  Carlyle  undervalued 
or  ignored.  The  grim  Scotchman, 
transferring  the  religious  Calvinism 
of  his  parents  to  his  politics,  held, 
and  maintained  with  constantly  in- 
creasing vehemence,  the  doctrine  that 
if  the  masses  of  men  got  their  deserts 
few  would  escape  whipping.  In  the 
eyes  of  the  panegyrist  of  Frederick 
called  the  Great,  revolt  was  a  vice 
and  obedience  the  chief  of  virtues. 
The  tyranny  most  to  be  feared  was 
that  of  the  many  over  the  few.  Aris- 
totle and  Plato  first  gave  authority 
to  this  creed  :  long  after  Kant  con- 
firmed it ;  and  later  Bismarck  and 
Moltke  were  its  armed  soldiers.  The 
preaching  of  the  antagonistic  trium- 
virate was  on  the  other  side  extreme  ; 
they  trusted  too  much  in  the  masses 
of  men,  and,  though  perhaps  all  three 
would  have  repudiated  it,  they  formu- 


lated premises  to  the  conclusion 
(against  which  Milton  and  Bacon  alike 
protested)  that  in  numbers  lies  wisdom, 
that  to  be  poor  is  to  be  good,  and  that 
empty  brains  imply  a  noble  heart  :  a 
conclusion  clenched  in  the  recent  en- 
deavour to  make  education  as  well  as 
wealth  a  ground  of  disenfranchise- 
ment. 

Of  the  few  great  men  I  have  known 
Longfellow's  was  the  most  gracious, 
Jowett's  the  wisest,  Mazzini's  the  in- 
tensest,  Kossuth's  the  most  spacious 
nature.  The  two  last  were  not  always 
in  perfect  accord  ;  the  political  phil- 
osopher and  the  poetical  philanthropist, 
each  fought  first,  if  not  for  his  own 
hand  yet  for  his  own  land.  On  one 
occasion  they  nearly  quarrelled,  and 
later  there  was  a  public  scene  of  re- 
conciliation. But  with  all  the  differ- 
ence and  divergence  of  the  Genoese 
and  the  Magyar  the  Yia  Mazzini  runs 
in  appropriately  close  parallel  to  the 
Via  dei  Mille  in  Turin. 

The  august  shades  of  the  two  great 
protagonists  more  or  less  dominate, 
and  will  long  continue  to  dominate, 
the  future  of  their  respective  countries. 
I  venture  to  conclude  by  adopting 
(though  perhaps  with  another  applica- 
tion of  the  close)  a  sentence  of  a 
modern  British  statesman,  always 
distinguished  by  his  hatred  of  the 
oppression  of  the  many  by  the  few  in 
either  hemisphere.  "  They  [Kossuth 
and  Mazzini]  are  to  me  the  two  most 
interesting  public  figures  of  the  age 
we  have  lived  in,  and  the  two  who  can 
never  be  forgotten  in  history,  when 
many  reputations  now  in  obtrusively 
gaudy  blossom  have  fallen  pale  and 
withered." 

J.  NICHOL. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


JULY,    1894. 


PEKLYCROSS. 

BY    R.    D.   BLACKMORE. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

HIS    LAST    BIVOUAC. 

"HAVE  I  done  wrong?"  young 
Waidron  asked  himself,  as  he  strode 
down  the  hill,  with  his  face  still 
burning,  and  that  muddy  hat  on. 
"Most  fellows  would  have  knocked 
him  down.  I  hope  that  nice  girl 
heard  nothing  of  the  row.  The  walls 
are  jolly  thick,  that's  one  good  thing ; 
as  thick  as  my  poor  head,  I  dare  say. 
But  when  the  fellow  dared  to  laugh  ! 
Good  heavens  !  what  are  people  coming 
to  ?  I  dare  say  I  am  a  hot-headed 
fool,  though  I  kept  my  temper  won- 
derfully ;  and  to  tell  me  I  am  not  a 
gendeman  !  Well,  I  don't  care  a  rap 
who  sees  me  now,  for  they  must  hear 
of  tihis  affair  at  Walderscourt.  I 
thir  k  the  best  thing  that  I  can  do  is 
to  go  and  see  old  Penniloe.  He  is  as 
honest  as  he  is  clear-headed.  If  he 
says  I'm  wrong,  I'll  believe  it;  and 
I'll  take  his  advice  about  other 
thii  gs." 

This  was  the  wisest  resolution  of 
his  life,  inasmuch  as  it  proved  to  be 
the  happiest.  Mr.  Penniloe  had  just 
finished  afternoon  work  with  his 
pupils,  and  they  were  setting  off : 
Pik  3  with  his  rod  to  the  long  pool  up 
the  meadows,  which  always  fished  best 
wit] i  a  cockle  up  it;  Peckover  for  a 
lon^  steeple-chase ;  and  Mopuss  to 
look  for  chalcedonies  and  mosses 

Ko.  417.— VOL.  LXX. 


among  the  cleves  of  Hagdon  Hill,  for 
nature  had  nudged  him  into  that  high 
bliss  which  a  child  has  in  routing  out 
his  father's  pockets.  The  parson, 
who  felt  a  warm  regard  for  a  very 
fine  specimen  of  hot  youth,  who  was 
at  once  the  son  of  his  oldest  friend, 
and  his  own  son  in  literature  (though 
Minerva  sat  cross-legged  at  that 
travail),  he,  Mr.  Penniloe,  was  in  a 
gentle  mood,  as  he  seldom  failed  to 
be ;  moreover  in  a  fine  mood,  as 
behoves  a  man  who  has  been  dealing 
with  great  authors,  and  walking  as  in 
a  crystal  world  so  different  from  our 
turbid  fog.  To  him  the  young  man 
poured  forth  his  troubles,  deeper  than 
of  some  classic  woes,  too  substantial 
to  be  laid  by  any  triple  cast  of  dust. 
And  then  he  confessed  his  flagrant 
insult  to  a  rising  member  of  the  great 
profession. 

"You  have  behaved  very  badly, 
according  to  your  own  account,"  Mr. 
Penniloe  said  with  much  decision, 
knowing  that  his  own  weakness  was 
to  let  people  off  too  easily,  and  feeling 
that  duty  to  his  ancient  friend  com- 
pelled him  to  chastise  his  son ;  "  but 
your  bad  behaviour  to  Jemmy  Fox 
has  some  excuse  in  quick  temper  pro- 
voked. Your  conduct  towards  your 
mother  and  sister  is  ten  times  worse, 
because  it  is  mean." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  make 
that  out."  Young  Waidron  would 


162 


Perlycross. 


have  flown  into  a  fury  with  any  other 
man  who  had  said  this.  Even  as  it 
was,  he  stood  up  with  a  sullen 
countenance,  glancing  at  the  door. 

"  It  is  mean,  in  this  way,"  continued 
the  parson,  leaving  him  to  go  if  he 
thought  fit,  "that  you  have  thought 
more  of  yourself  than  them.  Because 
it  would  have  hurt  your  pride  to  go 
to  them  with  this  wrong  still  unre- 
dressed,  you  have  chosen  to  forget 
the  comfort  your  presence  must  have 
afforded  them,  and  the  bitter  pain 
they  must  feel  at  hearing  that  you 
have  returned  and  avoided  them.  In 
a  like  case  your  father  would  not 
have  acted  so." 

Waldron  sat  down  again,  and  his 
great  frame  trembled.  He  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  tears 
shone  upon  his  warted  knuckles ;  for 
he  had  not  yet  lost  all  those  exuber- 
ances of  youth.  "  I  never  thought  of 
that,"  he  muttered ;  "  it  never  occurred 
to  me  in  that  way.  Jakes  said  some- 
thing like  it ;  but  he  could  not  put 
it  as  you  do.  I  see  that  I  have 
been  a  cad,  as  Jemmy  Fox  declared  I 
was." 

"Jemmy  is  older,  and  he  should 
have  known  better  than  to  say  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  He  must  have 
lost  his  temper  sadly,  becayse  he 
could  never  have  thought  it.  You 
have  not  been  what  he  calls  a  cad  ; 
but  in  your  haste  and  misery  you 
came  to  the  wrong  decision.  I  have 
spoken  strongly,  Tom,  my  boy,  more 
strongly  perhaps  than  I  should  have 
done;  but  your  mother  is  in  weak 
health  now,  and  you  are  all  in  all  to 
her." 

"  The  best  you  can  show  me  to  be  is 
a  brute ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  that 
is  not  worse  than  a  cad.  I  ought  to 
be  kicked  every  inch  of  the  way 
home ;  and  I'll  go  there  as  fast  as  if 
I  was." 

"  That  won't  do  at  all,"  replied  the 
curate  smiling.  "  To  go  is  your  duty  ; 
but  not  to  rush  in  like  a  thunderbolt, 
and  amaze  them.  They  have  been  so 
anxious  about  your  return  that  it 
must  be  broken  very  gently  to  them. 


If  you  wish  it,  and  can  wait  a  little 
while  I  will  go  with  you,  and  prepare 
them  for  it." 

"  Sir,  if  you  only  would — but  no,  I 
don't  deserve  it.  It  is  a  great  deal 
too  much  to  expect  of  you." 

"  What  is  the  time  ?  Oh,  a  quarter 
past  four.  At  half  past  I  have  to 
baptise  a  child  well  advanced  in  his 
seventh  year,  whose  parents  have 
made  it  the  very  greatest  personal 
favour  to  me  to  allow  him  to  be 
'  crassed,'  as  they  express  it.  And  I 
only  discovered  their  neglect  last 
week  !  Who  am  I  to  find  fault  with 
any  one  1  If  you  don't  mind  waiting 
for  about  half  an  hour,  I  will  come 
back  for  you,  and  meanwhile  Mrs. 
Muggridge  will  make  your  hat  look 
better ;  Master  Jemmy  must  have  lost 
his  temper  too,  I  am  afraid.  Good- 
bye for  the  moment ;  unless  I  am 
punctual  to  the  minute,  I  know  too 
well  what  will  happen ;  they  will  all 
be  off,  for  they  '  can't  zee  no~vally  in 
it,'  as  they  say.  Alas,  alas  !  and  we 
are  wild  about  missions  to  Hindoos 
and  Hottentots  ! " 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Penniloe  had  left 
the  house,  the  youth,  who  had  been 
lowered  in  his  own  esteem,  felt  a  very 
strong  desire  to  go  after  him.  Possi- 
bly this  was  increased  by  the  sad 
reproachful  gaze  of  Thyatira,  who,  as 
an  old  friend,  longed  to  hear  all  about 
him,  but  was  too  well-mannered  to 
ask  questions.  Cutting  all  consider- 
ation short  (which  is  often  the  best 
thing  to  do  with  it)  he  put  on  his 
fairly  re-established  hat,  and  cared  not 
a  penny  whether  Mrs.  Channing,  the 
baker's  wife,  was  taking  a  look  into 
the  street  or  not,  or  even  Mrs.  Tap- 
scott,  with  the  rosemary  over  her 
window. 

Then  he  turned  in  at  the  lych-gate, 
thinking  of  the  day  when  his  father's 
body  had  lain  there  (as  the  proper 
thing  was  for  a  body  to  do),  and  then 
he  stood  in  the  churchyard,  where  the 
many  ways  of  death  divided.  Three 
main  paths,  all  well-gravelled,  ran 
among  those  who  had  toddled  in  the 
time  of  childhood  down  them  with 


Perlycross. 


163 


wormwood  and  stock  gilly-flowers  in 
thoir  hands  ;  and  then  sauntered  along 
thorn,  with  hands  in  pockets,  and  eyes 
for  the  maidens  over  tombstone-heads ; 
and  then  had  come  limping  along  on 
their  staffs ;  and  now  were  having  all 
this  done  for  them  without  knowing 
anything  about  it. 

None  of  these  ways  was  at  all  to  his 
liking.  Peace,  at  least  in  death,  was 
there,  green  turf  and  the  rounded 
bank,  gray  stone,  and  the  un-house- 
hold  name  to  be  made  out  by  a  grand- 
child perhaps,  proud  of  skill  in  ancient 
letters,  prouder  still  of  a  pocket-knife. 
What  a  faint  scratch  on  soft  stone  ! 
And  yet  the  character  far  and  away 
stronger  than  that  of  the  lettered  times 
that  follow  it. 

Young  Waldron  was  not  of  a  mor- 
bid cast,  neither  was  his  retrospective, 
as  (for  the  good  of  mankind)  is  ordained 
to  those  who  have  the  world  before 
them.  He  turned  to  the  right  by  a 
track  across  the  grass,  followed  the 
bend  of  the  churchyard  wall,  and,  fear- 
ing to  go  any  further  lest  he  should 
stumble  on  his  father's  outraged  grave, 
sat  down  upon  a  gap  of  the  gray  en- 
closure. This  gap  had  been  caused  by 
the  sweep  of  tempest  that  went  up  the 
valley  at  the  climax  of  the  storm. 
The  wall,  being  low,  had  taken  little 
harm ;  but  the  great  west  gable  of  the 
abbey  had  been  smitten  and  swung  on 
its  back,  as  a  trap-door  swings  upon 
its  hinges.  Thick  flint  structure  and 
time-worn  mullion,  massive  buttress 
and  deep  foundation,  all  had  gone  flat, 
and  turned  their  fangs  up,  rending 
a  chasm  in  the  tattered  earth.  But 
this  dark  chasm  was  hidden  from  view 
by  a  pile  of  loose  rubble  and  chunks 
of  flint,  that  had  rattled  down  when 
the  gable  fell,  and  striking  the  cross- 
wall  had  lodged  thereon,  breaking  the 
cope  in  places,  and  hanging  (with 
tangles  of  ivy  and  tufts  of  toadflax) 
over  the  interval  of  wall  and  ruin,  as 
a  snowdrift  overhangs  a  ditch. 

Here  the  young  man  sat  down,  as 
if  any  sort  of  place  would  do  for  him. 
The  gap  in  the  wall  was  no  matter  to 
him,  but  happened  to  suit  his  down- 


cast mood  and  the  misery  of  the 
moment.  Here  he  might  sit  and 
wait,  until  Mr.  Penniloe  had  got 
through  a  job,  superior  to  the  burial- 
service  because  no  one  could  cut  you 
in  pieces  directly  afterwards,  without 
being  hanged  for  it.  He  could  see 
Mr.  Penniloe's  black  stick,  standing 
like  a  little  parson  (for  some  of  them 
are  proud  of  such  resemblance)  in  the 
great  south  porch  of  the  church  ;  and 
thereby  he  knew  that  he  could  not 
miss  his  friend.  As  he  lifted  his  eyes 
to  the  ancient  tower,  and  the  black 
yew-tree  still  steadfast,  and  the  four 
vanes  (never  of  one  opinion  as  to  the 
direction  of  the  wind  in  anything  less 
than  half  a  gale),  and  the  jackdaws 
come  home  prematurely,  after  digging 
up  broad-beans,  to  settle  their  squab- 
ble about  their  nests  ;  and  then  as  he 
lowered  his  gaze  to  the  tombstones, 
and  the  new  foundation-arches,  and 
other  labours  of  a  parish  now  so  hate 
ful  to  him,  heavy  depression,  and 
crushing  sense  of  the  wrath  of  God 
against  his  race,  fell  upon  his  head,  as 
the  ruin  behind  him  had  fallen  on  its 
own  foundations. 

He  felt  like  an  old  man,  fain  to  die 
when  time  is  gone  weary  and  empty. 
What  was  the  use  of  wealth  to  him, 
of  bodily  strength,  of  bright  ambition 
to  make  his  country  proud  of  him, 
even  of  love  -of  dearest  friends,  and 
wedded  bliss,  if  such  there  were,  and 
children  who  would  honour  him  ? 
All  must  be  under  one  black  ban 
of  mystery  insoluble ;  never  could 
there  be  one  hearty  smile,  one  gay 
thought,  one  soft  delight ;  but  ever 
the  view  of  his  father's  dear  old 
figure  desecrated,  mangled,  perhaps 
lectured  on.  He  could  not  think 
twice  of  that,  but  groaned — "  The 
Lord  in  Heaven  be  my  help !  The 
Lord  deliver  me  from  this  life  ! " 

He  was  all  but  delivered  of  this 
life ;  happy  or  wretched,  it  was  all 
but  gone.  For  as  he  flung  his  body 
back,  suiting  the  action  to  his  agony 
of  mind,  crash  went  the  pile  of  jagged 
flint,  the  hummocks  of  dead  mortar, 
and  the  wattle  of  shattered  ivy.  He 


164 


Peril/cross. 


cast  himself  forward,  just  in  time,  as 
all  that  had  carried  him  broke  and 
fell,  churning,  and  grinding,  and 
clashing  together,  sending  up  a  cloud 
of  powdered  lime. 

So  sudden  was  the  rush,  that  his 
hat  went  with  it,  leaving  his  brown 
curls  grimed  with  dust,  and  his  head 
for  a  moment  in  a  dazed  condition,  as 
of  one  who  has  leaped  from  an  earth- 
quake. He  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  wall,  and  the  muscles  of  his  great 
legs  quivering,  after  the  strain  of 
their  spring  for  dear  life.  Then 
scarcely  yet  conscious  of  his  hair- 
breadth escape,  he  descried  Mr. 
Penniloe  coming  from  the  porch,  and 
hastened  without  thought  to  meet 
him. 

"  Billy  Jack  !  "  said  the  clergyman, 
smiling,  yet  doubtful  whether  he 
ought  to  smile.  "  They  insisted  on 
calling  that  child  Billy  Jack ;  William 
John  they  would  not  hear  of.  I 
could  not  object,  for  it  was  too  late, 
and  there  is  nothing  in  it  uncanonical. 
But  I  scarcely  felt  as  I  should  have 
done  when  I  had  to  say,  (  Billy  Jack, 
I  baptise  thee,'  &c.  I  hope  they  did 
not  do  it  to  try  me.  Now  the  Devon- 
shire mind  is  very  deep  and  subtle, 
though  generally  supposed  to  be  the 
simplest  of  the  simple.  But  what  has 
become  of  your  hat,  my  dear  boy? 
Surely  Thyatira  has  had  time  enough 
to  clean  it." 

"  She  cleaned  it  beautifully,  but  it 
was  waste  of  time.  It  has  gone  down 
a  hole.  Come,  and  I  will  show  you. 
I  wonder  my  head  did  not  go  with  it. 
What  a  queer  place  this  has  be- 
come !  " 

"  A  hole  !  What  hole  can  there  be 
about  here  1 "  Mr.  Penniloe  asked,  as 
he  followed  the  young  man.  "The 
downfall  of  the  abbey  has  made  a  heap 
rather  than  what  can  be  called  a  hole. 
But  I  declare  you  are  right !  Why,  I 
never  saw  this  before ;  and  I  looked 
along  here  with  Haddon  not  more 
than  a  week  ago.  Don't  come  too 
near  ;  it  is  safe  enough  for  me,  but 
you  are  like  Neptune,  a  shaker  of  the 
earth.  Alas  for  our  poor  ivy  !  " 


He  put  on  his  glasses,  and  peered 
through  the  wall-gap,  into  the  flint- 
strewn  depth  outside.  Part  of  the 
ruins,  just  dislodged,  had  rolled  into  a 
pit  or  some  deep  excavation,  the  crown 
of  which  had  broken  in,  probably 
when  the  gable  fell.  The  remnant 
of  the  churchyard  wall  was  still  quite 
sound,  and  evidently  stood  away  from 
all  that  had  gone  on  outside. 

"Be  thankful  to  God  for  your 
escape,"  Mr.  Penniloe  said,  looking 
back  at  the  youth.  "  It  has  indeed 
been  a  narrow  one.  If  you  had  been 
carried  down  there  head-foremost,  even 
your  strong  frame  would  have  been 
crushed  like  an  egg-shell." 

"  I  am  not  sure  about  that,  but  T 
don't  want  to  try  it.  I  think  I  can 
see  a  good  piece  of  my  hat,  and  I  am 
not  going  to  be  done  out  of  it.  Will 
you  be  kind  enough,  sir,  to  wait, 
while  I  go  round  by  the  stile  and  get 
in  at  the  end  1  You  see  that  it  is  easy 
to  get  down  there,  but  a  frightful  job 
from  this  side.  You  won't  mind  wait- 
ing, will  you,  sir  ?  " 

"If  you  will  take  my  advice,"  said 
the  curate,  "  you  will  be  content  to 
let  well  alone.  It  is  the  great  lesson 
of  the  age  but  nobody  attends  to  it." 

The  young  man  did  not  attend  to 
it ;  and  for  once  Mr.  Penniloe  had 
given  bad  advice,  though  most  correct 
in  principle,  and  in  practice  too,  nine 
times  and  a  half  out  of  every  ten. 

"  Here  I  am,  sir.  Can  you  see  me  ? " 
Sir  Thomas  Waldron  shouted  up  the 
hole.  "  It  is  a  queer  place,  and  no 
mistake.  Please  to  stop  just  where 
you  are  ;  then  you  can  give  me  notice 
if  you  see  the  ground  likely  to  cave 
in.  Halloa  !  Why,  I  never  saw  any- 
thing like  it !  Here's  a  stone  arch 
and  a  tunnel  beyond  it,  just  like  what 
you've  got  at  the  rectory,  only  ever  so 
much  bigger.  Looks  as  if  the  old 
abbey  had  butted  up  against  it,  until 
it  all  got  blown  away.  If  I  had  got 
a  fellow  down  here  to  help  me,  I 
believe  I  could  get  into  it.  But  all 
these  chunks  are  in  the  way." 

"My  dear  young  friend,  it  will  soon 
be  dark,  and  we  have  more  important 


Perly  cross. 


165 


things  to  see  to.  You  are  not  at  all 
safe  down  there;  if  the  sides  fell  in 
you  would  never  come  out  alive." 

"  It  has  cost  me  a  hat,  and  I  won't 
be  done.  I  can't  go  home  without  a 
hai)  till  dark.  I  am  not  coming  up 
till  I  know  all  about  it.  Do  oblige  me, 
sir,  by  having  the  least  little  bit  of 
patience." 

Mr.  Penniloe  smiled.  The  request, 
as  coming  from  such  a  quarter,  pleased 
him.  And  presently  the  young  man 
began  to  fling  up  great  lumps  of 
clotted  flint,  as  if  they  were  marbles, 
right  and  left. 

•<  What  a  volcano  you  are  ! "  cried 
tho  parson,  as  the  youth  in  the  crater 
stopped  to  breathe.  "It  is  nothing 
bub  a  waste  of  energy ;  the  hole  won't 
run  away,  my  dear  Tom.  You  had 
much  better  leave  it  for  the  proper 
man  to-morrow." 

"  Don't  say  that  ;  I  am  the  proper 
man."  How  true  his  words  were,  he 
had  no  idea.  "  But  I  hear  somebody 
whistling.  If  I  had  only  got  a  fellow 
to  keep  this  stuff  back,  I  could  get  on 
like  a  house  on  fire." 

It  was  Pike  coming  back  from  the 
long  pool  in  the  meadow,  with  a  pretty 
little  dish  of  trout  for  supper.  His 
whistling  was  fine,  as  a  fisherman's 
should  be,  for  want  of  something 
better  in  his  mouth ;  and  he  never 
got  over  the  churchyard  stile  with- 
out this  little  air  of  consolation  for 
tho  ghosts.  As  he  topped  the  ridge 
of  meadow  that  looks  down  on  the 
river,  Mr  Penniloe  waved  his  hat  to 
him  over  the  breach  of  the  churchyard 
wall ;  and  he,  nothing  loth,  stuck  his 
rod  into  the  ground,  pulled  off  his 
jacket,  and  went  down  to  help. 

"  All  clear  now ;  we  can  slip  in  like 
a  rabbit ;  but  it  looks  uncommonly 
bl.ick  inside,  and  it  seems  to  go  a  long 
way  underground,"  Waldron  shouted 
up  to  the  clergyman.  "  We  cannot 
do  anything  without  a  light." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  Pike 
chimed  in.  "  This  passage  runs  right 
inoo  the  church,  I  do  believe." 

"That  is  the  very  thing  I  have 
b(  en  thinking,"  answered  Mr.  Penni- 


loe. "  I  have  heard  of  a  tradition  to 
that  effect.  I  should  like  to  come 
down  and  examine  it." 

"  Not  yet,  sir,  if  you  please.  There 
is  scarcely  room  for  three;  and  it 
would  be  a  dangerous  place  for  you. 
But  if  you  could  only  give  us  some- 
thing like  a  candle " 

"  Oh,  I  know  !  "  the  sage  Pike  sug- 
gested, with  an  angler's  quickness. 
"  Ask  him  to  throw  us  down  one  of 
the  four  torches  stuck  up  at  the  lych- 
gate.  They  burn  like  fury  ;  and  I 
dare  say  you  have  got  a  lucifer,  or  a 
promethean." 

"  Not  a  bad  idea,  Pike,"  answered 
Mr.  Penniloe.  "  I  believe  that  each  of 
them  will  burn  for  half  an  hour." 

Soon  he  returned  with  the  driest  of 
them,  from  the  iron  loop  under  the 
covered  space  ;  and  this  took  fire  very 
heartily,  being  made  of  twisted  tow 
soaked  in  resin. 

"I  am  rather  big  for  this  job,"  said 
Sir  Thomas,  as  the  red  name  sputtered 
in  the  arch  way.  "  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  go  first,  my  young  friend." 

"Very  much  obliged,"  replied  Pike 
drawing  back  ;  "  but  I  don't  seem  to 
feel  myself  called  upon  to  rush  into 
the  bowels  of  the  earth  among  six 
centuries  of  ghosts.  I  had  better 
stop  here,  perhaps,  till  you  come 
back." 

"  Very  well.  At  any  rate  hold  my 
coat ;  it  is  bad  enough  ;  I  don't  want 
to  make  it  worse.  I  sha'n't  be  long,  I 
dare  say  ;  but  I  am  bound  to  see^the 
end  of  it." 

Young  Waldron  handed  his  coat  to 
Pike,  and  stooping  his  tall  head  with 
the  torch  well  in  front  of  him,  he 
plunged  into  the  dark  arcade.  Grim 
shadows  flitted  along  the  roof,  as  the 
sound  of  his  heavy  steps  came  back ; 
then  the  torchlight  vanished  round  a 
bend  of  wall,  and  nothing  could  either 
be  seen  or  heard.  Mr.  Penniloe,  in 
some  anxiety,  leaned  over  the  breach 
in  the  churchyard  fence,  striving  to 
see  what  was  under  his  feet ;  while 
Pike  mustered  courage  to  stand  in  the 
archway,  which  was  of  roughly 
chiselled  stone,  but  kept  himself  ready 


166 


Perlycross. 


for  instant  flight,  as  he  drew  deep 
breaths  of  excitement. 

By  and  by,  the  torch  came  quiver- 
ing back,  throwing  flits  of  light  along 
the  white  flint  roof ;  and  behind  it  a 
man,  shaking  worse  than  any  shadow, 
and  whiter  than  any  torchlit  chalk. 
"  Great  God  !  "  he  cried,  staggering 
forth,  and  falling  with  his  hand  on 
his  heart  against  the  steep  side  of  the 
pit.  "As  sure  as  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven,  I  have  found  my  father  !  " 

"  What !  "  cried  the  parson.  "  Pike, 
see  to  the  torch,  or  you'll  both  be  on 
fire." 

In  a  moment  he  ran  round  by  way 
of  the  stile,  and  slid  into  the  pit,  with- 
out thinking  of  his  legs,  laying  hold 
of  some  long  rasps  of  ivy.  Pike  very 
nimbly  leaped  up  the  other  side  ;  this 
was  not  the  sort  of  hole  to  throw 
a  fly  in. 

"  Give  me  the  torch.  You  stay 
here,  Tom  ;  you  have  had  enough  of 
it."  Mr.  Penniloe's  breath  was  short, 
because  of  the  speed  he  had  made  of 
it.  "It  is  my  place  now;  you  stop 
here,  and  get  the  air." 

"  I  think  it  is  rather  my  place,  than 
of  any  other  man  upon  the  earth.  Am 
I  afraid  of  my  own  dear  dad  1  Follow 
me,  and  I  will  show  him  to  you." 

He  went  with  a  slow  step,  dazed  out 
of  all  wonder,  as  a  man  in  a  dream 
accepts  everything,  down  the  dark 
passage  again,  and  through  the  ice-cold 
air  and  shivering  fire.  Then  he  stop- 
ped suddenly,  and  lowered  the  torch, 
stooping  his  curly  head  in  lowliness 
behind  it ;  and  there,  as  if  set  down 
by  the  bearers  for  a  rest,  lay  a  long 
oaken  coffin. 

Mr.  Penniloe  came  to  his  side,  and 
gazed.  At  their  feet  lay  the  good  and 
true-hearted  colonel,  or  all  of  him  left 
below  the  heaven,  resting  placidly,  un- 
profaned,  untouched  by  even  the  hand 
of  time,  unsullied  and  honourable  in 
his  death,  as  in  his  loyal  blameless  life. 
The  clear  light  fell  upon  the  diamond 
of  glass  (framed  in  the  oak  above  his 
face,  as  was  often  done  then  for  the 
last  look  of  love),  and  it  showed  his 
white  curls,  and  tranquil  forehead,  and 


eyelids  for  ever  closed  against  all  dis- 
appointment. 

His  son  could  not  speak,  but  sobbed 
and  shook  with  love,  and  reverence, 
and  manly  grief.  But  the  clergyman, 
with  a  godly  joy,  and  immortal  faith, 
and  heavenly  hope,  knelt  at  the  foot, 
and  lifted  hands  and  eyes  to  the  God 
of  Heaven.  "  Behold,  He  hath  not 
forsaken  us  !  His  mercy  is  over  all 
His  works ;  and  His  goodness  is  upon 
the  children  of  men." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

TWO     FINE      LESSONS. 

AT  the  Old  Barn  that  afternoon, 
no  sooner  was  young  Sir  Thomas  gone 
than  remarkable  things  began  to 
happen.  As  was  observed  in  a 
previous  case,  few  of  us  are  yet  so 
vast  of  mind  as  to  feel  deeply  and 
fairly  enjoy  the  justice  of  being 
served  with  our  own  sauce.  Haply 
this  is  why  sauce  and  justice  are  in 
Latin  the  self-same  word.  Few  of  us 
even  are  so  candid  as  to  perceive  when 
it  comes  to  pass  ;  more  often  is  a 
world  of  difference  found  betwixt 
what  we  gave  and  what  we  got. 

Fox  was  now  treated  by  Nicie's 
brother  exactly  as  he  had  treated 
Gilham  about  his  sister  Christie.  He 
was  not  remarkably  rash  of  mind, 
which  was  ever  so  much  better  for 
himself  and  friends,  yet  he  was  quick 
of  perception;  and  when  his  sister 
came  and  looked  at  him,  and  said 
with  gentle  sympathy, — "  Oh,  Jemmy, 
has  Sir  Thomas  forbidden  your  banns  ] 
No  wonder  you  threw  his  hat  at  him  !  " 
— it  was  a  little  more  than  he  could 
do  not  to  grin  at  the  force  of  analogy. 

"He  is  mad,"  he  replied,  with 
strong  decision.  Yet  at  the  twinkle 
of  her  eyes,  he  wondered  whether  she 
held  that  explanation  valid  in  a  like 
case  not  so  very  long  ago.  "  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  it  altogether," 
he  continued,  with  the  air  magnani- 
mous. "  It  is  useless  to  strive 
against  the  force  of  circumstances." 

"Made   up  your  mind  to   give  up 


Perlycross. 


167 


Nioie,  because  her  brother  disapproves 
of  it1?"  Christie  knew  well  enough 
what  he  meant ;  but  can  girls  be 
magnanimous  ? 

"  I  should  think  not.  How  can 
you  be  so  stupid  1  What  has  a 
brother's  approval  to  do  with  it  ?  Do 
you  think  I  care  twopence  for  fifty 
thousand  brothers  ?  Brothers  are  all 
very  well  in  their  way,  but  let  them 
stick  to  their  own  business.  A  girl's 
heart  is  her  own,  I  should  hope ;  and 
her  happiness  depends  on  herself,  not 
her  brother.  I  call  it  a  great  piece 
of  impudence  for  a  brother  to  inter- 
fere in  such  matters." 

•'*  Oh  !"  said  Christie,  and  nothing 
mere.  Neither  did  she  even  smile  ; 
but  went  to  the  window,  and  smoothed 
her  apron,  the  pretty  one  she  wore 
when  she  was  mixing  water-colours. 

•*  You  shall  come  and  see  him  now," 
said  Jemmy,  looking  at  the  light  that 
was  dancing  in  her  curls,  but  too 
lofty  to  suspect  that  inward  laughter 
made  them  dance.  "  It  can't  hurt  him 
now  ;  and  my  opinion  is  that  it  might 
even  do  him  a  great  deal  of  good.  I'll 
soon  have  him  ready,  and  I'll  send  his 
blossed  mother  to  make  another  sauce- 
panful  of  chicken  broth.  And,  Chris, 
I'll  give  you  clear  decks,  honour 
bright." 

"  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  understand 
your  meaning."  The  mendacious 
Christie  turned  round,  and  fixed  her 
bright  eyes  upon  his  most  grandly  ; 
as  girls  often  do,  when  they  tell  white 
lies,  perhaps  to  see  how  they  are 
swallowed. 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  that  is  all  right. 
It  will  save  a  lot  of  trouble ;  and 
perhaps  it  is  better  to  leave  him 
alone." 

"There  again  !  You  never  seem  to 
understand  me,  Jemmy !  And  of 
course  you  don't  care  how  much  it 
u]>sets  a  poor  patient  never  to  see  a 
change  of  faces.  Of  course  you  are 
very  kind ;  and  so  is  Dr.  Gronow ; 
and  poor  Mrs.  Gilham  is  a  most 
delightful  person.  Still  after  being 
for  all  that  time  so  desperately  limited 
—  that's  not  the  word  at  all — I  mean, 


so  to  some  extent  restricted,  or  if  you 
prefer  it  prohibited,  from — from  any 
little  change,  any  sort  of  variety  of 
expressions,  of  surroundings,  of,  in 

fact,  society " 

"  Ah,  yes,  no  doubt !  Of  etcetera, 
etcetera.  But  go  you  on  floundering 
till  I  come  back,  and  perhaps  then 
you  will  know  what  you  mean. 
Perhaps  also  you  would  look  a  little 
more  decent  with  your  apron  off,"  Dr. 
Fox  suggested,  with  the  noble  rude- 
ness so  often  dealt  out  to  sisters. 
"  Be  sure  you  remind  him  that 
yesterday  was  Leap-year's  day ;  and 
then  perhaps  you  will  be  able  to  find 
some  one  to  understand  you." 

"  If  that  is  the  case,  you  may  be 
quite  certain  that  I  won't  go  near 
him." 

But  before  very  long  she  thought 
better  of  that.  Was  it  just  to  punish 
one  for  the  offences  of  another  ? 
With  a  colour  like  the  first  bud  of 
monthly  rose  peeping  through  its 
sepals  in  the  southern  corner,  she  ran 
into  the  shrubbery,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  call  a  garden,  and  gathered 
a  little  posy  of  Russian  violets  and 
wild  primrose.  Then  she  pulled  her 
apron  off,  and  had  a  good  look  at 
herself,  and  could  not  help  knowing 
that  she  had  not  seen  a  lovelier  thing 
for  a  long  time ;  and  if  love  would 
only  multiply  it  by  two  (and  it 
generally  does  so  by  a  thousand)  the 
result  would  be  something  stupendous, 
ineffable,  adorable. 

Such  thoughts  are  very  bright  and 
cheerful,  full  of  glowing  youth  and 
kindness,  young  romance,  and  con- 
tempt of  earth.  But  the  longer  we 
plod  on  this  earth,  the  deeper  we  stick 
into  it ;  as  must  be  when  the  foot 
grows  heavy,  having  no  talaria.  Long 
enduring  pain  produces  a  like  effect 
with  lapse  of  years.  The  spring  of 
the  system  loses  coil  from  being  on 
perpetual  strain ;  sad  proverbs  flock 
into  the  brain,  instead  of  dancing 
verses.  Frank  Gilham  had  been 
ploughed  and  harrowed,  clod-crushed, 
drilled,  and  scarified  by  the  most  ad- 
vanced, enlightened,  and  practical  of 


168 


Perlycross. 


all  medical  high-farmers.  If  ever  Fox 
left  him,  to  get  a  breath  of  air, 
Gronow  came  in  to  keep  the  screw  on ; 
and  when  they  were  both  worn  out, 
young  Webber  (who  began  to  see  how 
much  he  had  to  learn,  and  what  was 
for  his  highest  interest)  was  allowed 
to  sit  by  and  do  nothing.  A  con- 
sultation was  held,  whenever  the  time 
hung  heavily  on  their  hands ;  and 
Webber  would  have  liked  to  say  a 
word,  if  it  could  have  been  uttered 
without  a  snub.  Meanwhile  Frank 
Gilham  got  the  worst  of  it. 

At  last  he  had  been  allowed  to  leave 
his  bed,  and  taste  a  little  of  the  fine 
spring  air  flowing  down  from  Hagdon 
Hill  and  bearing  first  waft  of  the 
furze-bloom.  Haggard  weariness  and 
giddy  lightness,  and  a  vacant  wonder- 
ing doubt  as  to  who  or  what  he  was, 
that  scarcely  seemed  worth  puzzling 
out,  would  have  proved  to  any  one 
who  cared  to  know  it  that  his  head 
had  lain  too  long  in  one  position  and 
was  not  yet  reconciled  to  the  change. 
And  yet  it  should  have  welcomed  this 
relief,  if  virtue  there  be  in  heredity, 
inasmuch  as  this  sofa  came  from 
White  Post  Farm,  and  must  have 
comforted  the  head  of  many  a  sick 
progenitor. 

The  globe  of  thought  being  in  this 
state,  and  the  arm  of  action  crippled, 
the  question  was — would  heart  arise, 
dispense  with  both,  and  have  its  way  1 
For  a  while  it  seemed  a  doubtful  thing, 
so  tedious  had  the  conflict  been,  and 
such  emptiness  left  behind  it.  The 
young  man,  after  dreams  most  blissful 
and  hopes  too  golden  to  have  any  kin 
with  gilt,  was  reduced  to  bare  bones, 
and  plastered  elbows,  and  knees  un- 
safe to  go  down  upon.  But  the  turn 
of  the  tide  of  human  life  quivers  to 
the  influence  of  heaven. 

In  came  Christie,  like  a  flush  of 
health,  rosy  with  bright  maidenhood, 
yet  tremulous  as  a  lily  is,  with  gentle 
fear  and  tenderness.  Pity  is  akin  to 
love,  as  those  who  know  them  both, 
and  in  their  larger  hearts  have  felt 
them,  for  our  smaller  sakes  pro- 
nounce ;  but  when  the  love  is  far  in 


front,  and  pauses  at  the  check  of 
pride,  what  chance  has  pride,  when 
pity  comes,  and  takes  her  mistress  by 
the  hand,  and  whispers,  "Try  to 
comfort  him "  ?  None  can  tell  who 
are  not  in  the  case,  and  those  who 
are  know  little  of  it,  how  these 
strange  things  come  to  pass.  But 
sure  it  is  that  they  have  their  way. 
The  bashful,  proud,  light-hearted 
maiden,  ready  to  make  a  joke  of  love 
and  laugh  at  such  a  fantasy,  was  so 
overwhelmed  with  pity  that  the  bash- 
fulness  forgot  to  blush,  the  pride  cast 
down  its  frightened  eyes,  and  the 
levity  burst  into  tears.  But  of  all 
these  things  she  remembered  none. 

And  forsooth  they  may  well  be 
considered  doubtful,  in  common  with 
many  harder  facts  j  because  the  house 
was  turned  upside  down  before  any 
more  could  be  known  of  it.  There 
was  coming  and  going  and  stamping 
of  feet,  horses  looking  in  at  the  door, 
and  women  calling  out  of  it ;  and 
such  a  shouting  and  hurrahing,  not 
only  here  but  all  over  the  village,  that 
the  Perle  itself  might  well  have 
stopped,  like  Simbis  and  Scamander, 
to  ask  what  the  fish  out  of  water  were 
doing.  And  it  might  have  stopped 
long  without  being  much  wiser  ;  so 
thoroughly  everybody's  head  was 
flown,  and  everybody's  mouth  filled 
with  much  more  than  the  biggest  ears 
found  room  for. 

To  put  it  in  order  is  a  hopeless  job, 
beca,use  all  order  was  gone  to  grit. 
But  as  concerns  the  Old  Barn  (whose 
thatch,  being  used  to  quiet  eaves- 
droppings,  had  enough  to  make  it 
stand  up  in  sheaf  again,) — first  dashed 
up  a  young  man  on  horseback  (and 
the  sympathetic  nag  was  half  mad 
also)  the  horse  knocking  sparks  out 
of  the  ground  as  if  he  had  never  heard 
of  lucifers,  and  the  man  with  his  legs 
all  out  of  saddle,  waving  a  thing  that 
looked  like  a  letter,  and  shouting  as 
if  all  literature  were  comprised  in 
vivd  voce.  Now  this  was  young 
Farrant  the  son  of  the  churchwarden, 
and  really  there  was  no  excuse  for 
him,  for  the  Farrants  are  a  very 


Perlycross. 


169 


clevc  r  race ;  and  as  yet  competitive 
examination  had  not  made  the  sight 
of  paper  loathsome  to  any  mind  culti- 
vating self-respect. 

"  You  come  out,  and  just  read  this," 
he  shouted  to  the  Barn  in  general. 
"  Ycu  never  heard  such  a  thing  in  all 
your  life.  All  the  village  is  madder 
than  any  March  hare.  I  sha'n't  tell 
you  a  word  of  it.  You  come  out  and 
read  ;  and  if  that  doesn't  fetch  you 
out,  you  must  be  a  clam  of  oysters. 
If  you  don't  believe  me,  come  and  see 
it  for  yourselves.  Only  you  will  have 
to  got  by  Jakes,  and  he  is  standing  at 
the  mouth  with  his  French  sword 
drawn." 

"  In  the  name  of  heaven,  what  the 
devil  do  you  mean  ? "  cried  Fox,  run- 
ning out,  and  catching  fire  of  like 
madness,  of  all  human  elements  the 
most,  explosive.  ' "  And  this — why, 
this  letter  is  the  maddest  thing  of  all ! 
A  man  who  was  bursting  to  knock 
me  down  scarcely  two  gurgles  of  the 
clock  ago  ;  and  now,  I  am  his  beloved 
Jemmy  !  Mrs.  Gilham,  do  come  out ; 
surely  that  chicken  has  been  stewed 
to  death.  Oh,  ma'am,  you  have  some 
senso  in  you;  everybody  else  is  gone 
off  his  head.  Who  can  make  head  or 
tail  of  this  1  Let  me  entreat  you  to 
"^^ead  it,  Mrs.  Gilham.  Farrant,  you'll 
be  over  that  colt's  head  directly. 
Mrs.  Gilham,  this  is  meant  for  a  saner 
eye  than  mine;  your  head-piece  is 
always  full  of  self-possession." 

Highly  nattered  with  this  tribute, 
the  old  lady  put  on  her  spectacles, 
and  read,  slowly  and  decorously. 

Bi LOVED  JEMMY, — I  am  all  that  you 
called  me,  a  hot-headed  fool,  and  a  cad  ; 
and  everything  vile  on  the  back  of  it. 
The  doctors  are  the  finest  chaps  alive, 
because  they  have  never  done  harm  to  the 
dead  Come  down  at  once,  and  put  a  bar 
across,  because  Jakes  must  have  his  supper. 
Perl-cross  folk  are  the  best  in  the  world, 
and  the  kindest-hearted,  but  we  must  not 
lett  them  go  in  there.  I  am  off  home,  for 
if  an  ybody  else  was  to  get  in  front  of  me, 
and  tell  my  mother,  I  should  go  wild,  and 
she  would  be  quite  upsett.  When  you 
have  done  all  you  think  proper,  come  up 
and  see  poor  Nicie.  From  your  affec- 
tiomite,  and  very  sorry, — T.  E.  WALDRON. 


"Now  the  other,  ma'am!"  cried 
Dr.  Fox.  "  Here  is  another  from  the 
parson.  Oh,  come  now,  we  shall  have 
a  little  common  sense." 

MY  DEAR  JEMMY,-— It  has  pleased  the 
Lord,  who  never  afflicts  us  without  good 
purpose,  to  remove  that  long  and  very 
heavy  trouble  from  us.  We  have  found 
the  mortal  remains  of  my  dear  friend, 
untouched  by  any  human  hand,  in  a 
hollow  way  leading  from  the  abbey  to  the 
church.  We  have  not  yet  discovered  how 
it  happened  ;  and  I  cannot  stop  to  tell  you 
more,  for  I  must  go  at  once  to  Walders- 
court,  lest  rumour  should  get  there  before 
us  ;  and  Sir  Thomas  must  not  go  alone, 
being  of  rather  headlong,  though  very  noble 
nature.  Sergeant  Jakes  has  been  placed 
on  guard,  against  any  rash  curiosity.  I 
have  sent  for  the  two  churchwardens,  and 
can  leave  it  safely  to  them  and  to  you  to 
see  that  all  is  done  properly.  If  it  can  be 
managed,  without  undue  haste,  the  coffin 
should  be  placed  inside  the  church,  and 
the  doors  locked  until  the  morning.  When 
that  is  done,  barricade  the  entrance  to  the 
tunnel ;  although  I  am  sure  that  the 
people  of  our  parish  would  have  too  much 
right  feeling,  as  well  as  apprehension,  to 
attempt  to  make  their  way  in  after  dark. 
To-morrow,  I  trust  we  shall  offer  humble 
thanks  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  for '  this 
great  mercy.  I  propose  to  hold  a  short 
special  service,  though  I  fear  there  is  no 
precedent  in  the  prayer-book.  This  will 
take  a  vast  weight  off  your  mind,  as  well 
as  mine,  which  has  been  sorely  tried.  I 
beg  }7ou  not  to  lose  a  minute,  as  many 
people  might  become  unduly  excited. 
Most  truly  yours,— PHILIP  PENNILOE. 

P.S.— This  relieves  us  also  from 
another  dark  anxiety,  simply  explaining 
the  downfall  of  the  S.E.  corner  of  the 
chancel. 

"  It  seems  hard  upon  me,  but  it 
must  be  right,  because  the  parson 
has  decreed  it,"  Dr.  Fox  criedy 
without  a  particle  of  what  is  now 
called  "  slavish  adulation  of  the 
Church,"  which  scarcely  stood  up  for 
herself  in  those  days,  but  by  virtue 
of  the  influence  which  a  kind  and  good 
man  always  gains  when  he  does  not 
overstrain  his  rights.  "  I  am  off, 
Mrs.  Gilham  ;  I  can  trust  you  to  see 
to  the  pair  of  invalids  up  stairs." 

Then  he  jumped  upon  young  Mr. 
Farrant' s  horse,  and  leaving  him  to 


170 


Perlycross. 


follow  at  foot  leisure,  dashed  down 
the  hill  towards  Perlycross.  At  the 
four  cross  roads,  which  are  the  key  of 
the  position  and  have  all  the  village 
and  the  valley  in  command,  he  found 
as  fine  a  concourse  perhaps  as  had 
been  there  since  the  great  days  of  the 
Romans.  Not  a  rush  of  dread  and 
doubting,  and  of  shivering  backbones, 
such  as  had  been  on  that  hoary 
morning,  when  the  sun  came  through 
the  fog  and  showed  churchwarden 
Farmer  John,  and  Channing  the 
clerk,  and  blacksmith  Crang,  trudging 
from  the  potato-field,  full  of  ghostly 
tidings,  and  encountering  at  that  very 
spot  Sergeant  Jakes,  and  Cornish, 
and  the  tremulous  tramp  of  half  the 
village  afraid  of  resurrection.  In- 
stead of  hurrying  from  the  church- 
yard, as  a  haunt  of  ghouls  and  fiends, 
all  were  hastening  towards  it  now 
with  deep  respect  reviving.  The 
people  who  lived  beyond  the  bridge, 
and  even  beyond  the  factory,  and 
were  much  inclined  by  local  right  to 
sit  under  the  Dissenting  minister 
(himself  a  very  good  man,  and 
working  in  harmony  with  the  curate,) 
many  of  these,  and  even  some  from 
Priestwell,  having  heard  of  it,  pushed 
their  right  to  know  everything  in 
front  of  those  who  lived  close  to  the 
church  and  looked  through  the 
railings  every  day.  Farmer  John 
Horner  was  there  on  his  horse, 
trotting  slowly  up  and  down,  as 
brave  as  a  mounted  policeman  is, 
and  knowing  every  one  by  name 
called  out  to  him  to  behave  himself. 
Moreover  Walter  Haddon  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  Ivy-bush,  with  his 
coat  off,  and  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled, 
and  ready  to  double  his  fist  at  any 
man  who  only  drank  small  beer,  at 
the  very  first  sign  of  tumult.  But 
candidly  speaking  this  was  needless, 
powerful  as  the  upheaval  was  and  hot 
the  spirit  of  inquiry  ;  for  the  wives 
of  most  of  the  men  were  there,  and 
happily  in  an  English  crowd  that 
always  makes  for  good  manners. 

Fox      was     received      with      loud 
hurrahs,   and   many  ran    forward  to 


shake  his  hand  ;  some  who  had  been 
most  black  and  bitter  in  their  vile 
suspicions,  having  the  manliness  to 
beg  his  pardon  and  abuse  themselves 
very  heartily.  He  forgave  them 
with  much  frankness,  as  behoves  an 
Englishman,  and  with  a  pleasant 
smile  at  their  folly,  which  also  is 
nicely  national.  For  after  all,  there 
is  no  other  race  that  can  give  and 
take  as  we  do;  not  by  any  means 
headlong,  yet  insisting  upon  decisions 
of  the  other  side  at  any  rate,  and 
thus  quickening  the  sense  of  justice 
upon  the  average  in  our  favour. 

Fox,  with  the  truly  British  face  of 
one  who  is  understood  at  last  but 
makes  no  fuss  about  it,  gave  up  his 
horse  at  the  lych-gate,  and  made  off 
where  he  was  beckoned  for.  Here 
were  three  great  scaffold-poles  and 
slings  fixed  over  the  entrance  to  '  the 
ancient  underway ;  and  before  dark 
all  was  managed  well.  And  then  a 
short  procession,  headed  by  the 
martial  march  of  Jakes,  conveyed  into 
the  venerable  church  the  mortal  part 
of  a  just  and  kind  man  and  a  noble 
soldier,  to  be  consigned  to-morrow  to 
a  more  secure,  and  ever  tranquil,  and 
still  honoured  resting-place. 

This  being  done,  the  need  of  under- 
standing must  be  satisfied.  Dr.  Fox 
and  Dr.  Gronow,  with  the  two  church- 
wardens and  Channing  the  clerk, 
descended  the  ladder  into  the  hole, 
and  with  a  couple  of  torches  kindled 
went  to  see  the  cause  and  manner  of 
this  strange  yet  simple  matter, — a 
four-month  mystery  of  darkness, 
henceforth  as  clear  as  daylight. 
When  they  beheld  it  they  were 
surprised,  not  at  the  thing  itself,  for 
it  could  scarcely  have  happened 
otherwise  in  the  circumstances,  but 
at  the  coincidences  which  had  led  so 
many  people  of  very  keen  intelligence 
into,  as  might  almost  be  said,  every 
track  except  the  right  one.  And 
this  brought  home  to  them  one  great 
lesson — "  If  you  wish  to  be  sure  of  a 
thing,  see  it  with  your  own  good  eyes  ;  " 
and  of  yet  another, — but  that  comes 
afterwards. 


Perlycross, 


171 


Tho  passage,  dug  by  the  monks  no 
doubt,  led  from  the  abbey  directly 
westward  to  the  chancel  of  the 
churcli,  probably  to  enable  them  to 
carry  their  tapers  burning,  and  dis- 
charge their  duties  there  promptly 
and  with  vestments  dry  in  defiance 
of  tho  weather.  The  crown  of  loose 
flint  set  in  mortar  was  some  eight  feet 
underground,  and  the  line  it  took  was 
that  adopted  in  all  Christian  burial. 
'The  grave  of  the  late  Sir  Thomas  Wald- 
ron  vas  prepared,  as  he  had  wished, 
far  away  from  the  family  vault  (which 
had  ,adly  undermined  the  church), 
and  towards  the  eastern  end  of  the 
yard  as  yet  not  much  inhabited.  As 
it  chanced,  the  bottom  lay  directly 
along  a  weak,  or  worn-out  part  of  the 
concrete  arch  below ;  and  the  men 
who  dug  it  said  at  the  time  that  their 
spades  had  struck  on  something  hard, 
which  they  took  to  be  loose  blocks  of 
flint.  However,  being  satisfied  with 
their  depth  and  having  orders  to  wall 
the  bottom,  they  laid  on  either  side 
some  nine  or  ten  courses  of  brickwork, 
well  i  lushed  in  with  strong  and  binding 
mortar ;  but  the  ends  being  safe  and 
bricks  running  short,  to  save  any 
further  trouble  they  omitted  the  cross- 
wall  at  the  ends.  Thus  when  the  weight 
of  earth  cast  in  pressed  more  and 
more  heavily  upon  the  heavy  coffin, 
the  dome  of  concreted  flints  below 
collapsed,  the  solid  oaken  box  dropped 
quietly  to  the  bottom  of  the  tunnel, 
and  he  dwarf  brick  sides  having  no 
tie'  across,  but  being  well  bonded 
together  and  well-footed,  fell  across 
the  vacancy  into  one  another,  forming 
a  new  arch,  or  more  correctly  a  splay 
span- roof,  in  lieu  of  the  old  arch 
which  had  yielded  to  the  strain. 
Thus  the  earth  above  took  this  new 
bearing,  and  the  surface  of  the 
ground  was  no  more  disturbed  than 
it  always  is  by  settlement.  No 
wonder  then  that  in  the  hurried 
search  by  men  who  had  not  been 
down  there  before,  and  had  not  heard 
of  any  brickwork  at  the  sides,  and 
were  at  that  moment  in  a  highly 
nervous  state,  not  only  was  the 


grave  reported  empty  (which  of  course 
was  true  enough),  but  no  suspicion 
was  entertained  that  the  bottom  they 
came  to  (now  covered  with  earth) 
was  anything  else  than  a  rough  plat- 
form for  the  resting-place.  And  the 
two  who  could  have  told  them  better, 
being  proud  of  their  skill  in  founda- 
tions, had  joined  the  builders'  staff 
and  been  sent  away  to  distant  jobs. 
In  the  heat  of  foregone  conclusion, 
and  the  terror  created  by  the  black- 
smith's tale,  and  the  sad  condition  of 
that  faithful  little  Jess,  the  report 
had  been  taken  as  final.  No  further 
quest  seemed  needful ;  and  at  Squire 
Mockham's  order,  the  empty  space 
had  been  filled  in  at  oace,  for  fear  of 
the  excitement  and  throng  of  vulgar 
gazers  gathering  and  thickening 
around  the  empty  grave. 

Such  are  the  cases  that  make  us 
wonder  at  the  power  of  coincidence, 
and  the  very  strange  fact  that  the 
less  things  seem  to  have  to  do  with 
one  another,  the  greater  is  their  force 
upon  the  human  mind  when  it  tries 
to  be  too  logical.  Many  little  things, 
all  far  apart,  had  been  fetched  together 
by  fine  reasoning  process,  and  made 
to  converge  towards  a  very  fine  error 
with  certainty  universal.  Even  that 
humble  agent  or  patient,  little  Jess, 
despised  as  a  dog  by  the  many  who 
have  no  delight  in  their  better  selves, 
had  contributed  very  largely  to  the 
confluence  of  panic.  If  she  could  only 
have  thrown  the  light  of  language  on 
her  woeful  plight,  the  strongest  clench 
to  the  blacksmith's  tale  would  never 
have  come  near  his  pincers.  For  the 
slash  that  rewarded  her  true  love  fell, 
not  from  the  spade  of  a  churchyard- 
robber,  but  from  a  poacher's  bill-hook. 
This  has  already  been  intimated  ;  and 
Mr.  Penniloe  must  have  learned  it 
then,  if  he  had  simply  taken  time, 
instead  of  making  off  at  five  miles  an 
hour,  when  Speccotty  wanted  to  tell 
his  tale.  This  should  be  a  warning 
to  clergymen ;  for  perhaps  there  was 
no  other  man  in  the  parish  whose  case 
the  good  parson  would  thus  have  post- 
poned without  prospect  of  higher  con- 


172 


Peril/cross. 


solation.  And  it  does  seem  a  little 
too  hard  upon  a  man  that,  because  his 
mind  is  gone  astray  unawares,  his 
soul  should  drop  out  of  cultivation, 
That  poor  little  spaniel  was  going 
home  sadly,  to  get  a  bit  of  breakfast 
and  come  back  to  her  duty,  when 
trespassing  unwittingly  upon  the 
poacher's  tricks  at  early  wink  of  day- 
light, she  was  taken  for  a  minion  of 
the  Evil  One,  and  met  with  a  vigour 
which  is  shown  too  seldom,  by  even 
true  sportsmen,  to  his  emissaries. 
Perhaps,  before  she  quitted  guard,  she 
may  have  had  a  nip  at  the  flowers  on 
the  grave,  and  dropped  them  back 
when  she  failed  to  make  sweet  bones 
of  them. 

Without  further  words,  though  any 
number  of  words,  if  their  weight  were 
by  the  score,  would  be  too  few,  the 
slowest-headed  man  in  Perlycross 
might  lay  to  his  heart  the  second 
lesson,  read  in  as  mild  a  voice  as 
Penniloe's,  above.  And  without  a 
word  at  all,  he  may  be  trusted  to  go 
home  with  it,  when  the  job  is  -of 
other  folk's  hands,  but  his  own 
pocket. 

"  Never  scamp  your  work"  was 
preached  more  clearly  by  this  long 
trouble  and  degradation  of  an  honour- 
able parish,  than  if  Mr.  Penniloe  had 
stood  in  the  pulpit  for  a  week  of 
Sundays,  with  the  mouth  of  King 
Solomon  laid  to  his  ear,  and  the 
trump  of  the  Royal  Mail  upon  his 
lips. 

CHAPTER   XLIV. 

AND  ONE  STILL  FINEE. 

IF  it  be  sweet  to  watch  at  ease  the 
troubles  of  another,  how  much  sweeter 
to  look  back  from  the  vantage-ground 
of  happiness  upon  one's  own  misfor- 
tunes !  To  be  able  to  think, — "  Well, 
it  was  too  bad  !  Another  week  would 
have  killed  me.  How  I  pulled  through 
it  is  more  than  I  can  tell,  for  every- 
body was  against  me  !  And  the  luck 
— the  luck  kept  playing  leap-frog  ; 
fifty  plagues  all  upon  one  another's 
back,  and  my  poor  little  self  at  the 


bottom.  Not  a  friend  came  near  me  ; 
they  were  all  so  sorry,  but  happened 
to  be  frightfully  down  themselves.  I 
assure  you,  my  dear,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  you,  and  the  thought  of  our 
blessed  children,  and  perhaps  my  own 
— well,  I  won't  say  '  pluck,'  but  deter- 
mination to  go  through  with  it— in- 
stead of  arranging  these  flowers  for 
dinner,  you  would  have  been  wreathing 
them  for  a  sadder  purpose."  The  lady 
sheds  a  tear,  and  says, — "  Darling 
Jack,  see  how  you  have  made  my 
hand  shake  !  I  have  almost  spoiled 
that  truss  of  hoya,  and  this  schubertia 
won't  stand  up.  But  you  never  said 
a  word  about  it  at  the  time !  Was 
that  fair  to  me,  Jack  ?  "  And  the  like 
will  come  to  pass  again,  perhaps  next 
year,  perhaps  next  week. 

But  the  beauty  of  country-life,  as 
it  then  prevailed  (ere  the  hungry 
hawk  of  the  Stock-exchange  poised  his 
wings  above  the  stock-dove),  was  to 
take  things  gently,  softly,  with  a 
cooing  faith  in  goodness  both  above 
us  and  around.  Men  must  work ; 
but  being  born  (as  their  best  friends, 
the  horses,  are,)  for  that  especial  pur- 
pose, why  should  they  make  it  still 
more  sad  by  dwelling  upon  it  at  the 
nose- bag  time?  How  much  wiser  to 
allow  that  turbulent  bit  of  stuff,  the 
mind,  to  abide  at  ease  and  take  things 
in,  rather  than  cast  them  forth  half 
chewed  in  the  style  of  our  present 
essayists  ? 

Now  this  old  village  was  the  right 
sort  of  place  to  do  such  things  with- 
out knowing  it.  There  was  no  great 
leading  intellect  (with  his  hands, 
returned  to  feet)  to  beat  the  hollow 
drum,  and  play  the  shrill  fife,  and  set 
everybody  tumbling  over  his  best 
friend's  head.  The  rule  of  the  men 
was  to  go  on,  according  to  the  way  in 
which  their  fathers  went  ;  talking  as 
if  they  were  running  on  in  front,  but 
sticking  effectually  to  the  old  coat- 
tail  ;  which  in  the  long  run  is  the 
wisest  thing  to  do.  They  were  proud 
of  their  church,  when  the  Sunday 
mood  was  on,  and  their  children  came 
home  to  tell  about  it.  /There  she  was  ; 


Perlycross. 


173 


let  her  stand,  if  the  folk  with  money 
could  support  her.  It  was  utterly 
impossible  to  get  into  their  heads  any 
difference  betwixt  the  church  in  the 
churciyard,  and  the  one  that  inhabits 
the  sky  above.  When  a  man  has 
been  hard  at  work  all  the  week,  let 
his  wife  be  his  better  half  on  Sunday. 

Nothing  that  ever  can  be  said,  or 
done,  by  the  most  ardent  "pastor," 
will  ever  produce  that  enthusiasm 
among  the  tegs  of  his  flock,  which 
spreads  so  freely  among  the  ewes  and 
lamb^.  Mr.  Penniloe  would  not  be 
called  a  pastor;  to  him"  the  name 
savoured  of  a  cant  conceit.  Neither 
did  he  call  himself  a  priest ;  for  him 
it  was,  quite  enough  to  be  a  clergyman 
of  tho  Church  of  England,  and  to  give 
his  life  to  that.  Therefore,  when  the 
time  came  round,  and  the  turn  of  the 
year  was  fit  for  it,  this  parson  of  that 
humbler  type  was  happy  to  finish 
without  fuss  the  works  that  he  had 
undertaken,  with  a  lofty  confidence  in 
the  Lord,  which  had  come  to  ground 
too  often.  His  faith,  though  fine,  had 
never  been  of  that  grandly  abstract 
quality  which  expects  the  ravens  to 
come  down,  with  bread  instead  of 
bills,  and  build  a  nest  for  sweet  doves 
gratia.  To  pay  every  penny  that  was 
fairly  due,  and  shorten  no  man  of  his 
Saturday  wage  towards  the  Sunday 
consolation ;  to  perceive  that  business 
must  not  be  treated  as  a  purely 
.spirit  ual  essence ;  and  to  know  that 
.a  groat  many  very  good  people  drip 
away  (as  tallow  does  from  its  own 
wicki  from  their  quick  flare  of 
promises ;  also  to  bear  the  brunt  of 
all,  and  cast  up  the  toppling  column, 
with  the  balance  coming  down  on  his 
own  chest, — what  wonder  that  he  had 
scarcely  any  dark  hair  left,  and  even 
the  silver  was  inclined  to  say  adieu? 

W  hen  a  man,  who  is  getting  on  in 
year.s,  comes  out  of  a  long  anxiety 
about  money,  and  honour,  and  his 
sense  of  right,  he  finds  even  in  the 
soft  flush  of  relief  that  a  great  deal  of 
his  spring  is  gone.  A  Bachelor  of 
Arts,  when  his  ticks  have  been  paid 
by  a  groaning  governor,  is  fit  and 


fresh  to  start  again,  and  seldom 
dwells  with  due  remorse  upon  the 
vicarious  sacrifice.  His  father  also, 
if  of  right  paternal  spirit,  soars  above 
the  unpleasant  subject ;  leaves  it  to 
the  mother  to  drive  home  the  lesson 
(which  she  feels  already  to  be  too 
severe)  and  says,  "Well,  Jack,  you 
have  got  your  degree ;  and  that's 
more  than  the  Squire's  son  can  boast 
of."  But  the  ancient  Master  of  ten 
lustres,  who  has  run  into  debt  on  his 
own  hook,  and  felt  the  hook  running 
into  him,  is  in  very  different  plight, 
even  when  he  has  wriggled  off. 
Parson  Penniloe  was  sorely  humbled, 
his  placid  forehead  sadly  wrinkled, 
and  his  kindly  eyes  uncertain  how  to 
look  at  his  brother  men  even  from 
the  height  of  the  pulpit,  when  in  his 
tremulous  throat  stuck  fast  that  stern 
and  difficult  precept,  "  Owe  no  man 
anything."  Even  the  strongest  of 
mankind  can  scarcely  manage  to  come 
up  to  that,  when  fortune  is  not  with 
him  and  his  family  tug  the  other  way. 
The  glory  of  the  Lord  may  be  a  lofty 
prospect,  but  becomes  a  cloudy  pillar 
when  the  column  is  cast  up,  and 
will  not  square  with  cash  in  hand. 
Scarcely  is  it  too  much  to  say  that, 
since  the  days  of  Abraham,  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  find  a  man  of 
stronger  faith  than  Penniloe,  except 
at  the  times  when  he  broke  down  (in 
vice  of  matters  physical),  and  proved 
at  one  break  two  ancient  creeds — 
Exceptio  probat  regulam,  and  Corruptio 
optimi  pessima. 

While  he  was  on  the  balance  now, 
as  a  man  of  the  higher  ropes  should 
be,  lifting  the  upper  end  of  his  pole 
that  the  glory  of  his  parish  shone 
again,  yet  feeling  the  butt  inclined 
to  swag  by  reason  of  the  bills  stuck 
upon  it,  who  should  come  in  to  the 
audience  and  audit  but  young  Sir 
Thomas  Waldron?  This  youth  had 
thought  perhaps  too  little  of  himself, 
because  those  candid  friends,  his 
brother-boys,  had  always  spoken  of 
his  body  so  kindly,  without  a  single 
good  word  for  his  mind ;  but  now  he 
was  authorised,  and  even  ordered,  by 


174 


Perlycross. 


universal  opinion  to  take  a  much 
fairer  view  of  his  own  value. 

Nothing  that  ever  yet  caine  to  pass 
has  gone  into  words  without  some 
shift  of  colour,  and  few  things  even 
without  change  of  form  ;  and  so  it 
would  have  been  beyond  all  nature  if 
the  events  above  reported  had  been 
told  with  perfect  accuracy  even  here. 
How  much  less  could  this  be  so  in 
the  hot  excitement  of  the  time,  with 
every  man  eager  to  excel  his  neigh- 
bour's narrative,  and  every  woman 
burning  to  recall  it  with  her  own 
pure  imagination  ?  What  then  of  the 
woman  who  had  been  blessed  enough 
to  enrich  the  world,  and  by  the  same 
gift  ennoble  it,  with  the  hero  who  at 
a  stroke  had  purged  the  family,  the 
parish,  and  the  nation  ?  Nevertheless 
he  came  in  gently,  modestly,  and 
with  some  misgivings,  into  the  room, 
where  he  had  trembled,  blushed,  and 
floundered  on  all  fours  over  the  old 
gray  Latin  steps  which  have  broken 
many  a  knee-cap.  "If  you  please, 
sir,"  he  said  to  his  old  tutor,  who 
alone  had  taught  him  anything,  for 
at  Eton  he  had  barely  learned  good 
manners ;  "  my  mother  begs  you  to 
read  this.  And  we  are  all  ashamed 
of  our  behaviour." 

"  No,  Tom,  no ;  you  have  no  cause 
for  that.  Your  mother  may  have 
been  a  little  hard  at  first ;  but  she  has 
meant  to  be  just  throughout.  The 
misery  she  has  passed  through  none 
but  herself  can  realise." 

"  You  see,  sir,  she  does  not  sing 
out  about  things,  as  most  women  do  ; 
and  that  of  course  makes  it  ever  so 
much  worse  for  her." 

The  young  man  spoke  like  some 
deep  student  of  feminine  nature  ;  but 
his  words  were  only  those  of  the  good 
housekeeper  at  Walderscourt.  Mr. 
Penniloe  took  them  in  that  light,  and 
began  to  read  without  reply. 

Truly  esteemed  and  valued  sir.  With 
some  hesitation  of  the  mind  I  come  to  say 
that  in  all  I  have  said  and  done,  my  mind 
Las  been  of  the  wrong  intelligence  most 
largely.  It  always  appears  in  this  laud  of 
Britain,  as  if  nobody  of  it  could  make  a 


mistake.  But  we  have  not  in  my  country 
such  great  wisdom  and  good  fortune. 
Also  in  any  other  European  land  of  which 
I  have  the  acquaintance,  the  natives  are 
wrong  in  their  opinions  sometimes. 

But  this  does  not  excuse  me  of  my 
mistake.  I  have  been  unjust  to  you  and 
to  all  people  living  around  my  place 
of  dwelling.  But  by  my  dear  son  and 
his  very  deep  sagacity,  it  has  been  made 
manifest  that  your  good  people  were  con- 
sidered guilty,  without  proper  justice,  of 
a  wrong  upon  my  husband's  memory. 
Also  that  your  good  church,  of  which  he 
thought  so  well  in  the  course  of  his  dear 
life,  has  treated  him  not  with  ignominy, 
but  with  the  best  of  her  attention,  re- 
ceiving him  into  the  sacred  parts,  where 
the  priests  of  our  religion  in  the  times  of 
truth  conversed.  This  is  to  me  of  the 
holiest  and  most  gracious  consolation. 

Therefore  I  entreat  you  to  accept,  for 
the  uses  of  so  good  a  building,  the  little 
sum  herewith  committed  to  your  carer 
which  flows  entirely  from  my  own 
resources,  and  not  from  the  property 
of  my  dear  husband,  so  much  engaged  in 
the  distribution  of  the  law.  When  that  is ' 
disengaged,  my  dear  son  Rodrigo,  with  my 
approbation,  will  contribute  1'rom  it  the 
same  amount  for  the  perfection  of  the 
matter. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,  five, — and 
every  one  of  them  a  hundred  pounds  ! 
My  dear  Tom,  I  feel  a  doubt- 
Mr.  Penniloe  leaned  back  and  thought. 
He  was  never  much  excited  about 
money,  except  when  he  owed  it  to,  or 
for,  the  Lord. 

"  I  call  it  very  poor  amends  indeed. 
What  would  ten  times  as  much  be, 
after  all  that  you  have  suffered? 
And  how  can  you  refuse  it,  when  it 
is  not  for  yourself  ?  My  mother  will 
be  hurt  most  dreadfully,  and  never 
think  well  again  of  the  Church  of 
England." 

"  Tom,  you  are  right,"  Mr.  Penniloe 
replied,  while  a  smile  flitted  over  his 
countenance.  "  I  should  indeed  convey 
a  false  impression  of  the  character  of 
our  dear  Mother.  But  as  for  the 
other  £500— well " 

"  My  father's  character  must  be 
considered,  as  well  as  your  good 
mother's."  Sir  Thomas  was  not 
strong  at  metaphor.  "  And  I  am 
sure  of  one  thing,  sir.  If  he  could 


175 


have  known  what  would  happen 
about  him,  and  how  beautifully  every 
one  behaved,  except  his  own  people — 
but  it's  no  use  talking.  If  you  don't 
take  :t,  I  shall  join  the  Early  Metho- 
dists. What  do  you  think  of  that, 
sir?  I  am  always  as  good  as  my 
word,  you  know." 

"Ah!  Ah!  It  may  be  so,"  the 
curate  answered  thoughtfully,  re- 
turning to  the  mildness  of  exclama- 
tion from  which  these  troubles  had 
driven  him.  "  But  allow  me  a  little 
time  for  consideration.  Your  mother's 
very  generous  gift  I  can  accept 
without  hesitation,  and  have  no  right 
to  do  otherwise.  But  as  to  your 
father's  estate,  I  am  placed  in  a 
delicate  position  by  reason  of  my 
trusteeship,  and  it  is  possible  that  I 
might  go  wrong;  at  any  rate,  I  must 
consult 

"  Mrs.  Fox,  sir,  from  Foxden  !  " 
Thyatira  Muggridge  cried,  with  her 
face  as  red  as  a  turkey's  wattles,  and 
throwing  the  door  of  the  humble 
back-room  as  wide  as  if  it  never 
could  be  wide  enough.  For  the  lady 
was  beautifully  arrayed. 

"I  come  to  consult,  not  to  be 
consulted.  My  confidence  in  myself 
has  been  misplaced,"  said  the  mother 
of  Jemmy  and  Christie,  after  making 
the  due  salutation.  "  Sir  Thomas,  I 
beg  you  not  to  go.  You  have  some 
right,  to  a  voice  in  the  matter ;  if,  as 
they  tell  me  at  Old  Barn,  you  have 
conquered  your  repugnance  to  my 
son,  and  are  ready  to  receive  him  as 
your  brother-in-law." 

"  Madam,  I  was  a  fool,"  said  Tom, 
offei  ing  his  great  hand  with  a 
sheepish  look.  .  "  Your  son  has 
forgiven  me,  and  I  hope  that  you 
will.  Jemmy  is  the  finest  fellow 
ever  born." 

"  A  credit  to  his  mother,  as  his 
mother  always  thought.  And  what 
is  sbill  better  for  himself,  a  happy 
man  in  winning  the  affections  of  the 
sweetest  girl  on  earth.  I  have  seen 
your  dear  sister — what  a  gentle 
darling!" 

"  Nicie   is  very  well    in  her  way, 


madam  ;  but  she  has  a  strong  will  of 
her  own.  Jemmy  will  find  that  out,, 
some  day.  Upon  the  whole,  I  am 
sorry  for  him." 

"He  talks  in  the  very  same  way 
of  his  sister.  If  young  men  listened 
to  young  men,  none  of  them  would 
ever  marry.  Oh,  Mr.  Penniloe,  you 
can  be  trusted  at  any  rate  to  look  at 
things  from  a  higher  point  of  view." 

"I  try  sometimes,  but  it  is  not 
easy  ;  and  I  generally  get  into  scrapes, 
when  I  do.  But  I  have  one  consola- 
tion ;  nobody  ever  takes  my  advice." 

"  I  mean  to  take  it,"  Mrs.  Fox 
replied,  looking  into  his  gentle  eyes 
with  the  faith  which  clever  women 
feel  in  a  nature  larger  than  their 
own.  "  You  need  not  suppose  that  I 
am  impulsive ;  but  I  know  what  you 
are.  When  every  one  else  in  this 
stupid  little  place  condemned  my  son 
without  hearing  a  word,  there  was 
one  who  was  too  noble,  too  good  a 
Christian,  to  listen  to  any  reason. 
He  was  right  when  the  mother  herself 
was  wrong.  For  1  don't  mind  telling 
you,  as  I  have  even  told  my  son,  that 
knowing  what  he  is,  I  could  not  help 
suspecting  that  he, — that  he  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  Not  that 
Lady  Waldron  had  any  right  what- 
ever,— and  it  will  take  me  a  long  time 
to  forgive  her,  and  her  son  is  quite  wel- 
come to  tell  her  that.  What  you  felt 
yourself  was  quite  different,  Sir 
Thomas." 

"  I  can't  see  that  my  mother  did 
any  harm.  Why,  she  even  suspected 
her  own  twin-brother  !  If  you 
were  to  bear  ill-will  against  my 
mother " 

"  Of  such  little  tricks  I  am  in- 
capable, Sir  Thomas.  And  of  course 
I  can  allow  for  foreigners.  Even 
twenty  years  of  English  life  cannot 
bring  them  to  see  things  as  we  do. 
Their  nature  is  so, — well,  I  won't  say 
narrow,  neither  will  I  say  '  bigoted/ 
although " 

"  We  quite  understand  you,  my 
dear  madam."  Mr.  Penniloe  was 
shocked  at  his  own  rudeness,  in  thus 
interrupting  a  lady,  but  he  knew  that 


176 


Perly  cross. 


very  little  more  would  produce  a  bad 
breach  betwixt  Walderscourt  and 
Foxden.  "  What  a  difference  really 
does  exist  among  people  equally  just 
and  upright " 

"My  dear  mother  is  as  just  and 
upright  as  any  Englishwoman  in  the 
world,  Protestant  or  Catholic,"  the 
young  man  exclaimed,  having  his  tem- 
per on  the  bubble  yet  not  allowing  it  to 
boil  against  a  lady.  "  But  if  his  own 
mother  condemned  him,  how — I  can't 
put  it  into  words,  as  I  mean  it— how 
can  she  be  in  a  wax  with  my  mother  ? 
And  more  than  that;  as  it  happens, 
Mrs.  Fox,  my  mother  starts  for  Spain 
to-day,  and  I  cannot  let  her  go  alone." 

"Now  the  Lord  must  have  ordered 
it  so,"  thought  the  parson.  "What 
a  clearance  of  hostile  elements!" 
But  fearing  that  the  others  might  not 
so  take  it,  he  said  only — "Ah,  in- 
deed ! " 

"  To  her  native  land  1  "  asked  Mrs. 
Fox,  as  a  Protestant  not  quite  un- 
bigoted,  and  a  woman  who  longed  to 
have  it  out.  "  It  seems  an  extra- 
ordinary thing  just  now.  But  perhaps 
it  is  a  pilgrimage." 

"  Yes,  madam,  for  about  £500,000," 
answered  Sir  Thomas,  in  his  youthful 
Tory  vein  not  emancipated  yet  from 
disdain  of  commerce.  "  Not  for  the 
sake  of  the  money,  of  course ;  but  to 
do  justice  to  the  brother  she  had 
wronged.  Mr.  Penniloe  can  tell  you 
all  about  it ;  I  am  not  much  of  a  hand 
at  arithmetic." 

"We  won't  trouble  any  one  about 
that  now,"  the  lady  replied  with  some 
loftiness.  "  But  I  presume  that  Lady 
Waldron  would  wish  to  see  me  before 
she  leaves  this  country." 

"  Certainly  she  would,  if  she  had 
known  that  you  were  here.  My  sister 
had  not  come  back  yet,  to  tell  her. 
She  will  be  disappointed  terribly,  when 
she  hears  that  you  have  been  at  Perly- 
cross.  But  she  is  compelled  to  catch 
the  Packet ;  and  I  fear  that  I  must 
say  <  good-bye.'  Mother  would  never 
forgive  me,  if  she  lost  her  voyage 
through  any  fault  of  mine." 

"  You  see  how  they  treat  us  !  "  said 


Mrs.  Fox  of  Foxden,  when  the  young 
man  had  made  his  adieu  with  great 
politeness.  "I  suppose  you  under- 
stand it,  Mr.  Penniloe,  though  your 
mind  is  so  very  much  larger  ?  " 

The  clergyman  scarcely  knew  what 
to  say.  He  was  not  at  all  quick  in 
the  ways  of  the  world,  and  all  feminine 
rush  was  beyond  him.  "  We  must  all 
allow  for  circumstances,"  was  his 
quiet  platitude. 

"All  possible  allowance  I  can 
make,"  the  lady  replied  with  much 
self-command.  "  But  I  think  there  is 
nothing  more  despicable  than  this 
small  county-family  feeling  ?  Is  Lady 
Waldron  not  aware  that  I  am  con- 
nected with  the  very  foremost  of  your 
Devonshire  families  ?  But  because 
my  husband  is  engaged  in  commerce, 
a  military  race  may  look  down  upon 
us  !  After  all,  I  should  like  to  know, 
what  are  your  proudest  landowners 
but  mere  agriculturists  by  deputy  ? 
I  never  lose  my  temper ;  but  it  makes 
me  laugh,  when  I  remember  that  after 
all  they  are  simply  dependent  upon 
farming.  Is  not  that  what  it  comes 
to,  Mr.  Penniloe  1  " 

"And  a  very  noble  occupation, 
madam.  The  first  and  the  finest  of 
the  ways  ordained  by  the  Lord  for 
the  sustenance  of  mankind.  Next  to 
the  care  of  the  human  soul,  what 
vocation  can  be " 

"You  think  so?  Then  I  tell  you 
what  I'll  do,  if  only  to  let  those 
Waldrons  know  how  little  we  care  for 
their  prejudices.  Everything  depends 
upon  me  now,  in  my  poor  husband's 
sad  condition.  I  will  give  my  consent 
to  my  daughter's  alliance — great 
people  call  it  alliance,  don't  they? — 
with  a  young  man  who  is  a  mere 
farmer  !  " 

"  I  am  assured  that  he  will  make 
his  way,"  Mr.  Penniloe  answered  with 
some  inward  smile,  for  it  is  a  pleasant 
path  to  follow  in  the  track  of  ladies. 
"  He  gets  a  higher  price  for  pigs  than 
either  of  my  churchwardens." 

"  What  could  you  desire  more  than 
that1?  It  is  a  proof  of  the  highest 
capacity.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Gil- 


Perlycross. 


IT 


ham  shall  send  their  wedding-cards 
to  "Walderscourt,  with  a  prime  young 
porkor  engraved  on  them.  Oh,  Mr. 
Penniloe,  I  am  not  perfect.  But  I 
have  an  unusual  gift  perhaps  of  large- 
ness of  mind  and  common  sense,  and 
I  always  go  against  any  one  who  en- 
deavours to  get  the  whip-hand  of  me. 
And  I  do  believe  my  darling  Christie 
gets  it  from  her  mother." 

"  She  is  a  most  charming  young 
lady,  Mrs.  Fox.  What  a  treasure  she 
would  be  in  this  parish  !  The  other 
day,  she  said  a  thing  about  our 

church " 

"  Just  like  her  ;  she  is  always  doing 
that.  And  when  she  comes  into  her 
own  money — but  that  is  a  low  con- 
sideration. It  is  gratitude,  my  dear 
sir,  the  deepest  and  the  noblest  feeling 
that  still  survives  in  these  latter  days. 
Without  that  heroic  young  man's 
behaviour,  which  has  partly  disabled 
him  for  life,  I  fear,  I  should  have 
neither  son  nor  daughter.  And  you 
say  that  the  Gilhams  are  of  very  good 
birth?" 

"  The  true  name  is  Guillaume,  I 
believe.  Their  ancestor  came  with 
the  Conqueror ;  not  as  a  rapacious 
noblo,  but  in  a  most  useful  and  peace- 
ful vocation  ;  in  fact " 

"  Quite  enough,  Mr.  Penniloe  ;  in 
such  a  case,  one  scorns  particulars. 
My  daughter  was  sure  that  it  was  so. 
But  I  doubted ;  although  you  can  see 
it  in  his  bearing.  A  more  thoroughly 
modest  young  man  never  breathed ; 
but  I  shall  try  to  make  him  not  afraid 
of  Die.  He  told  my  daughter  that, 
in  Ms  opinion,  I  realised — but  you 
would  think  me  vain,  and  I  was  justly 
annoyed  at  such  nonsense.  However, 
since  I  have  had  your  advice,  I  shall 
hesitate  no  longer." 

Mrs.  Fox  smiled  pleasantly,  because 
her  mind  was  quite  made  up  to  save 
hersolf  a  world  of  useless  trouble  in 
this  matter,  and  yet  appear  to  take 
the  upper  hand  in  her  surrender. 
Woiidering  what  advice  he  could  have 
been  supposed  to  give,  the  mild  yet 
gallant  parson  led  her  to  the  Foxden 
carriage,  which  had  halted  at  his  outer 
No.  417. — VOL.  LXX. 


gate  and  opposite  the  school-house. 
Here  with  many  a  bow  they  parted, 
thinking  well  of  one  another  and 
hoping  for  the  like  regard.  But  as 
the  gentle  curate  passed  the  mouth  of 
the  Tsenarian  tunnel  leading  to  his 
lower  realms,  a  great  surprise  befell 
him. 

"What  has  happened?  There  is 
something  wrong.  Surely  at  this  time 
of  day,  one  ought  to  see  the  sunset 
through  that  hole,"  he  communed 
with  himself  in  wonder,  for  the  dark 
arcade  ran  from  east  to  west.  "  There 
must  be  a  stoppage  somewhere.  I  am 
almost  sure  I  can  see  two  heads.  Good 
people,  come  out,  whoever  you  maybe." 
"The  fact  of  it  is,  sir,"  said  Ser- 
geant Jakes,  marching  out  of  the 
hole  with  great  dignity,  though  his 
hat  was  white  with  cobwebs ;  "  the 
fact  of  it  is  that  this  good  lady  hath 

received  a  sudden  shock " 

"  No,  sir,  no,  sir  ;  not  at  all  like  that, 
sir.  Only  as  St.  Paul  saith  in  chap- 
ter five  of  Ephesians — '  This  is  a  great 
mystery.'  " 

"  It  is  indeed  ;  and  I  must  request 
to  have  it  explained  immediately." 

Thyatira's  blushes  and  the  sparkling 
of  her  eyes  made  her  look  quite  pretty, 
and  almost  as  good  as  young  again, 
while  she  turned  away  with  a  final 
shot  from  the  locker  of  old  authority : 
"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  sir, 
according  to  my  thinking,  to  be 
standing  in  this  wind  so  long  without 
no  hat  upon  your  head." 

"  You  see,  sir,  it  is  just  like  this," 
the  gallant  sergeant  followed  up,  when 
his  love  was  out  of  hearing ;  "  time 
hath  come  for  Mrs.  Muggridge  to  be 
married,  now  or  never.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  say,  as  a  man  who  fears  the 
Lord,  that  I  think  He  was  altogether 
right  in  the  institooting  of  wedlock, 
supposing  as  ever  He  did  so.  But 
whether  He  did  it,  or  whether  He  did 
not,  the  thing  hath  been  so  taken  up 
by  the  humankind,  women  particular, 
that  for  a  man  getting  on  in  years  'tis 
the  only  thing  respectable.  Thyatira 
hath  proven  that  out  of  the  Bible 
many  times." 

N 


178 


Perlycross. 


"  Mr.  Jakes,  the  proper  thing  is  to 
search  the  Scriptures  for  yourself." 

"  So  Thyatira  saith.  But  Lord  ! 
she  findeth  me  wrong  at  every  text, 
from  looking  up  to  women  so.  If  she 
holdeth  by  St.  Paul  a  quarter  so  much 
as  she  quoteth  him,  there  won't  be 
another  man  in  Perlycross  with  such 
a  home  as  I  shall  have." 

"You  have  chosen  one  of  the  few 
wise  virgins.  Jakes,  I  trust  that  you 
will  be  blest  not  only  with  a  happy 
home  in  this  world,  but  what  is  a 
thousand-fold  more  important,  the  aid 
of  a  truly  religious  wife  to  lead  a 
thoroughly  humble,  prayerful,  and 
consistent  Christian  life." 

"Thank  'e,  sir,  thank  'e.  With 
the  grace  of  God,  she  will;  and  my 
first  prayer  to  the  Lord  in  heaven 
will  be  just  this — to  let  me  live  long 
enough  for  to  see  that  young  fool  of 
a  Bob  the  butcher  a-hanging  from  his 
own  steelyard ;  by  reason  of  the  idiot 
he  hath  made  of  hisself,  by  marrying 
of  that  silly  minx  Tamar  Haddon." 

"The  grace  of  God  is  boundless, 
and  Tamar  may  improve.  Try  to 
make  the  best  of  her,  Mr.  Jakes. 
She  will  always  look  up  to  you,  I  am 
sure,  feeling  the  strength  of  your 
character  and  the  example  of  higher 
principles." 

"  She  !  "  replied  the  sergeant  with- 
out a  blush,  but  after  a  keen  recon- 
noitring glance.  "The  likes  of  her 
doesn't  get  no  benefit  from  example. 
But  I  must  not  keep  you,  sir,  so  long 
without  your  hat  on." 

"This  is  a  day  of  many  strange 
events,"  Mr.  Penniloe  began  to 
meditate,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his 
long  sermon-chair,  with  the  shadows 
of  the  spring  night  deepening.  "Lady 
Waldron  gone,  to  support  her  brother's 
case  in  Spain  because  she  had  so 
wronged  him ;  a  thousand  pounds 
suddenly  forthcoming,  to  lift  us  out 
of  our  affliction;  sweet  Nicie  left  in 
the  charge  of  Mrs.  Webber,  who  comes 
to  live  at  Walderscourt ;  Christie  Fox 
allowed  to  have  her  own  way,  as  she 
was  pretty  sure  to  do ;  and  now 
Thyatira,  Thyatira  Muggridge,  not 


content  to  lead  a  quiet,  useful,  re- 
spectable, Christian,  and  well-paid  life, 
but  launched  into  matrimony  with  a 
man  of  many  stripes  !  I  know  not 
how  the  school  will  be  conducted,  or 
my  own  household,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
Truly,  when  a  clergyman  is  left  with- 
out a  wife " 

"  I  want  to  come  in,  and  the  door 
won't  open,"  a  clear  but  impatient 
voice  was  heard.  "  I  want  to  see  you, 
before  anybody  else  does."  And  then 
another  shake  was  given. 

"  Why,  Zip,  my  dear  child !  Zip, 
don't  be  so  headlong.  I  thought  you 
were  learning  self-command.  Why, 
how  have  you  come  ?  What  is  the 
meaning  of  all  this  ? " 

"  Well,  now  they  may  kill  me,  if 
they  like.  I  told  them  I  would  hear 
your  voice  again,  and  then  they  might 
skin  me,  if  it  suited  them.  I  won't 
have  their  religion ;  there  is  none  of 
it  inside  them.  You  are  the  only  one 
I  ever  saw  that  God  has  made  with 
his  eyes  open.  I  like  them  very  well, 
but  what  are  they  to  you1?  Why, 
they  won't  let  me  speak  as  1  was 
made !  It  is  no  good  sending  me 
away  again.  Parson,  you  mustn't 
stand  up  like  that.  Can't  you  see 
that  I  want  to  kiss  you  ? " 

"  My  dear  little  child,  with  all  my 

heart.     But  I  never  saw  any  one  half 

j, 

"  Half  so  what  1  I  don't  care  what, 
so  long  as  I  have  got  you  round  the 
neck,"  cried  the  child  as  she  covered 
his  face  with  kisses,  drawing  back 
every  now  and  then,  to  look  into  his 
calm  blue  eyes  with  flashes  of  adora- 
tion. "The  Lord  should  have  made 
me  your  child,  instead  of  that  well- 
conducted  waxy  thing — look  at  my 
nails !  She  had  better  not  come  now." 

"Alas!  Have  you  cultivated 
nothing  but  your  nails  ?  But  why  did 
the  good  ladies  send  you  home  so 
soon?  They  said  they  would  keep 
you  until  Whitsuntide." 

"I  got  a  punishment  on  purpose, 
and  I  let  the  old  girls  go  to  dinner. 
Then  I  said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and 
slipped  down  the  back  stairs." 


Peril/cross. 


179 


"And  you  plodded  more  than  twenty 
miles  alone  !  Oh,  Zip,  what  a  difficult 
thing  it  will  be  to  guide  you  into  the 
ways  of  peace  !  " 

"  They  say  I  talks  broad  a  bit  still 
sometimes,  and  they  gives  me  ever  so 
much  roily  ing.  But  I'd  sit  up  all 
nighb  with  a  cork  in  my  mouth,  if  so 
be,  I  could  plaize  'e,  parson." 

"  You  must  want  something  better 
than  a  cork,  my  dear," — vexed  as  he 
was,  Mr.  Penniloe  admired  the  vigor- 
ous growth  and  high  spirit  of  the  child 
— "  after  twenty-two  miles  of  our 
up  and  down  roads.  Now  go  to  Mrs. 
Muggridge,  but  remember  one  thing  ; 
if  you  are  unkind  to  my  little  Fay, 
how  can  you  expect  me  to  be  kind  to 
you?" 

"  Not  a  very  lofty  way  for  me  to  put 
it,"  he  reflected,  while  Zip  was  being 
cared  for  in  the  kitchen ;  "  but  what 
am  I  to  do  with  that  strange  child  ? 
If  the  girl  is  mother  to  the  woman, 
she  will  be  none  of  the  choir  angelic, 
contonted  with  duty  and  hymns  of 
repone.  If  '  nature  maketh  nadders,' 
as  our  good  people  say,  Zippy  *  hath 
more  of  sting  than  sugar  in  her 
bowl." 

But  when  the  present  moment 
thrives,  and  life  is  warm  and  active, 
and  chose  in  whom  we  take  delight  are 
prosperous  and  happy,  what  is  there 
why  we  should  not  smile,  and  keep  in 
tune  with  all  around,  and  find  the 
flavour  of  the  world  returning  to  our 
relisii?  This  may  not  be  of  the 
noblest  style  of  thinking,  or  of  living  ; 
but  he  who  would,  in  his  little  way, 
rathor  help  than  harm  his  fellows,  soon 
finds  out  that  it  cannot  be  done  by 
carping  and  girding  at  them.  By 
intimacy  with  their  lower  parts,  and 
rank  insistence  on  them,  one  may  for 
himself  obtain  some  power  yielded  by 
a  hai  ef  ul  shame.  But  who  esteems  him  1 
who  is  better  for  his  foetid  labours? 
who  would  go  to  him  for  comfort  when 
the  Avorld  is  waning  1  who,  though  in 
his  home  he  may  be  lovable,  can  love 
him  ' 

1  This  proved  too  true,  as  may  be  shown 
hereafter. 


Mr.  Penniloe  was  not  of  those  who 
mount  mankind  by  lowering  it.  From 
year  to  year  his  influence  grew,  as 
grows  a  tree  in  the  backwood  age,  that 
neither  shuns  nor  defies  the  storm. 
Though  certain  persons  opposed  him 
still,  as  happens  to  every  active  man, 
there  was  not  one  of  them  that  did  not 
think  all  the  others  wrong  in  doing  so. 
For  instance  Lady  Waldron,  when  she 
returned  with  her  son  from  Spain, 
thought  Mrs.  Fox  by  no  means  reason- 
able, and  Mrs.  Fox  thought  Lady 
Waldron  anything  but  sensible,  when 
either  of  them  differed  with  the  clergy- 
man and  the  other.  For  verily  it  was 
a  harder  thing  to  settle  all  the  import- 
ant points  concerning  Nicie  and 
Jemmy  Fox,  than  to  come  to  a  perfect 
understanding  in  the  case  of  Christie 
and  Frank  Gilham. 

However,  the  parish  was  pleased  at 
last  to  hear  that  everything  had  been 
arranged ;  and  a  mighty  day  it  was  to 
be  for  all  that  pleasant  neighbourhood, 
although  no  doubt  a  quiet  and,  as 
every  one  hoped,  a  sober  one.  On 
account  of  her  fathers  sad  condition, 
Christie  as  well  as  Nicie,  was  to  make 
her  vows  in  the  grand  old  church, 
which  was  not  wholly  finished  yet,  be- 
cause there  was  so  much  more  to  do 
through  the  fine  influx  of  money. 
Currency  is  so  called  perhaps,  not  only 
because  it  runs  away  so  fast,  but  also 
because  it  runs  together ;  the  prefix 
being  omitted  through  our  warm 
affection  and  longing  for  the  terms  of 
familiarity.  At  any  rate  the  parson 
and  the  stout  churchwardens  of  Perly- 
cross  had  just  received  another  hun- 
dred pounds  when  the  following 
interview  came  to  pass. 

It  was  on  the  bank  of  the  crystal 
Perle,  at  the  place  where  the  Priest- 
well  brook  glides  in,  and  a  single 
plank  without  a  handrail  crosses  it 
into  the  meads  below.  Here  are  some 
stickles  of  good  speed  and  right  com- 
plexion, for  the  fly  to  float  quietly  into 
a  dainty  mouth  and  produce  a  fine  fry 
in  the  evening ;  and  here,  if  any  man 
rejoice  not  in  the  gentle  art,  yet  may 
he  find  sweet  comfort  and  release  of 

N  2 


180 


Perlycross. 


worldly  trouble  by  sitting  softly  on 
the  bank,  and  letting  all  the  birds 
sing  to  him,  and  all  the  flowers  fill 
the  air,  and  all  the  little  waves  go  by, 
as  his  own  anxieties  have  gone. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Penniloe,  whenever  he 
could  spare  the  time,  allowed  his 
heart  to  go  up  to  heaven,  where  his 
soul  was  waiting  for  it  and  wondering 
at  its  little  cares.  And  so  on  this  fair 
morning  of  the  May,  here  he  sat  upon 
a  bank  of  spring,  gazing  at  the  gliding 
water  through  the  mute  salaam  of 
twigs. 

"  Reverend,  I  congratulate  you. 
Never  heard  of  a  finer  hit.  A  solid 
hundred  out  of  Gowler  !  Never  bet 
with  a  parson,  eh  ?  I  thought  he 
knew  the  world  too  well." 

A  few  months  back  and  the  clergy- 
man would  have  risen  very  stiffly,  and 
kept  his  distance  from  this  joke.  But 
now  he  had  a  genuine  liking  for  this 
"  Godless  Gronow,"  and  knew  that 
his  mind  was  the  worst  part  of  him. 
"Doctor,  you  know  that  it  was  no 
bet,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands 
heartily.  "  Nevertheless  I  feel  some 

doubts  about  accepting " 

"  You  can't  help  it.  The  money  is 
not  for  yourself,  and  you  rob  the 
Church  if  you  refuse  it.  The  joke  of 
it  is  that  I  saw  through  the  mill-stone, 
where  that  conceited  fellow  failed. 
Come  now,  as  you  are  a  sporting  man, 
I'll  bet  you  a  crown  that  I  catch  a 
trout  in  this  little  stickle  above  the 
plank." 

"  Done  !  "  cried  Mr.  Penniloe,  for- 
getting his  position,  but  observing 
Gronow's  as  he  whirled  his  flies. 

The  doctor  threshed  heartily,  and 
at  his  very  best ;  even  bending  his 
back  as  he  had  seen  Pike  do,  and 
screwing  up  his  lips,  and  keeping 
in  a  strict  line  with  his  line  his  body 
and  his  mind  and  whole  existence. 
Mr.  Penniloe' s  face  wore  an  amiable 
smile,  as  he  watched  the  intensity  of 
his  friend.  Crowns  in  his  private 
purse  were  few  and  far  between,  and 
if  he  should  attain  one  by  the  present 
venture,  it  would  simply  go  into  the 
poor-box ;  yet  such  was  his  sympathy 


with  human  nature  that  he  hoped 
against  hope  to  see  a  little  trout 
pulled  out.  But  the  willows  bowed 
sweetly,  and  the  wind  went  by,  and 
the  water  flowed  on,  with  all  its  clever 
children  safe. 

"  Here  you  are,  Reverend  !  "  said 
the  philosophic  Gronow,  pulling  out 
his  cart-wheel  like  a  man.  "  You 
can't  make  them  take  you  when  they 
don't  choose,  can  you  ?  But  I'll  make 
them  pay  out  for  it  when  they 
begin  to  rise." 

"  The  fact  of  it  is  that  you  are  too 
skilful,  doctor ;  and  you  let  them  see 
so  much  of  you  that  they  feel  it  in 
their  hearts." 

«'  There  may  be  truth  in  that.  But 
my  own  idea  is,  that  I  manage  to 
instil  into  my  flies  too  keen  a  sense  of 
their  own  dependence  upon  me.  Now 
what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  must  have  a 
dish,  and  a  good  dish  too,  of  trout  for 
this  evening's  supper.  You  know  the 
honour  and  the  pleasure  I  am  to  have 
of  giving  the  last  bachelor  and  maiden 
feast  to  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  to- 
morrow, Nicie  and  Jemmy  Fox, 
Christie  and  Frank  Gilham.  Their 
people  are  glad  to  be  quit  of  them  in 
the  fuss,  and  they  are  too  glad  to  be 
out  of  it.  None  of  your  imported 
stuff  for  me.  Nothing  is  to  be  al- 
lowed upon  the  table  unless  it  is  the 
produce  of  our  own  parish.  A  fine 
fore-quarter,  and  a  ripe  sirloin,  my 
own  asparagus,  and  lettuce,  and  sea- 
kail,  and  frame-potatoes  in  their 
jackets ;  stewed  pears  and  clotted 
cream,  grapes,  and  a  pine-apple  (com- 
ing of  course  from  Walderscourt) — oh, 
Reverend,  what  a  good  man  you 
would  be,  if  you  only  knew  what  is 
good  to  eat !  " 

"But  I  do;  and  I  shall  know  still 
better  by  and  by.  I  understood  that 
I  was  kindly  invited." 

"To  be  sure,  and  one  of  the  most 
important.  But  I  must  look  sharp, 
or  I  shall  never  get  the  fish.  By  the 
by,  you  couldn't  take  the  rod  for  half 
an  hour,  could  you  ?  I  hear  that  you 
have  been  a  fine  hand  at  it." 

Mr.  Penniloe  stood  with  his  hand 


Perlycross. 


181 


upon  a  burr-knot  of  oak,  and  looked 
at  the  fishing-rod.  If  it  had  been  a 
good,  homely,  hard-working,  and 
plair  -living  bit  of  stuff,  such  as  Saint 
Peter  might  have  swung  upon  the 
banks  of  Jordan,  haply  the  parson 
might  have  yielded  to  the  sweet 
temptation.  For  here  within  a  few 
clicks  of  reel  was  goodly  choice  of 
many  waters,  various  as  the  weather 
— placid  glides  of  middle  currents 
rippling  off  towards  either  bank, 
petulant  swerves  from  bank  or  bole, 
with  a  plashing  and  a  murmur  and  a 
gurgling  from  below,  and  then  a 
spread  of  quiet  dimples  deepening 
to  a  limpid  pool.  Taking  all  the 
twists  and  turns  of  river  Perle  and 
Priestwell  brook,  there  must  have 
been  a  mile  of  water  in  two  flowery 
meadows,  water  bright  with  stickle- 
runs,  gloomy  with  still  corners,  or 
quivering  with  crafty  hovers  where  a 
king  of  fish  might  dwell.  But  lo, 
the  king  of  fishermen,  or  at  least  the 
young  prince,  was  coming !  The 
doctor  caught  the  parson's  sleeve, 
and  his  face  assumed  its  worst 
expression,  perhaps  its  usual  one 
before  he  took  to  church-going  and 
fly-fishing.  "Just  look!  Over  there, 
by  that  wild  cherry-tree  ! "  he 
whimpered  very  fiercely.  "  I  am  sure 
it's  that  sneak  of  a  Pike  once  more. 
Come  into  this  bush,  and  watch  him. 
I  thought  he  was  gone  to  Oxford  j 
why,  I  never  saw  him  fishing  once 
last  week." 

"  Pike  is  no  sneak,  but  a  very 
honest  fellow,"  his  tutor  answered 
warmly.  "  But  I  was  obliged  by  a 
sad  offence  of  his  to  stop  him  from 
handling  the  rod  last  week.  He 
begged  me  to  lay  it  on  his  back 
instead .  The  poor  boy  scarcely  took 
a  bit  of  food ;  he  will  never  forget 
thai  punishment." 

"  Well,  he  seems  to  be  making  up 
for  it  now.  What  luck  he  has,  and  I 
get  none  !  " 

Mr.  Penniloe  smiled  as  his  favourite 
pupil  crossed  the  Perle  towards  them. 
He  was  not  wading,  in  such  small 
waters  there  is  no  necessity  for  that, 


but  stepping  lightly  from  pile  to  pile, 
and  slab  to  slab,  where  the  relics  of  an 
ancient  weir  stood  above  the  flashing 
river.  Whistling  softly,  and  calmly 
watching  every  curl  and  ripple,  he 
was  throwing  a  long  line  up  the 
stream,  while  his  flies  were  flitting 
as  if  human  genius  had  turned  them 
in  their  posthumous  condition  into 
moths.  His  rod  showed  not  a  glance 
of  light,  but  from  spike  to  top-ring 
quivered  with  the  vigilance  of  death. 
While  the  envious  Gronow  watched, 
with  bated  breath  and  teeth  set  hard, 
two  or  three  merry  little  trout  were 
taught  what  they  were  made  for ; 
then  in  a  soft  swirl  near  the  bank 
that  dimpled  like  a  maiden's  cheek, 
an  excellent  fish  with  a  yellow  belly 
bravely  made  room  in  it  for  some- 
thing choice.  Before  he  had  smacked 
his  lips  thoroughly,  behold  another 
fly  of  wondrous  beauty,  laced  with 
silver,  azure-pinioned,  and  with  an 
exquisite  curl  of  tail,  came  fluttering 
through  the  golden  world  so  mar- 
vellous to  the  race  below.  The  poor 
fly  shuddered  at  the  giddy  gulf,  then 
folded  his  wings  and  fell  helpless. 
"  I  have  thee,"  exclaimed  the  trout ; 
but  ah  !  more  truly  the  same  thing 
said  the  Pike.  A  gallant  struggle,  a 
thrilling  minute,  silvery  dashes,  and 
golden  rolls,  and  there  between  Dr. 
Gronow's  feet  lay  upon  Dr.  Gronow's 
land  a  visitor  he  would  have  given 
half  the  meadow  to  have  placed  there. 

"  Don't  touch  him,"  said  Pike,  in 
the  calmest  manner ;  "  or  you'll  be 
sure  to  let  him  in  again.  He  will 
turn  the  pound  handsomely,  don't  you 
think  ? " 

"  A  cool  hand,  truly,  this  pupil  of 
yours ! "  quoth  the  doctor  to  the 


parson. 


To  consult  me  about   the 


weight  of  my  own  fish,  and  then  put 
him  in  his  basket !  Young  man,  this 
meadow  belongs  to  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  dare  say ;  but  the  fish 
don't  live  altogether  in  the  meadow. 
And  I  never  heard  that  you  preserve 
the  Perle.  Priestwell  brook  you  do, 
I  know  ',  but  I  don't  want  to  go  there, 
if  I  might." 


182 


Perlycross. 


''I  dare  say.  Perhaps  the  grapes 
are  sour.  Never  mind  ;  let  us  see  how 
you  have  done.  I  find  them  taking 
rather  short  to-day.  Why,  you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  have  caught  all  those ! " 

"  I  ought  to  have  done  better," 
said  the  modest  Pike  ;  "  but  I  lost 
two  very  nice  fish  by  being  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry.  That  comes  of 
being  stopped  from  it  all  last  week. 
But  I  see  you  have  not  been  lucky 
yet.  You  are  welcome  to  these,  sir, 
if  Mr.  Penniloe  does  not  want  them. 
By  strict  right,  I  dare  say  they  belong 
to  you." 

"  Not  one  of  them,  Mr.  Pike  ;  but 
you  are  very  generous.  I  hope  to 
catch  a  basketful  very  shortly — still, 
it  is  just  possible  that  this  may  not 
occur.  I  will  take  them  provisionally, 
and  with  many  thanks.  "  Now,  will 
you  add  to  the  obligation,  by  telling, 
if  your  tutor  has  no  objection,  why  he 
put  you  under  such  an  awful  veto  ?  " 

"  My  boy,  you  are  welcome  to  tell 
Dr.  Gronow.  It  was  only  a  bit  of 
thoughtlessness,  and  your  punishment 
has  been  severe." 

"  I  shall  never  touch  cobbler's  wax 
again  on  Sunday.  But  I  wanted  to 
finish  a  May- fly  entirely  of  my  own 
pattern ;  and  so  after  church  I  was 
touching  up  his  wings,  when  in  comes 
Mr.  Penniloe  with  his  London  glasses 
on."  • 

"  And  I  am  proud  to  assure  you, 
Dr.  Gronow,  that  the  lad  never  tried 
to  deceive  me.  I  should  have  been 
deeply  pained  if  he  had  striven  to 
conceal  it." 

"  Well  done  !  That  speaks  well  for 
both  of  you.  Pike,  you  are  a  straight- 
forward fellow  ;  you  shall  have  a  day 
on  iny  brook  once  a  week.  Is  there 
anything  more  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  unless  it  is  too  much  to 
ask  ;  and  perhaps  Mr.  Penniloe  would 
like  to  hear  it  too.  Hopper  and  I 
have  had  many  talks  about  it,  and  he 
says  that  I  am  superstitious.  But 
his  plan  of  things  is  to  cut  for  his  life 
over  everything  that  he  can  see, 
without  stopping  once  to  look  at  it. 
And  when  he  has  jumped  over  it,  he 


has  no  more  idea  what  it  was,  than  if 
he  had  run  under  it.  He  has  no  faith 
in  anything  that  he  does  not  see,  and  he 
never  sees  much  of  anything." 

"  Ha,  Master  Pike,  you  describe  it 
well,"  said  the  doctor,  looking  at  him 
with  much  interest.  "  Scepticism 
without  inquiry.  Reverend,  that 
Hop-jumper  is  not  the  right  stuff 
for  a  bishop." 

"  If  you  please,  Dr.  Gronow,  we 
will  not  discuss  that  now,"  the  parson 
replied  with  a  glance  at  young  Pike, 
which  the  doctor  understood  and 
heeded.  "  What  is  it,  my  boy,  that 
you  would  ask  of  Dr.  Gronow,  after 
serious  debate  with  Peckover  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir,  nothing.  Only  we 
would  like  to  know,  if  it  is  not 
disagreeable  to  any  one,  how  he  could 
have  managed  from  the  very  first 
to  understand  all  about  Sir  Thomas 
Waldron,  and  to  know  that  we  were 
all  making  fools  of  ourselves.  I 
say  that  he  must  have  seen  a  dream, 
like  Jacob,  or  have  been  cast  into  a 
vision,  like  so  many  other  saints. 
But  Hopper  says  no  ;  if  there  was  any 
inspiration,  Dr.  Gronow  was  more 
likely  to  have  got  it  from  the  devil." 

"  Come  now,  Pike,  and  Hopper  too, 
— if  he  were  here  to  fly  my  brook, — 
I  call  that  very  unfair  of  you.  No, 
it  was  not  you  who  said  it ;  I  can 
quite  believe  that.  No  fisherman 
reviles  his  brother.  But  you  should 
have  given  him  the  spike,  my  friend. 
Reverend,  is  this  all  the  theology  you 
teach  ?  Well,  there  is  one  answer  as 
to  how  •  I  knew  it,  and  a  very  short 
one — the  little  word  brains." 

Mr.  Penniloe  smiled  a  pleasant 
smile,  and  simply  said,  "  Ah !  "  in 
his  accustomed  tone,  which  everybody 
liked  for  its  sympathy  and  good  faith. 
But  Pike  took  up  his  rod,  and  waved 
his  flies  about,  and  answered  very 
gravely,  "  It  must  be  something  more 
than  that." 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  looking 
down  at  him  complacently,  and  giving 
a  little  tap  to  his  grizzled  forehead  ; 
"it  was  all  done  here,  sir — just  a 
trifling  bit  of  brains." 


Perlycross. 


183 


"  But  there  never  can  have  been 
such  brains  before,"  replied  Pike  with 
an  ar  gler's  persistence.  "  Why  every- 
body else  was  a  thousand  miles  astray, 
and  yet  Dr.  Gronow  hit  the  mark  at 
once  ! " 

"It  is  a  little  humble  knack  he  has, 
sir,  just  a  little  gift  of  thinking,"  the 
owner  of  all  this  wisdom  spoke  as  if 
he  wore  half-ashamed  of  it ;  "  from  his 
earliest  days  it  has  been  so.  Nothing 
whatever  to  be  proud  of,  and  some- 
times even  a  trouble  to  him  when 
others  require  to  be  set  right.  But 
how  can  one  help  it,  Master  Pike? 
Thera  is  the  power,  and  it  must  be 
used.  Mr.  Penniloe  will  tell  you 
that." 

"  All  knowledge  is  from  above," 
repliod  the  gentleman  thus  appealed 
to  \  u  and  beyond  all  question  it  is  the 
duty  of  those  who  have  this  precious 
gift,  to  employ  it  for  the  good  of 
others." 

"  Young  man,  there  is  a  moral 
lesson  for  you.  When  wiser  people 
set  you  right,  be  thankful  and  be 
humble.  That  has  been  my  practice 
always,  though  I  have  not  found  many 
occasions  for  it." 

Pike  was  evidently  much  impressed, 
and  looked  with  reverence  at  both  his 
elders.  "  Perhaps  then,"  he  said,  with 
a  little  hesitation  and  the  bright  blush 
of  ingenuous  youth,  "I  ought  to  set 
Dr.  Gronow  right  in  a  little  mistake 
he  is  making." 

"If  such  a  thing  be  possible,  of 
course  you  should,"  his  tutor  replied 
with  a  smile  of  surprise ;  while  the 
doctor  recovered  his  breath,  made  a 
bow.  and  said,  "  Sir,  will  you  point 
out  ny  error  1 " 

"  Here  it  is,  sir,"  quoth  Pike,  with 
the  Certainty  of  truth  overcoming  his 
young  diffidence,  "this  wire-apparatus 
in  your  brook — a  very  clever  thing; 
wha:  is  the  object  of  it?" 


"  My  Ichthyophylax  ?  A  noble  idea 
that  has  puzzled  all  the  parish.  A 
sort  of  a  grill  that  only  works  one 
way.  It  keeps  all  my  fish  from  going 
down  to  my  neighbours,  and  yet  allows 
theirs  to  come  up  to  me ;  and  when 
they  come  up,  they  can  never  get  back. 
At  the  other  end  of  my  property,  I 
have  the  same  contrivance  inverted, 
so  that  all  the  fish  come  down  to  me, 
but  none  of  them  can  go  up  again.  I 
saw  the  thing  offered  in  a  sporting 
paper,  and  paid  a  lot  of  money  for  it 
in  London.  Reverend,  isn't  it  a  grand 
invention  ?  It  intercepts  them  all, 
like  a  sluice-gate." 

"  Extremely  ingenious,  no  doubt," 
replied  the  parson.  "  But  is  it  not 
what  a  fair-minded  person  would  con- 
sider rather  selfish  1 " 

"Not  at  all.  They  would  like  to 
have  my  fish,  if  they  could ;  and  so  I 
anticipate  them,  and  get  theirs. 
Quite  the  rule  of  the  Scriptures, 
Reverend." 

"  I  think  that  I  have  read  a  text," 
said  Master  Pike,  stroking  his  long 
chin,  and  not  quite  sure  that  he 
quoted  aright ;  "  the  snare  which  he 
laid  for  others,  in  the  same  are  his 
own  feet  taken." 

"  A  very  fine  text,"  replied  Dr. 
Gronow,  with  one  of  his  most  sarcastic 
smiles  ;  "  and  the  special  favourite  of 
the  Lord  must  have  realised  it  too 
often.  But  what  has  that  to  do  with 
my  Ichthyophylax  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir.  Only  that  you  have 
set  it  so  that  it  works  in  the  wrong 
direction.  All  the  fish  go  out,  but 
they  can't  come  back.  And  if  it  is  so 
at  the  upper  end,  no  wonder  that  you 
catch  nothing." 

"Can  I  ever  call  any  man  a  fool 
again  ?  "  cried  the  doctor,  when 
thoroughly  convinced. 

"  Perhaps  that  disability  will  be  no 
loss,"  Mr.  Penniloe  answered  quietly. 


THE   END. 


184 


THE  FOUND EKS  OF  THE  BANK  OF  ENGLAND 


ON  July  24th,  1694,  a  charter  was 
first  granted  by  Parliament  to  the 
Bank  of  England  ;  and  thus  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  of  our  national 
institutions  completes  this  year  the 
second  century  of  its  history.  A  vast 
amount  of  criticism  has  lately  been 
lavished  .on  the  Bank  not  by  any 
means  from  the  historical  or  anti- 
quarian point  of  view  alone,  but  rather 
indeed  with  reference  to  its  actual 
relations  towards  the  commerce  and 
finance  of  to-day.  It  is  not  our  inten- 
tion to  discuss  that  criticism,  which, 
whether  justified  or  not,  is  inevitable 
in  view  of  the  position  held  by  the 
Bank  in  our  money-market ;  we  wish 
rather  to  recall  some  of  the  salient 
points  of  its  earlier  story,  and  es- 
pecially to  consider  the  circumstances 
of  its  origin.  Probably  the  most 
severe  of  its  recent  censors,  reviewing 
the  two  hundred  years. during  which 
the  Bank  of  England  has  played  a 
prominent  part  in  the  political  and 
social  economy  of  the  country,  would 
not  deny  that  it  has  been  distinguished 
among  the  financial  institutions  of  the 
world  for  the  patriotic  loyalty  of  its 
attitude  in  crises  of  the  national  history, 
for  the  indispensable  assistance  it  has 
rendered  to  successive  Governments, 
and  the  succour  it  has  afforded  to  our 
commerce  in  times  of  disturbance  and 
panic.  Although,  strictly  speaking, 
it  is  not  a  Government  institution,  its 
course  has  almost  invariably  been 
determined  not  by  any  narrow  view  of 
the  private  interests  of  its  stock- 
holders, but  by  larger  considerations 
in  which  the  general  welfare  has  been 
paramount.  An  ordinary  acquaint- 
ance with  the  history  of  the  last  two 
centuries  is  all  that  is  necessary  to 
indicate  the  character  of  these  services, 
and  to  show  how  constantly  the 
enormous  financial  transactions  of  the 


nation  have  been  made  easy  by  the 
resources  of  this  great  establishment. 
It  is  manifest  that  only  such  resources 
could  have  sufficed  for  the  scale  of  the 
national  finance  in  periods  like  those 
of  William  the  Third's  Continental 
campaigns  or  of  the  long  struggle  with 
Napoleon,  not  to  speak  of  the  various 
restorations  of  the  coinage,  or  the 
wholesale  conversion  of  the  Debt. 
Moreover,  the  commanding  position  of 
the  Bank  of  England,  though  modified 
inevitably  by  the  rise  of  great  banks 
around  it  and  by  the  vast  increase  in 
our  trade,  has  not  been  radically 
altered.  Notwithstanding  the  de- 
velopment of  joint-stock  banking 
during  the  present  century, — a  de- 
velopment that  has  more  than  kept 
pace  with  the  growing  wealth  and 
commerce  of  the  country — the  enor- 
mous mass  of  the  Bank's  paid-up 
capital,  the  caution  of  its  methods, 
and  the  success  with  which  it  has 
throughout  avoided  the  more  serious 
risks  of  business  have  given  it  a  claim  to 
the  first  place  as  yet  unappr cached  by 
any  rival  institution.  But  perhaps  at 
this  point  we  touch  the  fringe  of  some 
recent  controversies.  To  come  then  to 
our  immediate  purpose,  the  early  history 
of  the  Bank  will  repay,  we  think,  a 
brief  study.  It  is  the  story  of  a  great 
experiment  boldly  carried  out  amidst 
extraordinary  difficulties.  That  the 
success  of  the  Bank  of  England  was 
immediate  and  permanent,  is  a  testi- 
mony both  to  the  public  necessities 
which  it  met,  and  to  the  skill  and  pre- 
science of  its  founders. 

The  period  in  which  the  Bank  arose 
is  one  of  the  heroic  ages  of  English 
history.  The  energy  and  vitality  of  the 
nation  have  never  shown  themselves 
more  unmistakably  than  in  the  period 
of  the  Revolution.  The  great  ques- 
tions which  then  demanded  settlement 


The  Founders  of  the  Bank  of  England. 


185 


were  solved  as  only  great  men  could 
solve  them,  and  it  is  to  this  period 
we  have  to  trace  some  of  the  most 
important  principles  affecting  the 
political  and  social  life  of  our  own 
time  In  many  vital  matters  the 
reign  of  William  the  Third  marked  a 
dividing  line  between  ancient  and 
modern  ways.  It  gave  a  Parliament- 
ary basis  to  the  Monarchy,  established 
the  power  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  originated  the  idea  of  a  homo- 
geneous Cabinet  and  a  responsible 
Ministry,  laying  thus  the  foundations 
of  our  political  liberty.  Religious 
toleration  is  another  notable  conquest 
to  which  the  closing  years  of  the 
seventeenth  century  can  lay  rightful 
claim ;  while  freedom  of  trade  and  a 
sound  currency,  essential  factors  in  our 
economic  and  social  progress,  owe 
much  to  the  clear  demonstration  of 
principles  which  then  proceeded  from 
the  vigorous  minds  of  Locke  and 
Newton.  Precisely  the  same  qualities 
which  appeared  in  the  administration 
of  national  affairs,  were  shown  in  the 
clear  understandings  and  steady  pru- 
dence of  the  men  who  established  a 
systom  of  banking  which  in  its  leading 
features  has  seen  little  essential  change 
from  that  time  to  the  present. 

The  Bank  took  its  rise  directly  from 
the  necessities  of  the  Government. 
The  great  struggle  with  France,  to 
which  William's  whole  life  was  devoted, 
could  not  be  maintained  without  a 
vast  expenditure,  and  the  means  had 
to  bo  obtained  sometimes  by  methods 
that  were  felt  to  be  exceedingly 
troublesome  and  humiliating.  These 
terms  were  certainly  applicable,  if  not 
to  the  raising  of  money  by  lotteries, 
at  any  rate  to  the  practice  to  which 
the  Lords  of  the  Treasury  resorted,  of 
"  going,  cap  in  hand,  with  the  Lord- 
Keeper  to  raise  a  loan  among  the 
thriving  citizens."  It  was,  therefore, 
when  the  Government  saw  the  pros- 
pect of  immediate  assistance  to  be 
derived  from  a  public  Bank,  that  the 
project,  to  use  a  modern  phrase,  came 
within  the  range  of  practical  politics. 
Various  schemes  of  the  kind  had  been 


drawn  up  many  years  earlier,  and  had 
from  different  causes  failed ;  one  of 
these  was  considered  by  Cromwell's 
government  in  the  year  1658. 

Quite  as  pressing,  however,  as  the 
necessities  of  the  administration,  were 
the  requirements  of  a  rapidly  develop- 
ing commerce.  It  was  plain  to  the 
merchants  of  London  that  these  were 
not  adequately  met  by  the  existing 
system  of  banking.  Not  only  were 
the  goldsmiths,  in  whose  hands  the 
financial  business  then  rested,  extor- 
tionate in  their  terms,  but,  from  the 
insufficiency  of  the  capital  at  their 
disposal,  insolvency  was  not  infrequent 
among  them  to  the  grievous  loss  and 
often  to  the  ruin  of  their  customers. 
The  petty  operations  of  Lombard  Street 
in  the  seventeenth  century  must  often 
have  been  compared  very  unfavourably 
with  the  vast  scale  and  well  proved 
stability  of  the  great  continental 
banks.  When  the  Bank  of  England 
was  at  length  established,  it  took  such 
a  form  as  proved  how  beneficial  had 
been  the  long  period  of  preliminary 
discussion  ;  a  form  which  rendered  it 
of  far  greater  practical  utility  to  the 
commerce  of  the  country  than  if  it  had 
been  made,  as  some  at  first  proposed, 
,  a  servile  copy  of  the  public  banks 
already  existing  in  Europe.  In  his 
"Wealth  of  Nations,"  Adam  Smith 
gives  a  full  description,  though  not  from 
his  own  pen,  of  the  most  famous  of 
these,  the  Bank  of  Amsterdam.  We 
there  learn  that  like  two  older  institu- 
tions, the  Banks  of  Venice  and  of  Genoa, 
it  was  a  bank  of  deposit  merely.  It 
received,  we  read,  "  both  foreign  coin 
and  the  Alight  and  worn  coin  of  the 
country,  at  its  real  intrinsic  value  in 
the  good  standard  money  of  the 
country,  deducting  only  so  much  as 
was  necessary  for  defraying  the  ex- 
pense of  coinage,  and  the  other  neces- 
sary expense  of  management,"  and  the 
balance  was  placed  to  the  credit  of  the 
depositing  merchant.  The  latter  was 
thus  enabled  to  pay  his  bills  as  they 
fell  due,  in  "  bank  money "  of  which 
the  value  was  certain.  This  was  no 
doubt  an  inestimable  advantage  to 


186 


The  Founders  of  the  Bank  of  England. 


commerce  ;  but  it  did  not  cover  what 
we  now  understand  as  the  functions 
of  a  banker.  The  Bank  of  Amsterdam 
did  not  trade  with  its  deposits  or  any 
part  of  them.  A  wholly  different 
practice  had  already  rooted  itself  in 
English  banking,  for  the  goldsmiths 
did  not  pretend  to  keep  unused  in 
their  hands  the  balances  of  their 
customers,  but  only  such  a  proportion 
of  them  as  they  found  needful  to  meet 
daily  demands, — a  varying  quantity 
which  experience  would  speedily  enable 
them  to  gauge  with  fair  exactness. 
"It  was  this  practice,"  says  Thorold 
Rogers,  "which  distinguished  the 
theory  and  habit  of  banking  in  Eng- 
land from  its  earlier  types  in  foreign 
countries."  It  is  practically  certain, 
also,  that  long  before  1694  the  ex- 
perience of  the  goldsmith  and  his 
customers  had  taught  them  the  utility 
of  bank-notes  and  cheques.  The  free 
use  of  cheques,  which  effects  so  vast  an 
economy  in  our  currency,  is  to  this 
day  a  feature  distinguishing  the 
English  banking  system  from  that  of 
Continental  countries.  We  find  in  an 
interesting  volume  by  a  London 
banker,  Mr.  J.  B.  Martin,  the  follow- 
ing account  of  the  steps  by  which  this 
advance  in  banking  practice  must 
have  been  accomplished.  "  The  early 
goldsmith's  deposit  note  passed  on  the 
credit  of  the  goldsmith  only,  but 
neither  in  its  entirety,  nor  when  sub- 
divided into  smaller  amounts,  could  it 
always  exactly  meet  the  requirements 
of  the  holder.  This  difficulty  was,  no 
doubt,  aggravated  by  the  prevailing 
scarcity  of  coin  to  which  reference 
has  already  been  made,  and  it  must 
soon  have  become  obvious  that  it  was 
more  simple  to  pay  an  obligation  by  a 
letter  of  demand  on  the  goldsmith 
drawn  by  the  depositor,  than  by  the 
undertaking  to  pay  of  the  goldsmith 
himself.  On  the  other  hand  it  was 
practically  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
the  goldsmith  whether  he  discharged 
a  debt,  for  payment  of  which  he  was 
bound  to  hold  himself  constantly  pre- 
pared, on  presentation  of  his  own  pro- 
missory note,  or  on  the  demand  of  his 


customer.  The  consequence  was  the 
invention  of  the  cheque  system,  which 
grew  up  side  by  side  with,  but  ulti- 
mately outstripped,  the  deposit  or 
bank-note  system  on  which  it  was 
originally  founded.  The  earliest  drawers 
of  cheques  found  a  model  ready  to  their 
hand  in  the  bill,  or  more  correctly, 
letter  of  exchange,  of  which  the  fol- 
lowing, taken  from  Mr.  Martin's  pages, 
is  a  specimen  :  "  Bolton,  4th  March, 
1684.  At  sight  hereof  pray  pay 
unto  Charles  Buncombe,  Esq.,  or  order, 
the  sum  of  four  hundred  pounds,  and 
place  it  to  the  accompt  of  your  assured 
friend,  WINCHESTER.  To  Captain 
Francis  Child,  near  Temple  Barrel 
This  was  a  remarkably  close  approach 
to  modern  usages,  and  it  was  too  valu- 
able a  reform  to  be  lost.  If,  indeed, 
a  public  bank  had  been  projected  on 
the  foreign  model,  it  would,  although 
of  narrower  utility  than  that  which 
was  eventually  established,  have  served 
a  useful  purpose  as  a  place  of  safe 
deposit,  the  want  of  which  was  then 
keenly  felt.  To  provide  such  a  place 
was  beyond  the  resources  of  the  gold- 
smiths, while  the  action  of  both  Charles 
the  First  and  his  successor  had  demon- 
strated that  money  deposited  either  in 
the  Mint  or  in  the  Exchequer  was 
liable  to  be  arbitrarily  borrowed,  or 
confiscated,  by  the  King.  Those  who 
projected  the  Bank  of  England  had 
thus  two  precedents  or  models  to  guide 
them,  and  they  may  be  said  to  have 
combined  the  advantages  of  both,  for 
with  the  massiveness  of  the  great 
foreign  institutions  they  united  the 
freer  practice  of  the  Lombard  Street 
goldsmiths. 

When  at  length,  in  June,  1694,  the 
scheme  was  placed  before  the  public, 
the  necessary  capital  was  forthcoming 
with  what  must  have  appeared  in  those 
times  a  startling  rapidity.  Three  days 
after  the  books  were  opened  more  than 
half  was  provided,  and  a  week  later, 
on  Monday,  July  2nd,  the  full  amount 
of  £1,200,000  was  subscribed.  It  was 
manifest  that  the  plan,  which  had  met 
with  so  much  opposition  in  both  Houses 
of  Parliament,  commanded  at  least 


The  Founders  of  the  Bank  of  England. 


187 


the  enthusiastic  support  of  the  City, 
where  its  merits  could  best  be  judged, 
and  where  alone  could  be  found  the 
funds  to  carry  it  to  a  successful 
issue.  Very  different  was  the  fate 
whicb  two  years  later  befell  the  rival 
scheme  of  Chamberlain's  Land  Bank. 
By  hs  specious  promises  of  universal 
prosperity  it  took  both  Government 
and  Parliament  captive,  but  fell  dead 
before  the  common  sense  of  the 
moneyed  classes.  The  Land  Bank 
undertook  to  raise  a  loan  of  £2,564,000 
for  the  Government ;  the  amount 
which  was  actually  subscribed  by  the 
pubic  to  the  foolish  project  was 
£2,100.  No  better  criterion  of  the 
shrewdness  of  the  commercial  com- 
munity of  that  day  could  be  desired 
than  the  respective  issues  of  these  two 
undertakings. 

At;  its  first  establishment  the  in- 
experience of  its  founders  was  by  no 
means  the  worst  peril  which  the  Bank 
had  :o  encounter.  It  was  surrounded 
by  enemies  whose  opposition  arose 
partly  from  political,  and  partly  from 
selfish  motives.  The  goldsmiths,  in 
whose  hands  the  banking  of  London, 
such  as  it  was,  had  developed  into  a 
most  profitable  trade,  were  naturally 
disposed  to  set  every  obstacle  in  their 
rival's  way.  They  contended  that  an 
institution  on  so  large  a  scale  was 
like!  y  to  assume  the  control  of  all 
financial  business  to  a  degree  most 
threatening  to  the  common  interests 
of  the  country,  and  to  attain  so  much 
power  as  would  give  to  it  a  dangerous 
authority  and  influence  even  with  the 
nati<  >nal  government.  They  pretended 
to  foresee  that  as  soon  as  it  was  firmly 
established,  it  would  so  raise  the  rate 
of  interest  as  to  cripple  industry, 
whilo  filling  its  own  coffers  by  usury. 
And  in  this  there  was  no  doubt  some 
reason,  for  many  of  them  had  grown 
wealthy  by  the  very  methods  they 
now  denounced.  Some  of  them  em- 
ployed their  means  freely  in  endeavours 
to  embarrass  the  Bank,  and  their  plots 
were  occasionally  successful  enough 
to  bring  their  new  rival  into  danger. 
One  of  the  most  unscrupulous  of  its 


enemies  was  Sir  Charles  Buncombe, 
who  had  lately  purchased  a  magnificent 
estate  out  of  the  profits  of  his  own 
banking  business.  On  one  occasion 
he  is  said  to  have  sold  his  entire 
holding  of  Bank  Stock,  amounting  to 
£80,000,  in  order  to  discredit  its 
reputation,  and,  some  years  later,  to 
have  conspired  with  others  to  create 
a  run  by  collecting  and  presenting 
on  one  day  £300,000  in  notes  of 
the  Bank.  Another  section  of  its 
foes  consisted  of  the  promoters  of 
rival  schemes.  These  plots  ended  in 
failure,  but  they  were  only  foiled  by 
troublesome  and  expensive  expedients. 
The  real  danger  in  these  crises  arose 
from  the  exceedingly  limited  reserve 
of  cash  which  the  Bank  retained  to 
meet  its  outstanding  notes.  An  ac- 
count presented  to  the  House  of 
Commons  in  December,  1696,  showed 
a  debt  on  notes  issued,  and  on  money 
deposited  or  borrowed,  approaching 
£2,000,000,  while  the  amount  hald 
against  it  in  actual  money  was -no 
more  than  £36,000.  The  lesson  had 
not  yet  been  learned,  that  a  bank 
must,  not  rest  content  with  being 
actually  solvent,  but  must  hold  its 
resources  in  a  sufficiently  liquid  form 
to  enable  it  to  meet  large  and  sudden 
demands  with  absolute  promptitude. 
It  was  evident  here,  as  a  pamphlet  of 
the  day  ingeniously  and  .  accurately 
expressed  it,  that  "the  Bank  con- 
founded the  credit  of  their  stock  with 
the  credit  of  their  cash." 

But  the  Bank  had  other  enemies 
besides  those  to  be  found  in  the  trad- 
ing community.  It  was  regarded 
from  the  first  as  a  Whig  institution, 
and  a  bulwark  of  the  settlement  of 
1689.  The  merchants  of  the  City, 
whose  confidence  and  support  were  the 
strength  of  the  Bank,  were  the  Non- 
conformists and  Liberals  of  the  time. 
It  was  natural  enough,  therefore,  that  an 
institution  which  was  thus  committed 
to  the  side  of  the  existing  Government 
should  have  been  hated  by  those  who 
would  have  rejoiced  to  see  that  Govern- 
ment overthrown.  The  instinct  which 
prompted  the  fervent  opposition  of  the 


188 


The  Founders  of  the  Bank  of  England. 


Jacobites  was  a  sound  one,  as  was 
clearly  proved  before  the  new  Bank 
had  been  long  in  existence.  The  loan 
of  ,£1,200,000  to  the  Government,  in 
consideration  of  which  the  charter 
was  granted,  was  only  the  first  of 
many  important  services  to  King 
William.  It  was  in  itself  an  immense 
gain  to  have  a  strong  and  wealthy 
corporation  which  might  be  resorted 
to  by  a  needy  Treasury,  in  place  of  the 
petty  expedients  which  had  hitherto 
prevailed  ;  and  even  in  the  first  half- 
dozen  years  of  its  course  the  Bank  had 
many  opportunities  to  give  substantial 
proofs  of  its  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
the  King.  In  fact,  the  Government 
and  the  Bank  were  bound  together  by 
the  strongest  ties  of  mutual  interest. 
If  the  former  had  succumbed  to  its 
enemies  and  James  had  returned,  the 
latter  might  consider  its  capital  as 
good  as  lost.  On  this  ground,  there- 
fore, as  well  as  from  a  genuine  attach- 
ment to  the  principles  of  the  Revolution, 
its  founders  threw  themselves  with 
ardour  into  the  Whig  cause,  and  spent 
their  resources  lavishly  in  support  of 
it.  A  political  bias  was  absolutely 
inevitable  in  so  important  an  institu- 
tion at  such  a  crisis.  Burnet  touches 
on  the  matter  with  his  usual  shrewd- 
ness. "It  was  visible,"  he  says, 
"  that  all  the  enemies  of  the  Govern- 
ment set  themselves  against  the  Bank 
with  such  a  vehemence  of  zeal  that 
this  alone  convinced  all  people  that 
they  saw  the  strength  that  our  affairs 
would  receive  from  it."  Burnet's 
criticism  confirms  the  natural  infer- 
ence that  the  line  of  political  cleavage, 
which  was  never  more  strongly  marked 
at  any  period  of  our  history,  was  also 
the  line  which  divided  the  friends  of 
the  Bank  from  its  foes. 

The  credit  of  successfully  combating 
the  opposition  thus  arising  from  many 
quarters,  is  in  great  part  due,  Thorold 
Rogers  shows,'  "  to  those  honest,  God- 
fearing, patriotic  men  who  watched 
over  the  early  troubles  of  the  Bank, 
relieved  it,  by  the  highest  shrewdness 
and  fidelity,  from  the  perils  it  in- 
curred, and  established  the  reputation 


of  British  integrity."  But  among  its 
founders  it  is  possible  to  distinguish 
two  or  three  leading  spirits,  who  in 
their  different  spheres  contributed 
mightily  to  its  success,  and  were 
admirable  representatives  of  the 
financial  and  commercial  skill  of  their 
time. 

By  the  general  consent  of  tradition 
the  principal  share  in  the  original 
scheme  of  the  Bank  of  England  is  to 
be  credited  to  William  Paterson,  a 
native  of  Tinwald  in  Dumfriesshire. 
Paterson  is  unfortunately  best  re- 
membered as  the  projector  of  the 
disastrous  scheme  for  the  colonisation 
of  Darien,  and  his  reputation  has 
suffered  accordingly.  But  even  Mac- 
aulay,  in  bis  unsparing  criticism  of 
that  wild  venture,  has  not  denied  its 
projector  great  natural  intelligence, 
a  perfect  knowledge  of  accounts,  and 
scrupulous  honesty.  Paterson  had,  in 
truth,  the  genius  of  the  pioneer,  a 
mind  bold,  active,  and  fertile.  His 
native  gifts  had  been  developed  by  a 
very  varied  experience  of  life.  After 
the  best  education  his  parish  school 
could  afford  him,  his  early  manhood 
from  the  age  of  eighteen  or  there- 
abouts had  been  spent  abroad,  first 
on  the  Continent  and  afterwards  in 
America  and  the  West  Indies ;  and 
his  writings,  of  which  many  remain, 
testify  to  his  close  observation  of  the 
trade,  finance,  resources,  and  govern- 
ments of  the  countries  he  visited. 
From  the  very  first  his  attention  had 
been  chiefly  directed,  as  he  himself 
tells  us,  to  "  matters  of  general  trade 
and  public  revenues."  In  an  inci- 
dental passage  of  his  works,  Paterson 
has  written  a  description  of  the 
character  of  an  enlightened  merchant, 
which  gives  us  an  idea  of  the  kind  of 
man  he  himself  aspired  to  be, — one 
"  whose  education,  genius,  general 
scope  of  knowledge  of  the  laws, 
governments,  polity,  and  management 
of  the  several  countries  of  the  world, 
allow  him  sufficient  room  and  oppor- 
tunity not  only  to  understand  trade 
as  abstractly  taken  but  in  its  greatest 
extent,  and  who  accordingly  is  a 


The  Founders  of  the  Bank  of  England. 


189 


zeal  o  is  promoter  of  free  and  open 
trade,  and  consequently  of  liberty  of 
conscience,  general  naturalisation, 
unions,  and  annexions."  Even  in  his 
conduct  of  the  unhappy  Darien  scheme 
a  certain  mental  breadth  and  mag- 
nanimity are  plainly  discernible.  He 
was  a  free  trader  in  an  age  when 
protection  reigned  supreme,  when 
almost  every  great  enterprise  took 
the  iorm  of  a  monopoly.  It  showed 
a  sti]l  more  notable  superiority  to  the 
prejudices  of  his  time  when  he  deter- 
mined that  in  the  colony  of  Darien 
"differences  of  race  or  religion  were 
to  be  made  nothing  of."  Nearly  two 
centuries  before  the  Panama  Canal  of 
M.  Lesseps  was  projected,  Paterson 
had  considered  the  possibilities  of  such 
an  undertaking,  and  had  written  con- 
cerning it,  that  three-fourths  of  the 
entire  distance  across  the  isthmus 
consisted  of  land  "  so  level  that  a 
canal  might  easily  be  cut  through," 
and  that  the  remainder  was  "not  so 
very  high  or  impracticable  ground 
but  that  a  cut  might  likewise  be 
mado  were  it  in  these  parts  of  the 
world,  but  considering  the  present 
circumstances  of  things  in  those,  it 
would  not  be  so  easy."  It  is  a  further 
proof  of  his  judgment  in  matters  of 
finance,  that  he  perceived  the  mischiefs 
of  an  inconvertible  paper  currency, 
and  wrote  vigorously  against  its 
adoption.  In  view  of  these  facts,  the 
theory  of  Paterson's  career,  which  has 
been  sometimes  accepted,  that  he  was 
mere  ly  a  needy  adventurer,  first  of  all 
a  pe«llar  in  his  native  country,  then  a 
buccaneer  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
final  .y  an  untrustworthy  financial 
adviser  of  governments  and  a  promoter 
of  insane  enterprises,  is  obviously 
untenable.  All  the  circumstances  of 
his  life  equally  discredit  it.  Such  a 
theory  might  be  consistent  with  the 
fact  that  all  Paterson's  schemes  did 
not  make  him  a  rich  man,  but  it  is 
cont  :adicted  by  the  respect  and  esteem 
which  he  enjoyed  not  only  in  the 
West  Indies,  where  his  influence  was 
great,  but  through  the  United  King- 
dom and  on  the  Continent  of  Europe. 


It  is  further  disproved  by  the  confidence 
which  was  reposed  in  him  by  the 
shrewd  merchants  and  capitalists  of 
London  whose  colleague  he  became  on 
the  directorate  of  the  Bank  of  England, 
and  by  the  support  which  was  always 
freely  accorded  to  his  projects.  Long 
before  he  had  brought  his  Darien 
plan  to  public  notice,  he  was  widely 
known  for  his  proficiency  in  those 
subjects  which  are  now  included  under 
the  general  term  of  political  economy. 
He  was  not  discredited  even  by  his 
failure  in  Darien.  In  later  years  he 
was  elected  a  member  of  the  United 
Parliament  as  the  representative  of 
the  Dumfries  boroughs,  and  until  the 
end  of  his  life  he  maintained  an  active 
advocacy  of  those  principles  of  finance 
which  observation  and  experience  had 
taught  him. 

In  the  year  1694  Paterson  published 
a  pamphlet,  entitled,  "  A  Brief  Ac- 
count of  the  Intended  Bank  of  Eng- 
land," in  which  he  writes  with  autho- 
rity on  the  views  of  its  founders.  In 
contravention  of  the  assertions  of  its 
opponents,  he  contended  that  the  in- 
terest of  money  would  be  lowered  by 
it,  and  trade  developed ;  and  it  is 
worthy  of  notice,  that  he  put  very 
clearly  the  necessity  of  an  ample 
metallic  reserve, — a  point  on  which 
discussion  has  been  so  lively  in  recent 
years. 

Paterson  became  one  of  the  twenty- 
four  original  directors  of  the  Bank,  and 
held  £2,000  in  its  stock.  A  year  later 
he  sold  his  stock,  and  resigned  his 
position  on  the  board,  the  account 
which  is  generally  accepted  of  the 
severance  being  that,  in  a  difference 
of  opinion  with  his  colleagues  upon 
important  points  in  the  Bank's  opera- 
tions, he  was  outvoted,  and  considered 
it  necessary  to  emphasise  his  protest 
by  withdrawal.  The  story  shows  that 
he  was  not  merely  concerned  in  the 
first  design,  but  for  a  time  an  active 
sharer  in  the  Bank's  administration. 

When  the  scheme  had  so  far  pro- 
gressed that  it  could  be  brought  before 
the  House  of  Commons,  statesmen 
were  fortunately  found  capable  of  per- 


190 


The  Founders  of  the  Bank  of  England. 


ceiving  the  advantages  that  might 
accrue  from  it  both  to  the  Government 
and  the  community.  Undoubtedly 
the  most  obvious  point  to  them  was 
the  benefit  which  the  administration 
would  reap  in  immediate  financial 
assistance.  Yet  this  obvious  gain,  as 
has  been  already  said,  was  in  one  way 
a  hindrance  to  the  adoption  of  the 
measure  by  stimulating  and  embitter- 
ing the  efforts  of  the  Opposition.  It 
was  by  the  skilful  tactics  of  Charles 
Montague,  and  by  the  exercise  of  his 
then  unrivalled  authority  in  Parlia- 
ment, that  these  difficulties  were  sur- 
mounted. The  name  of  Montague  is 
entitled  to  stand  high  in  the  illustrious 
list  of  the  Finance  Ministers  of  the 
country.  He  became  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  in  April,  1694,  and  the 
passage  of  the  Tonnage  Act  in  that 
year,  containing  clauses  which  assured 
a  charter  to  the  Bank,  only  confirmed 
a  reputation  already  earned  by  him 
for  financial  ingenuity  and  astuteness. 
In  1692,  when  a  Lord  of  Treasury,  he 
had  devised  the  Million  Loan,  raised 
by  an  issue  of  life  annuities  to  which 
he  added  the  attraction  of  a  tontine. 
As  the  annuitants  died,  their  annuities 
were  to  be  divided  among  the  survivors, 
until  their  number  should  be  reduced 
to  seven,  when  the  remaining  annuities 
as  they  fell  in  were  to  lapse  to  the 
Government.  It  may  be  interesting 
at  the  present  juncture  to  note,  that 
in  order  to  secure  these  annuities,  it 
was  found-  needful  to  impose  new 
duties  on  beer  and  other  liquors,  a 
resource  which  our  financiers  do  not 
yet  appear  to  consider  exhausted. 
The  Million  Loan  was  the  starting- 
•  point  of  our  National  Debt. 

Montague  was  the  first  Chancellor 
to  issue  Exchequer  Bills,  a  convenient 
form  of  negotiable  paper  which  has 
held  its  ground  ever  since,  although 
it  is  not  now  issued  for  the  small 
amounts,  varying  from  £5  upwards, 
which  at  that  time  found  favour. 
They  met  a  great  necessity  in  the 
years  of  the  re-coinage,  when  currency 
of  any  kind  was  scarcely  to  be  had. 
The  small  Exchequer  Bills,  therefore, 


which  bore  interest  at  the  rate  of 
threepence  per  cent,  per  day,  were 
eagerly  welcomed,  and  the  monetary 
pressure  was  much  mitigated  by 
means  of  them.  Montague  was  a 
young  politician,  but  his  youth, 
coupled  with  the  wonderful  successes 
of  his  parliamentary  career,  only 
better  fitted  him  for  a  bold  innovation. 
In  the  course  of  a  very  few  years  after 
his  entrance  into  public  life  he  rose  to 
the  highest  positions  which  the  House 
of  Commons  had  to  offer,  and  the  ease 
and  rapidity  of  his  rise  must  have 
given  him  the  confidence  which  is  so 
powerful  a  reinforcement  to  ability. 
He  was  an  opportunist  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  word.  If  not  a  man  of 
the  highest  originality  of  mind,  he 
was  quick  to  recognise  and  turn  to 
good  account  the  ideas  and  teaching 
of  men  of  genius.  This  is  the  proper 
work  of  a  statesman.  As  Macaulay 
truly  says,  "  We  can  scarcely  expect 
to  find  in  the  same  human  being  the 
talents  which  are  necessary  for  the 
making  of  new  discoveries  in  political 
science,  and  the  talents  which  obtain 
the  assent  of  divided  and  tumultuous 
assemblies  to  great  practical  reforms." 
In  fact,  the  relation  between  Montague 
and  Paterson,  with  the  other  pro- 
moters of  the  Bank,  is  a  typical 
example  of  the  usual  course  of  political 
reforms  in  a  free  country.  It  might 
not  unfairly  be  compared  to  the  re- 
lation between  Cobden  and  Peel  in 
the  abolition  of  the  Corn  Laws,  with 
the  exception  that  Montague  was  not 
a  late  and  reluctant  convert,  but  a 
sympathetic  coadjutor.  The  pioneers, 
the  discoverers  and  advocates  of  a  new 
or  neglected  truth,  who  prepare  the 
public  mind  for  its  reception,  are  en- 
titled to  all  honour,  but  not  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  statesmen  who  discern 
the  proper  moment  for  giving  it  effect 
in  legislation.  Both  fulfil  an  in- 
dispensable function.  In  the  history 
of  the  re-coinage  of  1696-8,  perhaps 
even  more  clearly  than  in  his  manage- 
ment of  the  Act  establishing  the 
Bank,  we  can  see  the  stuff  of  which 
Montague  was  made. 


The  Founders  of  the  Bank  of  England. 


191 


The  re  coinage  in  William  the  Third's 
reign  was  a  heroic  business.  The  cur- 
rency had  fallen  into  a  condition  that 
made  it  not  only  a  disgrace,  but  a 
positive  danger  to  the  country.  It 
was  worn  and  clipped  to  such  an  ex- 
tent us  to  have  fallen  to  less  than  half 
its  proper  value ;  and  its  restoration 
could  not  be  accomplished  without  an 
expenditure  that  must  have  seemed  in 
those  days  appalling.  The  actual  cost 
exceeded  £2,700,000.  «  Such  a  sum," 
says  Thorold  Rogers,  "  was  nearly 
equivalent  to  a  year  and  a  half's  ordin- 
ary revenue,  and  was  as  serious  at  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  century  as  a 
public  loss  of  a  hundred  millions  would 
be  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth."  So 
soon  as  the  necessity  was  fully  re- 
cognised, the  problem  was  faced  by 
Montague  with  boldness  and  prompti- 
tude. To  devise  the  means  of  such  a 
provision  tasked  even  his  ingenuity, 
and  laid  a  tremendous  burden  upon  the 
strug  giing  nation  ;  a  burden,  however, 
which  was  cheerfully  borne  when  it 
became  evident  that  the  expenditure 
would  bear  fruit  in  prosperous  trade. 
It  was  a  still  greater  triumph  for 
Montague,  that  he  defeated  the  cow- 
ardly proposals  of  the  currency  fanatics 
of  his  day.  The  debasing  of  the 
curr€  ncy,  by  lowering  the  weight  while 
retaining  the  denomination  of  the  coin, 
found  powerful  advocates  in  high 
places.  It  is  to  his  everlasting  credit 
that,  fortified  by  the  counsels  of  such 
men  as  Somers,  Newton,  and  Locke, 
Mom  ague  could  not  be  drawn  into 
this  lolly. 

The  ultimate  success  of  the  Bank 
could  not,  however,  be  secured  by  the 
approval  of  Parliament  or  by  the 
prompt  subscription  of  its  stock,  but 
had  i  o  depend  on  the  wisdom  of  those 
who  were  charged  with  its  manage- 
ment after  the  initial  difficulties  had 
been  overcome.  We  have  the  amplest 
evidence  that  no  great  institution  was 
ever  happier  in  the  character  of  those 
who  presided  over  its  birth  and  directed 
its  earliest  years.  The  original  direc- 
tors ,vere  among  the  leading  merchants 
and  the  most  influential  citizens  of 


London.  No  fewer  than  seven  of  the 
twenty-four  were  chosen,  between  the 
years  1696  and  1719,  to  fill  the  office 
of  Lord  Mayor  ;  two  others  were  mem- 
bers of  Parliament.  There  could  not 
have  been  found  anywhere  a  body  of 
men  better  qualified  to  conduct  the  new 
institution.  They  were  the  moneyed 
men  of  the  community ;  they  were 
thoroughly  skilled,  by  daily  practice, 
in  matters  of  commerce  and  finance  ; 
and  they  knew,  as  well  as  any  could 
know,  with  which  of  the  merchants 
and  traders  of  London  it  was  safe  and 
desirable  to  do  business.  Some  of 
them,  too,  were  able  to  defend  with 
literary  skill  and  effect  the  principles 
on  which  the  Bank  was  based.  The 
most  distinguished  of  them  all  was 
Michael  Godfrey,  the  first  Deputy- 
Governor,  whose  name  would  be  re- 
membered even  for  the  ability  of  his 
writings  if  it  were  not  still  better 
known  by  the  tragic  circumstances  of 
his  death.  He  died  in  the  trenches  at 
Namur  on  the  17th  of  July,  1695. 
Along  with  two  of  his  colleagues,  he 
had  been  sent  to  the  King's  head- 
quarters in  Flanders,  in  order  to  make 
arrangements  for  the  payment  of  the 
troops.  On  the  day  of  his  death  he 
had  dined  with  the  King  in  his  tent, 
and  had  accompanied  him  out  of 
curiosity  into  the  trenches,  where  he 
was  struck  down  by  a  cannon-ball. 
His  death  was  regarded  as  a  grave 
national  loss,  and  brought  about  a  fall 
of  two  per  cent,  in  the  price  of  Bank 
Stock.  Whatever  his  practical  ability 
as  a  banker  may  have  been,  it  is 
abundantly  evident  from  his  pamphlet, 
"  A  Short  Account  of  the  Bank  of 
England,"  that  no  one  better  under- 
stood the  utility  of  the  new  institution, 
the  principles  by  which  it  ought  gto  be 
guided,  and  what  answers  should  be 
given  to  those  who  attacked  it. 

He  describes  the  Bank  as  "  A  society 
consisting  of  about  thirteen  hundred 
persons,  who  having  subscribed 
£1,200,000  pursuant  to  an  Act  of 
Parliament  are  incorporated  by  the 
name  of  the  Governor  and  Company 
of  the  Bank  of  England,  and  have  a 


192 


The  Founders  of  the  Sank  of  England. 


fund  of  £100,000  per  annum  granted 
them,  redeemable  after  eleven  years, 
upon  one  year's  notice,  which 
£1,200,000  they  have  paid  into  the 
Exchequer  by  such  payments  as  the 
public  occasion  required,  and  most  of 
it  long  before  the  money  could  have 
been  demanded."  In  an  able  argu- 
ment he  confutes  the  contentions  of  its 
enemies,  pointing  out,  by  a  reference 
to  facts,  how  it  would  serve  both 
public  and  private  necessities.  Instead 
of  making  money  dearer,  it  not  only 
would  lower  the  rate  of  interest  but 
had  already  done  so,  thereby  encourag- 
ing industry  and  improvements,  and, 
by  a  natural  consequence,  raising  the 
value  of  land  and  increasing  trade. 
An  economy  had,  he  maintains,  already 
been  effected  in  the  currency,  for  "  the 
Bank  bills  were  serving  for  returns 
and  exchanges  to  and  fro  from  the 
remotest  parts  of  the  kingdom,"  and 
would,  it  might  reasonably  be  expect- 
ed, be  likewise  accepted  in  foreign 
countries,  and  thus  lessen  the  export 
of  bullion  for  maintaining  the  army 
abroad.  The  scandalous  condition 
of  the  currency  had  not  escaped  his 
notice,  and  he  estimates  that  one  day 
or  other  it  must  cost  the  nation  a 
million  and  a  half  or  two  millions  to 
repair  it.  The  Bank,  moreover,  would 
"facilitate  the  future  supplies  by 
making  the  funds  which  are  to  be 
given  more  useful  and  ready  to  answer 
the  public  occasions  and  upon  easier 
terms  than  what  has  been  done  during 
the  war." 


Sufficient  has  now  been  said  of  those 
concerned  in  the  founding  of  the  Bank, 
to  prove  that  the  prosperous  issue  of 
their  enterprise  was  no  chance  success, 
but  a  natural  result  of  the  well-directed 
efforts  of  prudent  and  discerning  men. 
It  might  well  be  matter  of  surprise  to 
us  to  find  that  the  merchants  of  the 
seventeenth  century  had  so  firm  a  grasp 
on  sound  principles  of  commerce  and 
banking.  Much  still  remained  to  be 
learned  from  experience,  but  remark- 
ably little  had  to  be  unlearned ;  and, 
in  spite  of  some  serious  errors,  the 
chief  of  which  (an  insufficient  provi- 
sion of  ready  cash  ragainst  the  notes 
issued)  has  been  already  mentioned, 
the  beginnings  of  the  Bank  were 
worthy  of  the  illustrious  career  of  two 
hundred  years  that  was  to  follow. 
Even  now,  great  as  have  been  the  ad- 
vances of  commerce  and  finance  in  our 
own  time,  no  other  financial  institution 
can  properly  compare  with  it.  Its 
capital  of  £14,553,000,  with  the  ad- 
dition of  its  rest,  or  reserve  fund,  of 
£3,000,000,  exceeds  the  united  capital 
of  the  State  Banks  of  France  and 
Germany,  and  is  nearly  equal  to  the 
entire  paid-up  capital  and  reserve  of 
the  five  largest  English  joint- stock 
banks  together.  The  stability  con- 
ferred by  these  immense  resources  has 
made  the  Bank  of  England  the  bul- 
wark of  our  commerce  in  times  of  dis- 
turbance and  panic,  and  earned  for  it 
the  unshaken  confidence  both  of  the 
Government  and  the  nation. 


193 


LORD  CHATHAM  ON  THE  SURRENDER  AT  SARATOGA. 


THI:  following  letter  from  Lord  Chatham 
to  Lord  Shelburiie  was  written  after  the  re- 
ceipt c  fthe  news  of  the  surrender  of  General 
Burgoyne  at  Saratoga.  It  appears  to  have 
been  separated  many  years  ago  from  the 
rest  of  the  collection  at  Lansdowne  House  ; 
and,  therefore,  not  to  have  been  seen  by 
the  editors  of  the  Chatham  Correspondence, 
published  in  1838-40,  who  had  access  to 
that  collection.  The  letter  was  lent  for 
use  by  counsel  in  the  case  of  the  Attorney- 
General  v.  Ryves,  and  was  returned  to 
Lansdowne  House  in  1866,  after  the  com- 
pletion of  the  proceedings  connected  with 
that  ti  ial.  But  it  again  got  separated  from 
the  rest  of  the  collection.  The  existence 
of  it  was  therefore  not  known  to  me  when 
I  was  writing  the  Life  of  Lord  Shelburne  ; 
nor  w  is  it  again  seen  till  1893,  when  I  acci- 
dentaHy  found  it.  The  probability  is  that 
the  interest  of  the  contents  caused  it  to  be 
specially  put  aside,  and  that  no  record  of 
this  having  been  made,  the  precautions 
thus  taken  were,  as  sometimes  happens  in 
such  cases,  themselves  the  cause  of  the 
tempc  rary  loss  of  the  letter. 

General  Burgoyne  surrendered  on  Octo- 
ber 17th,  1777.  The  first  report  of  the 
disaster  reached  England  on  December  2nd, 
and  Mas  fully  confirmed  on  the  12th.  The 
reception  of  the  news  greatly  stimulated 
the  activity  of  the  party  in  Parliament,  led 
by  Lc  rd  Rockingham,  which  leaned  to  the 
recognition  of  the  independence  of  the 
Color  ies  ;  while  Lord  Chatham  and  his 
friends  still  believed  in  the  possibility  of 
concil  iation.1 

EDMOND  FITZMAURICE. 

THI  EARL  OF  CHATHAM  TO  THE  EARL 
OF  SHELBURNE. 

HAYES,  Dec.  18,  1777. 
M  :  LORD, 

[  cannot,  though  at  dinner-time, 
suffe,*  your  Lordship's  servants  to 
return,  without  expressing  my  humble 
thanixS  for  the  favour  of  your  very 
obliging  and  interesting  communica- 
tion. How  decisive  and  how  ex- 

1    Se  3  Chatham  Correspondence,  iv.  p.   489- 
493.     Life  of  Lord  Shelburne,  iii.  p.  12-15. 
N(  .  417. — VOL.  LXX. 


pressive  are  the  ways  of  Providence  ! 
The  sentiments  and  the  conduct  of  the 
American  Colonists,  full  of  nobleness, 
dignity,  and  humanity  !  On  the  side 
of  the  Royalists,  native  English  spirit, 
not  to  be  extinguished, — thank  God — 
by  enslaving  principles,  and  peremp- 
tory nonsensical  orders!  When  wil! 
national  blindness  fall  from  our  eyes, 
and  the  gutta  serena  be  taken  off  that 
sight  which  should  behold  all  with  an 
equal  view?  If  Yaughan  has  made 
good  his  retreat,  it  is  a  better  fate 
than  I  expected ;  perhaps  better  than 
his  merciless  conduct  deserved.  I 
think  Howe's  situation  most  critical, 
Carleton's  almost  desperate.  But  more 
time,  which  is  everything  in  extreme 
cases,  is  perhaps  afforded  him.  I 
expect  that  he  will  use  it  well,  and 
that  firmness  and  resource  will  be 
called  forth  to  save  a  very  valuable 
Province,  absurdly  and  unjustly  dis- 
tracted and  alienated  by  an  ill  under- 
stood plan  of  illiberal  Tory  principles. 

I  saw  Mr.  Walpole  here  on  last 
Monday,  when  I  learnt  all  that,  your 
Lordship's  communication  from  him 
contains.  I  am  much  obliged  for  the 
imparting  it,  and  I  beg  leave  to- 
express  the  fullest  sense  of  your 
Lordship's  goodness  in  taking  such  a 
trouble. 

T  rejoice  that  the  Americans  have 
behaved  in  victory  like  men  who  "were 
actuated  by  principle  :  not  by  motives 
of  a  less  elevated  nature.  Every  hour 
is  big  with  expectations.  Howe's  army 
is  besieged,  and  I  expect  a  disgraceful 
and  ruinous  catastrophe  to  that  devoted 
body  of  troops  :  the  last  remains  of 
the  all  conquering  forces  of  Great 
Britain.  If  the  Undoers  of  their 
country  ought  to  be  pitied,  in  any 
case,  my  Lord,  I  may  be  well  entitled 
to  some  compassion.  I  am  all  gout,  but 
I  hold  out :  going  abroad  for  air.  I 

o 


194 


Lord  Chatham  on  the  Surrender  at  Saratoga. 


have  not  much  of  the  cordial  of  hope, 
and  trust  more  to  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 
than  to  a  higher  power,  Providence 
excepted. 

The  last  day  in  the  House  of  Lords 
put  an  end  to  my  hope  from  the  public. 
I  wish  I  might  be  permitted  to  live 
and  die  in  my  village,  rather  than 
sacrifice  the  little  remnant  I  have  left 
of  Life  to  the  hopeless  labours  of  con- 
troversial speculation  in  Parliament.  If 
I  can  avoid  it,  I  mean  to  come  little  to 
Parliament,  unless  I  maybe  of  some  ser- 
vice. I  know  that  I  cannot  alter  in  the 


point,  and  if  others  who  have  as  good 
a  right  to  judge  cannot  either,  I  had 
better  stay  away.  1  shall  thereby  do 
less  mischief  to  the  public.  I  will 
as  soon  subscribe  to  Transubstantiation 
as  to  Sovereignty  (by  right),  in  the 
Colonies.  Again  and  again,  humble 
thanks  to  your  Lordship,  for  the 
favour  of  your  most  obliging  letter. 
I  am,  ever  with  all  respect,  your 
Lordship's  most  obedient  and  most 
humble  servant, 

CHATHAM. 


195 


THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  THE  BEITISH  ARMY. 


II.    THE    CAVALRY. 


"  YOUR  troops  are  most  of  them  old 
decayed  serving-men,  and  tapsters, 
and  such  kind  of  fellows ;  and  their 
troor s  are  gentlemen's  sons,  younger 
sons  and  persons  of  quality :  do  you 
think  that  the  spirits  of  such  base 
and  mean  fellows  will  ever  be  able  to 
encounter  gentlemen  that  have  honour 
and  courage  and  resolution  in  them  ? 
You  must  get  men  of  a  spirit  that  is 
likely  to  go  on  as  far  as  gentlemen 
will  go,  or  else  you  will  be  beaten 
still."  Thus  spoke  Captain  Oliver 
Cromwell  of  Troop  No.  67  of  the 
Parliamentary  Horse  to  his  friend 
Mr.  John  Hampden,  at  the  opening 
of  the  Civil  War.  Given  two  armed 
mobs,  that  which  has  courage,  honour 
and  resolution  will  beat  that  which 
has  none  of  these  virtues ;  if  you  wish 
to  beat  gentlemen  you  must  meet 
then:  with  disciplined  soldiers.  Mr. 
Johr  Hampden  thought  the  idea  im- 
practicable;  "he  was  a  wise  and 
worthy  person,"  but  he  could  not  rise 
to  to  novel  a  conception  as  this. 
Captain  Cromwell  thought  otherwise, 
and  set  to  work  to  put  his  theories 
into  practice ;  and  the  result  was  the 
creai  ion  of  the  first  English  Cavalry 
soldi  3r.  Let  us  try,  with  what  meagre 
material  we  can  find  to  our  hand,  to 
conjure  up  some  vision  of  the  process. 

We  have  seen  that  Cromwell  began 
his  nilitary  career  as  captain  of  a 
troop  of  Horse,  his  own  troop  being 
numbered  the  sixty-seventh  of  the 
seventy-five  into  which  the  Parlia- 
men*  ary  Horse  was  originally  organ- 
ised. For  the  troop  of  Cavalry,  and 
similarly  the  company  of  Infantry, 
were  the  units  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  only  developed  by  later 
experience  into  the  regiment  and  the 
battilion.  The  troop  indeed  was  of 
quas -feudal  origin,  a  body  of  men 


raised  by  a  landowner  from  among 
his  neighbours  and  dependents,  serving 
under  a  troop-standard  (called  a  cor- 
net) which  bore  his  arms  or  colours, 
and  commanded  by  him  in  the  field. 
It  has  its  modern  counterpart  in  the 
troop  of  Yeomanry  which  a  landlord 
enlists  from  among  his  tenants,  he 
himself  being  their  captain.  Yeo- 
manry, of  course,  are  now  reckoned 
by  regiments,  indeed  by  brigades ; 
but  the  force  is  really  no  more  than 
a  congeries  of  troops. 

Such  a  troop  did  Oliver  Cromwell 
raise  among  his  neighbours  in  Hunt- 
ingdon, his  recruits  being  "mostly 
poor  men  or  very  small  freeholders," 
whom  he  armed  and  mounted  at  his 
own  charge ;  and  in  enlisting  them  he 
picked  out  such  only  "as  he  judged 
to  be  stout  and  resolute."  A  legend 
survives  of  the  first  parade  of  this 
troop  and  of  the  stratagem  whereby 
Cromwell  put  their  courage  to  the 
test.  "  Upon  the  first  muster  of 
them,  he  privily  placed  twelve  resolute 
men  in  ambuscade  (it  being  near  some 
of  the  King's  garrisons),  who  upon  a 
signal,  or  at  the  time  appointed,  with 
a  trumpet  sounding  a  charge,  galloped 
furiously  towards  the  body,  out  of 
which  some  twenty  [out  of  a  total  of 
sixty]  instantly  fled  for  fear  and  dis- 
may. From  these  he  took  their  horses 
and  got  them  mounted  with  others 
more  courageous."  l  It  was  probably 
of  this  troop  that  Cromwell,  when 
promoted  some  time  in  the  winter  of 
1642-43  to  be  colonel,  made  the 
nucleus  of  his  two  famous  regiments, 
known  to  us  as  the  Ironsides.  For 
in  those  days,  and  for  a  century  after, 
not  only  the  captains,  but  the  majors 
and  colonels,  nay,  the  very  generals, 
had  troops  of  their  own,  though  the 

1  The  Perfect  Politician  ;  by  Slingsby  Bethell- 

o  2 


196 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


lieutenant  of  a  colonel's  or  general's 
troop  had  the  titular  rank  of  captain, 
and  was  known  as  captain-lieutenant. 
It  is  only  reasonable  to  assume  that 
the  two  regiments  known  as  the  Iron- 
sides were  raised  troop  by  troop,  the 
colonel's  being  the  first  and  giving 
the  standard  and  model  for  the  rest. 
But  Cromwell's  recruits  for  the  Iron- 
sides were  drawn  from  a  better  class 
than  that  which  he  had  used  for  Troop 
No.  67;  for  they  were  small  free- 
holders, in  fact  yeomen,  the  class  most 
nearly  corresponding  to  that  whereof 
our  present  Yeomanry  force  (at  least 
such  small  fractions  thereof  as  come 
not  from  the  towns)  is  now  composed. 
If  we  may  judge  from  subsequent 
enactments  for  the  organisation  of 
the  Cavalry  we  may  set  down  the 
troop  as  one  hundred  strong.  Now- 
let  us  see  what  manner  of  task  Oliver 
Cromwell,  having  duly  studied  the 
contemporary  drill-books,  had  before 
him  to  convert  these  hundred  men 
into  cavalry  soldiers. 

We  may  safely  assume  that  all  the 
men  knew  more  or  less  how  to  ride  ; 
but  probably  they  had  few  ideas  as  to 
the  training  of  a  troop-horse  or  of  his 
rider.  Here  is  a  contemporary  picture 
of  the  ideal  seat  and  bearing  of  a 
trooper  of  the  seventeenth  century 
"  at  attention."  "  He  should  sit  his 
horse  in  a  comely  posture,  carrying  his 
body  upright ;  the  right  hand  bearing 
his  pistol  or  carbine  couched  upon  his 
tfiigh ;  the  left  hand  with  his  bridle- 
reins  under  the  guard  of  the  pommel 
of  the  saddle,  and  his  legs  close  and 
straight  by  his  horse's  sides,  with  his 
toes  turned  a  little  inwards.  His 
horse  is  to  be  so  well  managed  that  he 
will  constantly  stand  without  rage  or 
distemper:  then  he  [the  horse]  is  to 
be  made  sensible,  by  yielding  of  the 
body  or  thrusting  forth  his  [the  rider's] 
legs,  how  to  put  himself  into  a  short  or 
large  trot;  then  how,  by  the  even 
stroke  of  both  spurs,  to  pass  into  a 
swift  career.  .  .  .  how  to  turn  with 
speed  upon  one  or  the  other  hand.  .  .  . 
to  retire  back,"  and  so  forth. 

The  training  of  the  horse  to  endure 


fire,  to  "stand  constantly  without 
rage  or  distemper,"  and  generally  to 
demean  himself  as  a  good  troop-horse 
should,  was  to  be  accomplished  so  far 
as  possible  by  patience  and  gentleness. 
But  there  were  occasions  when  a 
different  treatment  was  enjoined,  as 
the  following  extract  explains.  "  If 
your  horse  be  resty  so  as  he  cannot  be 
put  forwards,  then  let  one  take  a  cat 
tied  by  the  tail  to  a  long  pole :  and 
when  he  [the  horse]  goes  backward, 
thrust  the  cat  within  his  tail  where 
she  may  claw  him  :  and  forget  not  to 
threaten  your  horse  with  a  terrible 
noise,  Or  otherwise  take  a  hedgehog, 
and  tie  him  strait  by  one  of  his  feet 
to  the  inside  of  the  horse's  tail,  that 
so  he  [the  hedgehog]  may  squeal  and 
prick  him." 

So  much  for  jibbing.  Kicking, 
which  is  always  a  trouble  in  Yeomanry 
ranks,  and  striking,  which  was  common 
in  those  days  when  many  of  the  troop- 
horses  were  stallions,  were  remedied 
after  a  different  fashion.  It  is  advised 
that  the  horses  afflicted  with  these  fail- 
ings should  "have  a  little  bell  placed 
upon  the  crouper  behind,  that  such  as 
know  not  their  qualities  may  beware 
of  their  jadish  tricks."  There  would 
be  a  merry  sound  of  tinkling  in  some 
Yeomanry  regiments  if  this  custom 
were  still  followed;  but  no  doubt 
Cromwell's  troopers,  like  our  modern 
yeomen,  had  their  own  methods  of 
correcting  vice.  This  however  was 
by  no  means  the  hardest  thing  that 
they  had  to  learn.  The  Cavalry  drill 
of  those  days  was  so  extremely  difficult, 
not  so  much  to  grasp  in  principle  as 
to  execute  in  practice,  that  good  train- 
ing and  perfect  command  of  the  horse 
must  have  been  indispensable. 

The  drill  was  in  fact  the  same  for 
Cavalry  and  Infantry,  and  was  derived 
from  classical  times.  But  the  system 
had  the  weak  point  of  ignoring  the 
fact  that  a  horse  has  four  legs  while  a 
man  has  only  two,  and  that  therefore 
a  row  of  horsemen  knee  to  knee  cannot 
turn  about,  each  on  his  own  ground, 
like  a  row  of  footmen  shoulder  to 
shoulder.  Nowadays,  of  course,  a  rank 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


197 


of  Cavalry  is  told  off  into  divisions  of 
threes  or  fours,  which  can  be  wheeled 
aboufc  with  the  minimum  loss  of  ground ; 
But  this  is,  comparatively  speaking,  a 
modern  innovation.  In  Cromwell's 
time  the  troop,  one  hundred  strong, 
was,  for  purposes  of  manoauvre,  drawn 
up  in  five  ranks,  giving  a  frontage  of 
twenty  men,  with  six-foot  interval 
between  man  and  man,  and  six-foot 
distance  from  rank  to  rank.  In  civilian 
language,  every  man  was  six  feet  from 
his  neighbour  to  front,  flanks,  and 
rear,  six  feet  (two  less  than  our  present 
allowance)  being  then  the  conventional 
length  of  one  horse.  Each  of  the  five 
ranks  bore  its  own  name :  1st,  Leaders ; 
2nd,  Followers  to  the  front ;  3rd, 
Middlemen;  4th,  Followers  to  the 
rear ;  5th,  Bringers-up.  The  object 
of  the  six-foot  interval  was  to  enable 
the  whole  troop  to  take  ground  to 
flanks  or  rear  by  the  simple  words, 
" Eight  (or  left)  turn,"  "Right  (or, 
left)  about  turn."  Thus  the  open 
formation  was  indispensable  for  the 
execution  of  the  simplest  manreuvre. 
If  it  were  desired  to  wheel  the  troop 
entire,  the  files  were  closed  till  the 
men  were  knee  to  knee,  and  the  ranks 
closed  till  horses  were  nose  to  croup. 
This  was  called  "  close  order,"  and 
may  fairly  be  said  to  have  deserved 
the  name.  Think  of  the  feelings  of 
men  in  the  vicinity  of  horses  with 
bells  on  their  cruppers  ! 

But,  reverting  to  the  open  order, 
we  must  briefly  notice  the  formation 
for  attack,  which  was  accomplished  by 
"doubling"  one  rank  into  another. 
As  a  rule  the  second  rank  passed  into 
the  intervals  of  the  first,  the  fourth 
into  the  intervals  of  the  third;  and 
thus  the  five  ranks  were  reduced  to 
threo,  of  which  the  first  and  second 
had  ;i  frontage  of  forty  instead  of,  as 
origiaally,  twenty  men.  Any  rank 
could  thus  be  passed  into  any  other 
according  to  circumstances ;  and  as 
the  l»est  men  were  always  either  in 
the  front  or  the  rear  rank,  it  was  cus- 
tomary on  critical  occasions  to  double 
the  fifth  rank  into  the  first,  so  as  to 
gather  all  the  best  men  together.  By 


movements  the  converse  of  doubling 
ranks,  the  files  could  be  doubled  till 
the  men  were  ten  ranks  instead  of  five 
ranks  deep ;  the  frontage  being  thus 
reduced  to  ten  men  only,  fifteen  feet 
apart  from  each  other. 

No  great  experience  of  human  or 
equine  nature  is  required  to  understand 
how  extremely  difficult,  not  to  say  im- 
possible, the  simplest  manoeuvres  must 
have  been  without  great  perfection  in 
drill ;  for  everything  turned  upon  the 
correct  preservation  of  distances  and 
intervals,  which  is  of  all  matters  in 
drill  the  hardest  and  most  wearying. 
"  That  the  troop  may  move  orderly 
and  keep  their  distance  truly,  let  the 
whole  troop  move  at  an  instant," 
reiterates  Colonel  Ward  perpetually  in 
his  drill-book.  It  is  rare  enough  even 
now  to  find  a  squadron  in  the  British 
army  wherein  the  rear  and  leading 
troops  of  a  column  of  troops  can  be  got 
into  motion  simultaneously.  "  The 
exercising  of  a  troop  of  horse,"  ob- 
serves Ward,  "  is  tedious  and  painful 
for  a  captain  to  perform ;  "  and  indeed 
we  can  well  believe  it,  for  he  had  not 
much  assistance.  His  officers  were 
three,  lieutenant,  cornet  and  quarter- 
master ;  his  non-commissioned  officers 
were  also  three,  corporals.  For  ad- 
ministrative purposes  (not  for  drill) 
the  troop  was  divided  into  three 
squadrons,  whereof  the  captain,  lieu- 
tenant and  cornet  each  had  charge  of 
one,  with  a  single  corporal  to  help 
him.  The  word  cornet,  it  may  be 
mentioned,  is  employed  indifferently 
to  signify  the  troop-standard  itself,  the 
officer  who  carried  it,  nnd  the  troop 
which  served  under  it.  Why  it  should 
have  been  struck  out  of  our  military 
vocabulary  after  two  hundred  years  of 
honoured  usage  is  a  secret  known  only 
to  the  military  reformers  who  con- 
found change  of  system  with  change 
of  name.1  Happily  the  old  fashion 
which  excluded  the  rank  of  sergeant 
from  the  Cavalry  still  survives  in  th 

1  It  is  curious  and  instructive  to  find  that 
in  Scotland  a  Captain  of  Horse  was  sometimes 
described  as  a  Rittmaster  (Rittmeister),  the 
term  still  employed  in  Germany. 


198 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


three  regiments  of  Household  Cavalry, 
wherein  the  non-commissioned  officers 
are  to  this  day  known  only  as  corpor- 
als of  various  grades. 

The  work  imposed  on  these  few 
officers  and  corporals  must  have  been 
hard  enough,  for  they  were  few  indeed 
to  instruct  a  hundred  men.  The  mere 
labour  of  shouting  to  so  large  a  body 
in  such  dispersed  order  must  have 
been  considerable ;  and  there  was  no 
relief  by  resort  to  the  trumpeter,  for 
the  trumpet  was  not  yet  employed  in 
field-movements.  There  were  in  all 
but  six  trumpet-sounds,  known  by 
foreign  names.  (1)  "  Butte  setta, 
Saddle,"  corrupted  to  "Boot  and 
saddle."  (2)  "Monte  Cavallo,  Mount." 

(3)  "  Tucquet,  Warning  for  a  March." 

(4)  "Carga,  Charge."  (5)  "Alia  Stan- 
darda,    Rally    on    the    Cornet."     (6) 

'  Auquet,  Watch-setting." 

As  a  natural  consequence,  the  officers 
fell  back  on  signals  (a  system  which 
has  within  the  last  year  or  two  been 
restored),  and  we  are  told  that  the 
standard  was  employed  to  make  these 
signals.  In  order  to  distribute  the 
officers  as  efficiently  as  possible  for  the 
necessary  supervision,  their  posts  in 
the  field  were  assigned  as  follows ; 
captain  on  the  right  front,  cornet  in 
the  centre,  senior  corporal  on  the  left 
front,  one  corporal  on  each  flank, 
lieutenant  and  quartermaster  in  the 
rear. 

And  the  men  in  their  .turn  must 
have  endured  much,  for  it  is  not  likely 
that  Cromwell  spared  them.  A  morn- 
ing's troop-drill  in  a  cuirass  so  weighty 
that  it  could  not  be  worn  without  a 
protective  buff  coat  beneath  it,  with  a 
heavy  sword  dangling  over  one  shoul- 
der, and  perhaps  a  heavy  carbine  over 
the  other,  can  have  been  no  joke,  es- 
pecially when  ranks  and  files  were 
compressed  into  "  close  order."  There 
must  have  been  plenty  of  jostling  and 
colliding,  with  the  inevitable  loss  of 
skin  and  temper ;  and  withal  no  swear- 
ing permitted.  Trooper  Bind-their- 
kings-in-chains  might  come  bounding 
into  his  place  alongside  Trooper  Hew- 
Agag-in-pieces  and  nearly  knock  him 


off  his  horse  ;  but  they  could  not  ex 
change  the  muttered  oath  that  flies  so 
swiftly  along  the  ranks  in  these  days. 
Trooper  Sword-of-the  -  Lord  -  and  -  of- 
Gideon  might  think  six  feet  to  be 
dangerously  near  the  bell  on  the  crup- 
per of  Trooper  Break-them-like-a-rod- 
of-iron's  jadish  sorrel,  but  the  lieuten- 
ant could  not  curse  him  for  not  keep- 
ing his  distance.  In  Colonel  Cromwell's 
regiments  "  not  a  man  swears  but  he 
pays  his  twelve-pence,"  amounting  to 
half  a  day's  pay. 

The  business  of  riding  and  of  drill- 
ing being  mastered,  there  remained 
still  that  of  learning  the  use  of 
weapons.  It  is  not  quite  certain  how 
Cromwell's  men  were  equipped,  but  it 
is  tolerably  clear  from  odd  notices  that 
they  were  Light  Cavalry,  in  the  sense 
according  to  which  the  phrase  was 
then  understood  ;  that  is  to  say,  they 
wore  an  iron  helmet,  gorget,  and 
back  and  breast,  and  carried  a  brace 
of  pistols  and  a  sword.  Heavy 
Cavalry  men  were  dressed  in  com- 
plete armour  and  rode  horses  not  less 
than  fifteen  hands  high  \  but  there 
were  none  of  these  except  Sir  Arthur 
Haselrigg's  troop  of  "  Lobsters "  in 
the  days  of  the  Civil  War.  The 
Cavalry-man  of  those  days  was 
taught  to  rely  mainly  on  his  fire-arms, 
for  the  use  of  which  most  careful 
instructions  were  laid  down.  The 
minuteness  of  those  may  be  inferred 
from  the  fact  that  there  are  twenty 
distinct  words  of  command  between  the 
drawing  of  the  pistol  from  the  holster 
and  the  order  to  "  give  fire."  In  the 
matter  of  marksmanship  it  was  en- 
joined upon  the  captain  that  if  he 
were  not  a  good  shot  himself  and  did 
not  try  to  make  his  men  good,  his 
labour  was  to  little  purpose.  Men 
armed  with  pistols  were  taught  to 
engage  an  adversary  on  the  right  side, 
as  the  side  on  which  he  could  best  be 
fired  at ;  men  armed  with  carbine  or 
arquebus,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
taught  to  keep  an  enemy  on  their 
left,  as  they  had  to  hold  the  weapon 
to  their  right  shoulder,  resting  it  on 
the  bridle-hand.  In  engaging  a  man 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


199 


in  complete  armour  the  trooper  was 
taught  to  withhold  his  fire  until  within 
three  or  four  paces  of  him,  and  then 
to  aim  at  his  ear,  arm-pit,  or  the  lower 
part  of  the  belly  beneath  the  cuirass, 
or,  letter  still,  simply  to  shoot  his 
horse. 

The  fire-arms  empty,  the  time  was 
come  to  use  the  sword.  This  was  quite 
a  secondary  weapon,  as  was  natural 
when  men  fought  in  armour,  and 
ther3  is  no  trace  of  instruction  in 
sword-exercise  beyond  the  hint  that 
"  th'3  principal  thing  required  is  to 
disa  )le  your  adversary  by  hacking  in 
two  the  reins  of  his  bridle  or  the 
buckles  of  his  pouldrons  [shoulder- 
piec3s],  whereby  he  shall  be  disabled 
from  making  any  resistance."  Hack- 
ing was  necessary,  because  bridle-reins 
wero  strengthened  by  a  wire  chain. 
Of  lances  we  hear  little,  the  fact  being 
thai  they  were  out  of  fashion  at  that 
tinio,  and  only  employed  when  no 
beti  er  weapon  was  to  be  found.  Fire- 
arms were  the  rage  of  the  day,  and  it 
is  expressly  mentioned  in  the  instruc- 
tior.s  for  raising  the  Scotch  army 
tha -;  no  man  should  carry  a  lance  who 
could  furnish  himself  with  any  other 
weapon.1  Of  inferior  arms  the  pole- 
axe  was  a  favourite  among  officers. 

This  preference  for  fire-arms  ac- 
counts for  a  great  deal  that  sounds 
strange  in  the  history  of  the  war,  and 
helps  us  to  get  rid  of  a  good  many 
fab  e  notions.  In  the  first  place  the 
formation  of  the  troop  into  five  ranks 
wa ;  based  on  the  principle  that  five 
rar  ks  of  men  with  two  pistols  apiece 
were  equal  to  ten  ranks  of  men  with 
om  musket  apiece,  the  latter  being  the 
normal  formation  of  Infantry.  Hence 
tht  ordinary  Cavalry  attack  was  deliv- 
ere  d  by  ranks  ;  each  rank  fired  its  two 
pistols2  and  filed  or  countermarched 
to  the  rear,  leaving  the  next  rank  to 
do  likewise.  Anything  more  remote 
frcm  "shock-action"  can  hardly  be 
coi  iceived ;  and  indeed  we  know  from 

]  Rushworth. 

'-  The  American  prejudice  in  favour  of  the 
re^  olver  as  the  Cavalry  weapon  is  therefore 
on  y  a  return  to  an  old  fashion. 


a  variety  of  evidence  that  shock-action 
was    not   the   rule.       "  A    cuirassier 
usually  giveth  his   charge   upon    the 
trot,"  says  Ward.   And  again  :  "  When 
the  enemy  shall  charge  you  with  one 
of  his  troops,  do  not  you  rush  forward 
to  meet  him,  but  if  your  ground  be  of 
advantage,  keep  it."     It  is  often  said 
that  Cromwell  altered  the  system  of 
Cavalry  attack  from  an  exchange  of 
volleys  to  shock-action,  but  we  question 
if  this  can   be   maintained   by  facts. 
Cavalry  actions,  we  find,  were  gene- 
rally opened  by  a  preliminary  fire  of 
Dragoons,  who  were  simply  mounted 
Infant  ry,  armed  with  the  musket,  drilled 
like  foot-soldiers,  and  placed  on  horses 
only  to  give  them  greater  mobility. 
Here  is  an  account  of  one  such  action 
in  which  Cromwell  nearly  lost  his  life. 
"  Both  the  enemy  and  we  had  drawn 
up  our  Dragooners,  who  gave  the  first 
charge  [fired  the  first  shot]  ;  and  then 
the  Horse  fell  in.     Colonel  Cromwell 
fell  with  brave   resolution   upon  the 
enemy    immediately    the   Dragooners 
had  given  him  the  first  volley ;  yet  so 
nimble  were  the  Dragooners  that  at 
half  pistol-shot  they  gave  him  another. 
His  horse  was  killed  under  him,  &c." 
Now   the   range   of   the   old   musket 
was    short  enough,    and  the  weapon 
took  a  long  time  to  reload ;  so  it  is 
plain  that  Cromwell  could  not  have 
advanced  to  the  attack  very  swiftly. 
Here  is  another  account  from  his  own 
pen  of  an  engagement  wherein  with 
twelve  weak  troops  he  fought  twenty 
troops  of  Royalists.     "  After  we  had 
stood  a  little  above  musket-shot  the 
one   body   from   the   other,    and   the 
Dragooners  had  fired  on  both  sides  for 
the  space  of  half   an   hour  or  more, 
they   not   advancing  towards  us,   we 
agreed  to  charge  them.     And  advanc- 
ing the  body  after  many  shots  on  both 
sides,  we  came   on  with  our   troop  a 
pretty  round  trot,  they  standing  firm 
to  receive  us.     And  our  men  charging 
fiercely  upon  them,  by  God's  provi- 
dence they  were  immediately  routed, 
and  we   had  the    execution    of   them 
three  or  four  miles."     Now  it  is  pe 
fectly  plain  that  Cromwell,  if  he 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


200 


really  adopted  shock-action  as  a  prin- 
ciple, might  have  galloped  down  on 
these  troops,  which  stood  so  invitingly 
firm,  and  dispersed  them  at  once,  in- 
stead of  waiting  for  an  hour  before 
advancing  at  a  "  pretty  round  trot." 
Possibly  this  action  taught  him  some- 
thing, for  at  Naseby  he  did  not  wait 
to  be  attacked,  but  took  the  initiative 
himself.  But  at  Marston  Moor  he 
fought  on  the  old  principles.  Rupert 
attacked  him  in  front  and  flank,  with 
the  result  that  both  sides  "  stood  at 
sword's  point  'a  pretty  while  hacking 
one  another,"  and  evidently  doing  each 
other  little  harm  ;  till  Cromwell's  men, 
probably  from  superior  discipline,  at 
last  broke  through. 

Nor  does  it  seem  to  us  that  we  are 
quite  correct  in  looking  upon  Rupert 
as  a  kind  of  Murat,  as  the  usual  fashion 
is.  Take  for  instance  his  attack  at 
Naseby.  He  advanced  up  a  slight  in- 
cline, and  he  "  came  fast  "  as  we  are 
expressly  told,  probably  at  a  trot. 
Ireton,  who  was  opposed  to  him,  also 
advanced  down  the  hill.  On  seeing 
him,  Rupert  halted,  thus  giving  Ireton 
the  chance  of  plunging  down  upon  him 
with  irresistible  force.  But  Ireton 
also  halted  in  his  turn,  partly  on  ac- 
count of  "  the  disadvantage  of  the 
ground,  partly  to  allow  some  of  his 
troops  to  recover  their  stations."  Had 
Rupert  continued  his  advance  he  would 
have  found  Ireton  in  disorder  ;  but  as 
it  was  he  gave  him  time  to  get  his 
troops  together.  Then  he  charged 
Ireton  and  routed  him ;  but  as  usual 
he  made  no  attempt  to  rally  his  men, 
and  ultimately  appeared  alone  before 
the  Parliamentary  baggage,  having 
doubtless  penetrated  thus  far  through 
the  superiority  of  his  own  equipment 
and  of  the  horse  which  he  rode.  Crom- 
well, though  by  repute  less  dashing, 
would  never  let  his  troops  out  of  hand  ; 
and  having  the  last  reserves  to  throw 
in,  carried  all  before  him  on  his  own 
wing.  Perhaps,  however,  the  most 
remarkable  feature  in  the  handling  of 
the  Cavalry  at  Naseby  was  the  total 
ignorance  of  the  Parliamentary  leaders 
as  to  the  ground  over  which  their 


force  was  to  advance.  Ireton' s  left 
was  overborne  without  difficulty,"  hav- 
ing much  disadvantage  by  reason  of 
pits  of  water  and  other  pieces  of 
ditches  which  hindered  them  in  their 
order  to  charge."  Cromwell  on  the 
other  wing  fell  into  similar  difficulties. 
Many  of  his  divisions  being  "  strait- 
ened by  furzes,  advanced  with  great 
difficulty,  as  also  by  reason  of  the 
unevenness  of  the  ground  and  a  cony- 
warren  over  which  they  were  to 
march."  Evidently  "  ground-  scout  s  " 
were  a  thing  unknown. 

Altogether  it  seems  to  us  certain 
that  Cavalry  charges,  in  the  sense  of 
swift,  sudden  onslaught,  were  the  ex- 
ception in  the  Civil  War.  Fashion, 
as  has  been  said,  was  against  it, 
owing  to  the  prejudice  in  favour  of 
fire-arms ;  and  thus  the  lance  was 
treated  as  an  obsolete  relic  of  bygone 
days,  much  like  a  muzzle-loading  rifle 
at  the  present  time.  Nevertheless, 
there  were  a  few  troops  of  Lancers 
engaged  in  the  Civil  War  ;  and  it  is 
interesting  to  note  the  consummate 
success  of  their  old  shock-tactics. 
Thus  at  Marston  Moor,  Fairfax,  with 
a  small  body  of  Lancers,  crashed 
through  the  opposing  cavalry  on  his 
own  wing,  passed  right  round  the  rear 
of  the  royal  army,  and  fell  upon  the 
rear  of  the  Horse  on  the  other  wing. 
So  too  at  Dunbar,  the  only  troops 
that  made  any  impression  on  Crom- 
well's Cavalry  were  one  or  two  that 
carried  lances  in  the  front  rank. 
Still,  speaking  generally,  shock-action 
was  -the  exception  rather  than  the 
rule ;  and  quite  apart  from  all  military 
rules  or  prejudices  it  is  probable  that 
the  size,  condition,  and  speed  of  the 
horses,  which  had  to  carry  a  great 
weight  and  yet  were  mostly  under 
fifteen  hands  high,  wrought  strongly 
against  it. 

As  a  curious  link  between  the 
Middle  Ages  and  the  seventeenth 
century,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  the 
old  chivalric  fashion  of  a  preliminary 
combat  of  champions  found  not  in- 
frequent example  in  the  Civil  War. 
Thus  Rupert  and  Massey  once  galloped 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army, 


out  t,o  meet  each  other  in  front  of 
their  armies,  and  shot  each  the  other's 
horso  dead.  The  combat  being  thus 
drawn,  the  two  principals  exchanged 
polite  messages  through  a  trumpeter. 
On  the  other  hand  Colonel  Morgan's 
instructions  for  a  Cavalry  charge  in 
1654  bring  us  nearer  to  modern  days. 
These  were  "  that  not  a  man  should 
fire  iill  he  came  within  a  horse's  length 
of  the  enemy,  and  then  to  throw  their 
pistols  in  their  faces  and  so  fall  on 
with  the  sword." 

It  remains  to  consider  the  method 
of  attacking  Infantry.  The  tactics 
prescribed  are  those  practised  by  the 
Macedonian  Cavalry  of  Alexander  the 
Great,  the  formation,  for  instance,  of 
the  troops  into  wedges  and  other 
strange  shapes ;  but  we  doubt  if  any- 
thing so  complex  was  really  attempted 
in  the  Civil  War.  The  Soldier's 
Pocket-book  of  Captain  John  Yernon 
recommends  a  different  plan,  namely, 
to  divide  the  attacking  troop  into 
three  $  bodies.  Of  these  three,  one  was 
to  gallop  up  to  the  bristling  square  of 
pikes  and  halt ;  the  officer  was  then 
to  give  some  word  of  command  (no 
matter  what),  the  effect  of  which  was 
(or  was  expected  to  be)  that  the  pikes 
would  close  up  towards  the  threatened 
quarter,  leaving  a  weak  spot  for  one 
or  oiher  of  the  divisions  to  assail.  If 
the  Infantry  were  dispersed  in  skir- 
mishing order,  then  and  then  alone  it 
was  orthodox  to  form  the  whole  troop 
in  a  single  rank  ("  rank  entire  "  is  the 
old  ~erm,  which  still  survives  in  full 
use),  and  swoop  down  upon  them  in 
line. 

Finally  we  come  to  reconnaissance 
dutios,  which  seem  to  have  been  recog- 
nised as  among  the  trooper's  functions, 
but  are  very  vaguely  described.  "  The 
duty  of  the  troops,"  we  read,  "  is  al- 
ways to  scour  and  discover  the  high- 
way.; and  avenues  by  which  the  enemy 
migl  it  come ;  and  to  be  ever  hovering 
aboi  t  the  enemy's  army."  The  same 
writer,  Captain  John  Crusoe,  also 
dwells  on  the  importance  of  never 
losing  touch  with  an  opposing  army 
when  once  it  is  found,  thus  anticipating 


present  ideas  by  two  centuries.  But 
little  is  really  said  on  the  subject ; 
and  it  is  only  from  our  Soldier's 
Pocket-book,  a  minor  authority,  that 
we  discover  that  vedettes  were  posted 
then,  as  now,  in  pairs.  It  is  perhaps 
characteristic  of  the  genius  of  the 
nation  that  Cromwell  in  one  letter 
declares  his  preference  for  a  good 
"  foot-intelligencer  "  over  any  number 
of  Cavalry  scouts  ;  and  that  Fairfax 
was  given  .£1,000  wherewith  to  buy 
his  intelligence.  Foreign  critics  still 
reproach  us  for  our  general  adherence 
to  the  same  principle,  in  the  Peninsular 
War  and  at  other  times. 

We  are  now  in  a  position  to  judge 
more  correctly  of  the  British  Cavalry 
soldier,  as  Cromwell  originally  made 
him.  We  should  seek  our  ideas  of  the 
man  not  in  modern  pictures  which 
make  a  cavalry  action  of  the  Civil 
War  as  headlong  a  matter  as  the 
charge  of  the  Greys  at  Waterloo,  but 
in  the  old  pictures  of  Wouvermans, 
where  the  cavaliers  caracole  about 
firing  pistols  in  each  other's  faces. 
We  must  get  rid  of  all  such  fancy 
sketches  as  Whyte  Melville  has  drawn 
in  "Holmby  House,"  where  Cromwell 
is  presented  as  halting  the  Ironsides 
at  the  end  of  an  advance  in  line.  We 
very  greatly  doubt  if  either  regiment 
of  Ironsides1  ever  went  through  a 
regimental  field-day  in  its  whole  life ; 
certainly  there  is  not  a  word  of  in- 
struction to  the  colonel  for  the  conduct 
of  such  a  field-day.  But  that  there 
was  troop-drill  in  abundance  under  the 
eye  of  a  vigilant  and  critical  colonel, 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  "I  have  a 
lovely  company,"  wrote  Cromwell  of 
the  mother  troop  of  the  Ironsides, 
with  all  a  soldier's  pride.  We  must 
picture  to  ourselves  dense  columns  of 
horsemen  moving  slowly  and  steadily 
in  extended  order,  now  closing  up  and 
now  again  opening  out.  And  at  the 
end  of  each  manoeuvre  no  short,  sharp, 

1  Ironside,  as  Mr.  Gardner  has  taught  us, 
was  Rupert's  nickname  for  Cromwell ;  and 
the  word  would  be  more  properly  written 
Ironside's,  i.e.  Cromwell's,  regiments  being 
called  after  their  colonels. 


202 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


peremptory  barking  of  "  Eyes  centre, 
dress,"  but  "Silence,  and  even  your 
ranks,"  "  Silence,  and  straighten  your 
files,"  for  military  brevity  was  not  yet 
a  proverb  and  the  word  "  Attention  " 
was  not  invented.  So,  too,  there  was 
no  so  unmannerly  caution  as  "  Wheel 
to  the  right,  follow  and  cover,"  but 
"  Gentlemen,  in  your  wheelings,  be 
careful  to  follow  this  rule,  always 
observe  your  right-hand  man  and  your 
leader."  For  your  Cavalry-man  was 
then,  as  now,  a  superior  being,  and 
not  to  be  classed  with  a  mere  Foot- 
soldier.  If  he  were  degraded  it  was 
to  nothing  worse  than  a  mounted 
Infantry-man  or  Dragoon  ;  though 
such  fall  was  low  enough  in  all  con- 
science, since  it  carried  with  it  a  re- 
duction of  pay  from  two  shillings  to 
eighteenpence  a  day,  service  under  an 
ensign  instead  of  a  cornet,  and  obedi- 
ence to  the  homely  drum  in  place  of 
the  nobler  and  more  dignified  trumpet. 

Colonel  Cromwell,  we  may  be  sure, 
looked  very  sharply  to  the  behaviour 
of  all  his  troops,  and  spared  no  man, 
knowing  his  duties  as  a  commanding 
officer  better  than  any  drill-book  could 
teach  him.  One  order  in  particular 
we  may  be  confident  that  he  did  not 
neglect  :  "On  the  Sabbath  the  Colonel 
is  to  have  a  sermon  in  his  tent  morn- 
ing and  afternoon  ;  and  every  officer  of 
his  regiment  is  to  compel  all  his  sol- 
diers that  are  free  from  guard  to  repair 
thither ;  and  no  sutler  shall  draw  any 
beer  in  time  of  Divine  Service  and 
Sermon." 

So  the  famous  regiments  were 
gradually  hammered,  troop  by  troop, 
into  proper  shape.  It  is  likely  enough 
that  Cromwell  received  help  from 
Dutch  corporals  trained  in  the  school 
of  Maurice  of  Nassau,  for  he  had  a 
relative,  Colonel  John  Cromwell,  in  the 
Dutch  service;  but  the  master-spirit 
that  controlled  them  was  his  own.  At 
Marston  Moor  they  went  into  action 
and  gave  Rupert  his  first  severe  check  ; 
but  we  do  not  know  what  their  losses 
were.  We  know  only  of  the  manner 
of  one  young  subaltern's  death,  told  in 
Cromwell's  own  plain  words.  "  Sir, 


God  hath  taken  away  your  eldest  son 
[young  Walton]  by  a  cannon  shot.  It 
brake  his  leg.  We  were  necessitated 
to  have  it  cut  off,  whereof  he  died. 
....  At  his  fall,  his  horse  being 
killed  by  the  bullet,  and  as  I  am  in- 
formed, three  horses  more,  I  am  told 
he  bid  them  open  to  the  right  and  left, 
that  he  might  see  the  rogues  run." 
A  good  stamp  of  subaltern,  this  poor 
boy,  probably  one  of  the  lighter  and 
more  dashing  elements  in  that  corps  of 
stern  disciplined  troopers,  whose  great 
strength  lay  in  their  ability  not  only 
to  charge,  but  to  rally. 

Then  in  less  than  a  year  came  the 
organisation  of  the  New  Model  Army, 
wherein  the  two  regiments  of  Ironsides 
were  blent  into  one,  and  handed  over 
to  the  Lord  General  Fairfax  ;  "  Your 
regiment,  which  was  mine  own,"  as 
Cromwell  once  writes  to  him  of  it. 
As  such  it  appears  at  the  head  of  the 
list  of  regiments  of  Horse,  six  troops, 
six  hundred  strong  in  all.  We  may 
write  it  down  in  the  modern  fashion. 

Colonel  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  General 
(his  troop  commanded  by  Captain- 
Lieutenant  Gladman). 

Major  Desborow. 

Captain  Laurance. 

,,       Brown. 

,,       Packer. 

„       Berry. 

(Uniform  scarlet,  Facings  blue.) 

Shortly  after,  it  fought  at  Naseby 
and  in  the  campaign  of  1645-46  in  the 
West,  moving  in  swift  progress  from 
victory  to  victory.  And  by  this  time 
the  men  of  the  Cavalry  regiments, 
well  equipped  and  disciplined,  began  to 
feel  pride  in  themselves  as  soldiers, 
and  huge  contempt  for  the  unfortunate 
Royalist  troopers,  whose  condition 
grew  worse  as  fast  as  their  own  grew 
better.  What  must  have  been  the 
spirit  in  the  ranks  when  the  Parlia- 
mentary trooper  could  describe  a 
Royalist  detachment  in  such  terms  as 
these  :  "  First  came  half-a-dozen  of 
carbines  in  their  leathern  coats,  and 
starved,  weather-beaten  jades,  just  like 
so  many  brewers  in  their  jerkins  made 
of  old  boots,  riding  to  fetch  in  old 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


203 


casks  :  and  after  them  as  many  light 
horsemen  with  great  saddles  and  old 
broken  pistols,  and  scarce  a  sword 
among  them,  just  like  so  many  fiddlers 
with  their  fiddles  in  cases  by  their 

horses'  sides In  the  works  at 

Bristol  was  a  company  of  footmen 
with  knapsacks  and  half-pikes  like  so 
man  7  tinkers  with  budgets  at  their 
backs;  and  some  musketeers  with 
bandoliers  about  their  necks  like  a 
conrmny  of  sow-gelders." 

T.ie  most  clownish  of  Yeomanry 
priv  ites  could  hardly  extort  more  con- 
temptuous criticism  from  the  smartest 
of  Hussar-sergeants  at  the  present  day. 
It  gives  us  a  lively  picture  of  the  New 
Model  trooper  in  his  new  red  coat 
faced  with  his  colonel's  colours,  his 
great  boots  and  huge  clinking  spurs; 


a  soldier  before  all  things  in  spite  of 
the  texts  on  his  lips.  It  seems  a  far 
cry  from  this  Light  Cavalry-man  of  the 
seventeenth  century  to  the  Hussar  of 
the  present  day,  yet  they  may  not  be 
so  distant  after  all.  Though  he  had 
no  opportunity  of  wearing  an  infini- 
tesimal forage-cap  and  of  plaiting  his 
lines  (in  defiance  of  all  regulation),  yet 
it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  Cromwell's 
troopers  did  not  sometimes  sit  in  an 
extra  comely  posture  when  the  right 
woman  was  looking  on.  And  though 
the  Hussar  has  never  yet  been  called 
upon  to  face  the  highest  and  most 
reckless  spirits  of  his  own  countrymen, 
yet  under  their  leadership  he  has,  as 
at  Yilliers-en-Couche  and  Balaklava, 
cheerfully  charged  an  army.  We  can 
hardly  expect  more  of  any  man. 


•204 


THE  WIT  OF  MAN. 


I  MET  her  at  a  garden  party,  not 
a  joyous  gathering  of  tennis-players 
and  girls  laughing  to  the  sun,  but 
the  gloomy  affair  of  the  morbidly 
select.  In  bright  red  she  blossomed 
with  all  the  sweets  of  a  woman 
magically  feminine.  Her  crisp,  black 
hair  seemed  ready  to  fly  out  against 
conventionalities,  against  hats  par- 
ticularly, and  her  brown  eyes  were 
golden  with  the  joy  of  life ;  wit  had 
chiselled  her  features,  so  excellently 
irregular  in  the  roundness  of  their 
curves,  to  pointed  nose  and  chin.  I 
could  not  but  enjoy,  as  a  relief  from 
all  the  elaborate  angles  of  her  stiff 
surroundings,  the  rapid  undulations 
of  her  lithe  figure,  her  expressive 
arms,  dancing  little  feet,  as  she  sat 
there,  a  wild  gipsy,  fashionable  and 
polished,  but  still  untamed  by  society. 
Pouting  like  some  playful  child  over 
lessons,  her  mouth  rigidly  set  against 
the  flickering  dimples  of  irrepressible 
laughter,  she  listened  to  the  pompous 
old  Due  de  Retz,  or  answered  his 
wise  sentences  at  random,  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand. 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  I  inquired  of  M. 
Pimodan  de  St.  Ouen,  a  walking 
edition  of  Le  Tout  Paris,  tightly 
bound  in  frock-coat. 

"  Why,  that  is  la  belle  Comtesse  de 
Crequy  de  Canaples ;  a  widow,  mon 
cher,  young,  rich.  If  you  admire  her, 
here's  your  chance.  The  Duke  is 
dying  to  talk  politics  with  the  Dow- 
ager de  Baudricourt.  Forward,  to 
the  rescue!"  And  M.  Pimodan 
emitted  that  short,  dry  note  which 
serves  him  as  laugh  or  cough,  while 
I  stepped  up  to  M.  de  Retz  who 
gratefully  introduced  me.  "  Dear 
cousin  !  Mr.  Castlehigh, — Comtesse 
de  Canaples." 

And  he  retired,  as  Madame  de 
Canaples  smiled  up  at  rue  with  her 


humorous  eyes.  Her  voice  was  flu- 
ently musical  as  she  gaily  said,  "  We 
are  not  quite  strangers,  for  I  have 
met  your  charming  sister  at  the  Plot- 
Chandieus."  Before  I  could  frame  a 
compliment,  she  suddenly  added : 
"Do  you  love  her?" 

"Who?" 

"  Your  sister,  of  course.  I  like 
every  man  to  love  his  sister." 

"  Well,  I  hope  I  do." 

"You  only  hope!  Are  you  an 
Englishman?" 

"  More  or  less." 

"  Less,  decidedly  less.  An  English- 
man with  blue  eyes  like  yours,  should 
not  only  be  honest  and  brave,  but 
sure,  sure  of  everything.  Don't  you 
see,  don't  you  understand  what 
strength,  what  manliness  there  is  in 
being  absolutely  sure,  even  if  you  are 
quite  wrong  ?  It  is  healthy  ;  every- 
thing strong  and  absolute  is  healthy. 
What  are  you  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  a  cosmopolitan." 

"  Ah  bah  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  a 
toss  of  her  diminutive  head,  as  she 
surveyed  me  good-humouredly.  "  And 
that  means  that  you  are  not  interested 
in  anything  but  the  surface  of  things  ; 
that  your  sentiments  are  paradoxes  ; 
that  your  aspirations  go  no  higher 
than  a  lift  will  carry  you ;  that  your 
feelings,  philosophy,  life,  love,  lounge 
in  a  mental  Hotel  Metropole,  and  never 
work  at  home.  Have  you  no  prefer- 
ence for  any  country  ? " 

"  I  think  I  prefer  France." 

"  For  shame ;  you  a  Castlehigh, 
you  whose  very  name  seems  rooted 
in  Saxon  soil  !  Ah,"  she  added,  with 
another  of  her  kindly  smiles,  "I  see 
it  all ;  you  think  to  flatter.  But  why 
should  you  not  speak  the  truth  ?  I 
adore  the  truth  !  You  cannot  possi- 
bly love  anything  better  than  your 
birthplace,  your  family,  your  home  ! " 


The    Wit   of  Man. 


205 


I  laughed,  saying :  "  You  see  my 
motber  was  French." 

She  seized  my  hand  and  shook  it 
frankly,  as  she  exclaimed  :  "Then  you 
really  did  love  your  mother?  You 
love  her  country?  'Tis  well!  All 
human  greatness  of  man  is  in  his 
devobion  to  his  mother.  France  then 
seems  to  enfold  you  in  her  arms  ;  the 
very  air  caresses,  soothes,  and  nurses 
you !  But  nevertheless  you  are  an 
Englishman.  This  mixing  of  races 
and  names  breaks  traditions  of  here- 
ditary faith.  Man  must  be  steadfast. 
Only  a  woman  may  capriciously  adopt 
and  passionately  follow  her  love  across 
the  seas,  may  be  irresponsible,  except 
to  God,  herself,  and  her  husband. 
Man  must  be  the  rock  to  which  we 
clin^;.  He  is  our  country,  our  name, 
our  heart.  Remember  that  song  of 
youi  people : 

*  In  spite  of  all  temptations 
To  belong  to  other  nations 
He  remains  an  Englishman.' 

How  nice  of  him !  You  know  there 
are  temptations,  for  England  means 
duty — But  I  am  preaching,  excuse 
me  !  You  have  such  a  real,  honest 
British  face  that  I  cannot  help  feeling 
disappointed  at  finding  you  a  mere 
cosmopolitan.  Go  back  to  England ; 
there  is  the  place  for  the  clever  and 
the  brave." 

"  You  natter  !  " 

"  Never  ! " 

"But /feel  nattered." 

"  You  should  feel  ashamed  then, 
as  \  lattery  commences  where  truth 
ceases.  Are  you  not  clever,  are  you 
not  brave?" 

"  E  don't  think  so." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate  you  have  enough 
false  •  modesty  to  please  most  people  of 
the  world." 

I  blushed. 

"  Have  I  hurt  your  feelings?"  she 
said,  with  her  hand  on  my  arm,  in 
soft,  gentle  tones.  "  I  am  so  sorry  ! 
I  orly  wished  to  spur  you  out  of  this 
nonchalant  attitude.  I  am  sure  'tis 
only  a  pose,  that  you  really  have 
idea  Is.  Come  now,  don't  let  me  do  you 


an  injustice ;  I  hate  misunderstand- 
ings. Admit  it,  you  are  a  worker, 
not  simply  a  walking  gentleman ;  you 
have  something  beneath  the  crown  of 
your  hat.  What  do  you  do,  tell  me?  " 
And  she  leaned  forwards,  her  eyes 
intent  on  mine. 

,  "Well,  I  write  a  little  poetry,"  I 
stammered. 

Her  eyes  sparkled,  her  lips  smiled, 
she  clapped  her  hands  in  delight,  ex- 
claiming in  a  musical  roulade  :  "  You 
love  your  mother  and  you  are  a  poet ! 
I  knew  your  English  eyes  expressed 
ideals,  strength  and  health.  Poets 
may  be  cosmopolitans ;  indeed  their 
home  is  in  all  nations'  hearts.  Have 
you  published?  Not  yet?  Oh,  then 
do  bring  your  manuscripts  to  my 
house ;  could  you  come  to-morrow, 
Tuesday  ?  Yes  ?  How  good  of  you, 
when  every  moment  may  be  precious 
gold.  Thank  you,  and  au  revoir." 

And  as  I  held  that  small  hand  in 
mine,  I  felt  that  I  had  made  a  friend. 

When  I  called  next  day  Madame  de 
Canaples  was  in  her  boudoir.  She 
listened  to  my  reading,  silently,  atten- 
tively, almost,  it  seemed,  reverently ; 
and  when  I  left  the  house  after 
dinner,  I  felt  very  great.  The  next 
morning  we  met  in  the  Bois  and  rode 
together ;  the  same  night  we  danced  a 
cotillon  at  Madame  de  Plot-Chandieu's. 
Fate  seemed  determined  to  make  us 
meet,  and  perhaps  we  helped  her. 

If  a  man  and  woman  see  much  of 
each  other,  they  invariably  talk  of 
themselves,  wax  sentimental  by  waltz - 
music  and  imagine  themselves  in  love 
after  supper.  But  I  am  tired  of  flirta- 
tions, sick  of  telling  a  woman,  whom 
I  only  admire,  that  I  love  her.  So 
one  evening,  as  we  discussed  senti- 
ment over  p&te-defoie-gras,  I  told  her 
how  much  I  regretted  that  two  great 
minds  should  slavishly  follow  the  ex- 
ample of  the  stupid.  She  agreed. 
"  If  we  remain  on  our  present  footing, 
one  of  us  may  fall  in  love."  She 
opened  her  innocent  eyes  smiling. 
"  Yes,"  I  continued,  "  in  love  ;  what 
else  can  happen  ?  Whereas  if  we  go 
off  somewhere  together  and  live  na- 


206 


The    Wit   of  Man. 


turally,  unconstrained  by  the  world, 
we  shall  know  ourselves  truly  and 
enjoy  a  few  days  of  rest." 

"  Oh,  the  wit  of  man  !  "  she  cried, 
gaily  clapping  her  hands,  her  whole 
face  beaming  with  delight. 

The  next  evening  we  started  by  rail 
for  Fontainebleau.  Soon  we  were  both 
fast  asleep,  only  to  wake  at  our  des- 
tination. She  took  a  room  at  one 
hotel,  I  at  another.  The  next  day  we 
drove  in  the  forest,  silently  watching 
the  royal  trees,  till  our  eyes  grew 
tired  and  we  fell  asleep.  We  stayed 
there  a  fortnight,  driving,  sleeping, 
barely  saying  a  word,  and  yet  quite 
happy. 

When  we  were  back  in  Paris,  she 
asked,  "  And  why  did  we  go  to  Fon- 
tainebleau for  that  1 " 

''Because,"  I  replied,  "  at  Fontaine- 
bleau we  kept  regular  hours,  allowed 
ourselves  no  cerebral  excitement, 
drank  no  champagne,  heard  no  one 
whisper,  '  Little  Castlehigh  is  awfully 
in  love  with  Madame  de  Canaples,'  or 
'  The  Countess  is  decidedly  sweet  on 
ce  cher  gar$on  !  '  I  have  simply  proved, 
dear  lady,  that  Society  was  forcing 
us,  with  its  champagne  and  talk,  to 
think  of  each  other,  whereas  Nature 
left  us  to  follow  our  own  individual 
and  separate  thoughts.  Oh,  that  fort- 
night in  Fontainebleau  !  We  scarcely 
spoke  twice  a  day.  Silence  is  repose, 
and  repose  is  bliss.  To  think  that  we 
might  have  been  vulgar  lovers  !  A 
few  more  days  of  Paris,  and  my  fate, 
at  least,  was  sealed.  But  I  under- 
stood the  dangers  of  our  situation. 
Could  anything  be  more  paradoxical 
and  modern  than  our  elopement  to 
Fontainebleau  ?  Carry  off  a  woman 
mysteriously  at  night,  two  hours  by 
rail  to  a  strange  town,  remain  there  a 
fortnight  en  tete-a-tete  !  And  all  that 
not  to  become  lovers,  but  on  the  con- 
trary to  escape  the  necessary,  the  his- 
torical development  of  a  situation 
without  issue.  Don't  you  think  that 
our  late  adventure  gives  us  incontest- 
able superiority  over  the  greatest  wits 
of  our  age1?" 

She  seized  both  my  hands  and  fixed 


my  eyes.  It  was  a  rapid,  searching, 
wondrous  look  ;  only  her  irregular  and 
mobile  face  could  have  such  expres- 
sion ;  and  for  half  a  second  she  seemed 
to  tear  open  my  soul,  take  a  peep,  see 
it  all,  and  shut  it  up.  Then  she  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  and  gazed  medita- 
tively at  me.  Humour  and  dis- 
appointment were  blended  in  her 
dimpled  smile.  She  crossed  her  arms, 
nodded  her  head,  examined  her  little 
feet  slowly  one  after  the  other,  and 
sighed,  "  The  wit  of  man  !  "  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders  most  charm- 
ingly as  she  reiterated,  each  time  with 
a  quite  new  and  singular  intonation  : 
"  The  wit  of  man,  the  wit  of  man  !  " 

Most  people  would  have  been  put 
out  by  the  obvious  double  meaning  of 
this  remark,  but  I  am  a  psychologist ; 
in  fact  I  pride  myself  not  a  little  on 
my  penetration.  I  understood  that 
she  smiled  at  my  wit,  compared  me  to 
others,  and  sighed  as  she  regretfully 
reflected  how  few  men  are  really 
capable  of  such  subtle  conduct  with 
women.  They  are  few  indeed  ! 

Then  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  to  think.  And,  with  equal  un- 
expectedness, came  softly  to  me  and 
kissed  my  cheek.  "  Thank  you,"  she 
said  in  a  strangely  far-off  voice  ; 
"  though  a  youth,  you  are  a  great 
philosopher.  Henceforth  we  are 
friends;  we  will  never  allow  Society 
to  make  us  pose  one  to  the  other,  but 
meet  sometimes  and  rest  together." 

She  tripped  away  out  of  the  room. 
But  the  door  suddenly  re-opened  and 
she  leaned  forward,  offering  her  ex- 
quisite figure  to  my  view  like  a 
bouquet,  as  she  smiled  with  her  sweet 
red  lips.  "  The  wit  of  man,  ha ! 
ha  ! "  she  laughed  as  she  ran  down 
stairs. 

II. 

NEARLY  every  day  Madame  de  Cana- 
ples comes  to  sit  in  my  study.  Her 
work-basket  and  favourite  books  are  in 
a  corner ;  even  when  absent,  the  atmo- 
sphere of  her  pervades  the  room  like 
a  spirit  and  soothes  me.  We  are 
usually  quite  silent,  but  when  I  do 


The    Wit  of  Man. 


207 


speak  she  listens,  as  she  did  when  I 
first  read  my  poems  to  her,  and  the 
flickering  gold  in  her  brown  eyes 
seen  s  to  light  my  memory,  and  colour 
my  expression.  The  other  day  she 
said:  "I  know  exactly  the  position 
whic  h  I  occupy  between  your  books 
and  cigarettes."  Her  tone  was  some- 
what bitter.  But  I  proved  to  her 
that  she  is  my  most  precious  friend  ; 
for  nhe  never  bores  me,  following  all 
my  moods  and  indulging  them  in  a 
manner  most  surprising  when  I  think 
of  ii}.  Really  I  am  so  thankful  that 
for  once  I  resisted  the  temptation  of 
flirting.  Love  would  have  spoiled  our 
friendship  as  it  does  everything.  Even 
Madame  de  Canaples  torments  her 
lovef.  For  she  is  going  to  marry 
Jacques  de  Chandieu ;  at  least  she 
tells  me  so.  But  on  this  subject  she 
lavishes  all  the  caprice  and  childish- 
ness which  friendship  seems  to  have 
drov/ned  in  her  with  me.  Sometimes 
she  speaks  passionately  of  le  beau 
Jacques,  who  is  a  dashing  officer  of 
Chasseurs,  somewhat  brainless,  very 
handsome,  and  quite  spoiled  by 
Madame  de  Plot-Chandieu.  At  other 
times  Madame  de  Canaples  says  that 
she  liates  him  ;  arid  her  sudden  rever- 
sions of  feeling  are  really  beginning 
to  torment  him  into  a  man  of  thought. 
He  obeys  her  like  a  faithful  dog  : 
she  snubs  him,  as  a  woman  does  a 
man  who  loves  her.  Whereas  with 
me  she  is  unfailing  in  her  gentle  con- 
side]  -ation,  ceaseless  in  her  delicate  at- 
tentions. And  the  moral  of  all  this 
is  :  .If  you  like  a  woman  don't  make 
love  to  her ;  if  you  love  her  don't 
mar  -y  her.  I  told  her  so  the  other 
day  ;  she  blushed  and  laughed  till 
the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks, 
saying  as  usual,  "  The  wit  of  man  !  " 
as  she  wiped  her  eyes  and  composed 
hersolf  back  to  the  letter  which  I  was 
dictating  to  my  London  tailor. 

Bit  I  do  wish  she  would  marry 
Jacques  and  be  done  with  it.  Her 
capricious  treatment  of  him  and  ap- 
peals to  my  sympathy  are  rather 
teaz  ng.  She  always  wants  to  know 
wha  >  I  think.  Now  that  is  just  what 


I  don't  do  when  she  is  by  me ;  I  then 
simply  take  repose  in  her  society  from 
all  mental  exertion.  It  has  become  a 
habit,  and  these  constant  demands  on 
my  reasoning  faculties,  though  flat- 
tering, bore  me.  Can  no  woman  ever 
leave  well  alone  ? 

When  she  came  in  this  afternoon, 
I  saw  by  the  way  she  hovered  about 
my  chair  before  sitting  down,  that 
something  was  on  her  mind.  She 
wore  a  red  dress  very  like  that  which 
she  had  on  the  day  1  first  met  her  at 
Madame  de  Retz's  garden-party.  She 
struck  me  as  prettier  than  ever,  and 
her  charming  figure  was  a  joy  to  my 
eyes  as  she  lay  on  the  sofa,  or  leaned 
over  to  read  my  last  poem.  There  is 
about  her  something  suavely  womanly 
which  acts  like  a  charm  on  man.  She 
has  that  fragrance  of  body  and  soul 
which  makes  me  feel  as  though  life 
is  really  worth  living  when  she  is  at 
my  side. 

"  I  am  decided  to  marry  Jacques," 
she  said  as  she  poured  me  out  a  cup  of 
tea. 

"  At  last !  Allow  me  to  congratulate 
you,"  I  remarked  with  a  vast  assump- 
tion of  interest. 

"Nol  I  am  very  miserable,"  she 
sighed  as  she  passed  me  the  cup. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  don't  love  him  enough." 

"  Why  marry  him,  then  ?  " 

"Because,  because  I  am  lonely, 
Reginald ! "  and  her  expression  was 
piteous  as  she  repeated,  "  Oh  so 
lonely ! " 

( 'Did  you  love  Monsieur  de  Cana- 
ples ? " 

"  No ;  I  was  too  young." 

"  Have  you  ever  loved  any  one  1  "  I 
inquired  airily  after  a  pause. 

She  jumped  to  her  feet  like  a  startled 
deer  and  confronted  me  with  burning 
eyes.  "  Yes,"  she  said  fiercely.  "Yes!" 

"  Was  he  married  ]  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Dead?" 

"No." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  him  then  ?  " 

She  slowly  answered  with  downcast 
eyes,  "  He  doesn't  love  me." 


208 


The   Wit   of  Man. 


"  Are  you  sure  1 " 

She  looked  up  at  me.     "  Yes  !  "  she 
said.     "  I  am  quite  sure." 

"  Well  then  try  and  make  him." 
"  I  have  !  "  she  retorted  sharply. 
"  Without  success  1  You  astonish 
me !  I  was  only  just  thinking  how 
fascinating  you  are."  She  blushed. 
"  There  is  something  about  you  which 
particularly  appeals  to  man.  We  are 
all  such  vain  creatures,  that  any 
woman,  particularly  you,  with  a  few 
smiles  might  reduce  the  most  indif- 
ferent of  us  to  a  desperate  condition." 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Have 
you  tried  everything  with  him  ? " 

She  turned  on  me  curiously.  "  Now 
really  what  do  you  suppose  I  have 
been  doing  ?  Does  a  woman  ever  give 
up  anything  but  a  losing  game?" 
She  laughed  a  trifle  sardonically  and 
repeated  wearily,  as  she  let  herself 
fall  back  on  the  sofa.  "  Yes,  I  have 
tried  everything,  Keginald  dear,  every- 
thing !  " 

"  You  have  even  told  him  you  love 
him?" 

"Certainly  not." 
"Try  that." 

"  But,"  she  answered,  turning  round 
on  me,  "  I  have  insinuated  it.  And  if 
he  won't  see  it,  'tis  because  he  can't 
love  me,  and  doesn't  wish  to  trifle 
with  my  affections  by  raising  false 
hopes." " 

"  A  rare  gentleman,  if  such  is  the 
case." 

"  You  approve  of  him  then  ? " 
"  Don't  we  agree  in  everything  ?  " 
"Yes,"  she  answered  sadly.     And 


then  she  began  to  cry  like  a  child, 
violent,  hot  tears  of  rage  and  grief. 
My  whole  soul  swelled  to  sympathy. 
I  took  her  hands  and  softly  kissed 
them.  Perhaps  I  am  a  little  in  love 
with  her ;  at  least  I  thought  so  at 
the  time;  but  then  I  know  women's 
sensitiveness  too  well  to  allow  my 
love  to  burst  on  their  unhappiness. 
Perhaps  my  kisses  were  a  trifle  pas- 
sionate, for  she  turned  pale  and  pushed 
me  away,  her  eyes  brilliant  and  gigan- 
tic, as  she  looked  at  me  astonished. 
"  Don't,  please  don't,  Reginald  !  "  she 
pleaded. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon."  She  smiled 
and  I  continued  eloquently.  "  I  wish 
that  man  was  not  such  a  fool.  If  he 
only  knew  what  a  fine  creature  you 
are;  if  he  only  understood  you  as  I 
do  !  Tell  me  his  name  ?  I  will  become 
his  most  intimate  friend  for  your  sake. 
And  you  know  between  men,  we  have 
so  many  means  of  conveying  an  im- 
pression, exciting  a  curiosity  about 
some  woman.  I  am  sure  that  I  could 
make  him  fall  in  love  with  you,  my 
dear,  without  his  guessing  that  I  even 
knew  you,  except  as  a  casual  acquaint- 
ance." 

With  both  hands  upraised  to  the 
ceiling  she  laughed  outright,  as  she 
flung  herself  out  of  the  room,  exclaim- 
ing in  a  voice  that  I  shall  remember 
to  my  dying  day,  "  The  stupidity  of 
man ! " 

I  am  afraid  that  her  verdict  on  my 
sex  is  just,  though  I  may  flatter  myself 
that  there  are  a  few  exceptions. 


209 


SCHOLAR-GIPSIES. 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine  ;  and  I  seek  it  too. 

This  does  not  come  with  houses  or  with  gold, 
With  place,  with  honour,  and  a  nattering  crew  ; 
'Tis  not  in  the  world's  market  bought  and  sold — 

But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still  untired  ; 
Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is  gone, 
He  wends  unfollow'd,  he  must  house  alone  ; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  inspired. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  Thyrsis. 


TE  E  outlandish  figure  which  a  distin- 
guished poet  has  added  to  our  literature 
has  been  seen,  or  imaged,  probably  by 
many  people.  It  is  pleasing  to  think 
of  such  an  inhabitant  of  the  wilds  ; 
and  if  we  do  not  now  see  his  gray 
cloak  among  the  trees,  we  can  still 
think  of  him  as  near  us  in  all  our 
wanderings  abroad, — just  behind  that 
ridge  of  hill  or  beyond  that  tangle  of 
underwood — a  shadow  which  shuns 
our  inquiry.  For,  in  truth,  he  is  an 
enchanting  figure,  with  his  antique 
habit-,  his  haunting  face  and  wild 
keen  eyes  which  see  many  things  that 
are  hidden  from  others.  He  is  a 
scholar,  too,  and  a  good  one,  for  he 
carries  books  in  his  cloak ;  and  if  we 
came  up  with  him  by  some  happy 
chance,  we  might  find  him  reading 
Theocritus  from  an  antiquated  text  of 
three  centuries  ago. 

It  is  many  a  day  since  the  story 
"ran  through  Oxford  halls,"  and  the 
Scholar-Gipsy  has  long  since  ceased 
his  v/anderings.  Yet  his  spirit  by 
some  occult  transmigration  is  still 
abroad  in  the  world  and  in  many 
unlikely  places.  Like  the  young  Will 
o'  tl  e  Wisp  in  Andersen's  story,  no 
rank,  no  profession  is  a  safeguard 
agaiiist  it.  Sage  men  of  law,  scholars, 
divines, — all  have  felt  this  wandering 
impulse,  which  would  lead  them,  like 
Waring,  to  slip  off:,  "out  of  the  heed  of 
mortals  "  and  see  the  world  of  which 

N(-.  417. — VOL.  LXX. 


they  know  eo  little.  And  some  who 
are  wise  in  their  generation,  like  this 
old  scholar,  seek  to  see  both  sides  of 
existence,  and  add  to  their  scholarship 
that  knowledge  of  natural  -  life,  which 
is  becoming  rarer  as  we  travel  further 
from  the  primeval  simplicity. 

In  former  times  this  gipsying  was 
part  of  a  scholar's  life.  He  was  com- 
pelled to  journey  over  half  of  Europe, 
it  might  be,  to  the  college  of  his 
choice,  in  a  time  when  journeying  was 
not  always  pleasant  and  seldom  safe. 
The  laws  against  begging  were  relaxed 
in  his  favour.  He  had  no  baggage 
except  a  book  or  two,  and  with  his 
staff  in  his  hand  he  trudged  merrily 
forward  on  his  adventurous  way. 
These  men  were  the  most  cultured  of 
their  age.  The  head  that  was  covered 
by  that  tatterdemalion  bonnet  might 
be  debating  grave  points  in  the 
Aristotelian  logic,  or  with  Plato  fram- 
ing immortal  commonwealths.  A 
sun-browned  scholar  was  not  apt  to 
suffer  from  pedantry  or  unreal  visions 
of  things ;  while  to  sustain  him  on 
his  way  he  had  his  love  for  learning 
and  many  rich  eclectic  stores  to  draw 
on  for  his  entertainment.  In  days 
nearer  our  own  some  few  members  of 
the  fraternity  still  survived.  Gold- 
smith, fresh  from  his  desultory  college 
life,  tramped  through  many  countries 
with  his  flute  in  his  pocket,  and 
gained  that  large  kindliness  which 


210 


Scholar-Gipsies. 


makes  one  of  the  best  features  of  his 
work.  In  our  own  day  one  of  our 
most  ingenious  story-tellers  has  gone 
far  and  wide  in  many  unchristian 
latitudes  in  search  of  wisdom  and 
adventure.  But  after  all,  of  the  many 
who  follow  the  life  few  ever  attain  to 
any  reputation ;  for  among  other  good 
things  they  acquire  a  genial  contempt 
for  fame,  which  is  peculiar  to  men  of 
genius  and  this  disreputable  brother- 
hood. 

It  is  not  that  this  wandering  spirit 
is  rare  to-day,  for  it  is  essential  to 
the  natures  of  great  men  of  science, 
travellers,  explorers,  and  many  men 
of  action.  These  in  pursuit  of  their 
callings  travel  in  rough,  far-away 
places,  and  live  with  a  careless  scorn 
of  the  luxuries  of  civilisation.  But 
the  scholar  is  overmuch  a  man  of 
books  and  colleges ;  pale-faced  and 
dull-eyed,  lacking  the  joys  and 
humanities  of  life ;  yet  still,  it  may 
be,  with  a  drop  of  gipsy  blood  in  his 
veins,  which  warms  at  the  tale  of 
wars  and  gallant  actions  and  makes 
its  possessor  feel  that  his  life  is  a  very 
one-sided  affair.  Yet  the  way  for 
him  is  easy ;  down  one  street  and 
across  another;  and  thence  to  the 
open  country,  to  the  green  woodland, 
where  the  air  is  free  and  the  great 
Earth-Mother  as  gracious  as  the 
Muses. 

The  union  of  the  two  lives  is  fraught 
with  so  many  rich  and  apparent  ad- 
vantages, that  its  apologist  is  almost 
unneeded  ;  for  neither  is  perfect,  and 
the  defects  of  each  are  remedied  in 
great  part  by  the  other.  The  scholar 
has  a  mind  filled  with  many  creations 
of  romance  and  poetry.  He  can 
people  the  woods  with  beings  of  his 
own,  elves  and  kindly  fairy  folk,  which 
are  gone  nowadays  from  our  theology, 
but  still  live  in  the  scholar's  fancy. 
That  rare  classical  feeling,  which  one 
finds  *in  Milton  and  Tennyson,  which 
sees  the  fair  images  of  an  older  economy 
in  common  things  of  to-day,  is  only 
possible  for  the  scholar.  The  old  wan- 
dering minstrel  had  his  share  of  it. 
Nicol  Burne  the  Violer,  who  wrote 


the  ballad  of  Leader  Haugks,  and  may 
have  been  for  all  we  know  the 
original  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Last 
Minstrel,  has  a  way  of  introducing  the 
divinities  of  Greece  and  Rome  into 
the  scenery  of  the  Border  country, 
which  is  distinct  from  any  false  classi- 
cal convention. 

Pan  playing  on  his  aiten  reed, 

And  shepherds  him  attending, 
Do  here  resort  their  flocks  to  feed. 

The  hills  and  haughs  commending  ; 
With  cur  and  kent  upon  the  bent, 

Sing  to  the  sun  good-morrow, 
And  swear  nae  fields  mair  pleasures  yield 

Than  Leader  Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

An  house  there  stands  on  Leader-side, 

Surmounting  my  descriving, 
With  rooms  sae  rare,  and  windows  fair, 

Like  Daedalus'  contriving  ; 
Men  passing  by  do  often  cry, 

In  sooth  it  hath  no  marrow  ; 
It  stands  as  sweet  on  Leader-side, 

As  Newark  does  on  Yarrow. 

Further,  nothing  can  so  clarify  and 
perfect  the  intellectual  senses  as  the 
constant  association  with  beautiful 
natural  sights.  A  strange  sunrise  or 
sunset  is  a  greater  element  in  the 
education  of  a  man  than  most  people 
think.  Every  appreciated  object  in 
nature  has  an  influence,  imperceptible 
it  may  be  but  none  the  less  real,  on 
the  mental  culture.  Truth  of  percep- 
tion, which  was  commoner  among  our 
grandfathers  than  with  us,  is  one  of 
the  least  of  the  benefits  of  nature.  A 
larger  sense  of  form  and  colour  and 
the  beauty  thereof,  a  finer  feeling  for 
the  hidden  melodies  which  may  be 
heard  hourly  in  any  field,  and  a  vastly 
increased  power  of  enjoyment  of  life 
are  things  which  some  would  not  count 
too  dear  at  any  price. 

The  sadness,  the  continuous  tragedy, 
which  is  inseparable  from  all  natural 
life  is  bereft  of  its  pain  by  the  equip- 
ment of  religion  or  an  elevated  philo- 
sophy with  which  we  may  suppose  the 
scholar  to  be  furnished.  The  savagery 
of  natural  people  like  the  gipsies  is 
no  imagined  thing ;  this  wanton 
cruelty  and  callousness  to  the  pain 
of  others  forms  the  darkest  blot  on 


Scholar- Gipsies. 


211 


their  lives.  The  robustness  of  healthy 
outdoor  life  is  in  no  way  weakened  if 
tempered  with  a  sensitive  sympathy 
for  \veaker  folk. 

As  for  the  gipsy  part,  its  advan- 
tages are  far  in  excess  of  the  some- 
what slender  stock  that  the  scholar 
brings  with  him.  The  wandering 
among  the  fields  and  hills  carries  with 
it  a  delicate  and  abiding  pleasure  that 
to  some  means  more  than  the  half  of 
life.  The  blessedness  of  mere  move- 
ment, free  and  careless  motion  in  all 
weat'.iers  and  in  all  places  is  incom- 
parably great.  One  morning  sees  a 
man  in  a  country  of  green  meadows 
and  slow  lowland  streams,  where  he 
may  lie  beside  a  tuft  of  willows  and 
dream  marvellously ;  and  the  next 
finds  him  in  a  moorland  place,  high  up 
abov3  the  valleys,  where  the  air  is 
like  new  wine,  and  the  wide  prospect 
of  country  gives  the  wanderer  a  sense 
of  vast  proprietorship.  Whether  the 
heather  be  in  flower  and  the  wilder- 
ness one  great  purple  sea,  or  whether 
the  bent  be  gray  and  wintry  and  full 
of  pitiful  black  pools,  it  is  much  the 
same  to  him  ;  for  one  of  the  marks 
of  this  spirit  is  its  contentment 
with  the  world  at  all  seasons.  He 
may  arrive  tired  and  hungry  at 
some  wayside  inn,  and  taste  the  deli- 
cious sleep  of  utter  lassitude  ;  or  he 
may  make  his  bed  for  the  night  in 
some  nook  in  a  wood  among  green 
brackens,  and  wake  with  a  freshness 
whica  makes  him  wonder  at  the  folly 
of  mm  in  leaving  the  open  air  for  the 
unworthy  cover  of  a  house.  For  him 
thero  is  no  restraint  of  time  or  place. 
He  can  stay  an  hour  or  a  week,  as  it 
suits  him  ;  he  can  travel  fast  or  slow  ; 
he  can  turn,  if  the  fancy  takes  him, 
away  from  the  highroad  down  green, 
retired  lanes,  and  enjoy  the  satisfac- 
tion which  comes  from  long  hours  of 
leisu  re  in  the  height  of  summer. 

T(  the  artist  in  life,  the  connoisseur 
of  ,'ensations  and  impressions,  this 
manaer  of  spending  his  days  com- 
ments itself.  There  is  a  subtle  in- 
fluer  ce  about  every  place  which  dwells 
long  in  a  man's  memory,  and  which  he 


may  turn  to  time  upon  time  and  not  ex- 
haust  its    charms.      Each   type   and 
shade  of  weather  and  each  variation 
of  scene    leave   an  t  indelible   impres- 
sion, so  that  soon  he  will  have  a  well- 
stocked  gallery  in  his  mind  to  wander 
through,  when  the  dull  days  come  and 
he  is  bound  hand  and  foot  to  his  work 
in  a  commonplace  town.     Every  sound 
carries  with  it  for  him  a  distinct  sen- 
sation ;  the  crowing  of  cocks  about  a 
farm,  the  far-off  bleating  of  sheep  on 
a  hill-side,  the  ceaseless   humming  of 
bees,  and  the  plash  of  the  burn  among 
the  gray  rocks.      Rhymes  run  in  his 
memory,  confused  lines  of  great  poets 
which  acquire  a  meaning  never  grasped 
before  ;  and  he  himself  gets  into  a  fine 
poetical    state,    and    dreams   pleasant 
things,  which  are  vast  nonsense  when 
written    down,   but  which    seemed  to 
him  there  and  then  to  be  of  the  essence 
of  poetry.     What  philosophical  system 
of  life,  though  it  be  followed  ever  so 
rigidly,  can  make  a  man  so  high  and 
free  in  spirit  ?     It  must  needs  be  that 
one   who    lives    among    great    sights 
should  win  something  of  their  great- 
ness  for    himself.      The    artist,    too, 
whether  in  colours  or  words,  gains  a 
becoming  humility.     He  feels  the  ab- 
ject powerlessness  of  his  brush  or  pen 
to  express,  in  anything  like  their  'pris- 
tine beauty,  many   of  the  things  he 
meets    with.     Not,   dazzling    summer- 
days  or  autumn  sunsets,  for  these  come 
within  the  limits  of  his  art ;  but  the 
uncommon  aspects,  like  the  dim  look 
of  the  hills  on  certain  days  in  April, — 
such  make  him  feel  the  impotence  of 
language. 

The  man  who  is  abroad  at  all  hours 
and  seasons  meets  with  many  things 
which  other  folk  never  think  of. 
Apart  from  mere  fantastic  sights, 
curious  unions  of  earth  and  sky  and 
weather,  he  begins  to  delight  in  the 
minutiae  of  observation.  He  loves  to 
watch  the  renascence  of  life,  the 
earliest  buds,  the  first  flowers,  the 
young,  perfumed  birch  leaves,  the 
clear,  windy  skies.  He  can  distin- 
guish the  call  of  the  redshank  or  the 
-  plover  among  a  concert  of  birds  on  a 

p  2 


212 


Scholar-Gipsii 


moor.  He  can  tell  each  songbird  by 
its  note  amid  a  crowd.  Being  out  of 
doors  at  all  times  he  becomes  a  skilful 
fisherman,  though  his  tackle  is  often 
rude  enough  in  all  conscience  ;  for  by 
the  riverside  he  learns  something  of 
the  ways  of  a  man  with  a  fish.  He 
takes  pleasure  in  long  wanderings 
after  a  mythical  bird  or  fern,  for  to 
him  the  means  are  no  less  pleasing 
than  the  end.  Every  object  in  the 
world  acquires  for  him  a  personal 
charm.  He  is  interested  in  the  heron 
as  in  some  fellow-fisherman ;  the  ways 
of  the  wren  and  linnet  are  not  below 
his  consideration  ;  he  has  actually  a 
kindly  feeling  for  the  inherent  de- 
pravity of  the  crow.  And  behind  all, 
like  a  rich  background,  come  days  of 
halcyon  weather,  clear,  ineffable 
April  evenings,  firm  October  days, 
and  all  the  pageantry  of  the  "  sweet 
o'  the  year." 

But  above  all  such  temporal  bless- 
ings, there  is  that  greatest  endowment, 
which  Wordsworth  and  Thoreau  and 
Richard  Jefferies  sought  and  found, — 
the  sense  of  kinship  with  nature. 
Our  attitude  is  too  much  that  of 
aliens  wandering  on  sufferance  in  a 
strange  country,  or  rather  like  children 
looking  through  the  bars  of  a  gate 
into  a  rich  demesne.  Now  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  very  whimsical  nonsense 
talked  on  this  subject,  but  there  is 
more  than  a  little  truth.  Most 
people  witness  fine  natural  sights  as 
exiles,  feeling  with  a  living  regret 
that  such  are  foreign  and  beyond  their 
narrow  world.  But  to  the  man  who 
is  much  abroad  these  come  with  pain 
or  pleasure,  according  to  their  nature ; 
but  not  as  scornful,  uncontrollable 
giants  who  mock  his  impotent  wonder, 
but  rather  as  forms  of  the  great 
mistress  whom  he  seeks  to  know. 
Rough  shepherds  on  the  hills  have  a 
way  of  talking  of  streams  and  weathers 
with  a  personal  tone,  as  things  which 
they  meet  in  their  daily  life  and  have 
attained  to  some  considerable  know- 
ledge of.  Surely  this  is  an  enviable 
degree  of  kinship. 

As  a  man's  mind  is  richly  advan- 


taged, so  also  is  his  body.  He  loses 
the  sickly  humours,  the  lassitude,  the 
dulness,  which  oppress  all  sedentary 
folk.  His  sinews  grow  firm  and  his 
nerves  strong.  Tramping  many  miles 
over  heather  and  inhaling  the  whole- 
some air  of  the  uplands,  or  basking  in 
sunlight  among  the  meadows,  makes 
his  frame  hardy  and  active  and  his 
skin  as  brown  and  clear  as  a  moorland 
trout-stream.  He  begins  to  feel  the 
gaudium  vivendi,  the  joy  of  living, 
that  the  old  Greeks  felt,  who  in  their 
wisdom  built  the  palaestra  beside 
the  school.  All  immoment  philoso- 
phies, nugatory  and  unsatisfying  en- 
dowments born  of  the  dreams  of 
dyspeptic  townsfolk,  are  banished  from 
his  brain ;  and  he  goes  on  his  way 
with  a  healthy  clarity  of  mind.  He 
is  not  careful  to  seek  an  answer ;  nor 
is  he  perplexed  by  the  ravings  of  a 
vitiated  decadence  ;  for  he  seeks  only 
the  true  and  strong  in  nature  and  art. 
But  if  he  lacks  in  this  he  has  other 
things  at  his  will.  His  brain  is  a 
perpetual  whirl  of  airy  notions  and 
wayside  romances,  which  like  the 
sounds  in  Prospero's  island,  "give 
delight  and  hurt  not."  In  his  wan- 
derings, he  meets  with  all  sorts  of  odd 
people,  whimsical  and  grave ;  and  he 
gets  some  little  insight  into  the  real 
humour  and  pathos  which  habit  in  the 
lowliest  places. 

But  after  all  it  is  more  a  matter  of 
feeling  than  of  practice.  A  man  may 
live  in  the  town  eleven  months  of  the 
year  and  yet  be  at  heart  one  of  this 
old  romantic  brotherhood.  It  is  in- 
grained deep  in  the  nature  of  some  ; 
others  are  so  cumbered  about  with 
wrappings  of  convention  that  they 
take  years  to  get  free.  They  are 
seldom  talkative  people,  at  least  in 
houses  and  among  strangers,  so  they 
go  on  their  pleasant  way  for  the  most 
part  undisturbed,  though  their  wide 
toleration,  acquired  from  their  mani- 
fold experience  of  life,  wins  them  some 
few  friends.  The  class  is  of  necessity 
a  limited  one ;  for  the  majority  of 
mankind  are  dull,  equable  folk,  whose 
only  romance  in  life  is  its  close.  But 


Scholar-  Gipsies. 


213 


the  eager,  insatiable  scholar  and  the 
wild,  gipsy  spirits,  when  in  some  rare 
case  they  come  together,  produce  a 
unior  so  enchanting  that  it  is  apt  to 
seem  to  onlookers  the  very  secret  of  life. 

Fo :.1,  if  the  one  exists  without  the 
other,  there  come  those  tantalizing 
regrebs,  those  vistas  of  unused  pleasure, 
which  go  far  to  make  life  a  burden. 
Ofter  when  a  man  is  sunk  in  town- 
life  a  ad  thinks  of  nothing  beyond,  the 
mere  sight  of  a  bronzed  face,  a  breath 
of  the  country,  the  glimpse  of  leaves 
or  brown  heather,  and  the  old  glamour 
of  tho  greenwood  is  upon  him  and  he 
grows  weary  with  unsatisfied  longings. 
Or,  \\  hen  one  has  been  living  for  weeks 
in  tho  heart  of  the  natural  world  with 
a  heathenish  disregard  of  man  and  all 
huma  n  inventions,  a  stray  book  in  the 
corner  of  an  inn,  a  chance  sight  of  an 
old  friend,  recalls  to  him  that  he  has 
been  living  in  error  and  he  sets  about 
mending  his  ways  with  all  speed. 

As  for  the  end  of  life,  when  the 
strong  man  bows  within  us,  surely  it 
is  the  y  who  have  passed  their  days  in 
ignorance  of  pain  or  true  pleasure  in  a 
meth  )dical  existence,  who  have  never 
felt  -he  high  hopes  and  the  warm 
humanities  of  the  scholar  and  the 
gipsy,  who  have  never  followed  im- 
possi]  >le  ideals  and  eaten  of  the  tree  of 
knowledge  whose  fruit  is  for  life, — 
surely  it  is  they  who  will  find  it  hard 
to  die.  The  man  who  has  lived  the 
best  moments  of  his  life  abroad  with 
natuie  sees  no  occult  and  terrible 
import  in  its  end,  regarding  it  as  the 
passing,  the  dying  unto  life,  which 
falls  to  the  lot  of  all  natural  things. 
So,  like  Mr.  Stand- fast,  when  "the 
time  monies  for  him  to  haste  away  and 
he  g<  >eth  down,  there  will  be  a  great 
calm  it  that  time  in  the  River." 

In  a  gray  university  town  in  the 
north  it  was  once  my  good  fortune  to 
know  one  who  passed  among  his  fel- 
low students  with  something  of  the 
air,  I  fancy,  that  the  Scholar- Gipsy  of 
Matt  lew  Arnold  must  have  had  when 
by  a  rare  chance  he  fell  in  with  his 
friem  Is  of  past  years.  He  was  courteous 


and  kind  to  all,  with  a  gracious  con- 
descension which  was  not  that  of  a 
great  man  to  an  inferior  but  rather  of 
a  stranger  from  some  wiser  planet 
who  had  strayed  for  awhile  among  us. 
With  his  keen,  handsome  face  he 
passed  through  the  gaunt  quadrangle 
amid  the  crowd  of  pale,  over-worked 
weaklings,  as  one  to  whom  learning 
came  easily.  He  was  a  ripe  scholar, 
beyond  us  all  in  classics,  in  philosophy, 
a  lover  of  strange  lore,  learned  in  the 
literatures  of  many  tongues  ;  but  be- 
yond these  tangible  acquirements  there 
was  that  baffling  sense  of  deeper  know- 
ledge which  lurked  in  his  presence, 
and  puzzled  the  best  of  us  with  its 
evasive  magic.  In  many  of  our  mem- 
ories his  inscrutable  figure  long  re- 
mained till  it  was  effaced  by  more 
sordid  impressions. 

Some  years  afterwards  I  met  him. 
It  was  one  golden  afternoon  in  the 
end  of  July,  as  I  returned  to  the  inn 
from  the  river  with  my  rod  and  a 
scantily- furnished  creel.  Sitting  out- 
side I  saw  my  friend  of  former  years 
and  hastened  my  steps  to  meet  him. 
He  was  much  changed.  His  face 
was  thin  and  his  back  bent,  but  he 
had  still  the  same  kindly  look  and 
smile.  We  passed  the  evening  to- 
gether in  the  garden  thick  with 
Jacobite  roses  ;  and,  as  we  talked,  he 
told  me  bit  by  bit  the  history  of  his 
past. 

His  parents  had  died  when  he  was 
young  and  left  him  a  sufficient  patri- 
mony ;  and  his  boyhood  and  youth 
had  been  passed  much  as  he  pleased 
in  a  moorland  country.  Here  he  had 
grown  up,  spending  his  days  between 
study  and  long  wanderings  over  n 
romantic  countryside.  In  his  college 
vacations  it  had  been  the  same  ; 
seasons  of  grim  work  varied  with 
gipsying  journeys,  fishing  and  travel- 
ling in  high,  wild  places.  He  became 
learned  in  the  knowledge  of  the  woods 
and  many  other  things  not  taught  in 
the  schools,  though  he  read  his  books 
with  a  finer  zest  and  a  widened  hu- 
manity. After  an  honourable  course 
at  our  college  he  had  gone  to  one 


214 


Scholar-Gipsies. 


of  the  southern  universities,  and  there 
after  a  career  of  unusual  distinction 
he  had  settled  down  to  the  profession 
on  which  his  heart  was  set. 

But  while  his  life  was  yet  beginning 
he  was  mortally  stricken  with  the 
national  disease  of  which  the  seeds 
were  in  his  race ;  and  young,  rich, 
brilliant  as  he  was,  he  had  to  face  the 
prospect  of  a  lingering  death.  His 
mind  was  soon  made  up.  To  him  the 
idea  of  ending  his  life  in  the  town, 
like  a  rat  in  its  hole,  was  too  awful 
to  be  endured.  He  got  together  some 
few  necessaries  and  books,  and  quietly, 
with  no  false  bravado,  set  out  on  his 
last  journey.  He  was  able  to  go  only 
short  distances  at  a  time ;  so  through 
all  the  pleasant  spring  and  early 
summer  he  travelled  among  the  low- 
land country  places,  gaming  content- 
ment and  a  gallant  cheerfulness  from 
the  companionship  of  nature.  When 
I  met  him  he  had  reached  the  borders 
of  the  great  upland  region  in  which 
his  boyhood  had  been  passed.  He  had 
only  a  few  months  at  the  most  to  live, 
but,  though  as  weak  as  a  child  in  body, 
he  had  lost  not  a  whit  of  his  old,  gay 
humour. 

The  next  morning  I  bade  him  good- 


bye ;  and  as  I  watched  his  figure 
disappearing  from  view  round  the  bend 
of  the  road,  I  uncovered  my  head,  for 
of  a  truth  he  of  all  men  had  found 
Natura  Benigna,  the  Kindly  Mother. 

In  all  times  from  the  dawn  of 
civilisation  and  the  apportioning  of 
humanity  in  towns,  men  have  clutched 
at  this  idea  of  the  life  of  nature  and 
culture.  .This  is  the  truth  which  lies 
at  the  bottom  of  all  the  wondrous 
erections  and  systems  of  life  which 
artists  and  philosophers  have  wrought 
for  themselves.  This  is  the  true 
Bohemia  ;  all  others  reek  of  foul  air 
and  bad  tobacco,  but  this  is  filled  with 
the  very  breath  of  Athena.  The 
"  plain  living  and  high  thinking,"  the 
"  mens  sana  in  corpore  sano," — all  the 
varied  shibboleths  of  the  philosophies 
which  have  any  consistent  truth,  are 
here  realised  in  part  or  in  whole. 
This,  too,  is  the  perfected  doctrine  of 
Epicurus,  though  the  aim  of  its 
followers  is  less  pleasure  than  com- 
pleteness of  life  ;  to  explore  the  heart 
of  this  fair,  divine  kingdom,  and  not 
to  dwell  in  a  churlish  and  half-hearted 
manner  in  the  outlying  lands. 

J.  B. 


215 


A  VISIT  TO  HIS  PKOPERTF. 

BY    A    SMALL   LANDLORD. 


THE     absentee    landlord     has    few 
friends.     And  it  must  be  owned  that 
of  the  many  hard  things  said  of  him, 
soma      at     least      may    be     justified. 
Prooably  no  one   is  readier  to  admit 
this  than  the  unfortunate    man  him- 
self,  certain  as  he  is  to  hear  of  his 
delinquencies  from  his  Liberal  friends, 
who  object  (on  altruistic  grounds  one 
ma}   hope)  to  his  residing   elsewhere 
than  in  Ireland,  and  who  seldom  stay 
theii*     criticism    to    inquire    whether 
there  happens   to   be   an    untenanted 
hou.se  on  his   few   paternal    acres    to 
cover  him,  or  any  prospect  of  occupa- 
tion   there    sufficient    to   prevent  his 
vegotating  entirely.     But  all  that  is 
nothing  compared  to  the  dilemma  that 
conf  rented  a  certain  feeble  unit  of  this 
much- abused  class  when,  having  con- 
scientiously   resolved     to     visit    his 
property  and  proceeded  with  that  aim 
to     a    certain     market-town    in    the 
eastern  half    of    county   Donegal,  he 
had  mounted  a  car  and  begun  to  in- 
struct the  driver  as  to  the  position  of 
his    own     estate.      The    agent     who 
mar  ages    it    is    engaged   on  business 
elsewhere ;    the    bailiff,   who  was   to 
concuct  him,  is  waiting  no  doubt  (in 
Irish  fashion)   at    the  very  place    he 
wants  to  be  directed  to;  and  a  previous 
visit,   made  some   years  back  in  the 
agei.t's  company,  has  left  the  landlord 
witl.  a  sadly  inadequate  knowledge  of 
the  locality.     The  landlord,  it  must  be 
not(  d,  is   a   small  one ;  the  car-driver 
in  *  11  probability  has  never  heard  of 
him,   perhaps  takes   him   for   a   com- 
mercial traveller  ;  at  all  events  it  is 
quite   beyond  the  range  of  -the  land- 
lord s  audacity  to  name  his  own  estate 
as  the  goal  of  the  car's  journey,  and 
so  with  due  humility  he  mentions  the 
largest  man  among  his  tenants,  whom 
{thank   heaven!)    the    driver    has    a 


vague  impression  of  having  heard  of. 
On  that  the  car  jolts  away  through  a 
bare    wind-swept     tract    of     country 
where     the     treeless     hillsides     look 
strange    and    grim    to  an  eye  accus- 
tomed to  the  wooded  slopes  of  pastoral 
England.     The  weather  is  Irish,  that 
is,   an  interminably  gray   sky  which 
one  fancies  will   break  into   rain  five 
minutes  hence,  but  which  the  natives 
pronounce  certain  to   keep  fine ;  and 
under  this  melancholy  pall  the  country 
rolls  on  in  a  perpetual  sheet  of  undu- 
lating green,  without   form  and  void 
almost.     There  seems  to  be  no  end  to 
these     fields,     one's     own     property 
lying   presumably  somewhere   among 
them.     After  a  good  hour's  jolting  the 
landlord  grows  conscious  of    the  un- 
certainty of  the  driver's  geographical 
knowledge.      That     worthy    believes 
Mr.    W.    is   to    be  found   about   two 
miles  further  on  ;  but  one  now  reflects 
with   growing    disquietude    that    the 
W.'s   are    probably   as    frequent    in 
eastern  Donegal  as  in  their  ancestral 
Lowlands.       Suppose      the      landlord 
should  spend  the  day  hunting  for  his 
own  property  in  this  endless  chequer- 
board  of  green  pasture  and  oats,  and 
hunt  in  vain ;  what  an  anecdote  for 
the  local  papers  ! 

And  indeed  the  car- driver's  Mr. 
W.  proves  to  be  the  wrong  man 
altogether.  We  turn  back  with  in- 
creasing disquietude,  but  also  with 
directions  how  to  find  another  W. 
some  mile  or  two  away.  The  car  jolts 
us  furiously  along  a  by-road  and  draws 
up  at  length  before  a  comfortable 
farmhouse,  a  villa  almost,  with  a 
garden  before  it  in  which,  though  the 
grass  looks  unkempt  and  rank,  there 
are  bushes  of  crimson  rhododendron 
flowering  nobly.  The  farmer  comes 
to  the  door,  a  gray-haired,  substantial 


216 


A    Visit  to  his  Property. 


person  with  a  canny  expression  that 
does  full  justice  to  his  North-British 
surname.  "Have  I  the  pleasure  of 
being  your  landlord?"  the  visitor 
inquires  modestly.  "That  may  be," 
answers  the  prudent  Scot,  declining  to 
commit  himself  all  at  once  although 
the  landlord  has  mentioned  his  name. 
But  the  visitor  is  hospitably  admitted, 
and  one  hazards  some  inquiries  as  to 
crops.  "I  got  your  notice  about  the 
rent,"  W.  remarks,  evidently  thinking 
that  likely  to  be  one's  ruling  idea. 
The  notice  is  produced,  but  the  signa- 
ture is  altogether  strange  to  the  land- 
lord. It  is  not  his  agent's  at  all  events, 
and  the  truth  now  becomes  apparent 
that  the  canny  W.  is  not  quite  certain 
who  his  landlord  is.  One  may  have 
succeeded  to  another  "  unbeknown  ;  " 
he  cannot  tell.  At  length  the  repeti- 
tion of  one's  name  rouses  a  dormant 
echo  in  his  memory.  "  It'll  be  my 
brother  next  door  ye  want,"  he  ex- 
claims, and,  grasping  at  this  prospect 
of  further  light,  the  landlord  departs 
with  profound  apologies  to  his  involun- 
tary host,  who,  however,  insists  on 
escorting  him  to  his  brother's  house 
close  by.  This  is  an  equally  sub- 
stantial residence,  fronted  by  its 
garden.  The  Ws.  in  fact,  if  tenants 
are  also  owners  of  land,  "  warm  men," 
and  curiously  enough  both  bachelors, 
living  thus  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
each  other.  W.  the  second,  actually 
one's  tenant  at  last,  proves  to  be  a 
stout  rubicund  person  with  a  grizzled 
head  and  jovial  face,  a  certain  shrewd 
calculating  air  being  apparent  behind 
it  however.  He  hospitably  produces 
whisky,  and  jokes  are  cracked  as  well 
as  biscuits.  It  is  a  most  amicable 
meeting  ;  but  the  conversation  turns 
presently  to  graver  themes,  namely 
to  the  question  of  purchase. 

The  landlord  has  heard  something 
of  this  before  in  an  epistolary  form, 
and  has  meditated  upon  it,  not  with- 
out disquietude.  W.  preserves  all  his 
bluff  cheerfulness  as  he  descants  on 
the  advantages  of  purchase  to  the 
tenant  who  gains,  he  says,  four  shil- 
lings in  the  pound  (Irish  for  twenty 


per  cent.)  by  the  reduction,  as  com- 
pared with  present  rent,  in  the  instal- 
ments he  pays  to  Government  as  a 
purchaser  of  his  holding  under  the 
present  Act.  Generous  Government ! 
The  landlord  of  course  loses  more  by 
investing  whatever  sums  he  may  re- 
ceive for  his  land,  say,  at  three-and-a- 
half  per  cent,  interest ;  but  that  natur- 
ally does  not  come  into  W.'s  calcula- 
tions. He  supposes  one  would  not 
wish  to  stand  in  the  way  of  an  ad- 
vantage to  the  tenants.  Meanwhile, 
whatever  economists  may  imagine,  it 
is  not  the  ultimate  possession  of  the 
land  (at  the  end  of  forty-nine  years) 
that  he  is  thinking  of  in  the  least ; 
it  is  the  four  shillings  to  be  possibly 
got  off  the  pound  he  dreams  of,  a 
great  boon  to  the  poorer  tenants,  says 
the  man  of  substance.  With  farm- 
ing in  its  perennial  state  of  excep- 
tional depression  (so  tenants  assure 
him,  though  others  whisper  of  prices 
rising  again,)  the  landlord  feels  him- 
self a  monster  of  depravity  for  not 
closing  at  once  with  this  beneficent 
proposal.  He  mildly  temporises;  it 
would  be  as  well  to  go  over  the  pro- 
perty first,  to  inquire  as  to  the  work- 
ing of  the  purchase  scheme  in  detail, 
and  so  forth.  There  is  a  solicitor  in 
the  neighbouring  town  who  could 
furnish  information ;  refilling  the 
landlord's  glass  with  a  liberal  measure 
of  whisky,  the  tenant  names  the  man 
(another  W.  curiously  enough),  and  a 
gleam  of  memory  turning  back  to 
certain  letters  reveals  the  fact  that  he 
happens  to  be  the  speaker's  own  legal 
adviser.  The  landlord  privately  re- 
flects that  half  the  game  in  Ireland 
just  consists  in  swallowing  one's 
whisky  and  keeping  a  cool  head  mean- 
while. 

By  this  time  the  bailiff  has  appeared 
on  the  scene,  adopting  a  profoundly 
reverential  attitude  towards  the  as- 
sembled company,  which  now  sallies 
out  to  inspect  what  is  still  courteously 
described  as  one's  property.  We  pass 
over  several  well-looking  fields,  partly 
pasture,  partly  down  in  oats  or  flax. 
W.,  however,  who  accompanies  our 


A    Visit  to  his  Property. 


217 


marc  h,  dashes  the  landlord's  pride  of 
possession  by  observing  that  "  he  has 
made  the  land  himself  "  by  draining, 
&c.,  or  at  least  he  and  his  ancestors 
made  it ;  "  Eighty  years  ago,"  he  says, 
"  yoi  wouldn't  have  known  it."  It 
may  be  observed  in  passing  that  the 
Ulster  tenant-farmer's  belief  in  his 
own  achievements  in  the  way  of 
"  ma  king  land  "  seem  at  moments  to 
trench  very  nearly  on  the  prerogatives 
generally  attributed  to  the  Deity.  It 
may  be  observed  also  that  the  rents 
on  this  particular  property  have  not 
been  raised  for  sixty  years  or  so,  which 
after  all  makes  a  difference.  Whoever 
mado  it,  the  land  now  looks  pleasant 
enough,  bare  of  trees  except  along 
well  -watered  valleys,  as  North  Ireland 
generally  is,  but  green  everywhere  and 
soft- looking,  made  brilliant  too  at  this 
season  by  the  gorse,  which  forms  the 
greater  part  of  the  hedgerows,  and 
with  its  large  yellow  blooms  adds  a 
vivid  touch  of  colour  to  the  landscape. 
The  landlord,  however,  walks  only 
half  observant,  and  half  meditative, 
for  the  words  of  Mr.  W.,  the  land- 
maker  are  disquieting.  A  rather  curi- 
ous side-light  is  thrown  on  them,  by 
the  way,  by  the  reflection  that  of  the 
two  parties  in  that  dialogue  concern- 
ing purchase  it  is  W.  himself,  and  by 
no  means  the  landlord,  who  is  enriched 
by  t;he  produce  of  the  soil ;  in  all 
probability  W.  is  considerably  the 
weaJ'thier  of  the  two.  And  if  he  is 
dissatisfied  with  his  financial  position 
what  of  the  poorer  tenants?  Does 
one's  exiguous  income,  then,  really 
constitute  an  oppression  ?  Meanwhile 
the  bailiff,  now  the  landlord's  sole 
companion,  is  giving  his  account  of 
things,  and,  hovering  as  he  does  be- 
tween the  two  interests,  ^his  account 
is  certainly  more  encouraging.  Still 
it  is  as  hard  to  get  plain  facts  from  an 
Irishman  as  the  breeks  from  a  High- 
lander, that  is  without  being  positively 
rude  to  him.  The  bailiff  is  not  pre- 
pared to  assert  that  prices  have  risen, 
though  he  considers  that  the  farmers 
have  not  been  doing  so  badly.  But 
the  prices  of  some  twenty  years  ago 


are  now,  alas,  no  more  !  That  golden 
age  of  the  Ulster  tenant-farmer  when 
beasts  sold  well  is  now  a  pathetic 
memory,  driven  from  the  realm  of 
fact  by  stress  of  American  competi- 
tion. 

Then  we  go  on  to  another  farm, 
with  a  smaller  type  of  house,  white- 
washed and  thatched,  but  the  talk 
here  hardly  concerns  itself  at  all  with 
bad  times,  and  keeps  altogether  clear 
of  the  dismal  subjects  of  purchase  or 
reductions.  The  landlord  is  received 
with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  which  is 
almost  disconcerting  to  his  modesty ; 
and  his  appearance  seems  to  have 
driven  out  the  well-calculated  schemes 
of  bettering  their  position  which  one 
expected,  on  W.'s  assurance,  to  find 
the  main  interest  of  the  tenantry.  If 
one  were  not  an  absentee,  the  land- 
lord is  driven  to  reflect,  one  would  lose 
all  the  glamour  of  a  quasi-supernatural 
apparition.  He  finds  his  previous 
visit  remembered  through  the  lapse  of 
years  with  a  clearness  which  leaves 
him  a  little  abashed.  "  Ye've  grown 
up  finely  since  then,"  he  is  assured  ; 
and  a  good  lady,  who  is  a  tenant  on 
her  own  footing,  very  frankly  observes, 
"  Ye' re  not  so  soft-looking  as  ye  were," 
which  is  possibly  true,  for  the  land- 
lord's last  visit  was  made  in  his  days 
of  callow  undergraduateship  when,  by 
the  way,  he  was  by  no  means  accus- 
tomed to  consider  himself  unwise. 
And  it  is  to  be  observed  that  under 
existing  conditions,  with  the  Land 
Court  close  at  hand,  these  people  have 
nothing  in  the  world  to  gain  by  their 
friendliness.  Or  if  they  have  an 
ulterior  object,  they  at  least  forget 
entirely  to  mention  it. 

Chief  among  surrounding  figures  S. 
looms  up  in  memory,  a  Scotchman  by 
descent,  who  has  somehow  contrived 
to  become  all  but  entirely  Irish.  His 
high  cheek  bones  and  rather  rigid  out- 
line of  face  seem  to  proclaim  his 
northerly  origin,  but  his  bearing  is 
full  of  a  cheerful  alacrity,  a  certain 
nimbleness,  which  is  visible  too  in  the 
rapid  leapings  of  his  tongue  from  one 
topic  to  another ;  he  is  altogether  too 


218 


A    Visit  to  his  Property. 


sympathetic  and  approachable  to  be 
other  than  Hibernian.  S.,  the  bailiff, 
and  landlord  proceed  to  inspect  the 
former's  holding,  the  bailiff  holding 
himself  judiciously  back  with  an  air 
of  arbitration ;  and  S.  conducts  the 
party  with  promptitude  to  the  worst 
land  he  has  to  exhibit.  "  It's  no  use 
to  me,"  he  explains,  indicating  a* 
marshy  streak  lying  along  a  stream, 
below  its  level  indeed ;  and  unprofit- 
able stuff  it  appears,  sure  enough, 
with  the  rank  grasses  growing  thickly 
over  it  and  the  black  sticky  trenches 
yawning  everywhere,  out  of  which 
the  water  visibly  declines  to  run.  The 
landlord  rises  palpably  in  S.'s  esteem 
by  jumping  sundry  of  these  ditches  of 
his  own  unaided  vigour.  ,  "  I've  taken 
on  the  twenty  acres  down  here,"  S. 
explains  confidentially,  "  and  four  of 
them  good  for  nothing."  The  land- 
lord is  visited  by  a  timely  inspiration. 
"  And  what  did  you  give  for  the 
tenant  right  of  them,  Mr.  S.  1  "  he  in- 
quires. "Five  hundred  pounds',"  S. 
replies  rather  bashfully,  his  respect 
clearly  rising  with  a  gigantic  bound 
on  finding  himself  driven  to  this  ad- 
mission. After  this*  he  becomes  ex- 
tremely amicable  and  conducts  the 
landlord  home  to  partake  of  tea, 
whisky  being  produced  once  more 
while  this  meal  is  preparing.  "  We 
keep  some  in  the  house  in  case  of 
sickness,"  S.  explains.  He  is,  it  ap- 
pears, an  Elder  of  the  neighbouring 
Presbyterian  chapel,  but  the  landlord 
has  no  claims  to  especial  seriousness, 
and  S.,  tacking  round  with  true  Irish 
quickness,  grows  jovial  and  eloquent 
on  many  topics,  frequently  grasping  his 
guest's  hand,  or  knee,  or  whatever  else 
to  enforce  his  remarks.  It  is  the 
landlord  now  who  alludes  to  the  fated 
topic  of  purchase,  for  this  tenant 
farms  in  a  large  way  and  is  a  leader 
of  men  on  the  property  second  only  to 
W.  himself;  but  after  a  sidelong  medi- 
tative stare  for  some  moments,  S. 
eludes  it  altogether,  gliding  away 
recklessly  to  more  congenial  themes. 
He  is  wrapt  up  apparently  in  the  more 
immediate  duties  of  hospitality;  and 


certainly  tea  in  an  Ulster  farmhouse, 
with  uncounted  eggs  fresh  beyond  a 
Londoner's  belief,  is  an  admirable  in- 
stitution. When  it  is  over  the  land- 
lord feels  sufficiently  revived  to  carry 
out  his  original  intention  of  walking 
back  to  the  town.  But  no  ;  "  Shure, 
I  wouldn't  be  happy  if  ye  travelled 
away  like  that,"  S.  exclaims,  and  the 
kindly  offer  of  his  own  jaunting-car  is 
driven  home  with  a  force  which  proves 
irresistible. 

While  the  mare  is  being  put  to,  a 
visit  is  paid  to  the  one  tenant  on  the 
property  who  has  been  into  "  the 
Court,"  and  has  had  his  rent  conse- 
quently reduced.  Some  little  friction 
had  led  to  his  appealing  to  the  Com- 
mission, a  step  by  the  way  as  dis- 
tasteful to  tenants  hereabouts  as 
everywhere  to  landlords,  but  a  few 
words  are  enough  to  restore  harmony. 
The  landlord  is  going  to  be  married 
when  he  is  rich  enough,  so  he  informs 
the  tenants  to  their  great  jubilation  ; 
on  the  other  hand  the  tenant  who  has 
got  his  judicial  rent  has  recently 
brought  home  a  youthful  bride. 
"  You're  luckier  than  I  am,  Mr.  C. ; 
I'm  only  going  to  be  married,"  the 
landlord  remarks  with  the  happiest 
results.  "  I'm  sorry  I  can't  trate  ye," 
the  judicial  tenant  keeps  exclaiming 
at  intervals  of  the  conversation,  in 
allusion  to  the  absence  of  whisky 
which,  along  with  obstinate  bachelor- 
hood, appears  to  be  quite  a  leading 
characteristic  in  these  temperate  lati- 
tudes. Curiously  enough  the  only  two 
houses  on  the  property  with  children 
in  them  were  the  two  poorest.  As 
S.'s  car  whirls  along  the  white  level 
road  in  the  fading  twilight,  the  same 
subject  re-emerges.  "  There's  one 
favour  I've  to  ask  ye,"  he  says,  re- 
mitting his  attention  to  the  mare  for 
an  instant.  "  Good  heavens,  twenty 
per  cent,  at  least  !  "  thinks  the  land- 
lord clinging  desperately  to  the  bound- 
ing vehicle.  "  It's  to  drop  me  a  line 
when  ye  marry,"  S.  reassures  him. 
"  Shure  I'll  be  having  a  bit  of  bonfire 
on  the  hills,  something  for  the  bhoys 
to  look  at."  Even  to  diligent  students 


A    Visit  to  his  Property. 


219 


of  the  newspapers  it  may  come  as  a 
surprise  that  the  "  relations  of  land- 
lord and  tenant  "  should  be  anything 
liko  that ;  certainly  in  this  instance 
the  discovery  was  a  little  surprising 
to  the  landlord  himself. 

Another  townland  has  to  be  visited, 
lying  well  apart  from  the  first,  and 
requiring  another  day  for  its  inspec- 
tion. It  is  reached  through  a  strip 
of  really  beautiful  country,  where  the 
course  of  a  stream  between  hills  is 
thiokly  lined  with  wood  ;  and  the  road 
winding  above  it  through  leafy 
avenues,  bright  even  under  the  gray 
Irish  sky,  brings  one  in  view  of  all 
manner  of  woodland  dips  and  delight- 
ful slopes  of  coppices  where  the  blue- 
bells grow  thick  as  grass.  Once  more 
we  drive  rather  vaguely  in  search  of 
the  principal  tenant.  Once  more  un- 
certainty prevails ;  it  has  indeed 
reached  the  critical  point  at  which  the 
driver  drops  at  once  his  claim  to  om- 
niscience and  his  reins,  and  gets  off  to 
make  inquiries,  when  a  burly  peasant- 
like  individual  comes  suddenly  upon 
us.  His  aspect  is  humorous,  albeit 
shabby.  "  Good-day  to  yer  honour,  an' 
it's  long  since  yer  honour  has  come  to 
the-  property,"  he  exclaims,  being  in 
fact  the  bailiff  duly  in  wait  for  our 
appearance.  "  Shure  ye're  the  head 
lar  dlord  of  all,"  he  says,  with  a  kind 
of  rapt  enthusiasm  on  being  invited 
to  mount  the  car  beside  the  personage 
hiriself  ;  and  the  landlord  feels 
pri  vately  abashed  (one  humbly  appeals 
to  the  more  imaginative  Radical  for 
credence)  at  finding  his  own  appear- 
ance the  object  of  so  profound  a  satis- 
faction. 

3ut  the  look  of  the  townland  is 
worth  noting  before  we  go  further.  It 
consists  partly  of  valley,  partly  of  hill- 
sid  9 ;  the  bottom  where  the  stream 
runs,  is  rich  and  green,  fine  pasture, 
an  ble  land  bearing  oats  at  least  in 
abundance,  dotted  with  small  orchards; 
good  land  naturally  and  by  no  means 
wholly  depending  on  "  improvements  " 
for  its  productiveness.  Then,  as  hap- 
pens frequently  in  Ireland,  a*  few 
hu  idred  yards  ascent  up  the  slope 


brings  one  to  a-poor  and  ragged-looking 
soil.  Gorse  appears  plentifully,  in 
hedges  first,  then  in  broad  patches 
straggling  over  unprofitable  corners, 
elbowing  out  the  cultivable  fields ; 
what  is  worse,  rock  crops  out  here  and 
there  through  the  surface,  '-betraying 
mere  primeval  ruggedness  just  below 
the  few  inches  of  thin  reluctant  soil. 
Above  again,  if  the  rock  sinks  lower, 
it  is  only  to  give  place  to  boggy  moor- 
land black  with  peat,  covered  with 
rank  pasture  on  which  a  few  head  of 
cattle  may  browse,  but  with  small 
profit  to  themselves,  or  to  any  being, 
landlord  or  tenant,  beside.  The  gray 
bare  hillside  lying  above  the  farms  is, 
in  fact,  valuable  only  for  the  peat 
which  of  course  serves  the  townland 
for  fuel. 

Thus  half  a  mile's  walking  at  most 
brings  one  to  a  region  which  is  the 
antipodes,  in  the  agricultural  sense,  of 
the  place  one  started  from,  each  dis- 
trict presenting  a  wholly  different  set 
of  economical  conditions  and,  natur- 
ally, of  problems.  To  this  contrast 
add  another,  that  of  racial  character  ; 
for  the  farms  even  on  this  bit  of  hill- 
side are  tenanted  by  men  of  two  pal- 
pably distinct  nationalities,  Catholics 
with  Irish  names  on  the  one  side,  and 
Protestants  with  Scotch  names  on  the 
other.  A  glance  at  the  fields  and 
farm-buildings  makes  the  difference 
apparent.  Some  way  up  the  hillside 
for  instance  one  enters  a  farm  tenanted 
by  a  Catholic,  a  term  which  in  Ulster 
stands,  broadly  speaking,  for  Irish. 
From  the  outside  the  house  looks 
rickety  and  cramped,  with  low  white 
walls  sloping  at  eccentric  angles  and 
threatening  dilapidation.  Inside,  the 
room  is  unceiled,  the  rafters  are 
straight  above  one's  head,  and  the 
thatch  promises  only  a  dubious  pro- 
tection from  the  weather.  The  floor 
is  a  kind  of  concrete  pavement,  spas- 
modically rising  and  falling  with  the 
ground  beneath  it.  If  the  pig  is  in- 
visible, swarms  of  young  fowl  are 
running  in  and  out,  and  broods  of 
yellow  turkey-chicks  chase  one  another 
round  wooden  settles,  or  waddle  un- 


220 


A   Visit  to  his  Property. 


blamed  about  the  legs  of  the  sheep-dog 
slumbering  before  the  tire  of  glowing 
peat.  With  the  obscure  streak  of 
daylight  penetrating  through  the  few 
low  windows  to  lose  itself  in  the 
smoky  corners  of  the  roof,  the  whole 
has  a  kind  of  Rembrandtesque  aspect, 
comfort  being  clearly  sacrificed  in- 
voluntarily to  the  interests  of  the 
picturesque.  The  landlord's  mind  is 
naturally  disturbed  at  the  starveling, 
necessitous  look  of  such  a  place  ;  surely 
the  tenant  of  a  farm  like  this  has  little 
to  gain  in  his  straggle  against  the  un- 
kindness  of  nature.  But  one's  arrival  at 
any  given  conclusion  appears  so  often 
the  signal  for  the  appearance  of  con- 
trary facts  that  put  it  promptly  to 
the  rout.  One  goes  further  up  the 
hill,  the  land  becoming  naturally  poorer 
at  every  hundred  yards.  The  next 
farm  is  in  the  hands  of  a  tenant  whose 
name  plainly  declares  him  a  descend- 
ant of  Scottish  settlers,  or,  as  people 
say  in  Ulster,  a  Protestant.  Before 
the  trim-built  white  farmhouse  lies  a 
garden  stocked  with  abundance  of 
currant  bushes  and  wallflower  ;  a  few 
Scotch  firs  struggling  up  behind  the 
house  do  their  best  to  give  an  air  of 
warm  shelter  to  the  blank  situation. 
Inside  the  house  displays  all  the  glam- 
our of  the  highest  respectability,  with 
horse-hair  arm-chairs  in  the  parlour 
and  specimens  of  the  superior  type  of 
oleograph  on  the  walls  ;  everything  is 
prim,  well-dusted,  and  solid ;  .there  is 
even  a  piano  to  assert,  mutely  perhaps, 
the  higher  interests  of  cultivation.  It 
may  be  noted  that  this  farm  is  not 
larger  than  those  on  which  stand  the 
crazy  cabins  aforesaid  in  anything  like 
the  proportion  suggested  by  the  con- 
trast ;  twice  the  number  of  acres  per- 
haps for  a  maximum,  and  in  some  in- 
stances of  positively  worse  land,  but 
improved  and  drained  by  the  thrifty 
Scotchman  with  striking  results. 

The  farmer  himself  is  a  sandy-haired 
man,  colourless  and  unmirthful,  with 
most  of  the  expression  of  his  features 
run  to  calculation.  He  is  rather  nega- 
tively than  positively  polite,  and  the 
interval  spent  in  his  decent  parlour  is 


a  good  deal  occupied  with  ransacking 
one's  brains  for  something  that  can  be 
said  to  him.  Respectable,  trustworthy, 
and  thriving  as  the  Ulster  Protestant, 
in  the  fullest  development  of  his  type, 
may  be,  a  visit  to  him  suggests  the 
reflection  that  the  art  of  farming  in 
these  latitudes  is  barely  compatible 
with  the  merely  ornamental  arts  of 
life.  With  the  unthriving  Irish  the 
case  is  singularly  different.  They 
offer  the  landlord  a  wooden  settle  to 
repose  himself  on,  but  with  a  cordiality 
and  grace  quite  unknown  to  the  sub- 
stantial possessor  of  arm-chairs.  Their 
talk  flows  with  a  natural  brightness ; 
half  Saxon  as  the  landlord  must  con- 
fess himself  at  best,  his  tongue  is  un- 
loosened with  them,  and  with  the  sym- 
pathetic Irish  smile  ready  to  welcome 
one's  poor  efforts  it  suddenly  becomes 
easy  to  be  humorous.  If  they  offer- 
whisky,  as  may  happen,  it  is  out  of 
pure  good  fellowship,  with  no  suspi- 
cion of  an  ulterior  object  to  be  gained 
by  confusing  their  visitor's  intellect. 
There  is  a  curiously  intense,  perhaps 
an  unreasoned,  feeling  about  the  land- 
lord, which  the  enemy  may  if  he 
chooses  call  "  feudal,"  without  thereby 
detracting  from  its  reality.  On  a  pre- 
vious visit  the  present  writer  was 
greeted  by  the  father  of  the  townland, 
an  old  man  with  silver-white  hair,  who 
advanced  extending  both  hands  with 
all  the  tokens  of  extreme  regard. 
"  Shure,"  he  exclaimed  in  almost  melo- 
dramatic accents,  "  Shure  I  never 
thought  to  see  one  of  the  family."  A 
joke  even  against  one's  self  still  remains 
a  joke ;  there  were  reasons  besides, 
which  need  not  be  precisely  stated,  to 
make  the  presence  of  one  of  the  family 
an  ideal  difficult  of  realisation  ;  still  it 
is  doubtful  if  the  octogenarian  in  ques- 
tion was  himself  alive  to  the  pointed 
humour  of  his  remark.  It  is  true  that 
on  that  occasion  reductions  were  de- 
manded, and  received  ;  this  time,  how- 
ever, no  word  on  the  subject  was 
breathed,  and  the  old-fashioned  senti- 
ment remained  the  same.  It  is  among 
the  aged  that  it  prevails,  especially 
among  old  women  who  cling  to  the 


A    V 


to  his  Property. 


221 


landlord's  hand  with  something  like  a 
passionate  devotion,  a  posture  of  affairs 
rataer  disconcerting  to  a  person  not 
peculiarly  conscious  of  desert.  It  is 
more  than  doubtful  if  such  feelings 
have  survived  in  anything  like  an 
equal  manner  with  the  present  gene- 
rat  ion ;  in  a  few  years,  probably  enough, 
the  "  critical  sense  "will  be  triumphant 
even  in  Ulster. 

The  townland  has  its  black  sheep, 
one   at  least,   "an   honest  man   over- 
adtiicted  to  whisky,"   the  landlord  is 
wa-.-ned.       Accordingly,     on    entering 
one  of  the  hillside  farms,  a  more  than 
usually  inconvenient  and  smoky  habi- 
tation,  one  meets  with  a  downright 
hostile  reception  from  a  middle-aged 
person,  with  a  mottled  face  and  grizzled 
hair  tied  round  with  a  piratical  look- 
ing   red   handkerchief,    who    remains 
obstinately    seated,    uttering     speech 
quite  the   reverse   of  complimentary. 
Luckily  owing  to  the  combined  influ- 
ences of  dialect  and  liquor  his  remarks 
are  mainly  unintelligible  ;  but  Roddy 
{the  short  form  of  his  Christian  name 
which  he  commonly  goes  by)  glances 
unutterable  things  through  his  mud- 
dled eyes.     He  seems  to  fancy   that 
the  landlord  has  arrived  to  claim  the 
rent  at  the  point  of  his  umbrella ;  he 
lia^  grievances  about  turf-cutting  be- 
sides, and  his  wrath  is  unassuageable. 
His    wife   stands    meanwhile   holding 
him  by  the  shoulder,  sorely  ashamed 
-and   naturally    displaying   a    kind    of 
stubborn  hostility  towards  the  visitor 
who  has  come  to  witness  the  uncouth 
spectacle.     At  this  point  of  his  pro- 
gress the  landlord  is  accompanied  by 
a  gentleman-farmer  who  rents  the  land 
down  below  in  the   valley,  and  is   a 
mill-owner  besides,  and  a  Justice  of 
the-    Peace,    and    is    consequently   an 
object  of  almost  as  much  veneration 
as  the  landlord  himself.     This  person- 
age attempts  to  quiet  Roddy's   trucu- 
lence.     "He's    not    saying    anything 
about  the  rent  at  all,"  he  frequently 
explains  ;   but  Roddy  in  his  whisky- 
drenched  brain  finds  it  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that,  and  the  interview  is  brought 
<to  i  close  among  hardly  subdued  growl- 


ings.  As  we  retreat  down  the  lane 
the  Justice  moralises.  "  Among  the 
Catholics  down  South,"  he  says,  "  two 
or  three  tenants  like  Roddy  will  em- 
broil a  whole  property,  the  others 
standing  in  with  them  from  pure 
neighbourly  sentiment."  The  landlord, 
it  appears,  may  think  himself  fortu- 
nate if  the  result  is  not  a  general  re- 
fusal of  rent,  and  a  consequent  stimulus 
to  "  remedial  legislation."  One  indeed 
sees  clearly  that  the  emotional  forces 
which  swell  the  popularity  of  a  fairly 
harmless  landlord  may  just  as  easily 
be  aroused  against  him.  In  Ireland 
after  all  it  is  not  facts  which  create 
sentiment,  so  much  as  sentiment  which 
colours,  or  conceals  the  fact. 

Turning  about  on  the  hill-top  one 
glances  over  a  widely  extended  hori- 
zon. The  treeless  hills  look  bleak  and 
gray  under  clouds  through  which  the 
sun's  rays  gleam  pale  and  rare;  the 
distant  mountains  show  faintly  purple  ; 
the  brighter  greens,  where  chestnuts 
cluster  round  some  homestead  in  the 
valley,  are  subdued  now  and  merged 
in  the  prevailing  quietude  of  the  .land- 
scape. As  the  bare  uplands  meet  the 
clear  gray  clouded  sky,  the  whole 
sweep  of  the  country  comes  to  wear  a 
look  of  sadness.  Like  the  race  in- 
deed, the  country  has  its  playful 
sparkling  moments  and  its  winning 
smile ;  but  the  ground-tone  of  it  is 
mournful,  and  one  seems  to  catch  its 
significance  best  when  some  wider  ex- 
panse of  it  communicates  its  touch  of 
subdued  pathos  and,  as  it  were,  the 
note  of  resignation  that  pervades  it. 
It  is  of  the  North  of  course  that  one 
is  speaking ;  it  may  be  however  that 
the  secret  of  the  whole  country,  and 
of  the  Irish  race  as  well,  is  latent  in  this 
aspect  of  the  Donegal  landscape.  This 
is  Ulster,  indeed,  but  how  Irish  !  One 
fancies  that  Ulster  after  all  has  felt 
the  Celtic  charm,  and  has  contrived 
to  become  almost  Hibernian,  until  one 
finds  the  people  expressing  their  an- 
tagonism to  the  South,  to  Home  Rule, 
for  example,  in  phrases  that  have  all 
the  ring  of  Irish  reasoning.  "  It  would 
bring  devastation  in  the  country, 


222 


A    Visit  to  his  Property. 


sorr,"  they  exclaim,  speaking  of  the 
great  remedial  measure ;  or  else,  "  If 
the  Catholics  had  Home  Rule  they 
would  turn  us  all  out  of  the  country, 
sorr," — vaticinations  that  surely  be- 
tray a  quite  Celtic  imagination. 
Pressed  for  some  concrete  explanation 
they  fall  back  vaguely  on  the  danger 
of  the  Catholic  Church  being  estab- 
lished, discoursing  of  that  prospect 
in  a  strain  of  indefinite  alarm  that 
somehow  inevitably  suggests  the  fifth 
of  November.  But  it  is  hard  to  in- 
duce an  Irishman,  or  an  UTsterman, 
to  explain  himself :  he  invariably  pre- 
fers to  change  the  conversation  ;  and 
if  so  much  may  be  said  of  the  re- 
peated dangers  of  Home  Eule,  the 
"case  is  probably  much  the  same  with 
the  public  conception  of  its  benefits. 

Another  incident  throws  a  curious 
side-light  on  the  religious  difficulty. 
The  last  house  reached  is  that  of  the 
bailiff,  who  rents  a  few  acres  of  land 
besides  pursuing  the  trade  of  black- 
smith, which,  even  in  combination 
with  his  official  duties,  can  hardly 
make  him  wealthy.  His  cottage  in 
fact  is  crazier  and  dingier  than  any 
other  on  the  property.  Nevertheless 
he  loyally  produces  whisky  (to  be 
drunk  neat  in  wine-glasses)  for  the 
landlord's  refreshment,  and  his  ardent 
hospitality  sweeps  away  one's  pru- 
•  dence.  But  the  most  striking  feature 
of  the  visit  is  brought  out  by  a  more 
serious  circumstance.  The  bailiff's 
wife  is  lying  ill,  has  indeed  long  been 
bed-ridden.  Poor  soul !  the  face  of  a 
fresh  visitor  is  something  to  her ;  and 
the  Justice,  who  still  accompanies  us, 
and  is  besides  an  Elder  of  the  Presby- 
terian body,  feels  himself  called  upon 
in  a  simple  primitive  fashion  to  say  a 
few  words  of  the  nature  of  religious 
consolation.  He  comments  on  the 
providential  character  of  affliction  and 
duly  cites  his  texts ;  what  is  strange 
however  is  that  the  bailiff,  who  listens 
with  marked  edification  and  produces 
his  good  words  tersely  and  unaffectedly 
in  his  turn,  is  a  Catholic  himself. 
And  so  the  dialogue  goes  on  between 
Catholic  and  Protestant  for  some  five 


minutes  perhaps,  each,  if  one  may  so 
phrase  it  without  irreverence,  capping 
the  other's  pious  sentiments  with  one 
or  more  drawn  from  the  same  per- 
petual source.  The  sentences  they 
pronounce  are  doctrinal  enough,  yet 
they  utter  them  without  any  allusion 
to,  without  indeed  any  perceptible 
sense  of,  the  sectarian  difference  be- 
tween them  ;  and  one  is  left  to  wonder 
whether  controversy  has  ever  pene- 
trated deeply  into  the  healthy  neigh- 
bourly quiet  of  a  country-side  like 
this. 

Even  in  this  age  of  so  much  writing 
and     discussion,    it    still    apparently 
remains  true  that    experience   is  the 
sole  mother  of  wisdom.     Summing  up 
his  personal  experiences,  the  landlord 
confesses  himself  somewhat  perplexed 
at  the  curious  difference  between  the 
fact  itself,  revealed  in  actual  plodding 
from  farm  to   farm,  and   the  general 
tenor  of  public   discussion  about  the 
fact.  Possibly  it  is  only  the  grievances 
of  tenant-farmers  that  find  their  way 
into  print.     Who  after  much  reading 
of   newspapers  would   expect  to  find 
anything  in    the   Irish    fields   except 
"agrarian    problems"    and    seething 
discontent]       The    division    of     this 
particular    country    returns    a   Home 
Rule   member   to   Westminster,    and 
our    "collective    wisdom"    no    doubt 
draws    its    inferences    with    sagacity. 
But  one  circumstance  goes  a  long  way 
to  account  for  the  favourable  reception 
accorded  to  the    small   landlord  who 
has  put  these  jottings  on  paper.     The 
rents  on  this   property  had  not  been 
raised   during  a  period  of  some  sixty 
years ;  and   the  greater,   perhaps  the 
most  well-founded   grievance,   of   the 
Irish  tenant-farmer  is  that  an  increase 
of   rent  constitutes   an  appropriation 
by  the  landlord  of  the  tenant's  own 
improvements.      An    improvement   is 
effected,  the  value  of  the  land  rises, 
and    the    rent    with    it.       Curiously 
enough,  after  all  that  has  been  heard 
of  remedial  legislation,  the  Land  Com- 
mission fixes  its  rents  on  this  perfectly 
unjustifiable   basis,   and  regards  two- 
thirds,  or  perhaps  even  three-fourth?, 


A    Visit  to  his  Property. 


223 


of  the  value  of  the  tenant's  improve- 
ments as  legally  belonging  to  the 
landlord.  Of  course  in  one  sense  the 
tenant's  argument  is  one-sided.  He 
affirms  that  his  improvements,  drain- 
ing for  example,  have  made  the  land, 
whereas  it  may  more  fairly  be  con- 
tend 3d  that  they  have  merely  set  free 
the  capabilities  of  production  that 
were  naturally  latent  in  it.  It  is  an 
argument  that  offers  a  singular  parallel 
to  the  dogma  so  frequently  in  the 
mouths  of  those  who  profess  them- 
selves the  working-men's  champions, 
that,  whatever  pre-existent  conditions 
laboir  may  require,  the  man  who 
actually  works,  or  makes  a  thing  with 
his  hands,  is  the  only  person  entitled 
to  enjoy  it ;  an  argument  that  in 
future  years  their  own  labourers  may 
perhaps  turn  against  themselves,  to 
the  gasping  astonishment  of  the 
tenant-farmer.  Meanwhile  the  popu- 
lar landlord  in  Ireland  is  the  man 
who,  not  having  raised  his  rents  in 
the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant, 
cannot  reasonably  be  said  to  have 
appropriated  to  himself  the  fruits  of 
any  man's  labour.  Yet  even  he  will 
occasionally  hear  something  of  the 
impiovements  effected  by  his  tenant's 
grandfather. 

But  all  arguments  and  clashing  of 
interests  set  aside,  it  remains  true  that 


a  visit  to  Ireland  is  a  singularly  pleas- 
ant experience  even  to  an  absentee 
landlord  ;  perhaps,  paradox  as  it  seems, 
to  that  well-abused  person  more  than 
to  another.  Whether  it  is  true  that 
a  leisured  class  is  merely  an  assemblage 
of  parasites,  or  otherwise,  the  people 
are  undoubtedly  glad  to  see  you.  With 
all  the  advantages  of  the  Purchase 
Act  before  their  eyes,  it  looks  at  mo- 
ments as  if  they  actually  preferred  to 
have  a  landlord.  Curiously  enough  it 
appears,  in  this  individual  case  at  least, 
to  be  the  wealthier  men  who  are  dis- 
contented ;  the  feudal  sentiment  has  a 
comparatively  small  place  in  their  com- 
position, and  being  men  of  substance, 
they  take  it  hard  that  the  times  do 
not  permit  of  their  making  money. 
The  smaller  tenant  has  no  idea  of 
making  money ;  simply  to  'make  a 
living  is  enough  for  him,  and  if  he 
would  probably  remain  chilly  to- 
wards a  landlord  speaking  to  him  from 
the  aristocratic  elevation  of  a  dog- 
cart, he  is  genuinely  and  warmly 
interested  in  one  who  approaches  him 
in  a  human  and  un stilted  fashion.  If 
you  ride  out  on  your  own  wheels  to 
inspect  the  property,  the  tenants  will 
probably  talk  to  you  of  reductions. 
Walk  out  to  see  them,  and  they  will 
drive  you  back  with  enthusiasm. 


224 


MADAME    DU   DEFFAND. 


IF  words,  as  Trench  said  long  ago, 
are  fossil  history,  there  is  an  extra- 
ordinary significance  in  the  multi- 
plicity of  meanings  attached  to  the 
word  philosophy  in  the  last  years  of 
the  eighteenth  century  in  France. 
"You  will  think  the  sentiments  of 
the  philosophers  very  odd  state-news," 
writes  Horace  Walpole  from  Paris  in 
1765.  "But  do  you  know  who  the 
philosophers  are  1  In  the  first  place, 
the  term  includes  almost  every  one  ;  in 
the  next,  it  means  men  who,  avowing 
war  against  popery,  aim,  many  of 
them,  at  the  subversion  of  all  re- 
ligion, and  still  many  more  at  the 
destruction  of  the  regal  power." 

The  definition  is  not  scientific  ;  yet, 
read  by  the  light  of  1793,  it  seems 
fairly  adequate.  The  philosophers 
themselves,  however,  would  scarcely 
have  accepted  it.  They  posed  only  as 
men  who  would  submit  all  questions 
of  morals,  politics,  and  religion  to  the 
test  of  reason  and  natural  instinct, 
rather  than  of  authority  and  revela- 
tion. But  their  philosophy  was  not 
the  nymph  of  the  solitudes,  but  of  the 
salon,  the  coffee-house,  and  the  mess- 
room.  The  dilemma  that  ensued  was 
an  ancient  one ;  the  test  of  reason 
was  of  varying  value  in  such  a  world 
of  unreason.  It  was  applied  with 
very  different  results  by  the  scientific 
and  by  a  society  which  played  at  being 
intellectual ;  by  the  fine  lady,  who 
added  a  piquancy  to  her  toilet  by 
pondering  over  the  last  volume  of 
Rousseau  and  Yoltaire  between  the 
powder  and  the  patches  ;  by  the  fine 
gentleman  untrained  in  politics  and 
all  the  practical  arts  of  life ;  by  the 
young  enthusiast,  wearied  of  too  much 
civilisation,  eager  for  action,  and  con- 
demned to  inglorious  ease.  The  phil- 
osophers found  themselves  in  strange 


company  and  confronted  with  unex- 
pected issues.  It  is  well  known  that 
those  who  survived  to  see  the  out- 
break of  the  Revolution  were  as  much 
taken  by  surprise  as  the  less  en- 
lightened public.  Yet  they  were 
accused  of  having  deliberately  con- 
spired to  produce  it.  The  conspiracy, 
it  was  said,  originated  in  the  salon  of 
the  Baron  d' Hoi  bach,  and  was  pro- 
moted by  such  men  as  Grimm,  La 
Harpe,  and  Lamoignon.  It  is  easy  to 
be  wise  now  and  to  realise  how  im- 
possible it  was  that  such  a  stupendous 
upheaval  could  have  been  caused  by 
the  conspiracy  of  a  clique ;  but  at  the 
time  the  accusation  was  considered  of 
sufficient  importance  to  be  seriously 
refuted,  and  only  the  development  of 
events  was  to  show  the  true  character 
and  extent  of  the  influence  of  the 
philosophical  doctrines  upon  a  society 
sated  with  luxury  and  inaction,  and 
upon  a  starving  and  exasperated 
people. 

It  is  the  social  history  of  these 
opinions  which  makes  the  interest  of 
the  life  of  Madame  du  Deffand ;  the 
curious  spectacle  of  a  revolution 
wrought  in  thought  and  opinion  long 
before  it  was  translated  into  action  ; 
of  an  intellectual  and  pleasure-loving 
society  anticipating  in  theory  almost 
every  revolutionary  movement,  and 
fearlessly  invoking  the  spirits  which 
were  afterwards  to  take  such  mon- 
strous shapes. 

"  Your  Espinasses,  Geoffrins,  Deff- 
ands  play  their  part  too,"  saysCarlyle 
in  his  cumbrous  phrase  ;  "there  shall 
in  all  senses  be  not  only  philosophers, 
but  philosophesses."  One  of  her  own 
countrymen  says  more  gracefully  that 
Madame  du  Deffand  is  the  most 
characteristic  figure  in  French  society 
from  the  days  of  the  Regency  to  the 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


225 


first  years  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth  ;  and 
indeed  she  seems  to  intensify  in  her 
own  person  the  brilliancy,  the  restless- 
ness, the  intellectual  curiosity,  the 
devouring  ennui  of  her  world.  It  was 
her  fate  to  live  in  a  society  in  fer- 
mentation, "  incredibly  active  in 
mind  "  ;  to  have  been  touched  in  her 
youth  with  the  pitch  of  its  defilement ; 
and  in  her  old  age  to  preach  in  spite 
of  herself,  from  her  cynic's  tub,  on 
the  \7anity  of  the  world,  although, 
poor  woman,  she  hated  sermons,  and 
made  a  stipulation  even  on  her  death- 
bed to  be  spared  them.  "  M.  le  Cure," 
she  says,  when  he  comes  for  her  last 
confession,  "  you  shall  really  have  no 
cause  to  complain  of  me,  but  do  let  me 
beg  you  to  spare  me  three  things, 
questions,  arguments,  and  sermons." 

In  the  span  of  her  eighty  years 
Madame  du  Deffand  had  witnessed 
great  changes.  She  had  seen  the 
gloom  of  the  last  days  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth,  the  wild  excesses  of  the 
Regency,  and  she  lived  to  hear  with 
unheeding  ears  the  first  mutterings  of 
the  Revolution.  Without  decided 
beau&y,  she  had  yet  contrived  to  sub- 
jugate princes  and  philosophers  by  her 
wit  and  her  brilliant  eyes.  But  her 
greatest  social  triumphs  were  won 
when  she  was  old  and  blind.  It  was 
in  the  last  twenty-seven  years  of  her 
life,  in  her  rooms  in  the  Convent  St. 
Joseph,  Rue  St.  Dominique,  that  she 
gathered  round  her  "  tub  of  Diogenes," 
as  she  loved  to  call  her  high- backed 
chaii,  foreign  princes,  ambassadors, 
ministers,  encyclopedists,  all  that  were 
worth  knowing  in  Paris  in  the  last 
quarter  of  a  century  before  the  Revo- 
lution. 

At.  the  age  of  seventy  she  conceived 
a  p.issionate  fondness  for  Horace 
Walpole,  and  in  the  intervals  of  his 
visit ;  corresponded  with  him  from 
1766  till  almost  the  day  of  her  death 
in  1780.  During  that  time  she  kept 
him  -so  thoroughly  informed  of  French 
affairs,  that  when,  at  the  time  of  the 
disgrace  of  the  Due  de  Choiseul,  with 
whom  she  was  intimately  connected, 
Walpole' s  rooms  in  Arlington  Street 
No.  417. — VOL.  LXX. 


were  mysteriously  ransacked  of  papers, 
it  was  generally  supposed  that  the 
thieves  were  agents  of  the  French 
government.  Madame  du  Deffand' s 
letters,  however,  survived  that  dis- 
aster, and  have  preserved,  as  all  lovers 
of  such  literature  know,  an  extra- 
ordinary picture  of  the  last  years  of 
the  Ancien  Regime.  Side  by  side  with 
this,  they  have  the  minor  interest  of 
an  epistolary  drama,  in  which  Walpole 
plays  the  ungrateful  part  of  Madame 
de  Grignan,  and  Madame  du  Deffand 
that  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  with  a 
difference.  The  plight  of  the  un- 
demonstrative Englishman,  thus  posed 
as  a  reluctant  idol,  is  sometimes  not  a 
little  ridiculous,  and  that  of  his  dis- 
appointed worshipper  not  a  little  pain- 
ful ;  yet  the  most  sympathetic  portrait 
we  have  of  this  curious  product  of 
French  civilisation  is  from  Walpole' s 
pen. 

Madame  du  Deffancl  [he  writes  to  Gray 
in  1766]  is  now  very  old,  and  stone-blind, 
but  retains  all  the  vivacity,  wit,  memory, 
judgment,  passions  and  agreeableness  of 
her  youth.  She  goes  to  operas,  plays, 
suppers  and  Versailles ;  gives  dinners 
twice  a  week,  has  everything  new  read  to 
her,  makes  new  songs  and  epigrams  very 
admirably,  and  remembers  every  one  that 
has  been  made  these  fourscore  years  ;  cor- 
responds with  Voltaire,  dictates  letters  to 
him,  contradicts  him,  is  no  bigot  to  him, 
or  to  any  one  else,  and  laughs  both  at  the 
clergy  and  philosophers.  In  a  dispute, 
into  which  she  easily  falls,  she  is  very 
warm,  and  yet  scarce  ever  in  the  wrong  ; 
her  judgment  on  every  subject  is  as  just 
as  possible  :  on  every  point  of  conduct  as 
wrong  as  possible,  for  she  is  all  love  and 
hatred,  passionate  for  her  friends  to  en- 
thusiasm, still  anxious  to  be  loved, — I 
don't  mean  by  lovers — and  a  vehement 
enemy  but  openly.  Affectionate  as  Madame 
de  Sevigne"  she  has  none  of  her  prejudices, 
but  a  more  universal  taste  ;  she  humbles 
the  learned,  sets  to  right  their  disciples, 
and  finds  conversation  for  everybody.  As 
she  can  have  no  amusement  but  conversa- 
tion, the  least  solitude  or  ennui  is  insup- 
portable to  her  :  with  the  most  delicate 
frame  in  the  world  her  spirits  hurry  her 
through  a  life  of  fatigue  that  would  kill 
me  if  I  were  to  stay  here.  If  we  return 
by  one  in  the  morning  from  suppers  in 

Q 


226 


Madame  du  De/and. 


the  country,  she  proposes  driving  to  the 
Boulevard,  or  the  Foire,  because  it  is  too 
early  to  go  to  bed. 

In  the  memoirs  of  her  own  country- 
men Madame  du  Deffand  is  a  familiar 
figure,  but  their  treatment  of  her  is 
not  so  uniformly  sympathetic.     It  is 
perhaps   a   little   like   that   she   was 
accused  of  applying  to  her  own  friends. 
"Madame    du     Deffand,"     says     M. 
Thomas,  "reminds  me  of  an  ingenu- 
ous speech  of  a  doctor  I  once  knew. 
'  My  friend  fell  ill ;   I  doctored  him  ; 
he  died  ;  I  dissected  him.'  "     For  dis- 
section    was     the    vogue ;      it    was 
natural  in  a  people  living  so  incessantly 
in  society.     The  memoirs  and  corre- 
spondence of   those  days  are  full  of 
portraits  (often  extremely  insipid),  and 
they   were   the   constant   amusement 
of   fashionable   wits.      The    tendency 
took  its  most  morbid  form  in  the  Con- 
fessions  of  Jean  Jacques    Rousseau ; 
but  this  love  of    analysis,    of    going 
back   to  first  principles  and  first  ex- 
periences of  the  senses,  was  the  key- 
note of  much  of  the  literature,  as  well 
as  the  science  of  France  in  the  eight- 
eenth  century.     It  would  seem  that 
the  condition  of  society  was  so  mortal, 
that   it   must    brood   upon    its    own 
symptoms  and   analyse   every   sensa- 
tion, if  so  it  might  find  out  what  ailed 
it.     Whenever  we  can  penetrate  be- 
hind the  gaiety  and  talk,  the  ceaseless 
stir  of  pleasure,  it  is  the  same  story ; 
a  restless  retrospection,  a  craving  to 
solve  somehow  the  miserable  mystery 
of  humanity,  to  find  some  foothold  in 
the  bottomless  pit  of  the  unknown, 
lies  behind  this  brilliant  social  life  of 
which  we   hear  so  much.      It   drove 
men,  who  had  thrown  off  every  form 
of  ancient  belief  and  custom  as  an  in- 
tolerable burden,  to  the  mystical  doc- 
trines of  Swedenborg  or  St.  Martin, 
to  dreams  of  the  possibility  of  com- 
munication between  men  and  spirits, 
of  the  universal  efficacy  of  the  animal 
magnetism    of  Mesmer,  or  of  the  in- 
fallibility of    the  utterances  of  som- 
nambulism.     "France,"  says  M.   de 
Segur,   who   lived   through    so   many 


stages  of  the  revolutionary  fever,  "  was 
in  those  last  years  visibly  tormented 
with  that  restlessness,  that  uneasi- 
ness, that  extravagance  of  feeling, 
which  precedes  great  moral  and  po- 
litical crises." 

The   salons,    which    had    been    the 
centres  of  intellectual   life  since  the 
days   of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  took 
the  fever  seriously.     They  were  seized 
with   a   passion   for   philosophy,    for 
philanthropy,  for  all  the  whims  which 
were  taking  shape  in  the  storm-laden 
air   of  those    days   before   the   flood. 
They  embraced  the  deism  of  Yoltaire, 
the     materialism     of      Diderot     and 
D'Holbach,     the     pure     atheism     of 
Helvetius  ;    or    they    dreamed    with 
Rousseau   and    St.   Pierre  of  a  reno- 
vated humanity  yielding  to  every  im- 
pulse of  nature,  and  by  that  means 
returning  to   its   pristine   innocence. 
It  is  not  only  Walpole  who  grumbles 
that  the  French  were  no  longer  the 
same  people,  that  they  had  lost  their 
vivacity,  and  were  for  ever  discussing. 
"They    talk    philosophy    at    balls," 
says  Segur  again,  "  and  moral  science 
in  boudoirs."    These  people  of  quality, 
"  who    know  everything  without  the 
trouble  of  learning,"  established  clubs 
for  the  study  of  natural  science ;  they 
attended  the  most  learned  discussions 
at  the  Academies  ;  one  marquise  goes 
to  see  dissections  performed  ;  another 
dissects  with  her  own  hands. 

And  philosophy  was  quite  ready  to 
meet  them  half-way.  The  most  serious 
scientific  works  were  dedicated  to 
women,  and  some  of  the  profoundest 
speculations  in  the  imaginary  dia- 
logues of  Voltaire  and  Diderot  were 
put  into  the  mouth  of  the  marquis 
or  the  marechale.  It  was  a  part  of 
the  philosophic  faith  that  the  methods 
by  which  scientific  truth  might  be 
attained  were  so  obvious,  so  clear  to 
the  most  uninstructed  understanding, 
that,  given  the  facts,  no  more  trouble 
was  needed  than  the  power  to  follow 
out  the  successive  links  of  an  argu- 
ment. Even  women,  it  was  said, 
might  thus  be  made  to  understand  its 
mysteries.  The  deepest  subjects  were 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


227 


disci  ssed  not  only  in  the  salons  fre- 
quented by  the  encyclopedists,  but  in 
those  *  presided  over  by  women.  It 
was  natural  that  under  such  an  in- 
fluence the  expression  of  the  thought, 
the  art  of  style,  should  become  of 
suprome  importance.  "  Pour  faire 
passer  'L'Esprit  des  Lois '  Montesquieu 
faisait  de  1'esprit  sur  les  lois,"  says 
Madame  du  Deffand.  As  a  result, 
the-  man  of  science  in  France  could 
not  De  the  mere  student,  the  line  of 
demarcation  between  the  literary  and 
the  scientific  man  ceased  to  exist. 
Voltuire  makes  scientific  experiments 
with  the  prism  of  Newton  and  the 
thermometer  of  Reaumur ;  he  sends 
pamphlets  to  the  Academy  of  Science 
on  tie  Measure  of  Motive  Force  and 
the  Nature  and  Propagation  of  Heat. 
The  mathematician  D'Alembert  writes 
upon  elocution,  the  naturalist  Buffon 
upon  style,  the  psychologist  Condillac 
on  the  art  of  writing ;  and  men  of 
science,  morals,  politics,  each  and  all 
had  the  habit  of  writing,  speaking, 
and  thinking  before  a  fashionable 
audience.  Philosophy  popularised  it- 
self for  society,  and  in  return  society 
had  a  passion,  not  only  for  philosophy, 
but  tor  philosophers.  When  Hume 
was  in  Paris,  as  secretary  to  the  em- 
bassy of  Lord  Hertford,  "  no  lady's 
toilet  was  complete  without  him,"  and 
the  "  peasant  of  the  Danube  "  became 
the  rage,  in  spite  of  his  homely  man- 
ners and  bad  French.  Every  lady  of 
qualify  must  have  her  "  tame  author 
(autear  du  logis)."  Madame  Necker 
has  Gibbon,  Marmontel,  and  Thomas 
in  he:.'  train  ;  the  Duchesse  de  Choiseul 
has  ]'Abbe  Barthelemi ;  D'Alembert 
was  i  or  a  long  time  the  constant  com- 
panion of  Madame  du  Deffand  ; 
Mad*  me  du  Chatelet,  "  the  divine 
Emily,"  triumphantly  enthrals  Vol- 
taire. 

With  the  applause  of  such  allies, 
sociei  y  was  gaily  content  to  turn  the 
weapons  of  philosophy  against  the 
fabric  and  foundation  of  its  own 
existence.  Above  all,  the  "great 
souls  '  of  the  young  generation  gloried 
in  the  friendship  of  the  plebeian 


philosophers.  "  They  preferred  a  word 
of  praise  from  Diderot  or  D'Alembert 
to  the  most  marked  favour  of  a 
prince."  It  was  for  them  that  the 
earlier  watchword,  "  Liberty,  Equality, 
Humanity,"  was  coined.  "  The  spirit 
of  Equality  had  struck  deep  roots 
among  the  nobility  long  before  it 
reached  the  Third  Estate,"  says  Segur. 
Literary  titles  in  some  instances  took 
precedence  of  those  of  the  nobility, 
and  literary  men,  even  of  the  second 
and  third  grade,  were  treated  with 
infinitely  more  distinction  than  a 
provincial  noble  could  hope  to  win  in 
the  salons  of  Paris.  With  this  excep- 
tion, the  wide  division  between  the 
middle  class  and  the  nobles  remained 
unbridged ;  but  among  themselves  the 
sole  pre-eminence  recognised  by  the 
nobility  was  the  ancient  right  of  the 
Peers  to  seats  in  the  Parliament  and 
to  the  honours  of  the  Louvre,  while 
duchesses  claimed  the  tabouret,  the 
privilege  of  a  seat  in  the  presence  of 
Royalty.  In  all  other  respects,  a 
perfect  ceremonial  equality  was  ob- 
served. The  state-ball  on  the  occasion 
of  the  marriage  of  the  Dauphin  was 
the  signal  for  a  kind  of  social  revolt, 
because,  as  the  Princess  Charlotte  of 
Lorraine  was  to  open  the  ball,  the 
bride  was  suspected  of  wishing  to 
establish  the  precedence  of  the  House 
of  Lorraine.  Thus  the  first  mortifica- 
tion that  the  unhappy  Marie  Antoinette 
was  to  suffer  on  French  soil,  was  at 
the  hands  of  the  nobility ;  for  the 
resistance  on  this  point  was  so  ob- 
stinate that  it  had  finally  to  be  con- 
ceded, that,  though  the  Princess  should 
open  the  ball,  it  should  be  solely  on 
account  of  her  relationship  with  the 
Dauphiness,  and  should  not  be  con- 
sidered as  a  precedent  for  the  future. 

On  the  whole,  however,  it  was  this 
very  spirit  of  equality  which  made 
Paris  so  attractive  to  foreigners.  At 
no  other  capital  does  there  seem  to 
have  been  so  much  ease,  such  an 
absence  of  the  constraint  which  comes 
from  social  assumption,  as  at  Paris 
during  the  last  decade  before  the 
Revolution.  Walpole  notices  a  marked 

Q  2 


228 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


difference  in  the  reception  given  to 
strangers  in  his  later  visits  to  Paris. 
At  this  time  there  was  a  craze  for 
English  fashions  and  the  English 
Constitution:  the  philosophers  had 
introduced  the  English  philosophy; 
and  society  was  substituting  with 
enthusiasm  the  comparative  simplicity 
of  the  English  dress  for  the  imposing 
costumes  of  the  French  Court,  and  the 
wild  nature  of  an  English  garden  for 
formal  alleys  and  trimmed  trees.  The 
communication  between  London  and 
Paris  became  incessant,  for  the 
"  French  disease,"  as  the  newspapers 
called  it,  had  quite  as  strong  a  hold 
upon  English  society,  and  the  pros- 
perity of  the  country  round  Boulogne 
was  attributed  to  the  incessant  passage 
of  English  milords. 

This  was  the  whimsical  aspect  of  a 
deeply-rooted  influence.  "  If  any- 
thing," says  Segur,  "could  sharpen 
our  burning  impatience  for  the  reign 
of  liberty  and  tolerance,  it  was  the 
comparison  of  our  present  situation 
with  that  of  the  English.  Montesquieu 
had  opened  our  eyes  to  the  advantages 
of  the  British  institutions ;  the  brilliant 
but  frivolous  life  of  our  nobility,  both 
at  Court  and  in  Paris,  could  not 
satisfy  our  self-respect,  when  we 
thought  of  the  dignity  and  independ- 
ence, the  useful  and  important  ex- 
istence of  a  Peer  of  England,  of  a 
Member  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  of  the  calm  and  proud  liberty  of 
all  the  citizens  of  Great  Britain." 

The  part  taken  by  the  philosophical 
party  in  foreign  politics  is  a  curious 
page  in  the  history  of  their  opinions. 
But  there  were  some  aspects  of  this 
drawing-room  philosophy  which  more 
nearly  affected  the  life  of  Madame  du 
Deffand.  While  still  a  child  at  her 
convent,  beautiful,  piquant,  and  witty, 
she  found  it  impossible,  even  at  the 
age  of  ten,  to  understand  religion. 
Those  were  the  last  years  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth,  when  such  doubts  were 
already  in  the  air,  when  the  reaction 
had  set  in  from  the  enforced  austeri- 
ties which  a  remorseful  King  was  prac- 
tising by  proxy  on  an  unwilling  Court. 


The  seventeenth  century  had  been  a 
century  of  devotion ;  the  eighteenth 
began  with  infidelity,  and  Mademoi- 
selle de  Yichy-Chamrond  in  the  re- 
cesses of  her  convent  faithfully  re- 
flected its  spirit.  The  great  Massillon 
was  sent  to  reason  with  her;  and, 
says  Madame  du  Deffand,  in  a  letter 
to  Yoltaire  in  1765:  "My  spirit 
shrank  before  his.  Yet  I  did  not 
yield  to  his  reasons,  but  to  the  impos- 
ing personality  of  the  reasoner."  She 
was  never  in  fact  convinced,  but  the 
only  apparent  alternative  was  sub- 
mission to  a  Church  which  still  per- 
secuted heretics  and  the  scepticism  of 
some  of  whose  prelates  was  notorious. 
The  demand  upon  her  stock  of  faith 
was  too  great;  her  reason  revolted 
against  its  accepted  superstitions ;  she 
lapsed  into  that  green-sickness  of  the 
soul,  an  incapacity  to  form  an  opinion. 
"  I  suffer  my  mind  to  float  in  a  very 
limbo  of  indecision,"  she  says.  "  Doubt 
appears  to  me  so  natural  that  I  dare 
not  dispute  an  assertion  for  fear  I 
should  in  my  turn  be  tempted  to 
assert."  Madame  de  Genlis,  who  knew 
her  only  in  her  old  age,  thought  her 
unworthy  even  to  be  called  a  sceptic, 
since  she  had  never  taken  the  trouble 
to  study  any  religious  question  pro- 
foundly. 

The  infidelity  which  was  the  fashion 
in  society  was  of  much  the  same  cha- 
racter. "  Don't  fancy,"  says  Walpole, 
"that  persons  of  quality, — the  men 
at  least — are  atheists.  Happily  for 
them,  poor  souls,  they  are  not  capable 
of  pushing  argument  so  far.  But 
they  assent  to  a  great  many  enor- 
mities because  it  is  the  fashion,  and 
they  don't  know  how  to  refute  them." 
For  the  materialists  had  decreed  that 
in  the  processes  of  nature  there  was 
no  exterior  directing  force,  but  only 
an  interior  developing  force ;  and  in 
obedience  to  their  impulse  society  had 
agreed  to  abolish  Providence  long 
before  the  goddess  of  Reason  was  en- 
throned on  the  altar  of  Notre  Dame. 
"  The  vision  is  dispelled,"  writes  Wal- 
pole with  a  curious  prophetic  instinct. 
"  The  want  of  fervour  in  the  religious, 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


229 


the  solitude  that  one  knows  proceeds 
from  contempt,  not  contemplation, 
make  the  churches  and  convents  ap- 
pear like  abandoned  theatres,  destined 
to  destruction.  The  monks  trot  about 
as  if  they  had  not  long  to  stay  there, 
and  what  used  to  be  holy  gloom  is 
now  but  dirt  and  darkness." 

For  her  part,  Madame  du  Deffand, 
with  her  usual  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things,  never  paraded  her  incredulity 
in  a  society  which  considered  it  a 
marie  of  advanced  thought  to  be 
atheist.  It  is  her  letters  which  are 
full  from  end  to  end  of  what  Grimm 
calls  "that  dumb  disquiet  which  is 
agitating  men's  minds,  a  phenomenon 
characteristic  of  our  times."  She  pro- 
fess*^ to  adore  philosophy,  yet  is  for- 
ever falling  foul  of  the  philosophers. 
One  boasts  in  her  presence  of  having 
destroyed  a  whole  forest  of  prejudices ; 
"  And  so,"  she  says,  "  you  bring  us 
all  these  silly  tales  instead."  She 
calls  them  the  "livery  servants  of 
Voltaire."  "Never  were  men,"  she 
writes  to  him,  "  less  philosophical,  less 
tolerant ;  they  crush  all  those  who  do 
not  cringe  to  them ;  they  preach 
equality  because  they  love  to  domi- 
nate ;  they  believe  themselves  to  be 
the  very  first  men  in  the  world,  be- 
cause they  think  what  every  one  else 
thinks,  who  think  at  all."  At  another 
time  she  sends  Yoltaire  a  letter  from 
the  President  Henault,  with  words 
that  show  how  she  is  haunted  with  the 
horrors  of  a  godless  universe.  "Ah  I 
at  loast  Heathenism  had  one  resource. 
Pandora  would  have  left  us  Hope  at 
the  bottom  of  her  box ;  she  was  hidden 
under  all  the  evils  as  if  kept  back  to 
make  up  for  them.  But  we,  a  thou- 
sand times  more  barbarous,  we  destroy 
all,  and  have  saved  only  the  miseries 
of  life.  We  have  destroyed  spiritu- 
ality ;  the  universe  is  nothing  now 
but  senseless  matter  formed  by  chance. 
Nothing  speaks  to  us,  nothing  hears 
us  ;  we  are  surrounded  by  the  ruins  of 
a  world."  "And  you,  M.  de  Yoltaire," 
she  adds,  "  declared  lover  of  truth,  tell 
me  honestly,  have  you  found  her? 
You  have  been  frightening  and  de- 


stroying error,  but  what  have  you  put 
in  its  place  ?  Is  there  anything  real  ? 
Is  not  everything  an  illusion?  "  With 
one  breath  she  is  mocking  at  the  deism 
of  Yoltaire,  with  the  next  she  is  wish- 
ing with  pathetic  inconsequence  that 
she  were  religious,  "  the  happiest  con- 
dition," she  says,  "  which  seems  to 
me  possible  in  the  world."  And  she 
tells  Walpole,  who  has  more  sympathy 
with  that  point  of  view  than  most  of 
her  correspondents,  that  she  means  to 
have  recourse  to  the  practices  of  reli- 
gion, in  the  hope  of  finding  in  them 
"  some  consolation,  or  at  least  a 
remedy  for  ennui." 

The  terror  of  the  future  for  ever 
haunts  the  brilliant  little  French- 
woman. "  As  for  me,"  she  says  over 
and  over  again,  "  I  have  but  one  feel- 
ing, one  grief,  one  misfortune,  and 
that  is  the  misery  of  having  been  born. 
There  is  no  part  that  one  might  play 
on  the  theatre  of  the  world  which  I 
should  prefer  to  extinction  ;  and  yet, 
inconsistent  as  it  may  seem,  if  I  could 
receive  the  most  conclusive  evidence 
that  I  must  suffer  it,  I  should  not.  the 
less  dread  death."  It  is  the  skeleton, 
the  corpse  at  her  feast,  which  comes 
in  like  that  ghastly  intruder  of 
which  some  one  tells  us  in  the 
"  Correspondence  of  Madame  Mere  du 
Regent."  Everywhere  they  were 
dancing,  at  the  theatre,  in  the  town, 
at  Court.  But  for  a  moment  these 
pleasures  were  interrupted  by  an  un- 
expected scene.  It  was  at  a  masked 
ball;  there  came  in  six  masks,  two 
carrying  torches,  the  others  a  litter  on 
which  lay  a  man  with  a  mask  and 
domino ;  they  put  down  the  litter  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  and  went  out. 
Immediately  the  gay  crowd  surrounded 
the  masked  figure  upon  the  litter  and 
begged  him  to  dance,  but  he  made  no 
reply.  They  snatched  off  his  mask, 
and  behold  it  was  a  corpse !  "  The 
horrible  jest,"  adds  the  chronicler, 
"  stopped  only  for  a  moment  the  mad 
rush  for  pleasure."  But  that  was  in  the 
days  of  the  Regency,  and  the  world 
grew  more  sober.  Yet  still  the  grim 
dance  of  Death  threads  its  way  amidst 


230 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


those  perfumed  and  powdered  figures. 
The  Marquis  d'Argenson  tells  the 
story,  in  his  Memoirs,  of  Madame  du 
Prie,  who  had  been  an  associate,  if 
not  a  friend  of  Madame  du  Deffand. 
For  two  years  she  governed  France  in 
governing  the  Due  de  Bourbon,  Louis 
the  Fifteenth's  first  minister  after  the 
death  of  the  Kegent.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  they  were  both  disgraced, 
and  she  exiled  to  Courbe  Epine  in 
Normandy.  "  Then  she  took  the  reso- 
lution to  poison  herself  in  such  a 
month,  on  such  a  day,  at  such  an  hour. 
She  announced  her  death,  as  a  pro- 
phecy, but  none  believed  her,  for  she 
was  always  full  of  gaiety,  and  one 
could  not  suspect  it  to  be  assumed,  for 
she  seemed  incapable  of  sustaining  a 
part  so  long.  But  with  a  foolish 
vanity,  she  wished  to  make  herself 
renowned  by  her  death,  by  following 
what  we  called  the  '  English  fashion  ' 
of  suicide.  Meantime  she  held  high 
festival  at  Courbe  Epine.  People  from 
Court  [and  among  them  Madame  du 
Deffand]  came  there,  and  they  danced 
and  dined  and  played  comedies.  She 
herself  appeared  upon  the  stage  two 
days  before  her  voluntary  death,  and 
recited  three  hundred  lines  with  as 
much  feeling  and  as  accurate  a  memory 
as  if  she  were  perfectly  happy."  Then 
at  the  very  hour  she  had  fixed  she  dies 
in  tortures  by  a  virulent  poison.  "  It 
makes  one  think,"  says  D'Argenson, 
"  of  those  compacts  with  the  devil, 
who  comes  at  the  appointed  moment 
to  wring  his  votary's  neck." 

It  is  not  only  in  these  high  quarters 
that  philosophy  has  such  unexpected 
issues.  Two  private  soldiers  kill 
themselves  in  an  inn  at  St.  Denis, 
after  dining  together,  and  leave  a 
curious  document,  showing  their  "  per- 
fectly reasonable  and  philosophical 
motives  "  for  taking  their  own  lives. 
"  This  is  perhaps  an  example  of  what 
a  too  daring  philosophy  may  do  to 
ill-regulated  and  partially  taught 
minds,"  says  Grimm. 

Madame  du  Deffand's  anticipations 
of  a  too  daring  philosophy  had  been 
preluded  after  the  not  uncommon 


fashion  of  those  times.  Her  marriage 
was  a  failure;  one  in  which,  as  she 
says,  "  everything  was  perfectly  suit- 
able, except  the  dispositions  of  the 
people  concerned,  which  did  not  agree 
in  the  least."  It  seems  that  ennui, 
which  she  calls  the  cause  of  all  her 
faults,  had  been  the  chief  reason  of 
her  separation  from  her  husband, 
and  perhaps  also  of  her  proposal  to 
him,  a  few  years  later,  that  he  should 
return  to  her.  The  proposal  was  ac- 
cepted with  alacrity,  but  the  second 
attempt  was  not  more 'successful  than 
the  first.  For  six  weeks,  according  to 
her  friend,  Mademoiselle  Aisse,  it 
was  the  most  charming  friendship  in 
the  world.  At  the  end  of  that  time, 
she  became  bored  to  extinction,  and 
took  an  extraordinary  aversion  to  her 
husband.  She  was  not  actively  dis- 
agreeable, but  assumed  such  an  air 
of  desperation  and  melancholy,  that 
her  husband  decided  to  return  to  his 
father. 

Then  followed  a  time  which  must 
remain  unchronicled .  "Without  any 
deliberate  system,  she  pursued  a  line 
of  conduct  which  was  extremely 
philosophical,"  says  Madame  de  Gen- 
lis,  using  the  word  in  one  of  its  many 
accepted  senses.  But  her  world  was 
one  in  which  almost  everything  was 
forgiven  to  wit  and  distinction  such 
as  hers  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  had  estab- 
lished herself  in  the  Convent  St. 
Joseph,  she  began  to  make  her  mark 
in  Parisian  society.  In  the  midst  of 
an  apparently  brilliant  success,  sur- 
rounded by  friends,  she  suddenly  felt 
herself  solitary  and  melancholy,  and 
one  fine  day  deserted  Paris,  made  a 
descent  upon  her  brother  the  Comte 
de  Yichy  in  Burgundy,  and  resolved 
to  bury  herself  for  ever  in  the  coun- 
try. Her  friends  in  Paris  remon- 
strated, and  some  of  their  letters 
are  curious  reading.  "  You  are 
moping  yourself  to  death,"  writes 
D'Alembert,  "and  why?  Why  are 
you  afraid  of  coming  back  ?  With 
your  wit  and  your  income,  can  you 
possibly  want  for  acquaintances  here  ? 
I  don' t  speak  of  friends :  I  know  how 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


231 


rare  that  commodity  is ;  but  with  a 
good  supper,  one  can  get  all  one  wants 
and  c?an,  if  one  likes,  laugh  at  one's 
guests  afterwards." 

This  high-minded  advice  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  immediately  fol- 
lowed. Twice  with  despairing  rest- 
lessness Madame  du  Deffand  changed 
her  abode,  but  provincial  life  was 
impossible  to  her;  and  in  1753  she  is 
again  in  Paris,  having  persuaded 
Mademoiselle  1'Espinasse  to  follow 
her  &  nd  to  form  a  part  of  her  house- 
hold as  reader  and  companion.  -Her 
connection  with  that  remarkable  per- 
son lasted  ten  years  ;  their  separation 
divided  all  that  society  into  two 
camps.  The  most  curious  part  of 
theii  quarrel  was  the  sensation  it 
created.  In  the  minor  annals  of  the 
Ancien  Regime  it  becomes  an  affair  of 
quite  wide-spread  importance.  It  was 
the  signal  for  the  desertion  of  almost 
all  the  Encyclopedists  who  had  fre- 
quented Madame  du  Deffand's  house, 
which  had  hitherto  been  their  meet- 
ing-place with  people  of  high  rank 
and  philosophical  tendencies.  The 
only  friends,  however,  whom  she 
actually  lost  were  D'Alembert,  Tur- 
got,  and  Marmontel,  who  were  fervent 
partisans  of  Mademoiselle  1'Espinasse. 
Her  sole  crime,  according  to  them, 
was  in  being  too  charming.  Quarrels 
are  apt  to  be  dull  reading,  but  M. 
Thie?s,  in  his  preface  to  Madame  du 
Deffand's  correspondence  with  Horace 
Walpole,  makes  this  one  of  some  im- 
portance. He  imputes  to  it  almost 
entirely  her  dislike  for  the  philoso- 
phers. He  seems  anxious  to  account 
for  so  unreasonable  an  aversion  in  so 
intelligent  a  person.  But  in  1760, 
four  years  before  the  separation  of 
the  ill-assorted  friends,  Yoltaire  is 
accusing  Madame  du  Deffand  of  being 
the  ( nemy  of  the  Encyclopedists ;  and 
it  would  be  easy  to  quote  much  pun- 
gent abuse  of  them  in  her  early 
letters.  The  truth  is,  her  attitude 
towards  them  was  founded  upon 
some  thing  deeper  than  feminine  spite, 
though  M.  Thiers  is  ready  to  accept 
that  simple  explanation. 

M  idame  du  Deffandbelonged  essenti- 


ally to  the  Ancien  Regime.  Her  tone 
is  that  of  the  age  that  was  passing,  not 
that  which  was  to  come;  and  that  older 
generation  was  antagonistic  to  the  new 
philosophy,  some  from  disgust  at  the 
character  of  its  professors,  others  from 
the  instinct  of  an  enlightened  selfish- 
ness. Madame  du  Deffand's  interest  in 
it  was  purely  intellectual.  She  had  no 
share  in  the  growing  tendency  towards 
philanthropy.  There  is  not  the  smallest 
trace  in  her  letters  of  any  sort  of 
sympathy  for  the  poorer  classes  of 
society ;  for  her,  they  may  be  said  not 
to  have  existed.  "  I  hate  the  people," 
she  says  somewhere  to  Walpole  ;  but 
that  was  a  passing  whim.  More  truly 
it  may  be  said  that  they  were  a  part  of 
the  universe  lying  outside  her  range  of 
vision.  She  had  therefore  no  common 
ground  with  the  philosophers  in  their 
nobler  sympathies,  in  their  enthusiasm 
for  humanity,  and  their  ideal  of  a 
perfect  commonwealth.  But  she  was 
shrewd  enough  and  cynical  enough  to 
see  the  flaws  in  their  theories  of  liberty 
and  equality,  and  sincere  enough  to 
be  wearied  with  the  hollow  enthu- 
siasms of  this  fashionable  philosophy. 
She  resented  with  a  keen  sense  of  their 
incongruity  from  men  who  recognised 
but  few  restraints  in  their  own  con- 
duct, "  these  fine  speeches  about  good 
and  evil,  the  origin  of  the  passions,  of 
prejudices,  of  morality,  and  such  rig- 
maroles, with  which  these  good  people 
fill  the  journals  and  libraries,  with  the 
object  of  teaching  us  all  what  virtue 
is!" 

It  is  not  only  that  her  sympathies 
are  too  narrow  to  apprehend  the  wider 
issues  and  inevitable  results  of  the 
movement ;  but  her  keen  and  fastidi- 
ous intelligence  is  revolted  by  paradox 
and  sophistry,  by  exaggerated  senti- 
ment and  impracticable  theories. 
Above  all,  she  must  be  amused,  and 
the  "  livery  servants  "  of  Voltaire  do 
not  amuse  her.  But  so  long  as  Yoltaire 
will  supply  her  with  witty  pamphlets, 
it  matters  little  enough  what  sacred 
relics  he  may  be  destroying.  It  is  this 
incurable  lack  of  intellectual  earnest- 
ness which  makes  her  grasp  of  the 
political  situation  so  insufficient,  just 


232 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


as  it  paralyses  her  apprehension  of 
religion.  She  sees  with  lightning- 
glance  a  false  analogy,  an  irrelevant 
argument,  an  absurd  conclusion  ;  but 
to  disentangle  a  truth  from  its  swath- 
ings  of  error,  to  recognise  the  ideal 
struggling  to  free  itself  from  a  cor- 
rupting mass  of  materialism,  is  im- 
possible to  her. 

"  What  makes  you  fancy  that  I  hate 
philosophy?"  she  asks  Voltaire. 
"  Though  it  is  useless  enough,  I  adore 
it,  but  I  object  to  its  being  disguised 
in  empty  paradox  and  sophistry.  I 
want  it  as  you  give  it  us,  closely 
following  in  the  footsteps  of  nature, 
destroying  systems,  confirming  us  in 
doubt,  and  making  us  less  liable  to 
error,  yet  without  giving  us  the  false 
hopes  of  attaining  truth." 

There  is  something  sinister  in  this 
"  Sibyl  of  the  convent  St.  Joseph  "  for 
ever  uttering  her  cynical  despair  of  all 
things  in  heaven  and  earth.  She 
seems  the  very  high-priestess  of  the 
captious  spirit  which  possessed  that 
whole  society  ;  that  essentially  French 
art  of  casting  stones,  by  which  public 
opinion  was  employed  in  destroying 
every  form  of  prejudice  in  morals, 
religion,  and  politics.  "  It  was  those 
accursed  earnings  of  the  French  people 
against  Louis  the  Fifteenth  which 
brought  Louis  the  Sixteenth  to  the 
scaffold,"  writes  the  Prince  de  Ligne, 
who  could  remember  the  days  before 
the  Revolution.  "It  was  the  fashion 
to  resist ;  people  hurried  to  wait  upon 
the  Due  de  Choiseul  at  the  very  first 
posting- station,  when  he  was  on  his 
way  to  exile  ;  they  went  in  crowds  to 
Chanteloup."  It  was  round  these 
latter  events  that  the  whole  political 
interest  of  Madame  du  Deffand's  life 
centred.  For  twenty  years  she  corre- 
sponded with  the  Duchesse  de  Choiseul ; 
and  when  their  exile  began  in  1770, 
this  correspondence  becomes  a  kind  of 
secret  history  of  the  opposition  until 
the  early  years  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth. 

It  is  full,  as  are  her  letters  to  Wai- 
pole,  of  the  "  little  libels  "  which  were 
handed  about,  the  little  shafts  of  satire 
which  seem  now  such  curiously  feeble 
weapons.  Yet  Maurepas  had  been 


exiled  for  five  and  twenty  years  and 
Marmontel  sent  to  the  Bastille  for  lines 
quite  as  inadequate  as  this  parody  on 
the  King's  letter  to  the  revolted 
Princes  of  the  Blood : 

Ne  venez  point  ici,  mon  cousin, 

C'est  mon  ordre  supreme  ; 

Et  dites  a  mes  autres  cousins 

Qu'ils  en  fassent  de  meme,  mon  cousin. 

Sur  ce,  je  prie  Dieu,  qu'il  vous  ait,  mon 

cousin, 
En  sa  sainte  et  digne  garde. 

The  final  exile  of  the  Parliament  of 
Paris  was  consummated  in  1771  by 
an  inundation  of  lettres  de  cachet;  and 
soon  Madame  du  Deffand  is  writing 
to  the  Duchesse  de  Choiseul  a  story  of 
the  ridiculous  shifts  to  which  the 
Court  had  recourse  to  find  respectable 
members  for  the  new  Conseils  Superi- 
eurs,  by  which  the  Chancellor  Maupeon 
was  superseding  the  provincial  Parlia- 
ments. 

A  ceitain  M.  Charpentier,  some  petty 
official  from  Chaions  or  Soissons,  came  to 
Paris  a  few  days  ago.  The  day  after  his 
arrival,  a  sergeant-at-arms  was  announced, 
who  terrified  the  poor  man  with  an  order 
from  the  Chancellor  to  wait  upon  him 
the  next  morning.  He  arrived  at  the 
audience  quite  beside  himself  with  terror, 
trembling  like  a  leaf,  and  bowing  down 
to  the  ground.  "Ah,  my  friend,"  says 
the  Chancellor,  clapping  him  on  the 
shoulder,  "what  luck  for  me  that  you 
have  come  to  Paris  !  I  am  in  hopes 
you  will  do  me  a  most  important  service." 
"  I,  monseigneur  !  how  can  I  possibly  be 
of  any  use  to  you  1 "  "  In  the  most  import- 
ant matter ;  I  want  you  to  help  me  to 
make  my  peace  with  the  King."  "  I,  mon- 
seigneur ! "  "  Yes,  you  !  You  know  that 
his  Majesty  is  establishing  Conseils  Superi- 
eurs.  I  have  to  bring  him  the  list  of 
possible  members.  The  other  day  I  pre- 
sented the  list  for  the  Conseils  Superieurs  of 
Chalons,  he  read  it  and  threw  it  back  to 
me  with  indignation.  'What  are  you 
thinking  about  ? '  he  said,  '  I  do  not  see  M. 
Charpentier's  name  !  A  man  of  most  dis- 
tinguished merit,  an  excellent  judge,  fit  for 
the  highest  places  in  the  magistracy ! ' 
'  Ah,  sire  1  I  confess  I  am  wrong.  It  is  a 
most  unpardonable  piece  of  forgetfulness, 
but  it  may  be  remedied '.  So  you  see,  my 
friend,  you  must  at  once  accept  a  place  in 
the  Council  .  .  .  not  as  a  Councillor,  as 
you  may  well  believe ;  you  must  take 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


233 


something  much  more  important,  you  must 
be  President !  And  what  is  more,  as  I 
kno^v  your  powers  of  discernment,  I  em- 
power you  to  choose  nine  or  ten  members, 
who  will  be  needed  to  make  up  the 
Council.  You  must  leave  to-morrow  to 
execute  your  commission."  The  great 
Charpentier  is  overwhelmed  with  grati- 
tude, starts  off  the  next  day,  arrives  at 
Cha  ons,  swelling  with  importance  and 
announces  his  new  dignity.  He  is  received 
with  hoots  and  every  mark  of  scorn  and 
contempt.  With  shame  and  confusion  he 
hurries  back  to  monseigneur,  gives  an 
account  of  his  success  and  sends  in  his 
resignation. 

In  Paris  the  new  Council  was  so 
unpopular  that  its  members  had  to  be 
protected  by  a  guard  of  soldiers,  as 
they  proceeded  through  the  streets 
with  the  Chancellor  at  their  head, 
and  even  thus  were  hissed  and  other- 
wise) insulted.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  France  was  weary  of  Louis  the 
Fifteenth.  But  there  is  a  significance 
in  the  watchword  of  this  New  Fronde, 
"  Liberty,  Property,  Equality,"  which 
was  caught  up  with  a  sort  of  enthusi- 
asm at  this  crisis  by  a  society  in  re- 
volt. No  one  dreamed  of  a  revolution, 
yet  in  public  opinion  it  had  already 
begun  among  the  upper  classes,  and 
the  situation  was  emphasised  by  the 
growing  poverty.  The  disorder  in  the 
finances,  which  dated  from  the  wars 
of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  and  the  wild 
schemes  of  Law  under  the  Regency, 
had  a  very  direct  effect  upon  society 
because  of  the  immense  number  of 
pensions  which  all  kinds  of  people  re- 
ceived from  the  royal  treasury.  It  is 
not  easy  to  see  on  what  principle  these 
pensions  were  given  when  we  find 
Madame  du  Deffand  herself  in  re- 
ceipt; of  one,  and  that  the  Due  de 
Choiseul  had  charitably  procured  one 
for  Mdlle.  1'Espinasse  when  she  estab- 
lished herself  in  a  house  of  her  own. 
We  read  of  twelve  thousand  livres  for 
Madame  de  Luynes,  in  order  that  she 
may  not  be  jealous  of  Madame  de 
Chevreuse  who  has  eight  thousand  ; 
or  a  courtier  has  to  be  consoled  for 
not  being  allowed  to  take  part  in 
some  piece  of  diplomacy ;  or  it  is  a 


dowry  to  this  or  that  lady  of  the 
Court  who  has  married  to  the  King's 
satisfaction.  Such  pensions  were 
naturally  dropped  in  times  of  scarcity 
before  those  granted  in  recognition  of 
service  done  ;  and  when  the  Due  de 
Choiseul  was  disgraced,  the  friends  of 
Madame  du  Deffand  were  full  of 
anxiety  lest  she  should  lose  her  pen- 
sion. "  The  distress  here,"  writes 
Wai  pole  in  1771,  "is  incredible, 
specially  at  Court.  The  King's  trades- 
men are  ruined,  his  servants  starving, 
and  even  angels  and  archangels  can- 
not get  their  pensions  and  salaries, 
and  sing  woe  !  woe  !  "  Besides,  the 
inevitable  had  happened.  The  nobility 
were  beginning  to  reap  the  results  of 
leaving  their  estates  in  the  hands  of 
intendants,  and  of  squandering  their 
revenue  at  the  gaming-tables  of  Paris, 
while  in  a  lower  grade  of  society  the 
exile  of  the  Parliament  was  not  only 
a  blow  to  the  Constitution  but  an 
immense  loss  to  trade. 

A  letter  from  Madame  de  Choiseul 
gives  yet  another  view  of  the  situation. 
"  We  have  every  reason  to  be  alarmed," 
she  writes  in  this  same  year,  "  when 
we  see  the  President  Hogier  at  Com- 
piegne  deprived  last  year  of  an  office 
which  he  had  bought  with  his  own 
money,  which  the  King  had  confirmed 
by  two  consecutive  letters,  one  of 
which  he  received  only  fifteen  days 
before  the  office  was  given  to  another ; 
when  we  see  the  Chancellor  deprive 
M.  de  Yaudreuil  of  the  presidency  of 
the  Parliament  of  Toulouse,  by  virtue 
of  a  resignation  which  he  had  not 
accepted  and  which  the  latter  had 
withdrawn;  when  we  have  such  an 
edict  as  that  of  the  3rd  of  December, 
which  declares  the  King  sole  master 
of  the  laws,  to  break  or  create  them 
at  will  without  the  help  of  any 
tribunal,  a  declaration  which  makes 
all  the  citizens  slaves  of  a  despot,  by 
asserting  the  principle  upon  which  all 
the  arbitrary  acts  which  preceded  it 
were  done,  and  giving  the  pretence  of 
legality  to  all  that  has  followed  it ; 
when  the  confiscation  of  the  offices  of 
the  Parliaments  has  deprived  their 


234 


Madame  du  Deffand. 


members,  some  of  a  part,  others  of 
the  whole  of  their  patrimony;  offices 
which  they  could  not  lose  but  by  a 
legal  decision,  or  upon  conviction  of 
treason.  There  has  been  no  tribunal 
to  judge  them.  There  has  been  no 
sentence  pronounced.  There  has  been 
no  accusation  brought  forward.  In- 
stead, there  has  been  a  sentence  ad 
libitum  executed  by  force  of  arms. 
This  is  indeed  an  attack  upon  property 
which  may  well  carry  alarm  into  the 
hearts  of  every  citizen." 

With  all  the  clear  insight  into  the 
political  situation  which  Mme.  de 
Choiseul  shows  in  this  and  many  other 
passages  of  her  letters,  it  is  curious 
to  see  how  blindly  she  accepts  the 
morality  which  allowed  of  the  sale  of 
public  offices.  It  is  the  enormity  of 
depriving  men  of  such  legally  bought 
property  at  the  will  of  a  king  which 
shocks  her.  As  to  this  latter  point, 
her  tone  is  openly  republican, 
"  Philosophically  speaking,"  she  says, 
"it  is  indifferent  to  a  nation,  who 
governs  it.  The  ruler  is  never  any- 
thing but  a  representative  unless  he 
is  a  conqueror  or  a  legislator ;  that  is 
to  say,  either  a  curse  or  a  divinity. 
It  is  the  laws  only  which  really 
govern." 

This  is  the  political  creed  of  philoso- 
phy from  the  lips  of  a  fine  lady ;  the 
test  of  reason  applied  to  a  time- 
honoured  monarchy,  hitherto  guarded 
by  the  intangible  but  all-powerful 
shield  of  tradition  and  sentiment.  A 
dishonoured  king  had  not  only  for- 
feited his  right  to  loyalty  :  he  had 
broken  the  charm  which  had  bound 
the  nation  to  the  throne  ;  and  perhaps 
the  climax  of  this  social  opposition 
was  reached  when  under  the  virtuous 
Louis  the  Sixteenth,  the  Comte  de 
Segur  saw  "  with  some  astonishment  " 
the  whole  Court  at  Versailles  ap- 
plauding with  enthusiasm  Yoltaire's 
tragedy  of  Brutus  especially  the 
lines  : 

Je  suis  fils  de  Brutus,  et  je  porte  en  mon 

coeur 
La  liberty  gravee  et  les  rois  en  horreur. 


He  adds  that  the  most  zealous 
defenders  of  the  ancient  order  of 
things  forgot,  after  the  Revolution 
had  broken  out,  to  what  an  extent 
they  had  themselves  impelled  the 
people  towards  that  fatal  precipice  at 
the  brink  of  which  it  was  no  longer 
possible  to  check  their  headlong  de- 
scent. 

The  human  interest  of  this  other 
epistolary  drama  might  tempt  us,  if 
there  were  space,  to  forget  politics  in 
the  vivid  picture  of  the  splendid  exile 
at  Chanteloup,  and  above  all,  in  the 
charms  of  "the  little  Queen  of  an 
allegory,"  as  Walpole  calls  the 
Duchesse  de  Choiseul.  According  to 
his  pretty  and  fanciful  picture  of  her, 
this  serious  politician,  whose  letters 
are  full  of  the  sternest  common-sense, 
was  "  the  gentlest,  amiable  little 
creature  that  ever  came  out  of  a  fairy 
egg."  Fantastically  she  constitutes 
herself  Mme.  du  Deffand's  "  grand- 
mother ",  and  alternately  pets  and 
scolds  her  for  the  mistrust  and  self- 
tor  mentings  with  which  she  was  apt 
to  make  herself  and  those  about  her 
miserable.  The  jest  is  carried  on 
through  the  whole  correspondence,  and 
a  picture  long  existed  at  Strawberry 
Hill  in  which  the  beautiful  young 
Duchess  is  presenting  to  Mme.  du 
Deffand,  in  her  curious  chair,  an 
enormous  doll  !  The  cynical  old 
woman,  who  had  the  reputation  of 
being  quite  heartless,  shows  always 
the  sunny  side  of  her  nature  to  this 
youthful  "  grandmother,"  who  believes 
in  her  and  humours  her  with  unfailing 
patience.  The  shadow  of  her  protect- 
ing affection  has  indeed  reached  very 
far,  for  Mme.  du  Deffand  would  not 
present  a  very  attractive  personality 
to  posterity  had  not  Mme.  de  Choiseul 
managed  to  inspire  us  with  her  own 
feeling  of  profound  pity  for  a  soul  for 
ever  craving  to  love  and  to  be  loved, 
seeking  rest  and  finding  none  in  the 
pride  of  intellect  and  the  ceaseless 
search  for  pleasure,  yet  torn  with  the 
seven  devils  of  despair  and  distrust  in 
humanity  and  Heaven. 


235 


A  BIT  OF  LAND. 


H  E  stood  in  the  hot  yellow  sunshine, 
his  j  ir  of  modest  importance  forming 
a  halo  round  his  old  rickety  figure,  as 
witt  one  hand  he  clung  to  a  plane 
tabl  3,  old  and  rickety  as  himself,  and 
witt  the  other  to  one  of  those  large- 
eyed,  keen-faced  Indian  boys  who  seem 
to  have  been  sent  into  the  world  in 
order  to  take  scholarships.  The  old 
man,  on  the  contrary,  was  of  the  monkey 
type  of  his  race,  small,  bandy-legged, 
and  inconceivably  wrinkled,  with  a 
three  days'  growth  of  gray  beard 
frosting  his  brown  cheeks  ;  only  the 
wide-set  brown  eyes  had  a  certain 
wistful  beauty  in  them. 

lit  front  of  those  appealing  eyes  sat  a 
ruddy-faced  Englishman  backed  by  the 
white  wings  of  an  office  tent  and  deep 
in  the  calf-bound  books  and  red-taped 
files  on  the  table  before  him.  On 
either  side  discreetly  drawn  apart  so 
as  to  allow  the  central  group  its  full 
picturesque  value,  were  tall  figures, 
massive  in  beards  and  wide  turbans, 
in  falling  folds  of  dingy  white  and 
indigo  blue;  massive  also  in  broad, 
capable  features,  made  broader  still  by 
capable  approving  smiles  over  the  old 
man,  the  boy,  and  the  plane  table. 
So  s  :anding  they  were  a  typical  group 
of  Jit  peasantry  appealing  with  confi- 
dence to  English  justice  for  the  obser- 
vance of  Indian  custom. 

"  Then  the  head-men  are  satisfied 
with  this  ad-interim  arrangement  ?  " 
asked  the  palpably  foreign  voice.  The 
semicircle  of  writers  and  subordinate 
officials  on  the  striped  carpet  beyond 
the  rable  moved  their  heads  like  clock- 
work figures  to  the  circle  of  peasants, 
as  if  giving  it  permission  to  speak,  and 
a  chorus  of  guttural  voices  rose  in 
assent;  then,  after  village  fashion, 
one  voice  prolonged  itself  in  represen- 
tative explanation.  "  It  will  be  but 
for  three  years  or  so,  and  the  Shelter- 


of- the- World  is  aware  that  the  fields 
cannot  run  away.  And  old  Tulsi 
knows  how  to  make  the  Three-Legged- 
One  work ;  thus  there  is  no  fear."  He 
thrust  a  declamatory  hand  in  the 
direction  of  the  plane-table,  and  the 
chorus  of  assent  rose  once  more. 

So  the  matter  was  settled ;  the 
matter  being,  briefly,  the  appointment 
of  a  new  putwari,  in  other  words  the 
official  who  measures  the  fields,  and 
prepares  the  yearly  harvest  -  map, 
showing  the  area  under  cultivation 
on  which  the  Land  Revenue  has  to  be 
paid  ;  in  other  words  again,  the  man 
who  stands  between  India  and  bank- 
ruptcy. In  this  particular  case  the 
recently  defunct  incumbent  had  left  a 
son  who  was  as  yet  over  young  for  the 
hereditary  office,  and  the  head-men 
had  proposed  putting  in  the  boy's 
maternal  grandfather  as  a  substitute 
until  the  former  could  pass  through 
the  necessary  modern  training  in  the 
Accountants'  College  at  head-quarters. 
The  proposition  was  fair  enough,  seeing 
that  Gurditta  was  sure  to  pass,  being 
already  head  of  the  queer  little  village 
school,  which  the  elders  viewed  with 
incredulous  tolerance.  And  to  tell 
the  truth,  their  doubts  were  not  with- 
out some  reason  ;  for  on  that  very  day 
when  the  Englishman  was  inspecting,, 
the  first-class  had  bungled  over  a 
simple  revenue  sum,  which  any  one 
could  do  in  his  head,  with  the  aid  of 
course  of  the  ten  God-given  fingers 
without  which  the  usurer  would  indeed 
be  king.  The  Master  had  explained 
the  mistake  by  saying  that  it  was  no 
fault  of  the  slates,  and  only  arose  be- 
cause the  boys  had  forgotten  which  was 
the  bigger  of  two  numbers ;  but  that 
in  itself  was  something  over  which  to 
chuckle  under  their  breaths  and  nudge 
each  other  on  the  sly.  Ari  hai !  the 
lads  would  be  forgetting  next  which 


236 


A  Bit  of  Land. 


end  of  the  plough  to  hold,  the  share  or 
the '  handle  !  But  Purumeshwar  l  be 
praised !  only  upon  their  slates  could 
they  forget  it ;  since  a  true-born  Jat's 
hand  could  never  lose  such  knowledge. 

So,  underlying  the  manifest  con- 
venience of  not  allowing  a  stranger's 
finger  in  their  pie,  the  elders  of  the 
village  had  a  secondary  consideration 
in  pleading  for  old  Tulsi  Ram's  ap- 
pointment ;  a  desire,  namely,  to  show 
the  world  at  large  and  the  Presence  in 
particular  that  there  had  been  put- 
waries  before  he  came  to  cast  his 
mantle  of  protection  over  the  poor. 
Besides,  old  Tulsi,  though  he  looked 
like  a  monkey,  might  be  Sri  Hunuman  2 
himself  in  the  wisdom  necessary  for 
settling  the  thousand  petty  disputes, 
without  which  the  village  would  be  so 
dull.  Then  he  was  a  real  saint  to 
boot,  all  the  more  saintly  because  he 
was  willing  to  forego  his  preparation 
for  another  world  in  order  to  keep  a 
place  warm  for  his  grandson  in  this. 

And  after  all  it  was  only  for  three 
years !  They,  and  Tulsi,  and  the 
Three-Legged-One  could  surely  manage 
the  maps  for  so  long.  If  not,  well,  it 
was  no  great  matter,  since  the  fields 
could  not  possibly  run  away.  So  they 
went  off  contentedly  in  procession, 
Tulsi  Ram  clinging  ostentatiously  to 
.the  plane-table,  which,  by  reason  of 
its  straighter,  longer  legs,  looked  for 
all  the  world  as  if  it  were  taking 
charge  of  him,  and  not  he  of  it. 

It  looked  still  more  in  possession  as 
it  stood  decently  draped  beside  the  old 
man  as  he  worked  away  at  the  long 
columns  of  figures ;  for  the  mapping- 
season  was  over,  and  nothing  remained 
but  addition,  subtraction,  and  division, 
at  all  of  which  old  Tulsi  was  an  adept. 
Had  he  not  indeed  dipped  far  into 
"  Euclidus  "  in  his  salad-days  when  he 
was  the  favourite  disciple  of  the  re- 
nowned anchorite  at  Janakpur  1  Gur- 
ditta  by  this  time  was  away  at  college, 
and  Kishnu,  his  widowed  mother,  as 
she  cooked  the  millet-cakes  in  the 
other  corner  of  the  courtyard,  wept 

1  The  universal  God. 

2  The  Monkey-god. 


salt  tears  at  the  thought  of  the  un- 
known dangers  he  was  running.  Deadly 
dangers  they  were,  for  had  not  his 
father  been  quite  healthy  ..jm til  the 
Government  had  insisted  on  his  using 
the  Three-Legged-One  1  And  then, 
had  he  not  gone  down  and  wrestled 
with  it  on  the  low,  misty  levels  of 
newly-reclaimed  land  by  the  river-side, 
and  caught  the  chills  of  which  he  had 
eventually  died  ?  Thus  when  the  rainy 
season  came  on,  and  the  plane-table, 
still  decently  draped,  was  set  aside  for 
shelter  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the 
hovel,  it  looked  to  poor  Kishnu  like 
some  malevolent  demon  ready  to  spring 
out  upon  the  little  household.  And 
so,  naturally  enough,  when  Tulsi  went 
to  fetch  it  out  for  his  first  field- 
measurements,  he  found  it  garlanded 
with  yellow  marigolds,  and  set  out 
with  little  platters  of  curds  and  butter. 
Kishnu  had  been  propitiating  it  with 
offerings. 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  in  mild, 
superior  reproof.  "  Thou  art  an  ignor- 
ant woman,  daughter,"  he  said.  "This 
is  no  devil,  but  a  device  of  the  learned, 
of  much  use  to  such  as  I  who  make 
maps.  Thou  shouldest  have  known 
that  the  true  Gods  are  angered  by  false 
worship ;  therefore  I  counsel  thee  to 
remember  great  Mahadeo  this  day,  lest 
evil  befall." 

So  he  passed  out  into  the  sunlight, 
bearing  the  plane-table  in  debonair 
fashion,  leaving  the  abashed  Kishnu 
to  gather  up  the  marigolds.  Baba-ji 
she  told  herself,  was  brave,  but  he  had 
not  to  bustle  about  the  house  all  day 
with  that  shrouded  thing  glowering 
from  the  corner.  However,  since  for 
Gurdit's  sake  it  was  wise  to  propitiate 
everything,  she  took  the  platters  of 
curds  and  butter  over  to  Mahadeo's 
red  stone  under  the  big  banyan  tree. 

Nevertheless,  she  felt  triumphant 
that  evening  when  old  Tulsi  came  in 
from  the  fields  dispirited  and  profess- 
ing no  appetite  for  his  supper.  He  had 
in  fact  discovered  that  studying  text- 
books and  making  practical  field- 
measurements  were  very  different 
things,  especially  in  a  treeless,  form- 


A  Bit  of  Land. 


237 


less  plain  where  the  only  land-marks 
are  the  mud  boundary-cones  you  are 
set  to  verify,  and  which  therefore  can- 
not, or  ought  not  to  be,  considered 
fixed  points. 

However,  he  managed  at  last  to 
draw  two  imaginary  lines  through  the 
village,  thanks  to  Purumeshwar  and 
the  big  green  dome  of  Mahadeo's 
banyan  tree  swelling  up  into  the  blue 
horizon.  Indeed  he  felt  so  grateful  to 
the  latter  for  showing  clear,  even  over 
a  plane-table,  that  he  sneaked  out 
when  Kishnu's  back  was  turned  with 
a  platter  of  curds  of  his  own  for  the 
gre  it,  many-armed  trunk  ;  but  this, 
of  course,  was  very  different  from 
mailing  oblation  to  a  trivial  plane- 
table.  And  that  evening  he  spent  all 
the  lingering  light  in  decorating  the 
borders  of  the  map  (which  was  yet  to 
come)  with  the  finest  flourishes,  just, 
as  he  told  Kishnu,  to  show  the  Pro- 
tect«or-of-the-Poor  that  he  had  not 
committed  the  putwari-ship  to  un- 
worthy hands. 

Yet  two  days  afterwards  he  replied 
captiously  to  his  daughter's  anxious 
inquiries,  that  there  was  naught 
wrong  ;  only  that  one  of  the  three 
legs  had  no  sense  of  duty,  and  he 
must  get  the  carpenter  to  put  a  nail 
to  it.  Despite  the  nail,  however,  the 
anxiety  grew  on  his  face,  and  when 
nobody  was  looking  he  took  to  tramp- 
ing over  the  ploughs  surreptitiously 
dragging  the  primeval  chain- measure 
after  him ;  in  which  occupation  he 
looked  like  a  monkey  who  had  escaped 
from  its  owner  the  plane-table,  which, 
with  the  old  man's  mantle  draped 
over  it,  and  his  pugree  placed  on  the 
top,  had  a  very  dignified  appearance 
in  i;he  corner  of  the  field ;  for  it  was 
hot  work  dragging  the  heavy  chain 
about,  and  old  Tulsi,  who  was  too 
proud  to  ask  for  aid  and  so  disclose 
the  fact  that  he  had  had  to  fall  back 
on  ancient  methods,  discarded  all 
the  clothing  he  could. 

And  after  all  he  had  to  give  in. 
"  Gurdit's  father  did  it  field  by  field," 
sai<  I  the  head-men  carelessly  when  he 
sought  their  advice.  "  Fret  not  thy- 


self, Baba-ji.  'Twill  come  right;  thou 
art  a  better  scholar  than  ever  he 
was." 

"Field  by  field!"  echoed  Tulsi 
aghast.  "But  the  book  prohibits  it, 
seeing  that  there  is  not  verification, 
since  none  can  know  if  the  boundaries 
be  right." 

A  broad  chuckle  ran  round  the 
circle  of  elders.  "  Is  that  all,  Sri 
Tulsi V  cried  the  head-man.  "That 
is  soon  settled.  A  Jat  knows  his  own 
land,  I  warrant ;  and  each  man  of  us 
will  verify  his  fields,  seeing  that  never 
before  have  we  had  such  a  settling-day 
as  thine.  Not  an  error,  not  an  injus- 
tice !  Purumeshwar  send  Gurditta  to 
be  as  good  a  putwari  when  he  comes  ! " 

"Nay,  'tis  Gurdit  who  is  putwari 
already,"  replied  Tulsi  uneasily  ;  "  and 
therefore  must  there  be  no  mistake. 
So  I  will  do  field  by  field ;  peradven- 
ture  when  they  are  drawn  on  paper  it 
may  seem  more  like  the  book  where 
things  do  not  move.  Then  I  can  begin 
again  by  rule." 

There  was  quite  a  pleasurable  excite- 
ment over  the  attested  measurement 
of  the  fields,  and  old  Munnia,  the 
parcher  of  corn,  said  it  was  almost  as 
good  as  a  fair  to  her  trade.  Each 
man  clanked  the  chain  round  his  own 
boundary,  while  his  neighbours  stood 
in  the  now  sprouting  wheat  to  see  fair 
play  and  talk  over  the  past  history  of 
the  claim ;  Tulsi  Ram  meanwhile 
squatting  on  the  ground  and  drawing 
away  as  for  dear  life.  Even  the 
children  went  forth  to  see  the  show, 
munching  popped  corn  and  sidling 
gingerly  past  the  Three-Legged-One 
which,  to  say  sooth,  looked  gigantic 
with  half  the  spare  clothes  of  the 
community  piled  on  to  it ;  indeed  the 
village  women,  peeping  from  afar, 
declared  Kishnu  to  have  been  quite 
right,  and  urged  a  further  secret  obla- 
tion as  prudent,  if  not  absolutely 
necessary. 

So  she  took  to  hanging  the  marigolds 
again,  taking  care  to  remove  them  ere 
the  old  man  rose  in  the  morning. 
And  the  result  was  eminently  satis- 
factory, for  as  he  put  one  field-plan 


238 


A  Bit  of  Land. 


after  another  away  in  the  portfolio 
Tulsi  Ram's  face  cleared.  They  were 
so  beautifully  green,  far  greener  than 
those  in  the  book ;  so  surely  there 
could  be  no  mistake.  But  alas  !  when 
he  came  to  try  and  fit  them  together 
as  they  should  be  on  the  map,  they 
resolutely  refused  to  do  anything  of 
the  kind.  It  was  a  judgment,  he  felt, 
for  having  disobeyed  the  text-book ; 
and  so  the  next  morning  he  rose  at  the 
peep  of  day  determined  to  have  it  out 
legitimately  with  the  Three-Legged- 
One.  And  lo  !  it  was  garlanded  with 
marigolds  and  set  out  once  more  with 
platters  of  curds  and  butter. 

"Thou  hast  undone  me,  ignorant 
woman ! "  he  said  with  a  mixture  of 
anger  and  relief.  "  Now  is  it  clear  ! 
The  true  Gods  in  despite  of  thy  false 
worship  have  sent  a  devil  into  this 
thing  to  destroy  me."  So  despite 
Kishnu's  terror  and  tears  he  threw 
the  offerings  into  the  fire,  and  dragged 
the  plane-table  out  into  the  fields  with 
ignominy. 

But  even  this  protestation  failed, 
and  poor  old  Tulsi,  one  vast  wrinkle 
of  perplexity,  was  obliged  once  more 
to  refer  to  the  circle  of  head-men. 

"  Gurdit's  father  managed,  andthou 
hast  twice  his  mettle,"  they  replied, 
vaguely  interested.  "  Sure  the  devil 
must  indeed  be  in  it,  seeing  that  the 
land  cannot  run  away  of  itself." 

;'  It  hath  not  run  away,"  said  Tulsi 
dejectedly.  "  There  is  not  too  little, 
but  too  much  of  it." 

Too  much  land  !  The  idea  was  at 
first  bewildering  to  these  Jat  peasants, 
and  then  sent  them  into  open  laughter. 
Here  was  a  mistake  indeed !  and  yet 
the  lust  of  land,  so  typical  of  their 
race,  showed  in  their  eyes  as  they 
crowded  round  the  map  which  Tulsi 
Ram  spread  on  the  ground.  It  was 
a  model  of  neatness  :  the  fields  were 
greener  than  the  greenest  wheat ;  but 
right  in  the  middle  of  them  was  a 
white  patch  of  no-man's-land. 

"  Trra  !  "  rolled  the  broadest  of  the 
party  after  an  instant's  stupefaction. 
"  That  settles  it.  'Tis  a  mistake,  for 
look  you,  'tis  next  my  fields,  and  if 


'twere  there  my  plough  would  have 
been  in  it  long  ago."  A  sigh  of 
conviction  and  relief  passed  through 
the  circle,  for  the  mere  suggestion 
had  been  disturbing.  Nevertheless, 
since  Gurdit's  father's  map  had  never 
indulged  in  white  spots,  Tulsi's  must 
be  purged  from  them  also.  "  Look 
you,"  said  one  of  the  youngest ;  "  'tis 
as  when  the  children  make  a  puzzle 
of  torn  leaves.  He  has  fitted  them 
askew,  so  let  each  cut  his  own  field 
out  of  the  paper  and  set  it  aright." 

Then  ensued  an  hour  of  sheer 
puzzledom,  since  if  the  white  spot 
were  driven  from  one  place  it  re- 
appeared differently  shaped  in  another. 
The  devil  was  in  it,  they  said  at  last, 
somewhat  alarmed,  since  he  who 
brought  land  might  be  reasonably 
suspected  of  the  power  of  taking  it 
away.  They  would  offer  a  scapegoat ; 
and  meanwhile  old  Tulsi  need  not  talk 
of  calling  in  the  aid  of  the  new  putwari 
in  the  next  village,  for  he  was  one  of 
the  new-fangled  sort,  an  empty  drum 
making  a  big  noise,  and,  as  likely  as 
not,  would  make  them  pay  double, 
if  there  really  was  extra  land,  because 
it  had  not  come  into  the  schedule 
before.  No !  they  would  ask  the 
Master  first,  since  he  had  experience 
in  finding  excuse  for  mistakes.  Nor 
was  their  trust  unfounded,  for  the 
Master  not  only  had  an  excuse  in 
something  he  called  "a  reasonable 
margin  of  error,"  but  also  a  remedy 
which,  he  declared,  the  late  putwari 
had  always  adopted ;  briefly  a  snip 
here,  a  bulge  there,  and  a  general 
fudging  with  the  old  settlement-maps. 

The  elders  clapped  old  Tulsi  on  the 
back  with  fresh  laughter  bidding  him 
not  try  to  be  cleverer  than  others,  and 
so  sent  him  back  to  his  drawing-board. 
But  long  after  the  dusk  had  fallen 
that  evening,  the  old  man  sat  staring 
stupidly  at  the  great  sheet  of  blank 
paper  on  which  he  had  not  drawn  a 
line.  It  was  no  business  of  his  what 
Gurdit's  father  had  done,  seeing  that 
he  too  was  of  the  old  school  inwardly, 
if  not  outwardly ;  but  Gurdit  himself 
when  he  returned  would  allow  of  no 


A  Bit  of  Land. 


239 


such  dishonesties,  and  he,  Tulsi,  was 
in  the  boy's  place.  There  was  time 
yet,  a  month  at  least  before  inspection, 
in  which  to  have  it  out  with  the  plane- 
tab]  e.  So  when  the  wild  geese  from 
the  mud-banks  came  with  the  first 
streak  of  dawn  to  feed  on  the  wheat 
the}'  found  old  Tulsi  and  his  attendant 
demon  there  already,  at  work  on  the 
dewy  fields  ;  and  when  sunset  warned 
the  gray  crane  that  it  was  time  to 
wing  their  flight  riverwards,  they  left 
Tulsi  and  the  Three-Legged-One  still 
struggling  with  the  margin  of  error. 

Then  he  would  sit  up  of  nights 
plotting  and  planning  till  a  dim,  dazed 
look  came  into  his  bright  old  eyes, 
and  he  had  to  borrow  a  pair  of  horn 
spectacles  from  the  widow  of  a  dead 
friend.  He  was  getting  old,  he  told 
Kishnu  (who  was  in  despair),  as  men 
mus^t  get  old,  no  matter  how  many 
marigolds  ignorant  women  wasted  on 
false  gods ;  for  she  had  taken  boldly, 
and  unchecked,  to  the  oblations  again. 

But  in  the  end  inspection-day  found 
that  white  bit  of  land  white  as  ever, 
nay,  whiter  against  the  dark  finger 
which  pointed  at  it  accusingly ;  since, 
as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  what  only 
the  natives  themselves  may  call  a 
Black  Judge  was  the  in  spec  ting-officer  ; 
a  most  admirable  young  Bachelor  of 
Arts  from  the  Calcutta  University 
full  to  the  brim  of  solid  virtue,  and 
utterly  devoid  of  any  sneaking  senti- 
mental sympathy  with  the  quips  and 
cranks  of  poor  humanity,  those  lichens 
of  life  which  make  its  rough  rocks 
and  water-worn  boulders  so  beautiful 
to  jhe  seeing  eye.  "  This  must  not 
occ  ir,"  he  said,  speaking,  after  the 
manner  of  the  alien,  to  his  clerk  in 
English  in  order  to  enhance  his 
dignity.  "  It  is  gross  negligence  of 
common  orders.  Write  as  warning 
tha:if  better  map  be  not  forthcoming, 
locum  tenens  loses  appointment  with 
adverse  influence  on  hereditary  claims." 
Adverse  influence  on  hereditary  claims  ! 
The  words,  translated  brutally,  as  only 
clerks  can  translate,  sent  poor  old 
Tulsi  into  an  agony  of  remorse  and 
resolve. 


A  month  afterwards  Kishnu  spoke 
to  the  head-men.  "  The  Three-Legged- 
One  hath  driven  the  putwari  crazy," 
she  said.  "  Remove  it  from  him  or 
he  will  die.  Justice  !  Justice  !  " 

So  it  was  removed  and  hidden  away 
with  obloquy  in  an  outhouse,  where- 
upon he  sat  and  cried  that  he  had 
ruined  Gurdit,  Gurdit  the  light  of  his 
eyes  ! 

"  Heed  not  the  Bengali,"  they  said 
at  last  in  sheer  despair.  •"  He  is  a 
fool.  Thou  shalt  come  with  us  to  the 
big  Sahib.  He  will  understand,  see- 
ing that  he  is  more  our  race  than  the 
other." 

That  is  how  it  came  to  pass  that 
Tulsi  Ram  sat  on  the  stucco  steps  of 
an  Englishman's  house,  pointing  with 
a  trembling  but  truthful  finger  at  a 
white  spot  among  the  green,  while  a 
circle  of  bearded  Jats  informed  the 
Presence  that  Sri  Hunuman  himself 
was  not  wiser  nor  better  than  their 
putwari. 

"  And  how  do  you  account  for  it? 
I  mean  what  do  you  think  it  is  ] " 
asked  the  foreign  voice  curiously. 

The  wrinkles  on  Tulsi' s  forehead 
grew  deeper,  his  bright  yet  dim  eyes 
looked  wistfully  at  the  master  of  his 
fate.  "  'Tis  an  over  large  margin  of 
error,  Huzoor,  owing  to  lack  of  con- 
trol over  the  plane-table.  That  is 
what  the  book  says ;  that  is  what 
Gurdit  will  say." 

"But  what  do  you  say?  How  do 
you  think  that  bit  of  land  came  into 
your  village  ? " 

Tulsi  hesitated,  gained  confidence 
somehow  from  the  blue  eyes :  "  Unless 
Purumeshwar  sent  a  bit  of  another 
world,"  he  suggested  meekly. 

The  Englishman  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  down  on  the  wizened  monkey- 
like  face,  the  truthful  finger,  the 
accusing  white  spot.  "  I  think  he 
has,"  he  said  at  last.  "Go  home, 
Tulsi,  and  colour  it  blue.  I'll  pass  it 
as  a  bit  of  Paradise." 

So  that  year  there  was  a  blue  patch, 
like  a  tank  where  no  tank  should  be, 
upon  the  village  map,  and  the  old 
putwari's  conscience  found  peace  in 


240 


A  Bit  of  Land. 


the  correct  total  of  the  columns  of 
figures  which  he  added  together ; 
while  the  Three- Legged-One,  released 
from  durance  vile  at  his  special  re- 
quest, stood  in  the  corner  garlanded 
with  the  marigolds  of  thanksgiving. 
Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why, 
next  mapping  season,  the  patch  of 
Paradise  had  shrunk  to  half  its  orig- 
inal size  ;  or  perhaps  it  was  that  he 
really  had  more  control  over  the  plane- 
table.  At  any  rate  he  treated  it  more 
as  a  friend  by  spreading  its  legs  very 
wide  apart,  covering  it  with  his  white 
cotton  shawl,  and  so  using  it  as  a  tent. 
And  yet  when,  on  Gurdit's  return 
from  college  with  a  first-class  sur- 
veyor's certificate,  Paradise  became 
absorbed  in  a  legitimate  margin  of 
error,  there  was  a  certain  wistful 
regret  in  old  Tulsi's  pride,  and  he 
said,  that  being  an  ignorant  old  man, 
it  was  time  he  returned  to  find  Para- 
dise in  another  way. 


"  But  thou  shalt  not  leave  us  for 
the  wilderness  as  before,"  swore  the 
Jats  in  council.  "Lo!  Gurdit  is 
young  and  hasty,  and  thou  wilt  be 
needed  to  settle  the  disputes  ;  so  we 
will  give  thee  a  saintly  sitting  of  thy 
very  own  in  our  village." 

But  Tulsi  objected.  The  fields 
were  the  fields,  he  said,  and  the 
houses  were  the  houses ;  it  only  led  to 
difficulties  to  put  odd  bits  of  land  into 
a  map,  and  he  would  be  quite  satisfied 
to  sit  anywhere.  In  the  end,  however, 
he  had  to  give  in,  for  when  he  died, 
after  many  years  spent  in  settling 
disputes,  some  one  suggested  that  he 
really  had  been  Sri  Hunuman  himself ; 
at  any  rate  he  was  a  saint.  So  the 
white  spot  marking  a  shrine  reap- 
peared in  the  map  to  show  whence 
the  old  man  had  passed  to  the  Better 
Land. 

F.  A.  STEEL. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


AUGUST,    1894. 


SIR  SIMON'S  COURTSHIP. 


"  SHE  is  a  good-looking  girl." 

"  Yes,  she  is  pretty;  but  she  is 
beoter  than  pretty ;  she  is  good.  I 
assure  you,  my  dear  Sir  Simon,  that 
it  has  been  a  real  pleasure  to  me  to 
watch  that  young  person.  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  ever  seen  any  one  so 
devoted  to  her  work  as  she  is." 

"  Devoted  to  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  Quite  devoted.  The  way  in  which 
th(s  modern  young  woman  spends  her 
time  must  give  occasion  for  sadness 
to  any  thinking  person.  Golf,  lawn- 
tennis,  riding,  hunting  even,  dancing, 
— anything  that  is  exciting  and 
frivolous  and  useless." 

•'Shocking!"  said  Sir  Simon,  a 
pause  coming  which  he  saw  he  was 
expected  to  fill  up. 

•'  Quite  so,  most  demoralising.  But 
Miss  Shaw  has  nothing  of  this  kind 
about  her.  She  will  doubtless  marry 
some  day ;  I  hope  so ;  but  not  yet 
aw  hile ;  she  is  far  too  ardent  in  her 
studies  to  find  any  room  for  silly 
sentimentalities  at  present.  You  may 
depend  upon  it  the  man  who  wins  her 
wi]l  not  be  chosen  for  his  looks,  or  for 
his  prowess  in  games  of  strength. 
Not  a  bit  of  use,  my  dear  sir,  for  a 
mere  athlete  to  try  to  gain  favour  in 
her  eyes." 

"Not  a  bit,"  echoed  Hood.  He  had 
a  long  stick  in  his  hand  with  which 
he  remorselessly  cut  down  every 
dandelion  or  thistle  which  came  with- 
in his  reach. 

No.  418. — VOL.  LXX. 


"  Poor  girl !  And  yet  one  need  not 
be  sorry  for  her  now.  I  did  feel  at 
first  for  her,  coming  among  strangers, 
and  leading  such  a  lonely  life.  But 
she  has  found  her  vocation." 

"  Always  messing  among  old  books," 
suggested  the  Baronet. 

"Always  working  among  them," 
replied  the  Rector,  laying  some  em- 
phasis on  his  verb. 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  very  extraordi- 
nary thing  that  any  one  should  care 
for  such  a  life.  I  mean,"  noticing  a 
frown  gathering  on  his  companion's 
brow,  "in  a  young  thing  like  that. 
Of  course  it's  quite  different  with  us.'1 

"  It  grows  on  you  ;  it's  quite  aston- 
ishing how  the  fascination  grows  on 
you.  I  can  remember  quite  well  when 
I  myself  cared  nothing  for  books, — for 
books  as  books,  that  is  to  say.  But 
the  love  for  them  had  seized  me  by 
the  time  I  was  fifteen,  and  since  then 
it  has  never  left  me.  I  could  show 
you  the  very  branch  of  the  lime-tree 
on  which  I  used  to  sit  on  half-holidays, 
with  a  little  Elzevir  Horace  in  my 
hand,  while  the  rest  of  my  school- 
fellows were  playing  fives  or  cricket, 
or  bathing  in  the  river." 

"  Ugh  ! "  said  Sir  Simon,  in  a  man- 
ner which  might  be  taken  to  express 
wonder,  or  admiration,  or  disgust. 
"  So  you  think  Miss  Penelope  is  in  no 
hurry  to  marry  ?  "  he  went  on  after  a 
long  pause. 

The  Rector's  mind  had  flown  back 
those  fifty  years  j  he  seemed  to  be 
conscious  once  more  of  the  fragrant 


242 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


scent  of  the  old  lime-tree,  to  hear 
again  the  music  of  its  innumerable 
bees,  and  the  cool  ripple  of  the  water 
below.  "  Oh  no,  quite  the  contrary. 
Let  me  see  ;  she  is  now  twenty-five  ; 
I  should  give  her  ten  years.  And  I 
think  I  could  make  a  pretty  fair 
prophecy  as  to  the  sort  of  man  her 
husband  will  be." 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  ?  " 
"  Not  a  mere  student.  It  cannot 
be  good  for  any  one  to  devote  himself 
to  a  single  pursuit  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  others.  That  is  why  I  occupy 
myself  with  gardening  as  well  as 
parish-work.  Her  husband  will  prob- 
ably, I  should  say,  be  a  good  deal 
older  than  herself;  a  man  of  experi- 
ence, well  read  of  course,  in  the  high- 
est sense,  and  able  to  direct  her  studies 
to  the  best  possible  advantage." 

"A  kind  of  literary  father,"  sug- 
gested Sir  Simon. 

""Well, — a  guide  as  well  as  a  hus- 
band, able  by  his  more  ripe  scholarship 
to  uphold  her  uncertain  steps.  To  lead 
her  along  the  pleasant  paths  of  litera- 
ture ;  not  scorning,  or  being  impatient 
with  her,  even  in  her  lightest  moods, 
but  gradually  communicating  to  her 
his  own  enthusiasm  and  affection  for 
the  most  serious  studies.  What  could 
any  woman  want  more  ? " 

Simon  thought  they  might,  some  of 
them,  want  a  great  deal  more,  but  he 
did  not  say  anything.  The  two  men, 
the  little  black-coated  parson  and  the 
tall  soldier,  walked  on  together  to  the 
Rectory,  and  behind  them  lay  a  wreck 
of  many  fair  autumn  plants  cut  down 
by  the  ruthless  stick.  Mr.  Kemp 
was  a  kind-hearted  irascible  old 
bachelor.  Any  one  looking  at  him 
almost  might  know  this  ;  and  any  one 
talking  to  him  for  half  an  hour  would 
further  discover  that  if  he  was  not  a 
bibliomaniac  he  came  very  near  to 
being  one.  He  divided  his  time  into 
three  portions — for  his  parish,  his 
garden,  and  his  library,  repaying  the 
latter  in  winter  for  any  neglect  which 
long  spring  and  summer  days  devoted 
to  his  flowers  might  cause.  This  gar- 
den was  a  charmingly  old-fashioned 


place,  and  its  owner  did  not  fail  to 
point  out  to  his  companion  how,  when 
the  great  enclosure  at  the  Hall  was 
nearly  bare  of  them,  his  carnations 
still  stood  up  in  masses  of  cream  and 
pink  and  yellow  from  their  dull  green 
leaves.  "And  I  can  gather  violets 
here  nearly  every  month  in  the  year," 
said  their  owner,  pointing  with  honest 
pride  to  clumps  full  of  sweet  white 
and  pale  blue  flowers. 

But  it  was  not  to  show  the  soldier 
his  flowers  that  the  Rector  had  de- 
coyed him  down  here.  "  Walk  home 
with  me,"  said  Mr.  Kemp.  "  You've 
nothing  to  do  this  afternoon,  and  I'll 
give  you  some  tea,  and  we  can  have  a 
talk  about  those  books  in  which  you 
seem  interested.  And  I'll  give  you 
something  better  than  tea ;  I'll  give 
you  an  old  volume  to  take  back  with 
you  which  may  be — who  knows  ! — the 
nucleus  of  a  great  library.  Ah,  what 
a  chance  you  have  !  youth,  leisure,  and 
wealth.  If  I,  with  my  small  means 
and  opportunities,  have  been  able  to 
collect  what  I  have,  what  might  you 
not  do  ?  You  might  become  a  second 
Lord  Spencer,  a  second  Beckford." 

So  Sir  Simon  had  his  tea  in  the 
dark  old  library  where  books  were 
the  sole  ornament.  And  as  he  looked 
at  the  long  lines  of  shelves,  each 
heavily  laden  and  crowded  with  divers 
battered  volumes,  he  thought  that  in 
all  his  life  he  had  never  seen  such  a 
depressing  sight.  The  great  collec- 
tion up  at  the  Hall  was  a  much  more 
cheerful  affair ;  there  was  plenty  of 
colour  there,  scarlet,  and  blue,  and 
green  morocco,  and  gilding,  while 
here  and  there  room  was  found  for  a 
picture  or  some  china.  Mr.  Kemp 
despised  china  :  he  had  no  space  for 
pictures ;  and,  not  being  able  to 
afford  fine  bindings,  he  affected  to 
despise  them  also. 

The  Rector  climbed  cautiously  up  a 
creaking  step -ladder,  and  after  a  short 
hunt  withdrew  out  of  its  hole  a  small 
volume.  It  seemed  to  Sir  Simon  to 
be  the  dullest- looking  and  the  most 
forlorn  of  all  the  books  in  the  room. 
Its  owner  blew  the  dust  off  the  top 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


243 


leaves,  and  handled  it  as  delicately  as 
if  it  had  been  a  live  thing.  "  See," 
he  said,  "  my  little  NOCTUAE  SPECU- 
LUM ;  my  old  Howleglass,  I  shall  be 
loath  to  part  with  you  and  your 
quaint  woodcuts.  I  picked  up  that 
book,  Sir  Simon,  in  Sheffield,  a  most 
unlikely  place,  when  waiting  one 
afternoon  for  a  train.  I  got  it  for 
ten  shillings,  but  you  will  find  it 
marked  at  more  than  six  times  that 
sum  in  Mr.  Quaritch's  catalogue. 
And  I  give  it  to  you,  my  dear  sir, 
trusting  it  may  be  the  means  of 
stimulating  those  dormant  faculties 
we  were  speaking  of  just  now." 

After  another  loving  look  he  care- 
fully wrapped  it  up  in  many  folds  of 
papar,  and  formally  handed  it  over  to 
its  new  owner,  who  endeavoured  to 
exp  :ess  what  he  felt — or  indeed  rather 
tool:  the  greatest  trouble  not  to  express 
any  such  thing.  Hood  thanked  the 
donor  as  enthusiastically  as  he  could, 
and  then  had  to  spend  half  an  hour 
more  in  looking  at  various  other 
treasures,  all  of  a  subfusc  hue  outside, 
and  quite  unintelligible  when  you 
opened  them. 

K  ow  the  Baronet  noticed  that  his 
friend  became  more  and  more  silent  as 
the  time  for  parting  drew  near,  and 
if  ho  had  been  a  more  acute  observer 
he  would  have  seen  that  the  old 
genuleman  cast  many  a  look  at  the 
parcel  containing  Howleglass,  which 
betrayed  itself  by  the  bulge  in  the 
pocket  where  it  lay.  At  last  his 
feelmgs  became  too  strong  for  him. 
"I  tell  you. what  I  shall  ask  you  to 
do,'r  said  he.  "  I'll  beg  you  to  give  me 
thai  book  back  again,  and  I  will  either 
havo  it  nicely  bound  for  you,  or  find 
anoiher  which  will  be  more  suitable 
for  my  little  gift.  On  second  thoughts 
I  do  not  think  that  that  little  work 
is  s<>  much  in  your  line  just  now,  as 
something  else  might  be.  Exchange, 
you  know,  is  no  robbery,"  said  the 
parson,  laughing  rather  nervously, 
and  wondering  whether  his  little  plan 
would  succeed.  But  Sir  Simon  handed 
over  the  parcel  with  great  alacrity ; 
he  v.  as  delighted  to  get  rid  of  it.  Its 


old  owner  joyfully  received  back  his 
treasure,  and  quickly  restored  it  to 
its  proper  place.  The  thought  of  that 
empty  space  would  have  given  some 
unhappiness  to  the  bibliophile,  might 
perhaps  have  cost  him  some  hours  of 
sleep  that  night. 


II 

SIR  SIMON  HOOD  had  been  born  when 
Yenus  was  in  the  ascendant.  The 
fairies  who  had  attended  at  his  birth 
had  been  very  bountiful  to  him ;  they 
had  given  him  health,  and  beauty  of 
a  manly  kind,  and  riches,  and  a  good 
position  in  the  world.  But  then,  as  a 
set  off  to  these  good  things,  that  other 
fairy,  for  whose  presence  on  our  natal 
days  we  have  all  had  sometimes  to 
groan,  appeared,  and  added  a  too 
susceptible  heart ;  a  small  counter- 
balance, it  may  be  thought,  for  so 
much  that  was  good.  This  fairy 
willed  it  that,  when  her  godchild 
came  under  the  eye  of  a  woman  with 
any  pretensions  to  comeliness,  he  came 
also  under  her  influence.  He  fell  in 
love  with  his  nurse,  and  with  his 
dame  at  Eton ;  though  possibly  there 
was  something  politic  in  the  last  ad- 
miration. He  fell  in  love  with  his 
tutor's  daughter  before  he  got  into 
the  army,  and  with  his  colonel's 
daughter  after  he  had  performed  that 
feat.  It  was  a  perpetual  source  of 
wonder  to  his  friends  how  he  managed 
to  get  out  of  the  many  scrapes  into 
which  the  blind  goddess  led  him  ;  and 
certainly,  if  the  malignant  fairy  had 
had  her  way  altogether,  her  victim 
must  have  passed  down  the  corridors 
of  time  as  an  awful  example  of  the 
effects  of  love. 

Miss  Shaw's  coming  to  Casterton 
had  caused  something  of  a  sensation 
in  that  quiet  neighbourhood.  When 
old  Mr.  Sunbridge,  the  librarian  at 
the  Hall,  died,  his  successor  was  im- 
mediately sought  for.  Mr.  Kemp 
wrote  voluminous  letters  to  various 
correspondents  in  all  parts  of  the 
kingdom  ;  Sir  John's  London  lawyers 
busied  themselves  in  the  same  direc- 

R  2 


244 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


tion,  and  even  Sir  John  himself  made 
inquiries  in  his  own  lazy  fashion. 
And  one  and  all  of  these  people  took 
it  for  granted  that  the  new  guardian 
of  the  books  was  to  be  something  like 
the  old  ;  like  the  old  thin  bent  man 
who  had  haunted  the  library  from  a 
time  to  which  few  knew  the  contrary, 
who  was  rarely  seen  out  of  it,  and 
who  seldom  raised  his  voice  above  a 
kind  of  whisper,  unless  when  defend- 
ing the  rarity,  or  authenticity  of  one  of 
the  treasures  in  it.  So,  when  one  fine 
morning  Sir  John  announced  that  in- 
quiries might  cease,  and  that  he  had 
come  to  an  arrangement  with  a  lady, 
the  neighbours  stood  agape.  Things 
looked  still  more  dubious  when  the  lady 
arrived  ;  and  if  Miss  Shaw  had  heard 
one  half  the  things  which  were  said 
about  her  she  would  have  found  an 
occupation  in  blushing  for  the  rest  of 
her  life. 

"  Really,  my  dear  Blunt,"  said  the 
Hector,  "  I  fear  you  have  been  rather 
rash.  I  say  nothing  about  her  ex- 
perience, though  I  doubt  if  she  has 
a  single  qualification  for  the  work." 

"  Oh,  she'll  learn,"  said  Sir  John, 
cheerfully. 

"But  she's  so  young, — and  good- 
looking." 

"  She'll  mend  of  that  too,  my  dear 
Parson,  especially  of  the  first." 

"  And  it's  a  risky  thing  introducing 
her  into  a  house  where  there  is  no 
mistress." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Kemp,  you  talk  as 
if  Casterton  was  a  monastery.  I  sup- 
pose between  housemaids,  and  dairy- 
maids, and  scullerymaids,  to  say  no- 
thing of  laundrymaids  and  a  cook, 
there  must  be  twenty  women  in  -the 
place." 

"  Yes,  but  there  is  a  housekeeper  to 
look  after  them." 

"And  there's  an  aunt  coming  to 
look  after  this  young  woman.  And 
besides,  she  isn't  going  to  live  in  the 
house." 

When  the  aunt  came  it  didn't  mend 
matters  very  much.  There  is  no 
absolute  necessity  that  the  word  should 
connote  an  elderly  female  with  spec- 


tacles and  mittens,  and  yet  this  is 
what  most  of  the  people  interested  in 
the  matter  had  expected.  And  when 
a  lady  of  prepossessing  appearance, 
and  looking  only  two  or  three  years 
older  than 'Penelope,  arrived,  tongues 
wagged  more  freely  than  ever.  But 
Sir  John  had  quite  half  a  century  of 
rigidly  respectable  life  behind  him ; 
and  he  was,  moreover,  even  if  his  re- 
cord had  not  been  so  satisfactory,  too 
big  a  magnate  in  the  county  to  be  in- 
terfered with,  much  less  quarrelled 
with,  'unless  it  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  do  so. 

So  the  cold  shoulder  was  given  to 
the  girl,  not  to  him,  and  her  life  at 
first,  in  the  little  lodge  which  was 
handed  over  to  her,  was  a  dreary  one, 
especially  when  her  chaperone  was 
away.  After  seeing  her  niece  estab- 
lished in  her  new  home  that  lady 
returned  to  London,  and  only  made 
her  appearance  in  the  country  at  rare 
and  brief  intervals.  But  there  was  in 
reality  no  mystery  in  the  matter. 
The  new  comer  was  neither  Sir  John's 
daughter,  as  some  hinted,  nor  his  mis- 
tress, as  other  better  informed  busy- 
bodies  asserted.  The  truth  was  too 
uninteresting  and  matter-of  fact  for 
the  good  people  of  the  district  to  take 
in.  Penelope  had  seen  the  advertise- 
ment, had  obtained  a,n  interview  with 
the  Baronet,  and  applied  for  the 
situation.  She  had  been  told  that  it 
was  quite  impossible,  and  had  pleaded 
anew ;  she  had  been  told  that  it  was 
impossible,  and  had  reiterated  her 
appeal ;  Sir  John  then  said  he  would 
consider  the  matter  and  let  her  know, 
whereupon,  with  tears  this  time, 
Penelope  had  implored  him  to  give  her 
a  favourable  reply  at  once.  And  a 
very  much  surprised  man  was  Sir 
John,  as  he  walked  that  morning  down 
the  drive  an  hour  late  to  meet  his 
keepers,  to  think  that  he  had  done 
so. 

We  may  be  sure  that  Miss  Shaw 
was  well  watched  during  her  first  few 
weeks  at  Casterton.  Many  curious 
eyes  were  on  her,  and  on  her  goings 
out  and  comings  in.  But  even  the 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


245 


mosfc  accurate  and  censorious  failed  to 
find  in  her  behaviour  any  traces  of  the 
mary  deadly  sins  for  which  they 
searched.  She  was  regular  in  her 
attendance  at  the  library ;  she  rarely 
went  far  from  home ;  she  came  to 
church  whenever  it  was  fairly  possi- 
ble to  get  there,  and  some  hearts  at 
any  rate  were  touched  by  her  look,  as 
she  sat  there,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  by 
herself.  The  Rector  called  as  in  duty 
bound,  and  found  no  signs  of  the 
cloven  hoof ;  the  Doctor's  wife  was 
almost  disappointed  in  her  correct  be- 
haviour. And  so  it  came  to  pass 
that,  a  year  or  so  after  Penelope's 
arrival,  she  had  settled  down  into  a 
resident,  entitled  almost  in  her  turn  to 
turn  up  her  little  nose  at  new-comers ; 
likel  by  most  of  the  country  folk, 
disliked  certainly  by  none, — unless 
temporarily  by  some  village  maiden, 
who  found  that  her  new  hat  and 
jacket  looked,  somehow,  common  and 
gaudy,  when  contrasted  with  the 
Londoner's  quiet  and  plain  attire. 

In  the  three-volume-novel  a  long 
description  of  the  personal  appearance 
of  the  heroine  is  expected ;  in  this 
humble  narrative  it  is  not  necessary 
to  devote  half-a-dozen  pages  to  such 
an  account,  but  still  something  must 
be  said  on  the  subject.  Penelope  was 
neither  tall  nor  short,  neither  fat  nor 
thin.  An  envious  or  ill-natured  per- 
son could  find  many  faults  with  her 
figure  and  her  features.  She  was  not 
handsome  or  stately,  and  certainly  she 
was  not  beautiful,  while  the  word 
preVy  seems  to  convey  something  of 
diminutiveness  to  which  also  she  was 
a  stranger;  yet  pretty  would  be  the 
adjective  most  commonly  applied  to 
her,  unless  the  observer  was  old- 
i'asl  ioned  enough  to  use  its  synonym 
comply.  The  aforesaid  three-volume 
people  lay  as  a  rule  stress  on  a  girl's 
hair,  on  her  nose,  and  mouth,  and 
eyes,  and  on  the  whiteness  or  other- 
wist  >  of  her  skin.  Penelope's  hair 
was  of  a  sufficiently  common  shade  of 
brown.  It  is  very  hackneyed  nowadays 
to  say  that  a  young  woman's  nose  is 
tip-tilted  or  turns  up.  One  of  Mr. 


Locker-Lampson's  maidens  had  a 
"  fascinating  cock  "  to  her  nose.  Pene-' 
lope  had  a  cock  to  hers,  whether 
fascinating  or  not  depending  on  the 
humour  and  mood  of  the  observer. 
Her  mouth  was  a  good  useful  mouth ; 
when  she  was  ill  her  lips  were  pale ; 
when  she  was  well,  which  she  nearly 
always  was,  they  were  as  red  a  little 
pair  as  you  could  meet  with  anywhere. 
And  her  eyes  looked  various  colours, 
according  to  the  various  lights  in 
which  they  were  seen.  We  once  heard 
an  old  Highlander  say,  as  he  looked 
admiringly  at  a  beautiful  little  pig, 
which  he  had  drawn  out  of  the  scald- 
ing-tub and  carefully  scraped,  "  She's 
as  white's  a  leddy !  "  And  we  can 
say  no  more  or  less  about  Penelope. 
Finally,  to  wind  up  somewhat  too  long 
a  list,  her  feet  peeped  in  and  out  be- 
neath her  petticoats  just  as  unlike 
mice  as  they  could  be. 

III. 

"DEAREST  JULIA, — You  will  never 
guess  what  happened  to  me  yesterday.  I 
went  to  a  dinner-party  !  I  was  sitting 
in  the  library  in  the  morning,  wishing 
that  all  the  books  in  the  world  (espe- 
cially the  old  ones)  were  burnt  to 
ashes,  when  Mr.  Kemp  came  in  in  a 
tremendous  hurry  to  say  that  a  friend 
of  his,  a  great  bibliomaniac  (only  he 
didn't  use  that  word)  was  going  to 
dine  at  the  Hall,  and  Sir  John  wanted 
me  to  come  too !  I  thought,  in  a 
second,of  that  shabby  old  black  frock, — 
don't  you  know  every  stitch  of  it ! — 
and  I  said  I  really  couldn't.  I  think 
he  fancied  that  I  didn't  like  going 
without  any  other  ladies,  or  wanted 
a  formal  invitation,  for  he  went  off 
and  in  a  short  time  Sir  John  came  in, 
and  was  very  kind,  and  said  he  hoped 
I  would  come,  and  he  would  ask  old 
Mrs.  Merry  weather  (that's  an  old  lady 
who  lives  in  one  of  his  houses)  as  a 
chaperone.  I  still  thought  of  that 
poor  old  garment,  and  a  little  of 
whether  I  ought  to  go ;  but  I  did 
want  to,  so  much, — I  did  want  to 
speak  to  a  man  who  wasn't  old  and 


246 


Sir  Simons  Courtship. 


bookish,  or  like  that  hateful  young 
doctor  here — and  I  said  I  would.  So 
I  asked  if  1  might  stay  away  that 
afternoon  and  look  after  my  things, 
and  he  laughed,  and  said  that  old  Mr. 
Sunbridge  stayed  away  whenever  he 
wanted,  and  slept  in  the  little  room 
all  through  the  winter  like  a  bear  (or  is 
it  a  squirrel  ? ),  and  that  I  could  do  the 
same  if  I  liked.  Then  I  ran  off 
home  as  hard  as  I  could,  and — Oh, 
Ju  ! — I  cried  when  I  got  out  that 
frock !  But  it  was  too  late  to  retreat 
then,  and  besides  I  would  sooner  have 
gone  without  any  dress  at  all  than 
have  given  up  my  outing.  A  carriage 
was  sent  for  me,  and  I  went  up  in 
state.  I  was  uncertain  whether  to  go 
into  the  drawing-room  very  early,  or 
just  when  dinner  was  announced,  but 
I  thought  the  first  was  the  least  for- 
midable, so  I  crept  in  about  a  quarter 
to  eight.  There  was  one  man  there 
already ;  a  great  big  '  soldier  man ' 
as  Billy  would  call  him  (how  is  sweet 
Billy?  hug  him  well  for  me).  It  was 
Sir  Simon  Hood.  I  have  told  you 
about  him  before  ;  he  is  one  of  Sir 
John's  greatest  friends ;  he  is  in  a 
cavalry  regiment,  I  believe,  and  what 
we  should  call  a  great  swell.  He  has 
immensely  long  legs,  which  he  is  very 
fond  of  admiring,  and  he  has  a  kind, 
rather  red,  face.  He  told  me  about 
the  shooting  that  day,  and  said  they 
hadn't  got  as  much  as  they  ought  to 
have, — though  I  believe  they  killed 
more  than  seven  hundred  pheasants, 
and  any  number  of  rabbits  and  things. 
Then  he  began  to  tell  me  about  the 
Professor,  and  then  the  others  came 
in.  Sir  John  introduced  me  to  two  of 
the  other  men  ;  one  had  a  nice  kind 
face,  and  the  other,  who  was  very 
good-looking,  stared  at  me  as  if  I  had 
been  the  wild  girl  of  the  woods.  One 
of  them  was  a  lord  with  a  queer  name, 
but  I  couldn't  be  sure  which, — I  hope 
it  was  the  nice  one.  Sir  John  took 
me  in  to  dinner,  and  I  felt  just  for  a 
second,  as  we  marched  across  the  great 
hall,  as  if  we  were  married  and  half 
of  everything  belonged  to  me  !  So 
there  I  was  with  a  good  deal  of  my 


fright  gone,  wondering  who  would  be 
on  the  other  side  of  me.  "Will  you 
believe  it !  Mr.  Kemp  actually 
came  hurrying  up,  and  said  I  really 
must  sit  between  him  and  the  Pro- 
fessor !  Was  ever  such  an  unlucky 
girl !  I  almost  cried  out,  '  Oh  no  ! ' 
Fancy  if  I  had  !  Then  Sir  John 
laughed,  and  said  he  supposed  he  must 
give  me  up,  and  that  learned  people 
ought  to  be  together.  How  I  hated 
Mr.  Kemp!  But  I  hated  the  Pro- 
fessor worse.  He  was  a  pretty  old, 
and  rather  fat  man,  who  spoke  in  such 
a  queer  kind  of  a  whisper  that  I  could 
hardly  make  out  what  he  said  ;  and  he 
and  Mr.  Kemp  talked  to  one  another 
across  me  all  the  time  about  books, 
and  now  and  then  threw  a  remark  to 
me  just  as  if  I  had  been  a  school-girl  ! 
There  were  eight  other  men  besides 
these  two.  I  forgot  to  say  Mrs. 
Merry  weather  had  a  cold  and  couldn't 
come,  which  made  me  dreadfully  con- 
spicuous. The  other  men  all  talked 
very  loud,  and  laughed  a  great  deal, 
and  ate  and  drank  a  great  deal  too. 
Sir  Simon  was  just  opposite  me.  I 
saw  him  hesitate  when  some  ice  was 
offered  to  him,  and  give  a  little  kind 
of  groan  as  he  refused  it,  and  I  am 
sure  it  was  because  he  felt  sorry  he 
couldn't  eat  any  more.  However,  I 
think  that  old  Dr.  Grumper  ate  and 
drank  as  much  as  any  of  them,  and  he 
hadn't  so  much  excuse  as  they  had  for 
he  had  been  in  the  library  all  the  after- 
noon. He  talked  to  me  more  towards 
the  end,  and  I  had  to  put  my  head 
quite  near  him  to  catch  what  he  said. 
"We  must  have  looked  most  confidential. 
Sir  Simon  was  always  staring  at  me  ; 
I  am  sure  my  seams  must  have  looked 
quite  white  in  that  strong  light. 

So  at  last  the  immense  dinner  was 
over,  and  I  hadn't  enjoyed  it  one  bit. 
When  dessert  came  I  didn't  know 
whether  to  go  at  once,  or  wait  for  a 
little.  However,  I  soon  got  up,  and 
then  all  the  men  stood  up  ;  I  felt  a 
little  proud  then,  and  tried  to  sail  out 
of  the  room  as  if  I  had  been  a  great 
lady !  Then,  Ju, — have  a  little  patience 
and  I'll  soon  finish — I  didn't  know 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


247 


whether  to  go  to  the  drawing-room 
again  or  not.  However  I  peeped  in, 
and  there  was  the  old  housekeeper, 
who  was  so  horrid  to  me  when  I  came 
firs:,  but  we  are  great  friends  now. 
I  think  she  had  been  having  a  doze  on 
a  sofa.  She  said  coffee  would  come 
in  a  minute,  and  that  the  brougham 
was  ordered  for  me  at  eleven.  It  was 
about  ten  then.  So  I  wandered  about, 
and  looked  at  the  lovely  china  and 
pictures  with  a  book  in  my  hand,  and 
whenever  I  heard  any  one,  I  flopped 
down  into  the  nearest  chair.  Such 
pictures  !  An  immense  Raeburn, — a 
lovely  girl  in  a  white  dress — one  of 
the  Casterton  people.  Several  by  Sir 
Joshua,  and  a  Meissonier,  but  I 
hadn't  time  to  look  at  half,  for  I  was 
always  afraid  of  being  caught  spying. 
At  half-past  ten  no  one  had  come,  and 
I  began  to  feel  a  little  sorry.  But  soon 
after  they  all  trooped  in,  and  Sir 
John  came  up,  and  was  so  pleasant, 
and  said  he  was  so  much  obliged  to 
me  for  coming  to  talk  to  Dr.  Grumper. 
That  was  horrid  again,  but  worse  was 
to  1  ollow.  Mr.  Kemp,  whose  face  was 
as  red  as  a  Heine  Marie  Henriette, 
came  to  me  and, — pity  me  ! — asked  me 
to  go  with  him  and  his  friend  to  the 
library  to  look  at  some  fusty  old 
books  !  I  had  to  go  too.  Dr.  Grumper 
call  ed  me  '  a  fine  girl '  when  he  went 
awuy  !  I  do  believe  I  could  be  Frau 
•Grumper  if  I  wanted  !  Or  perhaps 
it  was  the  wine  that  put  him  in 
-such  good  humour,  and  made  him 
squeeze  my  hand  so  hard  !  Then  I 
went  off  in  my  brougham,  with  a 
footman  to  let  me  out.  I  wasn't  sure 
whether  I  ought  to  have  given  them 
son  ething  for  making  them  come  out 
•so  1  ite,  but  of  course  I  hadn't  anything 
wit  h.  me,  and  so  I  didn't.  Should  the 
footman  have  had  it,  or  the  coach- 
man? 

£o,  Ju,  you  see  how  what  might 
ha\  e  been  such  a  pleasant  little  outing 
was-  spoiled.  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  a 
very  bad  girl,  and  that  this  was  a  kind 
of  punishment  for  me.  Oh,  how  I 
•do  wish  I  was  rich  1  and  had  a  beautiful 
pla<;e,  and  pictures  and  carriages,  and 


hadn't  to  wear  a  dress  till  it  got  so 
threadbare  you  could  see  the  things 
beneath  it !  " 


IV. 

"  WELL,"  said  Mr.  Kemp,  as  he  and 
his  brother  in  literature  stumped  their 
way  home  through  the  park,  "  we 
have  given  one  young  person  a  happy 
night  at  any  rate."  His  wrinkled  old 
face  beamed  with  satisfaction  at  the 
thought. 

"  So  I  hear  you  are  in  for  it  now," 
said  Sir  Simon  to  his  nearest  neigh- 
bour in  the  smoking-room  an  hour  or 
so  afterwards.  "  I  thought  you  told 
me  the  young  woman  wouldn't  have 
anything  to  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  No  more  she  would  then.  She 
said  our  ways  were  different,  and  all 
that.  So  I  found  out  what  hers  were. 
She  was  a  district  visitor  then,  and 
went  into  the  East  End,  into  White- 
chapel  way,  you  know." 

"  I  know, — slumming." 

"  That  sort  of  a  thing.  Well,  there's 
nothing  like  giving  way  to  .their 
foibles  when  you're  courting  them, 
even  if  they  are  rather  peculiar  ;  so  I 
got  Cappadocia  to  come  with  me  and 
a  couple  of  detectives,  and  we  made  a 
night  of  it." 

"  What  kind  of  a  night  1  "  inquired 
Hood. 

"  Oh,  we  went  to  all  sorts  of  places, 
— went  to  a  thieves'  lodging-house  for 
one  thing  ;  there  were  seven  hundred 
of  them  in  it,  and  all  those  that 
weren't  thieves  were  murderers.  So 
they  said,  and  I  can  quite  believe  it 
from  the  look  of  'em, — you  never  saw 
such  chaps.  Then  we  went  to  some 
places  near  the  Docks,  and  we  saw  a 
poor  devil  with  nothing  on  but  a 
cask." 

"  Nothing  on  but  a  cask  ! "  said 
Sir  Simon,  interested. 

"  Not  a  thing.  He  had  come  ashore 
with  a  lot  of  money  the  day  be- 
fore, and  got  into  the  hands  of  some 
crimps,  and  they  had  drugged  him, 
and  robbed  him,  not  only  of  his  brass, 
— fifty  pounds  he  said  it  was — but  of 


248 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


his  very  clothes  and  boots.  And  there 
he  was, — in  this  old  bottomless  barrel 
— wandering  up  and  down  till  he  met 
some  Christians.  Cappadocia  wanted 
to  go  and  get  into  the  crimp's  house 
and  break  his  neck;  but  the  police 
said  we  couldn't  do  that,  and  besides 
we  didn't  know  where  he  lived.  Then 
we  went  to  a  Jews'  dancing-place,  a 
club,  you  know.  They  were  rather  un- 
willing to  let  us  in  at  first ;  there  were 
a  good  many  good-looking  Jewesses 
there, — and  we  had  a  fine  time  of  it 
altogether." 

"Did  you  tell  Lady  Mary  about 
that  ? " 

"Bather;  went  off  there  the  first 
thing.  Mary  said  that  that  wasn't 
at  all  the  kind  of  district-visiting  she 
meant,  and  that  she  would  have  to 
take  me  herself  some  day,  and  then  I 
saw  it  was  all  right.  She  knew  I  had 
done  what  I  could  to  please  her. 
That's  the  kind  of  thing  they  like, 
my  dear  Simon,  when  they  see  you've 
taken  up  with  their  whims." 

"But  it  might  be  very  awkward 
sometimes.  Some  women  have  such 
queer  fancies  that  way." 

"  Well,  you've  got  to  humour  them, 
or  you  won't  have  a  chance." 

"  Supposing,"  said  Sir  Simon,  "  a 
young  woman  had  a  rage  for  " — (books, 
he  had  nearly  said,  but  pulled  up  just 
in  time) — "  gardening  ;  now  what 
would  you  do  then?" 

"  Just  go  and  garden,  of  course ; 
wheel  an  empty  barrow  about  with  a 
spade  in  it,  and  nail  gooseberry-bushes 
up  to  the  wall  with  strips  of  a  red 
flannel  petticoat." 

"That  would  be  a  most  infernal 
nuisance.  Suppose  it  was  Ascot  week, 
and  you  wanted  to  go  ? " 

"  Why,  you'd  have  to  want, — that's 
all.  But  of  course  this  is  only  when 
one's  courting ;  when  one's  married, 
you  know,  it's  different.  Marry  in 
the  slack  time,  old  chap,  and  then 
you'll  be  all  right.  Who's  your  young 
woman?" 

"  When  is  the  slack  time  ? "  asked 
Hood,  ignoring  the  question.  "  Well — 
I'll  tell  your  missus  what  you've  told 


me,  and  advise  her  to  insist  on  a  good 
long  courtship." 

"  Humour  their  whims  !  "  said  Hood 
to  himself  as  he  went  up  to  his  room. 
"  It'll  be  a  terrible  business,  worse 
than  district-visiting,  I  doubt.  But 
I  suppose  it  must  be  done." 

Y. 

SIR  SIMON  had  lost  his  heart  yet 
once  again ;  his  poor  heart  which 
ought  to  have  been  so  battered  and 
worn  after  all  it  had  gone  through ,. 
and  yet  which  now  seemed  so  fresh 
and  young,  and  beat  so  strongly.  He 
was  continually  running  down  to  Cas- 
terton  in  the  autumn  to  shoot,  and 
soon  after  Penelope  came  he  had  met 
her.  On  some  of  his  visits  he  had 
never  seen  her ;  on  others,  when  there 
had  been  ladies  in  the  house,  she  had 
been  sometimes  asked  to  lunch  or  to- 
tea.  The  soldier  had  at  first  regarded 
her  with  careless  eyes.  But  bit  by 
bit  he  had  found  something  attractive 
in  her,  and  it  was  not  wonder  on  hi& 
part  or  disapprobation  of  the  shabby 
frock,  which  made  his  glance  so  often 
meet  hers  at  the  dinner-party.  And 
he  had  come  to  look  at  her  (he  had  a& 
yet  had  few  opportunities  for  con- 
versation) through  the  Bector's  spec- 
tacles, as  an  earnest  and  learned 
young  woman,  whose  bright  eyes  and 
merry  mouth  were  traitors  when  they 
said  that  their  mistress  loved  amuse- 
ment and  fun  better  than  dry  old 
books.  Hood  had  in  his  clumsy  way 
often  made  the  girl  the  topic  of  con- 
versation when  with  Mr.  Kemp,  who, 
for  one  reason  or  another  was  almost 
daily  up  at  Casterton;  and  if  the 
latter  had  not  been  so  deeply  en- 
grossed in  his  own  views  he  must 
have  seen  that  it  was  more  than 
chance  which  led  the  talk  so  often 
about  her.  But  the  Bee  tor,  sharp 
enough  in  many  ways,  was  blind 
as  a  mole  here.  It  did  not  seem  in 
the  least  strange  to  him  that  a 
young  cavalry  officer,  whose  tastes 
had  hitherto  lain  entirely  in  the  di- 
rection of  field-sports,  should  suddenly 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


240 


develope  a  yearning  to  penetrate  into 
and  understand  the  mysteries  which 
surround  book-collecting ;  and  that 
therefore  he  should  be  interested  in 
everything  which  pertained  to  the 
fascinating  pursuit,  even  in  a  young 
female  librarian.  He  really  thought 
that  Sir  Simon  was  bitten  by  what  he 
would  have  scorned  to  call  a  mania  ; 
and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  one  fine 
autumn  morning  the  young  soldier 
found  himself  standing  in  a  crowded 
London  street,  looking  at  a  bit  of 
paper  on  which  was  written  in  Mr. 
Kemp's  minute  hand  the  address  of  a 
bookseller,  and  trying  to  remember 
some  of  the  advice  which  had  accom- 
panied the  address,  and  the  strange 
words  which  had  been  used. 

Before  going  in  at  the  door  he  ex- 
amined the  windows.  One  was  full  of 
huge  folios, — atlas,  elephant,  mega- 
therium folios.  They  were  for  the 
most  part  magnificently  bound,  and 
the  inscriptions  on  their  backs  might 
as  well  have  been  written  in  Hebrew 
for  any  information  they  gave  to  their 
present  viewer.  As  a  contrast,  a  foil 
as  it  were,  a  few  modern  low-priced 
books  stood  in  another  corner.  But 
then !  was  nothing  outside  to  occupy 
Hood's  attention  long,  so  he  opened 
the  door  and  went  in. 

"  I  want  the  book  on  Bibliofolia." 

"  About  what,  sir  ? "  asked  the  man. 

"  About  Bibliofoliology,"  said  Hood, 
thinking  he  must  have  made  some 
mist;  ike  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
letters. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  haven't  got  such  a 
work,"  said  the  man,  after  thinking 
a  little.  "  You  don't^  mean  Biblio- 
graphy 1 " 

"  1'hat's  not  it,  but  it  may  do,"  said 
Hood  carelessly,  as  if  he  would  be 
able  to  extract  what  he  wanted  out  of 
any  book. 

"Or  Bibliomania  perhaps  ? " 

"That's  it,— that's  just  what  I 
want  ;  let  me  have  it,  please." 

"  What  particular  one  do  you 
want  ?  "  asked  the  bookseller. 

"  ]  11  take  them  all,"  replied  the  man 
of  war. 


"  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  step  this 
way,"  said  the  bookseller,  wondering 
if  the  purchaser  whom  he  had  often 
met  in  dreams  had  actually  appeared 
in  real  life.  "These,"  pointing  to  a 
long  row  of  shelves,  "  are  all  connected 
with  the  subject." 

Sir  Simon  stared  in  surprise  at  the 
dense  array.  "  I  couldn't  possibly  buy 
all  that  lot,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
remonstrance  :  "  why,  they  would  half 
fill  a  house  !  " 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  anxious  shop- 
keeper ;  "  but  you  will  be  able  to  make 
a  fine  selection ;  and  you  couldn't  have 
come  at  a  better  time  ;  we  have  just 
got  in  our  purchases  from  the  cele- 
brated Wetterhorn  collection." 

"  Oh,  have  you,"  said  the  Baronet ; 
"  that's  very  fortunate." 

"Yes,  and  some  of  them  are  ex- 
tremely rare.  I  dare  say  you  would  like 
to  begin  with  this  copy  of  Dibdin  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  should,"  replied  Hood, 
rather  glad  he  remembered  a  song  of 
his. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  splendid  set  of  the 
whole  works,  it  is  a  large-paper  copy, 
uncut,  and  if  not  absolutely  unique 
most  extremely  rare." 

"  Which  is  the  one  with  the  songs 
in  it  ?  "  inquired  Hood,  staring  at  the 
mighty  volumes. 

"Songs!"  repeated  the  man.  "I 
don't  think  he  wrote  any  songs,  sir." 

"  Oh  yes  he  did,  lots  of  'em ;  I've 
heard  'em  sung  myself,  scores  of  times. 
There's  Tom  Bowling,  you  know,  and 
Sally—" 

We  have  often  thought  that  the 
assistant  bookseller  in  that  establish- 
ment would  have  made  a  fine  actor  if 
he  had  taken  to  the  stage  early  in 
life  ;  he  listened  to  his  customer  with 
a  perfectly  unmoved  countenance. 

"  I  think,  sir,  you'll  find  that  that 
gentleman  was  another  gentleman.  I 
could  get  you  a  copy  of  his  works, 
after  we  have  done  here." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  did  confuse  the 
names.  Well,  how  much  is  that  lot 
there?"  A  set  of  the  learned  Doctor's 
works  of  this  calibre  is  by  no  means  to 
be  had  for  nothing,  and  Hood  opened 


250 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


his  eyes    wide   at    the    sum    named 
"  How  much  ?  "  he  cried. 

"You  see,  sir,"  said  the  other, 
speaking  very  rapidly,  and  with  great 
earnestness,  "it's  not  once  in  twenty 
years  that  a  chance  of  this  kind  turns 
up ;  if  that  set  was  sold  you  might 
search  all  the  kingdom  through  and  not 
find  another.  I  don't  suppose,  if  you 
take  it  away  with  you,  that  I  could  find 
another  in  ten  years,  not  if  Lord 
Rothschild  himself  was  to  want  it !  " 

"  The  devil  you  couldn't  ! "  said 
Hood,  thinking  it  would  be  foolish  of 
him  to  lose  such  an  opportunity. 
"Then  I  suppose  I  had  better  have 
it.  But  I  had  no  idea  it  would  be  so 
much." 

"  Books  of  this  kind,"  said  the  man, 
replacing  the  one  volume  which  had 
been  taken  out,  "have  to  be  looked  at 
differently  from  ordinary  copies.  They 
are  an  investment,  better  than  most 
investments.  Mr.  Wetterhorn  bought 
that  set  in  1848  for  thirty  guineas, 
and  see  what  it  has  risen  to  since  !  But 
it  will  be  no  good  filling  your  shelves 
with  a  lot  of  rubbish  you  will  never 
read  or  refer  to.  What  you  want  are 
just  a  few  good  standard  works  which 
it  will  always  be  a  pleasure  to  you  to 
look  at." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Hood. 
"  Of  course  in  fine  condition.     Now 
here's  a  nice  copy  of  Lowndes ;  a  cheap 
set  this,  though  it  is  a  large-paper  one. 
We  can  put  it  in  at  fifteen  guineas." 

"I  say, — you  know — "  began  the 
Dragoon. 

"  Of  course,  as  you  are  well  aware, 
Lowndes  is  indispensable  to  an 
amateur.  He  gives  the  prices  of  all 
books,  of  all  books  worth  mentioning. 
Can  you  think,  sir,  of  any  work  the 
value  of  which  you  would  like  to  see  ? " 
"  I  think  you  might  look  him  out 
then,"  said  Hood,  poking  his  cane  into 
the  middle  of  the  shelf  where  the 
relation  of  the  poet  had  his  habitation. 
"  Oh,  certainly  !  "  said  the  assistant, 
a  good  deal  taken  aback  ;  "  certainly, 
certainly,  certainly  ! "  rummaging 
through  the  leaves  of  the  first  volume 
he  happened  to  get  hold  of.  "  But  of 


course,  as  you  know,  we  must  take 
what  he  says  about  Dibdin  with  some 
salt.  Lowndes,  sir,  disapproved  of 
Dibdin's  principles,  and  showed  it  by 
knocking  something  off  the  prices  of 
his  books  in  the  catalogue.  And 
besides,  he  is  rather  out  of  date." 

Hood  had  a  fine  opening  here,  if  he 
had  seen  it ;  but  he  did  not,  and  the 
seller  went  on.  "Now"  said  he, 
putting  the  two  names  down  as  a 
memorandum,  "  you  want  a  good 
authority  on  a  different  class  of  books. 
Here's  Brunet, — you  couldn't  have  a 
better  one — Brunet,  twelve  volumes, 
uncut,.  £20." 

"  Haven't  you  got  him  at  less  than 
that  1 "  asked  Sir  Simon,  somewhat 
staggered  at  the  magnitude  of  these 
demands  on  his  purse. 

"We  could  let  you  have  a  cheaper 
set,"  said  the  man,  laying  some  stress 
on  the  second  word,  "  but  you  wouldn't 
thank  us  in  the  long  run.  If  you 
have  one  set  in  large  paper  have  them 
all  so;  and  then,  when  you  have  a 
sale,  you  get  all  their  value  back,  and 
more." 

"  Oh  do  you  !  "  said  Hood,  a  little 
cheered  at  this  idea. 

"  You  want  now,"  the  seller 
continued,  "  this  Renouard,  three 
guineas — this  fine  copy  !  " 

The  Baronet  poked  it  doubtfully 
with  his  stick.  "  I  really  think  I 
hardly  want  it,"  he  said. 

"  How  will  you  be  able  to  make  out 
the  value  of  your  Aldines  without  his 
help  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  Well,  there's  something  in  that," 
said  the  sufferer.  "All  right,  in  with 
him.  And  now  I  have  enough." 

"  When  you  have  this  Italian 
treatise — " 

"N— no,  I  don't  think  I  want 
that." 

"  A  short  one ;  to  enable  you  to 
distinguish  the  earlier  examples  of  the 
Italian  presses.  A  short  one,  sir." 

"  Quite  a  short  one,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yery  short,  sir,  and  very  cheap ; 
only  fifty  shillings." 

Then  Hood  escaped.  But  the  inde- 
fatigable assistant  had  one  more  shot 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


251 


at  tim  when  passing  a  certain  row  of 
shelves.  "  Are  you  quite  sure  you 
are  wise,  sir,  in  leaving  this  set  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  1 "  demanded  the  raw 
Bib  iiomaniac  faintly. 

"  It's  the  BlBLIOTHEK  DES  LlTER- 
ARISCHEN " 

"  Is  there  much  of  it  ] " 

"  Ninety-six  volumes  ;  but — 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  the  worm,  turning 
at  last.  "Ninety-six, — what  the 
devil  should  I  do  with  ninety-six 
volumes  in  German  when  I  can't  read 
a  si  ngle  word  of  it !  I  tell  you  I 
won't  look  at  another  book  to-day. 
Yoii.  had  better  put  them  up,  and  I'll 
have  a  hansom.  You  won't  mind  a 
cheque?"  The  man  was  sure  they 
would  not,  but  he  went  to  see  his 
employer,  who  had  just  come  in.  And 
thai  great  authority,  having  had 
extensive  dealings  with  Sir  Simon's 
grandfather,  was  very  pleased  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  his  successor. 

So  Hood  wrote  a  cheque  for, — well 
let  that  be  a  secret  between  himself 
and  his  banker.  The  indefatigable 
assistant,  who  had  not  been  long  in 
the  shop,  expected  his  master  to  be 
somewhat  overpowered  by  the  magni- 
tude of  the  transaction  in  which  he 
had  been  the  agent;  but  the  latter, 
being  accustomed  to  deal  in  thousands 
and  even  tens  of  thousands  of  pounds, 
maintained  his  calmness.  "  I  am  very 
pleased  to  see  you  here,  Sir  Simon,  I 
can  assure  you.  The  late  Sir  James 
was  a  good  customer  of  mine." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Hood.  "  He 
had  a  terrible  lot  of  books." 

"  I  see  you  have  made  an  interesting 
collection,"  said  the  great  man,  glancing 
at  :he  list  in  his  hand.  "That's  a 
fine  set,  that  Dibdin." 

"Yes,"  said  Hood,  "I  thought  it 
best  to  get  a  big  copy  of  him,  you  know, 
and  then  it  will  fetch  a  better  price  at 
one's  sale." 

"  You  must  have  a  fine  library  by 
this  time  1 " 

"  Well,  curiously  enough  the  old  boy 
left  it  away  from  me ;  I  got  every- 
thing but  the  books.  Fact  was  I 
hadii't  developed  the  taste  for  them  I 
hav )  now,  so  I  suppose  he  thought  I 


wouldn't  have  cared  for  them.  But 
I've  taken  to  them  amazingly  lately, 
never  so  happy  as  when  I'm  reading." 

"Well,  you  will  excuse' me,"  said 
the  chief.  "  There  is  a  sale  at  Sotheby's, 
and  my  time  is  nearly  up.  Take  a  seat, 
Sir  Simon,  while  they  pack  the  books. 
Here's  the  last  catalogue  on  Syrian 
ethnological  rarities  which  you  will 
find  very  interesting." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Hood, 
taking  the  proffered  pamphlet  with 
some  reluctance.  "  Much  obliged  to 
you  ;  I  will  sit  down.  But  I  find  this 
kind  of  print  rather  trying  to  the  eyes 
when  one  does  too  much  of  it.  I  think 
I'll  just  have  a  look  at  the  papers ; 
you  don't  happen  to  have  a  SPORTSMAN 
about,  do  you  1 " 

After  a  bit  the  packer  came  in. 
"  The  cabman  says  he  can't  take  your 
box,  sir,"  he  said.  "The  top  of  his 
cab  is  not  meant  for  heavy  luggage, 
and  he's  afraid  of  it  breaking 
through." 

"  Put  it  in  a  growler  then,"  said 
Hood,  "and  I'll  follow." 

"  It's  the  Dibdin  that  makes  up  the 
weight  so  much,"  explained  the  man. 

"  I  thought  he  looked  pretty  heavy," 
replied  Hood,  and  off  he  went  with  his 
treasures. 


VI 

THE  Dragoon,  when  he  was  once 
more  safe  in  his  quarters  refused  two 
invitations  to  dinner,  and  spent  the 
time  so  gained  in  studying  his  pur- 
chases. At  the  end  of  two  days'  cram- 
ming he  began  to  confuse  a  Collation 
with  an  Incunabula.  "  By  Jove  !  "  he 
said,  examining  his  face  in  a  glass  with 
some  anxiety.  "Why,  I'm  looking 
quite  haggard  !  I  shall  be  as  gray  as 
a  jackdaw  in  another  week.  I  really 
mustn't  let  this  infernal  thirst  for 
learning  do  me  any  harm.  I  think 
I'll  take  a  run  down  to  those  steeple- 
chases after  all,  and  have  a  day  off." 

"  Holloa  !  what  are  you  up  to  now  ? " 
said  a  brother  officer  coming  suddenly 
into  Hood's  room  the  day  after  his 
return  from  the  steeplechase,  and 
finding  him  sitting  in  an  easy  chair, 


252 


Sir  Simons  Courtship. 


with  a  big  book  on  his  knee  contem- 
plating nothing. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you,  Brotherton  !  I  say, 
look  here,  fancy  a  man  giving  £2,260 
for  a  Boccaccio  !  " 

"  It's  a  stiffish  figure,"  replied  the 
Major ;  "  but  if  she  comes  of  a  good 
sort  he  might  do  worse.  A  Diebidale 
filly,  ain't  it?" 

"  Diebidale  grandmother,  you  old 
thickhead ;  you're  always  thinking 
about  horses  !  It's  a  book,  man  !  " 

"  A  book  !  What,  two  thousand 
guineas  for  a  book  !  " 

"  Yes,  old  Boccaccio ;  he  wasn't  a 
woman  either.  Bound  in  faded  yellow 
morocco."  And  then  Hood  began  to 
read  the  account  of  the  dinner  party 
which  the  Duke  of  Roxburghe  gave 
to  Lords  Sunderland  and  Oxford,  and 
its  results. 

"  What  sort  of  stuff  is  that  ? "  asked 
the  Major,  after  waiting  a  minute  in 
the  hope  of  something  interesting 
turning  up.  "  Let's  look  at  him."  He 
examined  the  great  volume  with  a  dis- 
trustful and  prejudiced  air.  "This 
seems  poor  kind  of  fun,"  he  said. 
"  What's  the  joke  of  it  1 " 

"  Joke  !  Why  it  isn't  a  comic  book. 
He's  a  great  authority,  old  Dibdin  ; 
he  was  Lord  Spencer's  librarian,  you 
know,  and  knew  all  about  books." 

"  Did  he  write  all  that  ?  "  inquired 
the  Major. 

"  Yes,  and  a  heap  more  too.  Look 
at  that  row,"  and  Hood  with  some 
pride  pulled  aside  a  curtain  which 
hung  before  the  voluminous  efforts  of 
the  learned  Doctor. 

"Lord  bless  my  soul!"  said  the 
Major,  staring  at  them. 

"  Big  paper,  you  see,"  explained 
Hood. 

"  Very  big,"  said  the  Major,  having 
another  stare.  "  Weigh  half  a  stone 
each,  I  should  think." 

"  I  mean  in  the  margin,  you  know  ; 
lots  of  room  there,  you  see." 

"  Lots  ;  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  it?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  particular ;  but  it  adds 
to  their  value,  makes  a  lot  of  difference. 
Books  without  that  are  only  worth  half 
the  money." 


"  What's  the  reason  of  that  ? " 

"  Well,  I  can't  exactly  say ; — 
fashion  I  suppose  ;  you  can  write  notes 
on  them,  you  see,  much  better  when 
they're  broad." 

«  What  kind  of  notes  1 "  demanded 
the  persevering  one,  beginning  to  think 
his  old  friend  was  not  quite  as  he 
ought  to  be. 

"  Oh,  all  kinds  of  interesting  things. 
Look  here, — I  made  one  myself ."  And, 
with  a  pride  that  was  touching  rather 
than  arrogant,  Hood  turned  over  the 
leaves  till  he  came  to  it.  It  was  not 
dimcult  to  find  the  page  ;  it  was  well 
creased,  and  there,  in  huge  sprawling 
inky  letters, —  the  sight  of  which  in  such 
a  work  would  most  assuredly  have 
thrown  Mr.  Kemp  into  a  fit — was  re- 
corded the  last  price  fetched  by  the 
Boccaccio. 

The  Major  stared  at  the  note,  and 
then  at  its  author,  and  then  at  the 
note  again.  "  Look  here,  old  man," 
he  said  at  last,  "  come  along  with  me 
to  the  club,  and  drop  this  kind  of 
thing,  or  we'll  be  having  a  Commission 
of  Lunacy  coming  to  sit  on  you.  I 
hope  to  goodness  it  won't  get  about  in 
the  regiment  that  you've  taken  to  read- 
ing books, — and  making  notes  in  them  ! 
Get  the  infernal  things  away  somehow, 
and  I  give  you  my  honour  I'll  never  say 
a  word  of  what  I  caught  you  doing." 

"  Commission  of  lunacy,  you  old 
codfish ! "  cried  the  indignant  owner 
of  the  treasures.  "  Get  them  away  I 
You're  a  drivelling  old  idiot  yourself. 
Why,  I  gave  more  than  a  hundred 
pounds  for  them  !  " 

Then  Major  Brotherton  went  off 
in  search  of  the  Doctor.  "  You  had 
better  have  a  good  look  at  Hood  to- 
night," said  he.  "  I've  not  been  quite 
comfortable  about  him  lately,  and  I 
went  in  this  afternoon  to  see  what  he 
was  doing." 

"And  what  was  he  doing?" 
inquired  the  Doctor. 

"  Reading,"  replied  the  Major. 
"  Mind  you,  I  shouldn't  say  so  much 
about  that,  by  itself,  though  it  ain't 
what  one  would  expect  to  find  Hood 
doing  at  three  in  the  afternoon.  But 
it  was  the  book." 


Sir  Simons  Courtship. 


253 


"  A  very  bad  one,  eh  1 "  asked  the 
Doctor.  "  You  get  hold  of  it  for  me 
and  I'll  just  run  my  eye  over  it,  and 
tell  you  what  I  think." 

So  the  other,  running  considerable 
risk  of  detection  in  the  act,  managed 
the  theft,  and  secured  the  volume,  or 
one  like  it,  and  at  midnight  the 
Medico  arrived  back  with  it  and 
with  a  somewhat  disappointed  face. 

"  It's  a  queer  kind  of  book,"  quoth 
he ;  "  as  you  say,  not  the  kind  of 
thing  a  man  like  Hood  should  read. 
It  ain't  quite  as  immoral  as  I  thought 
it  would  be  from  your  description, 
but  it's  written  in  such  a  queer  lingo 
thai;  I'm  half  afraid  it  may  be  all  the 
more  dangerous.  Yice  concealed, 
you  know,  is  a  terrible  business.  Far 
better  out  with  it,  like  Kock  and  the 
othor  chaps.  But  I'll  keep  my  eye 
on  him,  depend  on  that,  and  if  I 
notice  anything  bad  I'll  let  you  know 
at  once." 

"  Do  so,  do  so,"  said  the  Major  with 
some  emotion.  "  It's  a  terrible  thing  to 
see  a  fellow  like  old  Simon  going 
wrong." 

"  Not  a  better  shot  in  the 
regiment !  " 

"  Or  a  better  rider,  for  his  weight!" 

"  And  as  rich  as  Croesus  !  " 

"  Yes,  that's  the  worst  of  it,  or  he 
wouldn't  be  able  to  buy  books  of  this 
kind;  why,  he  gave  a  hundred 
pounds  for  that  one  !  " 

"You  don't  tell  me  so!"  cried 
the  Doctor,  almost  tumbling  off  his 
chair.  "  A  hundred  pounds  ! — there 
mutt  be  more  in  it  than  I've  noticed. 
I  think  I  had  better  take  it  back,  and 
make  another  examination." 

VII. 

PARTLY  owing  to  the  remonstrances 
of  Ids  friends,  but  chiefly  owing  to  his 
own  feelings,  Sir  Simon  got  to  hate 
the  sight  of  those  dearly-purchased 
volumes,  and  began  to  think  he  must 
tako  advice,  and  get  rid  of  them 
somehow.  Happiness  might  after  all 
be  purchased  too  dearly.  Yery  likely 
Penelope  would  have  nothing  to  say 
to  him  after  all  his  slaving.  She  would 


scorn  his  feeble  efforts  to  follow  in 
her  steps,  and,  dismissing  him,  turn 
without  another  thought  to  the  ab- 
stract treatise  she  happened  to  be 
engaged  in.  Besides,  he  could  not  yet 
quite  make  up  his  mind  to  give  her  a 
chance  of  rejecting  him.  He  knew 
little  or  nothing  about  her,  and  his 
affection  might  pass  away  in  due 
course  as  other  affections  had  done 
before.  But  it  showed  no  signs  of 
doing  so  yet;  in  the  morning,  and 
in  the  evening,  and  between  whiles, 
there  was  continually  rising  up  before 
him  the  image  of  the  young  mistress 
of  the  old  library. 

"What  was  he  do  with  these  most  in- 
fernal books  1  So  long  as  they  stood  in 
his  room  he  felt  he  had  no  business  to 
go  away  to  shoot,  or  hunt,  or  even  to 
dine.  Give  them  to  the  regimental 
library  1  The  regimental  library, 
after  all  it  had  heard  about  them 
would  have  scorned  to  touch  them. 
To  the  British  Museum?  To  the 
Sailors'  Home  he  had  heard  about  in 
WhitechapeU  Why  not  give  them 
to  Sir  John  1  Or,  happier  and  better 
thought,  why  not  give  them  to  Miss 
Shaw,  and  then  have  done  with  the 
whole  business,  both  as  concerned  them, 
and  as  concerned  her1?  Whether  she 
would  take  their  owner  or  not  she 
would  be  glad  enough  to  take  them,  if 
they  could  be  presented  in  a  suffi- 
ciently delicate  manner.  In  that  lay 
the  difficulty.  However  Hood  got  an 
immense  box,  and  packed  them  care- 
fully in  it  (he  was  ashamed  to  ask  his 
servant  to  do  it),  and  then  waited 
till  the  next  winter-shooting  came  off 
at  Casterton,  to  which  he  had  been 
bidden.  And  to  Casterton,  when  the 
summons  came,  he  departed. 

"  Sir  Simon  .  has  brought  plenty 
of  cartridges  this  time,"  said  the 
head-keeper  as  he  surveyed  the  great 
case  in  the  gun-room-  where  it  had 
been  taken  with  the  other  shooting 
paraphernalia . 

"Those  ain't  cartridges,"    said  the 

new-comer's  servant,   who  had   heard 

his  master  hammering,  and  noticed  the 

gaps  in  the  shelves.    "  They're  books." 

"  Books  !  "  exclaimed    the    keeper. 


254 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


"What  does  he  want  with  books 
here?" 

"  Goodness  knows,"  said  the  other, 
shaking  his  head  ;  "  I  don't.  I  doubt 
there's  something  wrong  with  Sir 
Simon." 

It  happened  that  on  this  visit  a 
married  sister  of  Sir  John's  presided 
over  indoor  affairs,  who  was  glad  to 
have  Penelope  in  the  drawing-room 
sometimes  to  talk  to,  and  so  Hood 
saw  a  little  more  of  her  than  usual.  He 
met  her  now  and  then  in  parts  of  the 
house  which  she  had  never  entered 
except  when,  as  it  were,  a  guest  of 
the  family ;  and  once  or  twice  when, 
shooting  near  home,  they  came  into 
lunch,  he  found  her  in  the  dining-room. 
The  little  he  saw  added  some  fuel  to 
the  fire  which  he  found  was  still  burn- 
ing within  him  with  a  strong  but  un- 
certain flame.  But  somehow  or  other 
he  could  never  find  an  opportunity  for 
the  presentation. 

Then  the  last  day's  sport  arrived ; 
the  last  cartridge  was  fired,  guns  were 
packed,  servants  tipped,  and  six  men 
were  off  to  town  by  a  morning  train. 
Sir  Simon  said  he  would  stay  till  the 
evening.  Sir  John  was  down  at  the 
office  with  his  agent ;  his  sister  was 
comfortably  reading  the  MORNING 
POST  in  her  boudoir.  Now  was  the 
time  for  action. 

Hood  made  up  a  little  speech  as  he 
walked  down  the  long  corridor  which 
led  to  the  library.  Penelope  was  sitting 
over  the  fire,  engaged  in  some  feminine 
work  in  worsteds,  and  she  looked 
rather  guilty  at  being  caught  idling. 

"  Miss  Shaw,"  began  the  soldier, 
"I  wish  you'd  let  me  make  you  a 
small  present  ;  a  return  for  nearly 
shooting  you,  you  know,  the  other 
day  when  you  were  going  home." 

Penelope  looked,  as  she  felt,  much 
astonished,  and  did  not  know  at  all 
what  to  say.  "  It's  very  kind  of  you," 
at  last  she  said. 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all.  I've  always 
felt  I  was  in  your  debt  for  frightening 
you  so  much.  And  now  I've  got 
something  I  know  you'll  appreciate, 
if  you'll  only  accept  them." 

"I  really  wasn't   frightened,"  said 


the  girl,  picking  out  a  bright  yellow 
thread  for  the  eyes  of  the  owl  she  was 
fashioning. 

"  I'm  sure  you  must  have  been. 
Many  gir —  many  ladies  wouldn't 
appreciate  them,  but  I  know  you  will. 
I  can  quite  understand  your  feelings, 
too,  though  I  began  rather  late ;  it's 
wonderful  how  it  grows  on  one.  I'll 
go  and  fetch  them."  So  he  departed, 
leaving  Penelope  in  a  state  of  mar- 
velling curiosity.  "What  could  he  be 
going  to  give  her  ? — how  very  queer 
it  all  was.  Presently  she  heard  a 
heavy  tread  outside,  and  a  great  bump 
against  the  door.  It  opened,  and  in 
came  Sir  Simon  with  a  very  red  face, 
staggering,  mighty  man  though  he 
was,  under  the  weight  of  his  enormous 
box.  "  There  !  "  he  exclaimed,  setting 
it  down  in  a  way  that  made  all  the 
furniture  in  the  room  rattle. 

All  ideas  of  a  bracelet  or  a  ring, 
if  ever  such  had  entered  Penelope's 
mind, — all  ideas  of  anything  faded 
away  as  she  surveyed  the  box.  It 
looked  rather  like  one  of  those 
"kists"  in  which  flitting  servants 
carry  their  possessions.  It  might  have 
held  the  supply  of  linen  necessary  for 
a  considerable  household. 

Hood  proudly  threw  back  the  lid. 
"  Now  then  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  an 
air  of  triumph,  taking  out  one  of  the 
Dibdins  ;  "  here's  a  set  of  books  that 
you  can't  get  in  all  London,  if  you 
died  for  it !  "  Penelope  bent  low  over 
her  owl  to  hide  her  face,  and  she 
began  to  put  a  scarlet  eye  into  the 
wise  bird's  head. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Hood,  blowing  at  the 
opened  page  (he  had  seen  Mr.  Kemp 
blow  the  dust  off  the  top  edges). 
"It's  not  often  one  gets  a  chance  of 
looking  at  a  book  like  this  I  So  wide  ! 
So  long  !  So  deep !  So — "  here  his 
vocabulary  failed  him.  Penelope  now 
discovered  her  mistake,  and  began  to 
pick  out  the  yellow  eye  which  was 
rightly  in.  "You  don't  know,  Miss 
Shaw,  what  this  book  tells  you  \  all 
the  prices  of  all  the  books  in  the 
world  !  At  least  that's  not  in  this 
one,  but  in  the  other  lot,"  squinting 
into  the  box.  "All  the  books  in  the 


Sir  Simon's  Courtship. 


255 


world !  And  there  are  seven  more 
volumes  as  big  as  this !  And  ten 
nearly  as  big  !  And  seven " 

"  Oh,  I  hate  them  !  "  cried  Penelope, 
dropping  her  owl,  her  scissors,  and 
her  carefully  assorted  wools.  "  I 
can'b  understand  a  word  about  them  ! 
What  does  it  matter  if  you  can't  read 
then  whether  they  are  long  or  short  ! 
I  just  hate  and  detest  the  whole  lot  ! " 

"  What !  "  cried  Sir  Simon,  hardly 
belioving  his  ears. 

"  Oh,  Sir  Simon  !  "  cried  the  girl. 
"If  you  had  only  been  driven  mad 
with  them  as  I  have  been  !  Watching 
people  lest  they  should  take  them 
away  when  they  come  to  look  at 
them  !  And  writing  answers  to  stupid 
people  who  asked  about  them  !  And 
carrying  them  about,  as  if  they  were 
babies,  to  be  looked  at !  Oh,  I  am 
going  to  give  them  up — I  am  going 
away — I  can't  stand  them  any  more  !  " 

' ''Going  away!  Where  to?"  de- 
manded Hood. 

"  To  a  nunnery  !  "  cried  the  girl  in 
desperation.  And  then  they  stared 
at  one  another. 

"  So  you  really  do  hate  them  1  "  he 
said  at  length. 

"  E  can't  help  it,"  said  Penelope, 
with  something  of  entreaty  now  in  her 
jroico,  as  she  picked  up  her  work  again. 

"  And  so  do  I ! "  shouted  the 
Baronet,  tossing  the  heavy  volume 
reck  lessly  back  into  the  box,  "  I  de- 
test the  very  sight  of  them  !  When  I 
think  of  the  years  I've  wasted — 

"  Years  !  "  exclaimed  Penelope  with 
largo  eyes  of  astonishment. 

"  Well,  perhaps  weeks ;  oh,  of 
course,  if  you're  so  very  accurate — well 
— days  then — when  I  think  of  the  time 
I've  wasted  over  them  when  I  might 
have  been  hunting  or  shooting,  I  feel 
quite — quite " 

"Ashamed,"  suggested  Penelope. 

"  Ashamed.  But  I'll  never  do  it 
again.  Well,  there's  the  end  of  that! 
And  I  thought  you'd  be  so  pleased 
with  them  !  I  got  them  for  you  !  " 

"Oh,  Sir  Simon  !  " 

"  I  did  really.  I  didn't  mean  to  give 
you  riiem, — but  to  work  up  the  sub- 


ject. And  now  I  must  give  you  some- 
thing else."  Penelope  went  on  with 
her  work  ;  the  owl's  countenance  was 
assuming  a  most  extraordinary  ap- 
pearance, for  the  red  eye  had  extended 
almost  up  to  the  ears.  "What  can 
I  give  you  ?  You  really  couldn't  call 
that  boxful  a  set -off  for  the  fright  I 
gave  you? " 

"  No,  I  really  couldn't,"  replied 
Penelope. 

"  What  would  you  like  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  want  a  new  pair  of 
scissors,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Hood.  He  took 
the  work  from  her  as  well,  and  ex- 
amined it.  "  Well,  I  never  saw  such 
a  creature  in  all  my  life  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  owls'  eyes  are 
like,"  §aid  the  girl.  "  What  colour 
are  they  1 " 

"  I  couldn't  tell  you.  But  then  I 
couldn't  tell  you  what  any  one's  eyes 
are  like.  What  colour  are  mine  ? " 
They  stared  at  each  other  again. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure,"  said  Penelope. 
"I  think  they're  a  kind  of yellow." 

"  Oh  no, — they  aren't  yellow, — look 
again." 

"  Well  then, — they're  green." 

"  They  are  not, — they  are  gray, — so 
are  yours."  A  queer  kind  of  feeling 
began  now  to  creep  over  the  Dragoon, 
half  pleasant  and  half  frightening,  and 
a  small  voice  seemed  to  say  within 
him,  "  Simon  Hood,  if  you  want  to 
get  out  of  this  room  a  free  man,  get 
out  now."  "  Will  you  let  me  give  you 
a  ring?"  he  said.  "  Let  me  see  your 
hand."  One  solitary  little  ring  adorned 
one  finger ;  he  tried  to  pull  it  off,  but 
it  stuck,  and  required  a  good  deal  of 
pushing,  first  one  way  and  then  an- 
other. "  You  are  done  for  now,"  the 
small  voice  seemed  to  say ;  "no  use 
struggling  any  longer  !  " 

"  I  want  more  than  the  ring  "  cried 
the  man.  "  I  want  you  !"  and  whether 
his  face,  or  hers,  or  the  owl's  eye,  was 
the  reddest  at  that  moment,  it  would 
have  puzzled  the  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy  to  say. 

GILFRID  W.   HARTLEY. 


256 


THE     HISTORICAL    NOVEL. 


I. — THE   DAYS    OF    IGNORANCE 


WHO  wrote  the  first  Historical 
Novel  1  The  orthodox,  and  perhaps 
on  the  whole  the  sufficient,  answer  to 
this  is,  Xenophon.  And  indeed  the 
CYROPJSDIA  does  in  many  ways  answer 
to  the  description  of  a  historical  novel 
better  than  anything,  at  least  anything 
extant,  before  it,  and  as  well  as  most 
things  for  more  than  two  thousand 
years  after  it.  It  is  true  that  even 
nowadays  hardly  the  most  abandoned 
devotee  of  the  instructive  novtel,  would 
begin  a  book  with  such  a  sentence 
as,  "It  occurred  to  us  once  upon 
a  time  how  many  democracies  have 
come  to  an  end  at  the  hands  of  those 
who  wished  to  have  some  kind  of 
constitution  other  than  a  democracy." 
But  perhaps  that  is  only  because  we 
are  profoundly  immoral  and  sophisti- 
cated, while  the  Greeks  were  straight- 
forward and  sincere.  For  the  very 
novelist  who  artfully  begins  with  a 
scrap  of  dialogue,  or  a  description  of 
somebody  looking  over  a  gate,  or  a 
pistol-shot,  or  a  sunset,  or  a  tea-party, 
will  before  many  pages  are  turned 
plunge  you  fathoms  deeper  than  ever 
classical  plummet  can  have  sounded 
in  disquisition  and  dulness.  Still, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  not  merely  on 
this  earliest,  but  on  every  early 
example  of  the  kind  there  weighed  a 
certain  character  of  amateurishness 
and  novitiate.  Not  till  within  the 
present  century,  in  the  hands  of  Miss 
Austen  and  Scott,  did  prose  fiction  of 
any  kind  shake  itself  entirely  free 
from  the  trammels  of  secondary  pur- 
pose, without  at  the  same  time  resign- 
ing itself  to  the  mere  concoction  of 
amusing  or  exciting  adventure.  Even 
Fielding,  though  he  would  let  nothing 
interfere  with  his  story,  thought  it 
desirable  to  interlard  and  accompany 


it  with  moral  and  philosophical  dis- 
quisitions. 

It  is  not  therefore  wonderful  that 
Xenophon,  who  was  quite  a  different 
person  from  Fielding,  and  was  more- 
over simply  exploring  an  untried  way, 
should  have  subordinated  his  novel  to 
his  political  purpose.  In  fact  it  is 
perhaps  rather  excessive  to  regard  him 
as  having  intentionally  written  a 
novel,  in  our  sense,  at  all.  He  wanted 
to  write  a  political  treatise :  he  was  a 
pupil  of  Socrates  j  and  vastly  as  the 
Socrates  of  Plato  and  the  Socrates  of 
Xenophon  differ,  they  agree  in  exhibit- 
ing a  strong  predilection  for  the  use  of 
fictitious,  or  semi-fictitious  literary 
machinery  for  the  conveyance  of 
philosophical  truth.  The  CYKOP^DIA 
is  in  fact  a  sort  of  EMILE  of  antiquity, 
devoted  to  the  education  of  a  king 
instead  of  a  private  person.  It  may 
even  be  argued  that  such  romantic 
elements  as  it  does  contain  (the 
character,  or  at  least  personage,  & 
Panthea,  the  rivalry  of  Araspes  and 
Abradatas,  and  so  forth,)  are  intro- 
duced less  for  any  attraction  they  may 
give  to  the  story  than  for  the 
opportunities  they  afford  to  Cyrus  of 
displaying  the  proper  conduct  of  a 
ruler.  And  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
say  that  the  actual  historical  element 
in  the  book  is  very  small  indeed, 
scarcely  extending  beyond  the  parent- 
age, personality,  and  general  circum- 
stances of  the  hero. 

Such  as  the  book  is,  however,  it  is 
the  nearest  approach  to  the  kind  that 
we  have  from  classical  times.  Some 
indeed  would  have  it  that  Quintus 
Curtius  has  taken  nearly  as  great 
liberties  with  the  destroyer  as 
Xenophon  did  with  the  founder  of 
the  Persian  monarchy  ;  but  the  things 


The  Historical  Novel. 


257 


obviously  belong  to  different  kinds. 
The  CYROP^DIA  is  a  philosophical 
romance  for  which  its  author  has 
chosen  to  borrow  a  historic  name  or 
two  ;  the  other  (if  indeed  its  author 
was  a  real  classical  writer  and  not  a 
mere  re-arranger  of  medieval  fable)  is 
a  history  which  admits  unhistorical 
and  romantic  details.  Nor  can  any  of 
the  extant  Greek  Romances,  as  they 
are  generally  called,  be  said  to  possess 
a  historical  complexion.  They  may 
sometimes,  for  the  convenience  of  the 
authors,  allude  more  or  less  slightly 
to  historical  facts  ;  but  their  general 
story  and  their  characters  have  nothing 
to  do  with  anything  of  the  kind.  The 
remarkable  adventures  of  the  conven- 
tional pair  of  lovers  need  no  such 
admixture ;  and  Anthea,  Chariclea, 
Leucippe,  Chloe,  and  Hysmine  are 
won  and  lost  and  won  again  without 
any  but  glances  (if  even  that)  at  his- 
torical characters  or  incidents.  Some 
things  in  Lucian's  TRUE  HISTORY  and 
other  burlesques  have  led  to  the  idea 
that  the  Historical  Novel  may  have 
been  more  fully  represented  in  works 
that  have  perished  ;  but  there  is  little 
evidence  of  this. 

It  does  not  require  very  long  or 
elaborate  reflection  to  show  that 
things  could  not  well  have  been  dif- 
ferent. The  attraction  of  historical 
subjects  in  fiction,  for  the  writer  to 
somo  extent  and  still  more  for  the 
reader,  depends  entirely  upon  the  ex- 
istence of  a  considerable  body  of 
written  history,  and  on  the  public 
acquaintance  with  it.  Now  although 
erudite  inquiry  has  sufficiently  shown 
that  the  ancients  were  by  no  means  so 
badjy  off  for  books  as  it  pleased  Dr. 
Johnson  and  others  to  assume,  it  is 
perfectly  certain  that  they  cannot 
possibly  have  had  such  a  body  of 
history.  Except  some  scraps  of  chiefly 
Persian  chronicle  and  a  certain  know- 
ledge of  affairs  in  Egypt,  the  Greeks 
had  no  history  but  their  own,  and  this 
lattor  they  were  making  and  writing, 
not  reading.  They  left  the  Romans  a 
little  more,  but  not  much.  There  was 
thus  little  for  a  Roman,  and  next  to 

Iso.  418. — VOL.  LXX. 


nothing  for  a  Greek  Scott  or  Dumas 
to  go  upon  even  had  he  existed  ;  no 
materials  to  work  up,  no  public  taste, 
imagination,  or  traditions  to  appeal 
to.  Even  if  instincts  and  desires  of 
the  kind  did  suggest  themselves  to 
any  one,  the  natural  region  in  which 
it  was  sought  to  gratify  them  was 
mythology,  not  history,  while  the 
natural  medium  was  verse,  not  prose. 
Apuleius,  who  worked  up  the  legend 
of  Cupid  and  Psyche  so  charmingly, 
might  no  doubt,  if  it  had  occurred  to 
him,  have  done  something  of  the  same 
kind  with  Appius  and  Virginia,  with 
the  expulsion  of  the  Pisistratidse,  with 
a  hundred  other  Greek  and  Roman 
incidents  of  romantic  capabilities.  He 
would  have  had,  too,  the  immense 
advantage  of  being  (modern  as  he 
was  in  a  way)  on  the  right  side  of  the 
gulf,  of  being,  as  our  jargon  has  it, 
more  or  less  "  in  touch  "  with  his  sub- 
jects, and  of  being  free  from  the  la- 
borious and  yet  ineffectual  gropings 
which  have  marred  all  post-medieval 
attempts  at  the  Historical  Novel  with 
a  classical  theme.  But  he  did  not; 
and  if  he  did  not  there  was  certainly 
no  one  else  who  was  likely  to  do  it. 
The  Historical  Novel  of  Greece  is  as  we 
have  seen  a  philosophical  treatise ; 
the  Historical  Novel  of  Rome  is  an 
epic,  an  epic  differing  in  merit  as 
^ENEID  from  THEBAID  and  THEBAID 
from  BELLUM  PUNICUM,  but  still  alike 
in  being  an  epic,  and  not  a  novel. 

When  the  kind  revives  after  the 
deluge  of  the  barbarians  it  shows  us 
one  of  the  most  curious  and  interest- 
ing evidences  of  the  strange  fertilising 
power  of  that  deluge.  The  very  iden- 
tical separation  which  in  some  five 
centuries  dissolves  and  precipitates 
Latin  into  Romance,  begets  the 
romance  itself  at  the  same  time.  No 
doubt  the  new  historical  novels  at 
first  seem  to  be  epics,  like  their  prede- 
cessors, in  so  far  as  they  had  any. 
They  are  first  in  verse ;  but  before 
very  long  they  are  in  prose  also.  And 
what  is  more,  one  of  the  most  essen- 
tial and  formative  characteristics  of 
the  Historical  Novel  appears  in  them. 

8 


258 


The  Historical  Novel. 


The  Virgils  and  their  followers  had 
gone  a  thousand  years  back  for  their 
subjects ;  even  Silius  Italicus  had 
selected  his  at  a  prudent  distance  of 
hundreds.  But  the  epics  (before  very 
long  to  become  prose  romances  of  the 
Carlovingian  and  Arthurian  cycles) 
attack  comparatively  recent  times ; 
and  when  the  Crusades  begin,  by  one 
of  the  most  interesting  things  in 
literature,  contemporary  event  actu- 
ally transforms  itself  into  romance. 
The  story  of  fact  seems  to  become 
alive,  to  twist  itself  out  of  the  hands 
of  the  chronicler  who  has  actually 
seen  the  fearsome  host  of  the  Tafurs 
before  Antioch,  and  ridden  "  red-wet- 
shod"  into  Jerusalem.  Moreover  it 
takes  to  itself  all  manner  of  strange 
legendary  accretions,  and  becomes  (as 
in  LES  CH^TIFS  and  other  parts  of  the 
Crusading  cycle)  a  historical  novel 
with  some  personages  and  incidents 
strictly  matter-of-fact,  and  others 
purely  and  obviously  fictitious. 

There  is  no  more  difficult  question 
than  that  of  deciding  in  exactly  what 
manner  these  Romances  were  received 
by  our  forefathers.  These  forefathers 
were  not  by  any  means  fools,  a  dim 
consciousness  whereof  appears  to  be  at 
last  dawning  on  their  descendants; 
though  the  belief  that  they  were  so 
may  still  survive  in  company  with  the 
kindred  beliefs  that  they  never  took 
baths,  that  they  were  extremely  miser- 
able, and  so  forth.  They  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  these  things  were,  as 
they  said  themselves,  troves,  invented, 
sometimes  by  the  very  person  who 
sang  or  said  them,  always  by  some- 
body like  him.  At  the  same  time 
they  knew  that  there  was  a  certain 
amount  of  historic  truth  about  some 
of  the  personages.  Probably  (the  gods 
not  having  made  them  critical  about 
things  where  criticism  could  well  be 
spared)  they  took  in  the  thing  pretty 
much  the  same  delight  that  the  modern 
reader  takes  in  the  mixture  of  truth 
and  fiction  which  distinguishes  the 
Historical  Novel  itself,  and  did  not 
care  to  separate  the  constituents 
thereof. 


It  would  take  far  too  much  space, 
and  would  be  less  strictly  appropriate 
to  a  handling  of  the  Historical  Novel 
than  to  one  of  the  Romance  generally, 
to  sort  out  in  any  detail  the  different 
kinds  of  medieval  story  and  their 
exact  relation  to  our  particular  kind. 
And  the  investigation  would  be  a  little 
perplexed  by  the  incurable  medieval 
habit  of  putting  everything  into  verse, 
science  as  well  as  fiction,  imagination 
as  well  as  history.  Perhaps  the  nearest 
approach  to  the  Historical  Novel 
proper  is  to  be  found  in  the  Icelandic 
Sagas,  where  the  best  authorities  seem 
to  agree  that  simple  and  sober  family 
and  provincial  history  is  tricked  out 
in  the  most  inextricable  and  bewilder- 
ing manner  with  sheer  Scaldic  inven- 
tion. But  the  explanation  is,  as  I 
have  already  hinted,  that  criticism 
was  not  born  or  reborn.  Some,  I 
believe,  would  be  well  pleased  if  it 
never  had  been  ;  but  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there.  Has  not  Professor 
Flint,  the  most  learned  and  painstak- 
ing of  investigators,  just  told  us  that 
he  can  find  no  trace  of  systematic  his- 
torical criticism  before  Ibn  Khaldun, 
that  erudite  Arab  and  contemporary 
of  Chaucer  1  Now  as  without  a  con- 
siderable stock  of  history  and  some 
general  knowledge  of  it  there  is  no 
material  for  the  Historical  Novel,  so 
without  a  pretty  distinct  criticism  of 
history,  of  what  pretty  certainly  has 
happened  as  distinguished  from  what 
very  certainly  has  not,  it  is  impossible 
for  this  kind  of  novel  to  attain  a  dis- 
tinct and  separate  existence.  And 
you  never  (or  at  any  rate  very  seldom) 
can  put  your  finger  on  any  part  of  any 
medieval  history,  in  prose  or  verse, 
whether  it  be  avowedly  chronicle  or 
half-avowedly  fiction,  and  say,  "  Here 
the  man  consciously  and  deliberately 
left  his  facts  and  took  to  his  fictions." 
The  difficulty,  the  impossibility,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  of  satisfactorily  tracing 
the  origins  of  the  Arthurian  story  lies 
precisely  in  this.  Your  Nennius,  your 
Caradoc  of  Lancarvan  even,  very  pos- 
sibly, nay  most  probably,  believed  that 
he  was  giving  simple  history.  Per- 


The  Historical  Novel. 


259 


haps  your  Archdeacon  "Walter  (always 
supposing  that  he  ever  existed)  did 
the  same.  But  what  are  we  to  make 
of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  and  persons 
like  him?  Was  Geoffrey  a  merely 
uncritical  chronicler,  taking  details 
from  record  and  romance  alike  ?  Was 
he,  whether  plagiarist  in  the  main,  or 
plastic  artist  in  the  main,  a  "  maker," 
a  conscious  inventor?  Or  was  he  a 
historical  novelist  before  his  time, 
taking  his  facts  from  Nennius  and 
Walter  (if  Walter  there  was),  his  in- 
ventions partly  from  Welsh  and  Bre- 
ton poetry,  partly  from  his  own  brains, 
and  weaving  it  all  into  something  like 
a  \v  hole  ?  That  is  exactly  what  no 
one  can  say. 

But-  I  cling  to  my  own  contention 
thai  it  is  impossible  to  find  out  how 
much  in  the  average  medieval  writer 
was  intended  history,  and  how  much 
deliberate  romance,  for  the  precise 
reason  that  he  had  never  as  a  rule 
benj  his  mind  to  consider  the  differ- 
ence between  them.  "The  French  book 
said"  it  or  the  Latin  book,  and  he  took 
the  saying,  comparatively  indifferent 
to  i':s  source,  and  handed  it  on  a  little 
inci  eased,  or  at  any  rate  not  diminished, 
like  the  thrifty  personage  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  REPUBLIC. 

It  will  therefore  be  clear  that  so  long 
as  this  attitude  of  mind  prevailed  no 
Historical  Novel  in  the  proper  sense 
of  uhe  term  was  possible.  History 
and  Romance  passed  into  each  other 
wit  a  too  bewildering  a  metamorphosis ; 
what  is  pedantically  called  "the 
respect  of  the  document "  was  a  thing 
too  absolutely  unknown.  In  the  days 
whon  the  Homeric  tale  of  Troy  ex- 
panded itself  through  Dictys  and 
Dares,  through  Benoit  de  Sainte-More 
and  Guido  Colonna,  into  endless 
amplifications ;  when  the  already 
rataer  romantic  Alexander  of  Curtius 
(always  supposing  the  order  not  to  be 
the  reverse  one)  acquired  twelve 
Paladins,  and  discovered  the  Fountain 
of  Youth,  and  all  but  achieved  the 
Earthly  Paradise ;  when  the  merely 
pintical  history  of  the  CHANSON 
D' ANTIOCHE  branched  off  into  the  sheer 


legend  of  LES  CHETIFS  and  the  endless 
imaginations  of  the  CHEVALIER  AU 
CYGNE,  there  could  be  no  special 
Historical  Novel,  because  everything 
was  at  once  novel  and  history.  The 
peculiarities  of  romantic  handling  had 
become  ingrained,  were  as  it  were 
inextricably  blended  with  and  joined 
to  the  literary  forms  in  common  use. 
Not  merely  a  superhuman  genius  like 
Dante,  when  he  throws  contemporary 
event  and  feeling  into  a  form  which 
seems  to  belong  to  all  time  or  none, 
but  lesser  and  more  strictly  practical 
persons  like  Froissart  and  Guillaume 
de  Machault,  when  the  one  tells  the 
contemporary  prowess  of  the  English 
in  France  in  brilliant  prose,  and  the 
other  sings  the  contemporary  exploits 
of  Peter  of  Lusignan  at  Alexandria 
in  not  very  ornate  verse,  share  in  the 
benefits  or  the  drawbacks  of  this 
romantic  atmosphere.  Without  any 
scuffling  they  change  rapiers ;  and 
you  cannot  tell  which  is  which. 

A  kind  which  the  restless  ingenuity 
and  fertile  invention  of  the  Middle 
Ages  had  not  discovered  was  very 
unlikely  to  find  existence  in  the 
dulness  of  the  fifteenth  century.  That 
age,  so  far  as  intellectual  work  is 
concerned,  was  occupied  either  in 
tedious  imitation  of  the  products  of 
medieval  genius,  or  in  laborious 
exhumation  of  the  products  of  the 
genius  of  the  ancients.  To  history 
proper  it  did  not  pay  very  much 
attention,  and  its  chief  achievement 
in  fiction,  the  AMADIS  cycle,  is  mainly 
remarkable  for  the  way  in  which  it 
cuts  itself  altogether  adrift  from 
history.  The  older  romances,  in  con- 
formity with  the  stock  tag  of  one  of 
their  writers  about  "  the  sayings  and 
the  doings  and  the  ways  of  the 
ancestors,"  tried  to  bring  themselves 
from  time  to  time  into  a  sort  of 
contact  with  those  central  and  ac- 
cepted points  of  older  romance  which 
were  almost  history.  But  Lobeira  or 
Montalvo,  or  whoever  he  was,  with 
his  or  their  followers,  hardly  do  this 
at  all.  Their  world  of  fantasy  suffices 
them.  And  perhaps,  if  anybody  likes 

s   2 


260 


The  Historical  Novel. 


critical  paradox,  they  may  be  said  to 
have  in  a  way  accelerated  the  real 
Historical  Novel  by  rejecting,  half 
unconsciously  no  doubt,  the  admix- 
ture of  novel  and  history  in  the 
undistinguished  and  indistinguishable 
fashion  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

The  sixteenth  century  was  too  busy 
with  the  actual,  and  (in  that  which 
was  not  actual)  with  its  marvellous 
outburst  of  poetry  and  drama, 
with  its  passionate  devotion  to  reli- 
gious, political,  philosophical  and  other 
learning  to  pay  much  attention  to  the 
comparatively  frivolous  department  of 
prose  fiction.  Even  if  it  had  done  so 
the  old  constraints  and  disabilities 
waited  on  it  still.  It  was,  however, 

fetting  rid  of  them  pretty  rapidly, 
t  was  accumulating  a  great  mass  of 
historical  information  which  the  Press 
was  spreading  and  making  generally 
accessible :  it  was  gradually  forging 
and  exercising  itself  with  the  weapons 
of  criticism;  and  side  by  side  with 
this  exercise,  it  was  developing  the 
natural  corrective  and  supplement  in 
an  intelligent  and  affectionate  retro- 
spect of  the  past  from  the  literary 
point  of  view.  This  last  is  a  thing  of 
which  we  find  little  trace  either  in 
classical  or  in  medieval  times.  The 
most  obvious  ancient  indications  of  it 
are  to  be  found  in  Alexandria,  that 
curious  microcosm  of  the  modern 
world,  and  especially  in  the  writings 
of  the  Hellenist  Jews  ;  but  it  begins 
to  appear  or  reappear  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  with  it  comes  the  promise 
of  the  Historical  Novel. 

The  promise,  but  not  the  perform- 
ance. Among  the  scanty  fiction  of 
the  sixteenth  century  the  work  of 
Rabelais  and  Cervantes  (for  though 
PON  QUIXOTE  did  not  appear  till  a  year 
or  two  after  the  century  had  arith- 
metically closed,  it  belongs  thereto) 
towers  with  a  supremacy  not  merely 
born  of  the  want  of  rivals.  But  each 
is  (so  far  as  class  goes)  only  a  parody 
of  the  older  and  especially  of  the 
AMADIS  romances.  The  philosophical 
fictions,  whether  they  be  political  like 
UTOPIA  or  social  and  educational  like 


EUPHUES,  are  equally  far  from  our 
subject,  and  obviously  do  but  copy  the 
forms  of  Plato  and  Xenophon.  Nearly 
all  the  rest  is  but  tale-telling,  with  an 
imitation  of  the  Greek  pastoral  here 
and  there,  blended  with  other  kinds  as 
in  ARCADIA  and  ASTR^EA  and  DIANA. 

The  immediate  descendants  of  these 
latter  did  indeed  in  the  next  age 
attempt  to  give  themselves  historical 
form,  or  at  any  rate  historical  names ; 
and  the  names  if  not  the  form  pre- 
vailed for  a  considerable  period.  In- 
deed LE  GRAND  CYRUS  and  CLEOPATRE 
and  CLELIE,  if  we  take  their  glances  at 
the  present  as  well  as  their  nominal 
references  to  the  past,  are  doubly 
historical  ;  and  this  double  appeal 
continued  in  the  ordinary  French  novel 
for  a  long  time.  Thus  the  characters 
of  the  famous  PKINCESSE  DE  CLEVES  (the 
first  modern  novel  as  some  will  have 
it  to  be)  were  all  real  persons,  or  most 
of  them,  once  upon  a  time,  as  well  as 
having  real  doubles  in  the  court  of 
Louis  the  Fourteenth.  But  it  was  in 
the  latter,  not  in  the  former  bearing 
of  them  that  their  original  readers 
took  interest,  while  the  writers  here 
and  elsewhere  cared  not  in  the  very 
least  for  any  historical  verisimilitude 
whatever.  And  this  continued  to  be 
the  case  throughout  the  eighteenth 
century.  The  Novel  of  Sensibility, 
either  out  of  mere  habit  or  for  some 
other  reason,  was  rather  fond  of  taking 
historical  names  and  even  in  a  very 
broad  and  general  way  historical  in- 
cidents to  help  it ;  but  nothing  could 
be  less  like  the  Historical  Novel. 

In  England,  as  is  very  well  known, 
the  seventeenth  century  gave  us,  pro- 
perly speaking,  neither  novel  nor  ro- 
mance of  the  slightest  importance. 
It  allegorised ;  and  on  one  occasion 
its  allegory  shot  up  into  the  mighty 
creation  of  THE  PJLGRIM'S  PROGRESS. 
It  pursued  its  explorations  in  fictitious 
political  geography  from  UTOPIA  to 
ATLANTIS  and  from  ATLANTIS  to  OCEANA. 
It  told  a  story  or  so  as  the  humour 
took  it.  But  it  was  not  till  the  next 
century  that  the  country  which  has 
since  been  the  school  of  every  kind  of 


The  Historical  Novel. 


261 


novel  to  every  other  country  in  Europe, 
and  has  in  the  past  hundred  and  fifty 
years  probably  produced  more  novels 
than  all  the  countries  of  Europe  put 
togc  ther,  began  seriously  to  devote  it- 
self to  the  kind.  And  even  then  it 
did  not  for  a  long  time  discover  the 
real  Historical  Novel.  Defoe,  indeed, 
hovered  around  and  about  this  kind 
as  ie  did  around  and  about  so  many 
others.  The  MEMOIRS  OF  A  CAVALIER  is 
a  historical  novel  almost  full-fledged, 
and  wanting  only  a  stronger  dramatic 
and  personal  element  in  it.  That 
unequal  and  puzzling  book  ROXANA  is 
almost  another ;  and  if  the  MEMOIRS  OF 
CAPTAIN  CARLETON  are  fiction,  they  may 
per'iaps  take  rank  with  these,  though 
at  a  greater  distance.  But  either 
Defoe's  own  incurable  tendency  to 
mystification,  or  the  appetite  of  the 
time  seems  to  have  imposed  upon  him 
the  need  of  pretending  that  everything 
which  he  wrote  was  true  in  the  first 
place ;  while  in  the  second  he  never 
att; lined  to  that  important  variety  of 
the  novelist's  art  which  consists  in 
detaching  and  isolating  the  minor 
characters  of  his  book, — an  art  which 
is  i.owhere  of  more  consequence  than 
in  i;he  Historical  Novel.  If  Roxana's 
Amy,  and  William  the  Quaker  in 
CAPTAIN  SINGLETON  stand  out  among 
his  characters,  it  is  because  by  art  or 
accident  he  has  been  able  to  impart 
moce  of  this  detachment  and  individu- 
ality to  them  than  to  almost  any 
others.  And  as  we  shall  see  when  we 
come  presently  to  consider  what  the 
Historical  Novel  ought  to  be,  there  is 
hai  dJy  any  qualification  so  necessary 
to  :.t  as  this. 

!But  Defoe,  as  is  well  known,  ex- 
ercised little  direct  influence  on  Eng- 
lish literature,  for  all  his  genius,  his 
immense  industry,  and  the  multifarious 
ways  in  which  he  was  a  precursor  and 
innovator.  He  was  read,  rather  than 
imitated  or  critically  admired  ;  and 
even  if  his  influence  had  been  more 
direct,  another  current  would  have 
probably  been  strong  enough  to  drive 
back  or  absorb  the  waves  of  his  for  a 
tin;e  Le  Sage  with  GIL  BLAS  taking 


up  and  enforcing  the  previous  popu- 
larity of  DON  QUIXOTE;  Marivaux  with 
his  lessons  to  Richardson ;  and  the 
strong  satiric  allegory  of  Swift  slightly 
sweetened  and  humanised  but  not  much 
weakened  by  Fielding,  still  held  the 
Historical  Novel  aloof,  still  kept  it 
"a  bodiless  childful  of  life  in  the 
gloom."  And  part  of  the  cause  was 
still,  unless  I  greatly  mistake,  that 
which  has  been  already  assigned,  the 
absence  of  a  distinct,  full,  and  toler- 
ably critical  notion  of  history  such  as 
the  eighteenth  century  itself  was  hard 
at  work  supplying. 

Nor  was  the  mere  accumulation  of 
historical  facts,  and  the  mere  diffusion 
of  knowledge  of  them,  the  only  work 
of  preparation  for  this  special  purpose 
in  which  the  century  was  engaged, 
though  it  was  the  greatest.  Few 
people,  I  think,  quite  realise  how  little 
history  was  read  and  known  in  England 
before  the  middle  of  the  last  century. 
It  was  then  that  Johnson  could  men- 
tion Knollys  (a  very  good  and  interest- 
ing writer  no  doubt,  but  already 
antiquated  and  certainly  not  of  the 
first  class,)  as  our  best  if  not  our  only 
historian  on  the  great  scale.  And  it 
was  only  then  that  Hume  and  Robert- 
son and  Gibbon  by  ushering  the  His- 
toric Muse  in  full  dress  into  libraries, 
and  Goldsmith  by  presenting  her  in 
rather  careless  but  very  agreeable  un- 
dress in  schoolrooms,  were  at  once 
taking  away  this  reproach  and  spreading 
the  knowledge  of  the  subject ;  in  other 
words  were  providing  the  historical 
novel-writer  with  material,  and  furnish- 
ing the  historical  novel-reader  with 
the  appetite  and  the  modicum  of  know- 
ledge necessary  for  its  enjoyment. 
Yet  it  may  be  doubted  whether  this, 
would  have  sufficed  alone  or  without 
that  special  additional  stimulus  which 
was  given  by  what  is  vaguely  called 
the  Romantic  movement.  When  in 
their  very  different  ways  Percy 
and  Walpole  and  Gray,  with  many 
others,  directed  or  excited  public 
curiosity  about  the  incidents,  the 
manners,  and  the  literature  of  former 
times,  they  made  the  Historical  Novel 


262 


The  Historical  Novel. 


inevitable  ;    and  indeed   it    began   to 
show  itself  with  very  little  delay. 

Want  of  practice,  want  of  the  afore- 
said historical  knowledge,  and  perhaps, 
above  all,  want  of  a  genius  who  chose 
to  devote   himself  to  the  special   sub- 
ject,   made  the   earliest  babblings  of 
the  style  very  childish  babblings  in- 
deed. THE  CASTLE  OF  OTRANTO  itself  is 
in  essence  a  historical  novel  with  the 
history  omitted  ;  and  a  good  many  of 
its    imitators   endeavoured    to  supply 
the  want.     For  a  time  they  did  it  with 
astonishing   clumsiness   and    want   of 
the   historic  sense.     Even  Godwin,  a 
historian  by  profession  and  a  man  of 
really     very    considerable      historical 
knowledge,  appears  to  have  had  not 
the  remotest  notion  of  local  colour,  of 
antiquarian  fitness,  of  the  adjustment 
of  atmosphere  and  style.     ST.  LEON,  for 
instance,  is  in  its  opening  scenes  to  no 
small  extent  historical,  and  keeps  up 
the  historic  connection  to  some  degree 
throughout ;  but,  except  for  a  few  bare 
facts,  the  whole  thing  is  a  gross  an- 
achronism only  to  be  excused  on  the 
inadequate  ground  that  in  "  a  romance 
of   immortality "    you    cannot   expect 
much  attention  to  miserable  concerns 
of  time.    There  is  not  the  least  attempt 
to   adjust   the    manners   to    those   of 
Francis  the  First's  day,  or  the  dialogue 
and    general    incidents    to    anything 
known  of  the  sixteenth  century.     The 
age  still  told  its  novels  as  it  mounted 
its  plays  with  a   bland  and  complete 
disregard   of   details   such    as    these. 
And  Godwin  was  a  purist  and  a  pedant 
in  these  respects  as  compared  with  the 
great  Anne  Radcliffe.     The  rare  lapse 
into   older    carelessness    which   made 
the   sun    set   in   the  sea   on  the  east 
coast  of  Scotland  in  THE  ANTIQUARY  is 
a   peccadillo   not  to  be  named  beside 
the    astounding     geography     of     the 
MYSTERIES  OF  UDOLPHO,  or  the  wonder- 
ful glimpses  of  a  France  such  as  this 
gifted  lady  imagined  it  to  have  been  in 
the  time  of  the  religious  wars.     Clara 
Reeve,  the  author  of  the  once  famous 
OLD   ENGLISH   BARON,    writing  years 
before    either    Godwin    or  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe, and  on  the  direct  and  acknow- 


ledged model  of  Walpole,  threw  the 
lessons  of  -her  master  (who  really  did 
know  something  both  about  medieval 
history  and  manners,)  entirely  to  the 
winds ;  and  though  she  took  Henry 
the  Sixth's  youth  and  the  regency  of 
Bedford  for  her  time,  made  her  picture 
one  of  no  time  at  all.  Her  French 
contemporaries  were  doing  just  the 
same  or  worse  ;  and  all  over  Europe 
the  return  to  the  Middle  Ages  was 
being  made  to  a  Middle  Age  entirely, 
or  almost  entirely  of  convention. 

If  we  could  attach  quite  as  much  im- 
portance to  Scott's  intromissions  with 
QUEENHOO  HALL  as  he  himself  seems  to 
do  in  regard  to  the  genesis  of  WAVERLEY, 
the  performances  of  the  Reeves  and 
the  Radcliffes  might  be  credited  with 
a  very  large  share  in  determining  the 
birth  at  last  of  the  genuine  Histori- 
cal Novel.  For  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  it  was  because  he  was 
shocked  at  the  liberties  taken  and  the 
ignorance  shown  in  these  works,  that 
that  eminent  and  excellent  antiquary, 
Mr.  Joseph  Strutt,  determined  to  show 
the  public  how  their  ancestors  really 
did  live  and  move  and  have  their  being 
in  the  romance  of  QUEENHOO  HALL.  I 
am  ashamed  to  say  that  my  knowledge 
of  that  work  is  entirely  confined  to 
Scott's  own  fragment,  for  the  book  is 
a  very  rare  one  ;  at  least  I  hardly  ever 
remember  having  seen  a  copy  cata- 
logued. But  the  account  of  it  which 
Scott  himself  gives,  and  the  fragment 
which  he  seems  to  have  very  dutifully 
copied  in  manner  from  the  original,  are 
just  what  we  should  expect.  Strutt, 
probably  caring  nothing  for  a  stfory  as 
a  story  and  certainly  being  unable  to 
write  one,  busied  himself  only  about 
making  his  language  and  his  proper- 
ties and  his  general  arrangement  as 
archaically  correct  as  possible.  His 
book  therefore  naturally  bore  the  same 
resemblance  to  a  Historical  Novel  that 
Mr.  Oldbuck's  CALEDONIAD,  could  he 
ever  have  got  it  done  according  to  his 
own  notions  and  without  Level's  as- 
sistance, would  have  borne  to  an  epic 
poem. 

And  now  as  we  have  brought  the 


The  Historical  Novel. 


263 


Historical  Novel  safely  through  that 
period  of  ante-natal  history  which 
somo  great  authorities  have  thought 
the  nost  important  of  all,  as  we  have 
finished  the  account  of  the  Days  of 
Ignorance  (to  adopt  the  picturesque 
and  pleasing  Arab  expression  for  the 
period  of  Arabian  annals  before  Mo- 
ham  med),  it  would  be  obviously  impro- 
per to  bring  in  the  Prophet  himself 
at  t  ae  end  of  even  a  short  preliminary 
inquiry.  And  there  is  all  the  more 
reason  for  not  doing  so  because  this 
is  the  place  in  which  to  consider  what 
the  Historical  Novel  is.  It  will  not 
do  bo  adopt  the  system  of  the  bold 
empiric  and  say,  "  the  Novel  as  writ- 
ten by  Scott."  For  some  of  the  best 
of  Scott's  novels  (including  GUY  MAN- 
NERING  and  THE  ANTIQUARY)  are  not  his- 
torical novels  at  all.  Yet  it  may  be 
confessed  that  Scott  left  but  little  in 
a  general  way  to  be  found  out  about 
the  style,  and  that  his  practice,  accord- 
ing as  it  is  less  or  more  successful, 
may  almost  be  translated  into  the 
principles  of  the  art. 

We  have  already  seen  something  of 
what  a  historical  novel  ought  not  to 
be  and  is  not ;  while  the  eighty  years 
which  have  passed  since  the  publica- 
tion of  WAVERLEY,  if  they  have  not 
shown  us  all  possible  forms  of  what  it 
ought  to  be  and  is,  have  probably 
gone  very  far  to  do  so.  For  the  pos- 
sibilities of  art,  though  quite  infinite 
in  the  way  of  detail,  by  no  means  in- 
clude very  many  new  things  in  their 
general  outlines ;  and  when  an  ap- 
parently new  leaf  is  turned,  the  lines 
on  that  leaf  are  apt  to  be  filled  in 
pn  tty  quickly.  Periclean  and  Eliza- 
bet  han  drama  each  showed  all  it  could 
do  in  less  than  the  compass  of  a  life- 
time, though  no  doubt  good  examples 
were  produced  over  a  much  longer 
period  than  this.  And  though  I  hope 
that  good  historical  novels  will  be 
written  for  hundreds  of  years  to  come, 
I  do  not  think  that  they  will  be  writ- 
ten on  any  very  different  prineiples 
from  those  which  showed  themselves 
in  the  novels  produced  during  the 
forty  years  which  passed  between  the 


appearance  of  WAYEULEY  and  the  ap- 
pearance of  WESTWARD  Ho  ! 

We  have  seen  how  the  advent  of  the 
Historical  Novel  was  delayed  by  the 
want  of  a  general  knowledge  of  his- 
tory ;  and  we  have  seen  how  in  that 
fate  of  QUEENHOO  HALL  whereof  Scott 
himself  is  the  chronicler,  the  opposite 
danger  appeared  when  the  first  had 
been  removed.  The  danger  of  too 
much  history  lay  not  merely  in  the 
way  of  too  much  pedantry  like  that  of 
the  good  Strutt,  but  in  that  of  an  en- 
croachment of  the  historic  on  the 
romantic  element  in  divers  ways. 
This,  if  not  so  destructive  of  the  very 
existence  of  the  thing  as  the  other 
danger,  is  the  more  fatal  of  the  two 
to  its  goodness  when  it  does  exist. 

The  commonest  and  most  obvious 
form  of  this  error  is  decanting  too 
much  of  your  history  bodily  into  your 
novel.  Scott  never  falls  into  this 
error ;  it  is  much  if  he  once  or  twice 
approaches  it  very  far  off.  But  Dumas, 
in  the  days  when  he  let  "  the  young 
men "  do  the  work  with  too  little 
revision  or  warning,  was  prone  to  it  : 
G.  P.  K  James  often  fell  into  it ;  and 
Harrison  Ainsworth,  in  those  painful 
later  years  when  his  dotages  fell  into 
the  reluctant  hands  of  critics  who 
had  rejoiced  in  him  earlier  as  readers, 
was  simply  steeped  in  it.  It  made 
not  merely  the  besetting  sin,  but  what 
may  be  called  the  regular  practice 
(unconscious  of  sin  at  all)  of  writers 
like  Southey's  friend,  Mrs.  Bray  ;  and 
the  unwary  beginner  has  not  shaken 
himself  or  herself  free  from  it  even 
now. 

This,  however,  is  so  gross  and  palp- 
able a  fault  that  one  could  but  won- 
der at  its  deceiving  persons  of  ability 
and  literary  virtue,  if  the  temptations 
to  it  were  not  equally  palpable  and 
gross.  A  much  subtler,  though  perhaps 
an  even  worse  mistake,  comes  next, 
and  ruins  books  that  might  have  been 
good  and  very  good  to  this  day,  though 
Scott  himself,  besides  the  warning  of 
his  practice,  showed  the  danger  of  it  in 
more  than  one  place  of  his  critical  in- 
troductions, and  though  all  the  better 


2G4 


The  Historical  Novel 


critics  from  Joubert  and  Sainte-Beuve 
downwards  have  repeated  the  warn- 
ing. This  is  the  allotting  too  pro- 
minent a  position  and  too  dominant  an 
interest  to  the  real  persons  and  the 
real  incidents  of  the  story.  It  is.  I 
suppose,  in  vain  to  repeat  the  afore- 
said warnings.  Within  the  last  two 
or  three  years  I  can  remember  two 
books, —  both  written  with  extreme 
care  by  persons  of  no  ordinary  talent, 
and  one  of  them  at  least  introducing 
personages  and  a  story  of  the  most 
poignant  interest — which  were  fail- 
ures because  the  historical  attraction 
was  not  relegated  to  the  second  place. 
If  Scott  himself  had  made  Mary  the 
actual  heroine  of  THE  ABBOT,  had  raised 
George  Douglas  to  the  position  of  hero, 
and  had  made  their  loves  (practically 
fictitious  as  they  would  have  been)  the 
central  point  of  the  story,  I  do  not 
doubt  that  he  would  have  failed. 
I  have  always  thought  it  a  proof  of 
the  unerring  tact  which  guided  Sir 
Walter  in  general  on  this  matter,  that 
he  never  once,  save  in  the  case  of  ROB 
HOY  (and  there  the  reality  was  but  a 
little  one),  took  his  title  from  a  real 
person,  and  only  twice  in  the  suggest- 
ive, but  not  hampering  instances,  of 
KENILWORTH  and  WOODSTOCK  from  a  real 
place.  For  THE  LEGEND  OF  MONTROSE 
and  THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  PERTH  contain 
obvious  fiction  as  their  main  appeal. 
His  successors  were  less  wise  ;  and 
they  paid  for  their  want  of  wisdom. 

The  canons  negative  and  affirmative 
will  then  run  somewhat  thus :  "  Ob- 
serve local  colour  and  historical  pro- 
priety, but  do  not  become  a  slave 
either  to  Dryasdust  or  to  Heavysterne. 
Intermix  historic  interest  and  the 
charm  of  well-known  figures,  but  do 
not  incur  the  danger  of  mere  historical 
transcription ;  still  more  take  care 
that  the  prevailing  ideals  of  your 
characters,  or  your  scene,  or  your 
action,  or  all  three,  be  fantastic  and 


within  your  own  discretion."     When 
these  are  put  together  we  shall  have 
what     is    vernacularly    called    "  the 
bones"  of  the  Historical  Novel.     In 
another  paper  or  two  we  may  go  on 
to  see  what  flesh  has  been  imposed  on 
this  skeleton  by  nearly  three  genera- 
tions    of      practitioners.       For      the 
present  it  may  suffice  to  add  that  the 
Historical  Novel  like  all  other  novels 
without  exception,  if  it  is  to  be  good, 
must  not  have  a  direct  purpose  of  any 
sort,    though   no    doubt   it  may,  and 
even   generally  does,   enforce    certain 
morals  both  historical  and  ethical.     It 
is  fortunately  by  its  very  form  and 
postulates  freed  from  the  danger  of 
meddling  with  contemporary  problems  ; 
it  is  grandly  and  artistically  unactual, 
though  here  again  it   may  teach  un- 
obtrusive   lessons.     Although,    oddly 
enough,  those  imperfect  French  exam- 
ples of  it  to  which  we  have  referred 
incline  more  to  the  novel  than  to  the 
romance  and  busy  themselves  with  a 
kind  of  analysis,  it  is  of  course  in  its 
nature   synthetic   and    not    analytic. 
It  is  not  in  the  least  limited  by  con- 
siderations of  time  or  country ;  it  is 
as    much    at    home    on    a    Mexican 
teocalli  as  in  an  English  castle,  though 
it  certainly   has,    hitherto,    exhibited 
the  odd  peculiarity  that  no  one  has 
written  a  first-rate  historical  novel  of 
classical   times.     While  .  inquiry   and 
research  maim   the  chances  of  art  in 
many,  perhaps  in  most  directions,  they 
only  multiply  and  enlarge  the  fields 
for  this.     In   the    drudgeries   of   the 
very    dullest    dog    that    ever    edited 
a  document  there  may  be  the  germ  of 
a  QUENTIN  DURWARD  ;  while  our  novel 
in  itself  is  perhaps  the  most    purely 
refreshing  of  all  reading  precisely  be- 
cause   of   its   curious   conjunction   of 
romance  and  reality. 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY. 


(To  be  continued.} 


265 


THE   BEGINNINGS  OF  THE   BRITISH   ARMY. 


III.       ARTILLERY   AND    ENGINEERS. 


ON  no  point  in  the  history  of  the 
Civil  War,  and  of  the  British  Army 
to  -rchich  it  gave  birth,  is  information 
so  scanty  and  unsatisfactory  as  in 
respect  of  the  Artillery.  The  very 
word  Artillery  appears  but  rarely,  the 
expression  "  the  Train  "  comprehend- 
ing all  that  we  now  include  under 
that  term.  Looking  under  the  head- 
ing of  the  Train  in  Sprigge's  Army- 
List  of  1645,  we  find  the  names  of  a 
few  officers,  a  Lieutenant-General  of 
the  Ordnance,  a  Comptroller,  a  Master- 
Gunner  of  the  field  and  so  forth  ; 
but  not  a  sign  of  an  organised  force 
of  Artillery  nor  the  least  mention  of 
guns.  Two  regiments  of  Infantry, 
two  companies  of  Firelocks  (the  only 
corps  without  the  red  -coat),  and  one 
company  of  Pioneers,  with  their 
officers,  are  indeed  set  down  as  be- 
longing to  the  Train;  but  with  the 
Artillery  proper  these  cannot  have 
had  any  concern.  Indeed  it  is  only 
from  chance  mention  in  a  newspaper 
that  we  learn  that  Fairfax,  when  he 
marched  on  his  Naseby  campaign,  had 
with  him  ten  brass  pieces.  The  fact 
is  that  Field  Artillery  as  a  manoeuvr- 
able force  was  unknown  in  England 
at  ;he  time,  the  guns  being  cumbrous 
and  their  mobility  uncertain.  On  the 
Continent  Maurice  of  Nassau  had 
awoke  to  the  value  of  light  Field- 
Artillery.  We  learn  that  he  had  fifty 
or  sixty  small  pieces  cast,  which  he 
use  d  to  place  between  his  battalions  ; 
and  these  were  found  "  of  great  service 
in  the  time  of  fight ;  for  two  or  three 
men  could  easily  wield  one  of  them 
as  they  pleased,  both  in  advancing  it 
forward  and  drawing  it  back  as  occa- 
sion served."  A  contemporary  Eng- 
lish writer,  Robert  Ward,  gentleman 
an-1  commander,  who  is  nothing  if  not 
an  army-reformer,  recommends  the 


adoption  of  this  novelty  in  England, 
which  shows  that  it  was  unknown. 

We  are  therefore  driven  to  form 
such  conception  of  the  Artillery-man 
as  we  can  from  the  old  works  on  gun- 
nery, of  which  there  are  not  a  few, 
and  from  occasional  chance  notices 
in  the  chronicles  of  the  war.  First  it 
must  be  premised  that  the  guns  of 
the  period  were  not  necessarily  con- 
structed of  metal,  leather  being  an 
alternative  material,  preferred  princi- 
pally on  account  of  its  lightness. 
These  leathern  guns  are  somewhat  of 
a  curiosity,  the  honour  of  having  in- 
vented them  being  a  matter  of  dispute 
between  the  nations  of  Sweden  and 
Scotland.  According  to  one  account, 
they  were  built  of  the  most  hardened 
leather,  girt  about  with  hoops  of  iron 
arid  brass  ;  according  to  another,  they 
had  a  core  of  tin  and  were  bound 
round  with  cordage.  In  neither  case 
could  they  be  expected  to  last  long, 
though  we  are  told  that  they  could  be 
"  brought  to  discharge  "  as  often  as  ten 
times  in  succession ;  but  when  we 
reflect  how  few  are  the  rounds  that 
can  be  fired  from  the  monster  guns  of 
our  own  day  without  renewal  of  the 
inner  tube,  we  cannot  afford  to  sneer 
at  the  shortness  of  their  life.  They 
were  at  any  rate  mobile ;  for  they 
could  be  carried  on  a  pony's  back  or 
stacked  together  by  the  half  dozen 
in  "  barricades  of  wood,"  borne  on 
wheels.  Moreover  they  did  good  ser- 
vice more  than  once,  as,  for  instance, 
at  Newburn  and  at  Cropredy  Bridge. 
Later  on  they  seem  to  have  fallen 
into  disrepute,  for  we  hear  of  the 
"  leather  guns  by  which  the  King  and 
Country  hath  been  cheated  ;  "  though 
even  at  Killiecrankie  Mackay  had  some 
of  "  Sandy's  Stoups "  (as  they  were 
called)  with  him.  We  may  remember 


266 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


that  in  the  French  Revolution  there 
were  enthusiasts  who  proposed  to  set 
all  the  coopers  in  Paris  to  work  at  the 
construction  of  wooden  guns.  Milton 
seems  to  have  had  something  of  the 
sort  in  his  mind  when  he  describes 
the  artillery  of  the  rebellious  angels. 

Like  to  pillars  most  they  seemed, 
Or  hollowed  bodies  made  of  oak  or  fir 
With  branches  lopped ; 

but  the  guns  themselves  were  "  brass, 
iron,  stony  mould." 

However  our  business  lies  not  so 
much  with  these  experimental  weap- 
ons, as  with  the  legitimate  ordnance, 
which  has  come  down  to  us  under 
very  strange  nomenclature.  For  in 
the  early  days  of  Artillery,  we  learn, 
guns  were  named  according  to  the 
will  of  the  inventor,  after  his  own 
name,  as,  for  instance,  the  Cannon  ;x 
or  by  the  names  of  birds  and  beasts 
of  prey  for  their  swiftness  and  cruelty, 
as  the  Falconet,  Falcon,  Sacker,  and 
Culverin2  for  swiftness  of  flying,  or  as 
the  Basilisk,  Serpentine,  Aspic,  and 
Dragon  for  cruelty.  The  poetry  of  the 
conception  is  obvious  enough ;  but  un- 
fortunately such  names  help  us  little  to- 
wards any  understanding  of  the  weight 
and  calibre  of  the  guns  brought  into 
the  field.  In  fact  they  are  as  vague 
as  they  are  poetic.  We  read,  for  in- 
'stance,  that  after  Naseby  the  Parliamen- 
tary Army  captured  the  whole  of  the 
King's  Artillery,  twelve  pieces  in  all, 
two  demi-cannons,  two  demi-culverins, 
and  eight  sackers.  We  turn  to  our 
standard  works  of  the  period  to  seek 
explanation  of  these  terms,  and  find 
that  no  two  of  them  agree.  However, 
to  give  some  notion  of  these  guns,  a 
brief  description  (from  Colonel  Ward) 
of  the  three  aforesaid  is  here  set 
down. 

(1)  A  demi-cannon :  weight  5000  Ibs. ; 
length  11  feet ;  bore  6  inches  ;  weight  of 
shot  24  Ibs.;  team  9  horses.  (2)  Demi- 
cnlverm  :  weight  3000  Ibs. ;  length  11  feet ; 
bore  4£  inches ;  weight  of  shot  11|  Ibs.  ; 

*  Another  derivation  is  canna,  a  reed. 

-  Sic  ;  but  couleuxrine  (culverin)  is  generally 
classed  with  the  basilisk. 


team  7  horses.  (3)  Sacker:  weight  1900 
Ibs. ;  length  8  feet ;  bore  3|  inches  ;  weight 
of  shot  5j  Ibs. ;  team  5  horses. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  guns  were 
very  long  and  very  heavy,  the  extreme 
length  and  consequent  great  weight 
being  due  to  the  bad  quality  of  the 
slow-burning  powder.  But  in  the 
matter  of  construction  experts  state 
that  they  were  little  inferior  to  the 
guns  made  at  the  time  of  the  Penin- 
sular War.  Our  authorities  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  however,  are 
careful  to  warn  students  that  pieces 
of  ordnance  are  not  always  truly  cast, 
and  that  in  such  cases,  where  one  side 
of  a  gun  is  thicker  in  metal  than  the 
other,  "  she  [the  gun]  ought  to  have 
but  such  a  proportion  of  powder  as 
the  thinnest  side  will  bear,  otherwise 
it  is  in  danger  of  breaking.  More- 
over [and  this  is  important]  she  will 
never  shoot  straight,  but  will  convey 
her  bullet  to  the  thicker  side."  And 
here  follows  an  elaborate  series  of 
tables  for  correcting  such  errors,  pro- 
viding even  for  a  deviation  of  fifty 
paces  at  a  range  of  five  hundred,  which 
it  is  to  be  hoped  was  an  extreme  case. 
Thus  every  gun  had  to  be  studied  as 
an  individual  weapon  ;  and,  as  one  of 
our  authorities  says,  "  A  gunner  ought 
to  have  an  entire  and  perfect  know- 
ledge of  the  conditions  of  his  piece, 
made  by  former  practises  in  her." 
But  granted  that  the  guns  were  fairly 
accurate,  they  were  at  any  rate  ex- 
tremely heavy  and  difficult  to  move. 
It  seems  a  little  doubtful  whether 
they  travelled  on  two  wheels  or  four, 
contemporary  drawings  showing  in- 
stances of  both.  In  either  case,  how- 
ever, there  was  nothing  like  what  is 
now  called  a  limber,  the  team  being 
harnessed  apparently  to  the  trail. 
The  ammunition  was  brought  along 
in  ordinary  waggons,  the  powder  some- 
times made  up  in  cartridges,  but  more 
often  carried  simply  in  barrels  which 
were  unloaded  behind  the  guns  when 
in  action.  As  to  teams  and  drivers, 
these  seem  to  have  been  wholly  un- 
trained, and  merely  impressed  or  hired 
for  the  occasion ;  in  fact,  it  is  on  re- 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


267 


cord  that  the  London  hackney  coach- 
men did  duty  as  artillery  drivers  more 
than  once.  In  some  contemporary 
prints  of  guns  drawn  by  long  teams, 
there  is  a  driver  to  every  alternate 
pair.  There  remains  one  minute  de- 
tail to  bring  the  Artillery  of  the  Civil 
Wai  and  of  the  present  day  together  ; 
gun-carriages  were  painted  from  the 
first  of  a  "  fair  lead  colour." 

As  to  the  Artillery- men,  it  is  pretty 
generally  agreed  that  skilled  gunners 
were  woefully  scarce  on  both  sides 
during  the  Civil  War.  The  crew  or  de- 
tachment told  off  to  each  gun  seems 
to  have  consisted  of  three  men ;  the 
gunner,  his  mate,  and  an  odd  man  "  to 
serve  them  both,  and  help  them  charge, 
discharge,  mount,  wad,  cleanse,  scour, 
and  cool  the  piece  being  overheated." 
One  of  the  most  important  duties  of 
this  odd  man  was  to  cover  up  the 
powder  barrels  with  a  hide,  or  some 
similar  protection,  between  each  dis- 
charge of  the  gun,  to  obviate  the 
danger  of  a  general  explosion.  Never- 
theless there  was  a  proper  system  of 
drill  with  thirteen  words  of  command, 
for  the  wielding  of  ladle,  sponge,  and 
rammer  ;  and  there  were  little  dandy- 
isms and  smartnesses  such  as  delight 
the  heart  of  the  drill-sergeant.  A 
gunner,  we  are  told,  should  go  to  work 
artist-like  to  charge  a  piece  :  there 
must  be  no  clumsy  handling  of  the 
ladle  and  spilling  of  loose  grains  of 
powder,  for  instance  ;  "  for  it  is  a 
thing  uncomely  in  a  gunner  to  trample 
powder  under  his  feet."  The  ladle, 
when  filled  with  powder  and  pushed 
well  home  to  the  bottom  of  the  bore, 
was  turned  upside  down  ;  and  some 
skill  was  needed  to  withdraw  it  with- 
out, at  the  same  time  bringing  some  of 
the  powder  back  with  it,  "a  foul 
fault  for  a  professed  gunner  to  com- 
mit.." Finally  we  are  enchanted  to 
find  the  usual  appeal  to  the  gunner's 
vanity  and  self-respect.  "  Let  the 
gunner  endeavour  to  set  forth  him- 
self with  as  comely  a  posture  and 
gr.tce  as  he  can  possibly ;  for  the 
agility  and  comely  carriage  of  a  man 
in  handling  his  ladle  and  sponge,  and 


lading  his  piece,  is  such  an  outward 
action  as  doth  give  great  content  to 
the  standers-by."  How  the  perennial 
human  nature  peeps  out  in  these  little 
exhortations  !  Before  all  things  be 
the  onlooker's  feelings  consulted,  and 
the  common  citizen,  male  and  female, 
properly  impressed.  "  No  object  is 
more  beautiful  than  a  well-shouldered 
musket,"  says  the  Serjeant  in  Whyte 
Melville's  DIGBY  GRAND,  true  exponent 
of  the  traditional  aesthetics  of  the 
barrack-yard. 

For  the  rest  we  gather  that  the  pay 
of  the  Gunner  was  one  shilling  per 
day,  being  rather  more  than  that  of 
the  Foot- soldier,  and  less  than  that  of 
the  Dragoon  and  Cavalry-man.  Truth 
compels  us  to  add  that  the  Gunner 
at  that  period  enjoyed  the  reputation 
of  being  sadly  given  over  to  profane 
swearing.  One  writer  seems  to  hint, 
unless  we  misunderstand  him,  that 
dealing  with  explosives  in  large  quan- 
tities (gunpowder  being  in  its  nature 
infernal)  may  have  had  something 
to  do  with  this  habit ;  but  it  is  more 
probable  that  the  imperfectness  of 
their  organisation  brought  Gunners 
less  rigidly  under  discipline  than  the 
rest  of  the  army. 

As  to  the  employment  of  Artillery 
in  action,  commanders  seem  to  have 
been  extremely  vague.  The  military 
authorities  of  the  period  appear  to 
have  recognised  that  in  a  pitched 
battle  guns  were,  potentially  at  any 
rate,  a  serious  matter,  and  deserving 
of  serious  treatment.  Thus  Ward 
perpetually  enjoins  that  the  first  thing 
to  be  done  in  a  general  action  is  to 
draw  out  a  certain  number  of  horse 
and  foot  to  surprise  the  enemy's 
ordnance.  "  In  which  they  are  not 
bound  to  keep  any  array  or  order,  but 
to  run  disbanded  and  pell  mell  upon 
the  enemy,  whereby  his  ordnance  shall 
be  disabled  from  shooting  more  than 
once."  But  speaking  generally,  com- 
manders seem  to  have  been  rather  at 
a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  their 
guns.  The  common  practice,  appar- 
ently, was  to  post  them  in  small  de- 
tachments between  the  battalions  of 


268 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


infantry.  This  is  the  place  assigned 
to  them  in  the  old  sketch  plans  of 
Naseby  ;  and  also  in  some  contempor- 
ary orders  for  a  sham  fight  in  Hyde 
Park.  Some  writers  were  in  favour 
of  posting  guns  always  on  an  emin- 
ence, if  possible,  "because  the  shot 
•come  with  a  deal  more  power  down-hill 
than  up-hill;  and  a  bullet  [cannon- 
shot]  shot  from  a  hill-side  may  go 
through  two  or  three  ranks,  when 
that  which  is  shot  upward  cannot  pass 
through  one."  This  argument  appears 
sound  enough  at  first  sight,  till  we 
find  ourselves  confronted  by  the  ob- 
jection that  if  guns  were  posted  to 
fire  down  a  hill-side,  the  shot  was 
liable  to  roll  out  of  the  muzzle ;  to 
which  "Ward  scornfully  retorts  that 
in  such  a  case  "  they  are  simple  men 
that  charge  [load]  them."  The  con- 
troversy on  the  subject  was  evidently 
rather  acrimonious. 

Upon  a  review  of  the  whole  matter, 
we  cannot  avoid  the  conclusion  that 
in  the  field  the  Artillery  counted  for 
little  during  the  Civil  War.  Occa- 
sionally we  catch  a  glimpse  of  some 
good  work  done  by  it,  but  on  the 
whole  very  rarely.  At  Newburn  the 
leather  guns  did  some  service  ;  and  at 
Marston  Moor  there  was,  at  least,  one 
cannon  shot  which  made  havoc  among 
the  Ironsides;  but  we  hear  little 
'enough  of  them  in  other  actions.  At 
Naseby  "  there  were  not  seven  pieces 
of  ordnance  shot  off  all  the  fight." 
Charles  had  left  his  guns  behind  at 
Leicester;  and  the  Parliamentary 
generals  either  could  or  would  do 
little  with  theirs,  or  they  would  have 
brought  them  up  to  shatter  the  stub- 
born body  of  Royalist  Infantry  which 
still  stood  fast  when  the  rest  of  the 
army  was  in  full  flight.  In  the  dif- 
ferent sieges  the  cannon,  of  course, 
played  a  more  important  part,  but 
it  would  seem  that  even  here  they 
did  not  greatly  shine.  The  reason 
possibly  was,  in  part,  that  it  was 
difficult,  without  a  great  number  of 
guns,  to  keep  up  a  continuous  fire. 
"  One  may  make  ten  shots  an  hour  if 
the  pieces  be  well  fortified  and  strong  ; 


but  if  they  be  but  ordinary  pieces, 
then  eight  is  enough;  always  provided 
that  after  forty  shots  you  refresh  and 
cool  the  piece,  and  let  her  rest  an 
hour,  for  fear  lest  eighty  shots  should 
break  the  piece,  not  being  able  to 
endure  the  force  and  heat."  Accord- 
ingly we  find  that  Latham  House, 
with  three  hundred  men  and  eight 
guns,  held  out  for  three  months 
against  two  thousand  besiegers  and 
a  whole  train  of  Artillery.  A  thou- 
sand great  shot  again  were  discharged 
against  the  walls  of  Donnington  Castle 
without  further  damage  than  beating 
down  some  of  the  older  portions 
thereof ;  and  it  was  said  to  have  cost 
Cromwell  five  hundred  rounds  before 
he  could  make  a  practicable  breach 
for  the  storm  of  Basing  House.  In 
other  sieges  the  difference  of  opinion 
between  besiegers  and  besieged  as  to 
the  efficacy  of  the  Artillery  practice 
is  for  the  most  part  hopelessly  irre- 
concilable ;  though  at  Bristol  one 
Royalist  account  confesses  that  the 
royal  ordnance  did  little  beyond  the 
slaying  of  one  of  the  hostile  can- 
noniers,  who  was  "  vapouring  about 
in  his  shirt  at  the  top  of  the 
fort."  The  story,  as  delivered  to  us, 
seems  to  imply  that  this  foolhardy 
gunner  would  have  escaped,  had  he 
been  content  to  do  his  vapouring  in  his 
ordinary  costume.  In  another  siege  we 
hear  from  one  of  the  besieged  that  one 
thousand  great  shot  were  spent  against 
the  town,  and  yet  none  slain  but  an  old 
man  who  was  making  his  will.  At 
Gloucester,  again,  the  besiegers  main- 
tained that  their  guns  had  done  great 
execution  ;  while  the  besieged  averred 
that  they  had  killed  nothing  but  an 
old  woman  and  a  pig.  But  such  is  the 
humour  of  every  siege.  At  the  same 
time  the  war  gave  inventive  artillerists 
a  great  stimulus  towards  experiment 
in  the  construction  of  extra  powerful 
guns.  One  such,  a  "  special  large 
piece  of  ordnance,"  the  110-ton  gun 
of  its  day,  was  brought  into  position 
before  Oxford  in  May,  1645,  whither 
General  Fairfax  himself  with  the  head- 
quarter Staff  went  to  witness  its  per- 


The  Beginnings  of  the  British  Army. 


260 


formance.  The  great  gun  was  placed 
on  a  height,  and  sent  its  shot  "right 
over  ~:he  town,  a  mile  from  thence,"  to 
the  great  astonishment  and  satisfac- 
tion of  all  present.  One  can  imagine 
the  rubbing  of  hands,  the  congratula- 
tions, and  the  Scriptural  texts,  appro- 
priate and  inappropriate,  that  passed 
on  the  height  above  Oxford  on  that 
spring  day.  But  let  modern  artil- 
lerists console  themselves.  Within 
three  weeks  the  monster  gun  broke 
down,  cracked  at  the  breech. 

Waat  is  rather  curious  to  note,  how- 
ever, in  the  story  of  the  war  is  the 
sentiment  which  the  rank  and  file 
felt  about  guns,  small  as  was  the 
part  played  by  the  latter  in  the  field. 
Thus  on  one  occasion  the  Parliamen- 
tary leader  captured  the  whole  of 
Prince  Maurice's  Artillery.  A  few 
days  later  he  had  occasion  to  send  a 
trumpeter  to  the  Prince  with  a  mes- 
sage ;  which  trumpeter,  on  being 
blindfolded  according  to  the  practice 
of  war  before  being  allowed  to  enter 
the  enemy's  camp,  "  begged  not  to  be 
taken  among  the  ordnance  for  fear  of 
breaking  his  shins."  Maurice's  men, 
so  far  from  seeing  the  joke,  were  so 
incensed  that  they  threatened  to  hang 
him.  So,  too,  when  the  Parliamen- 
tary troops  had  a  chance  of  recaptur- 
ing the  guns  lost  in  Essex's  disastrous 
campaign  in  Cornwall,  they  rushed  at 
them  with  a  will  to  give  them  the 
Cornish  hug,  as  they  expressed  it,  and 
rejoiced  mightily  over  their  recovery. 
By  a  strange  irony,  while  the  once 
celebrated  march  of  the  New  Model 
Army  to  the  West  in  the  winter  of 
1645-46  remains  buried  in  the  depths  of 
Springe's  ANGLIA  REDIVIVA,  the  King's 
proclamation  of  thanks  to  his  loyal 
Cornish  subjects  still  hangs  in  many  a 
Cornish  church,  and  may  be  read  in 
gilt  letters  to  this  day. 

With  this  we  must  pass  from  the 
Artillery  to  the  second  scientific 
branch  of  the  service,  the  Engineers. 
Stri(  try  speaking  it  cannot  be  said  to 
have  enjoyed  any  organised  existence. 
There  were  officers  borne  for  engineer- 
ing service,  the  chief  in  that  depart- 


ment being  evidently  a  foreigner, — 
Peter  Manteau  van  Dalem  by  name — 
who  had  probably  been  brought  over 
by  some  English  comrade  from  the 
service  of  Maurice  of  Nassau.  That 
there  were  also  English  Engineer 
officers  of  some  skill  is  beyond  all 
doubt  ;  and  so  there  should  have 
been,  for  there  were  plenty  of  books 
for  them  to  learn  from,  with  elaborate 
treatises  and  even  catechisms.  For 
example  :  -"General.  Good  sir,  I  pray 
you  show  me  how  you  would  batter 
the  point  of  a  bulwark,  and  give  me 
some  reasons  as  well  defensive  as 
offensive.  Captain.  I  am  willing  to 
give  your  Lordship  content  and  say,. 
&c.  General.  I  am  of  your  mind,  and 
prefer  such  a  battery  before  all  others, 
&c."  So  do  these  worthy  men  discourse 
of  fortification  as  mildly  as  though, 
of  angling,  no  doubt  with  great  profit 
to  the  reader.  But  here  we  feel  that 
we  are  treading  on  the  ground  hallo  wed' 
by  Uncle  Toby's  sentry-box  and  the 
Widow  Wadman's  scissors.  One 
cannot  read  a  page  of  these  old  books 
without  recognising  how  inimitably 
Sterne  has  caught  their  solemn 
pedantic  tone  ;  and  that,  whether  he 
intended  it  or  not,  the  conversations 
of  Uncle  Toby  and  Corporal  Trim, 
with  their  marvellous  little  touches 
("  the  best  engineers  call  them 
gazons,"  and  the  like,)  partake  largely 
of  the  nature  of  parody. 

As  to  the  rank  and  file  of  the  Engin- 
eers, the  Pioneers,  we  know  but  little  ;. 
and  that  little  is  to  their  discredit. 
For  it  is  plain  from  more  than  one  notice 
that  they  were  the  scum  of  the  army  ; 
the  regular  punishment  for  a  bad  char- 
acter in  the  Infantry  being  degrada- 
tion to  be  a  Pioneer.  There  was  but 
one  company  of  Pioneers  in  the  New 
Model  Army  ;  so  that  the  origin  of 
the  Sappers  from  every  point  of  view 
must  be  admitted  to  be  humble.  To 
no  branch  of  the  army  has  time 
brought  greater  changes ;  for  that 
which  began  almost  as  a  penal 
company,  fit  for  nothing  but  spade- 
work,  has  developed  into  the  corps 
which  now  bears  the  highest  repu- 


270 


The 


of  the  British  Army. 


tation  of  all  for  conduct  and  intelli- 
gence. 

In  the  matter  of  Field-Engineering 
we  do  not  remember  to  have  en- 
countered more  than  one  feat  that 
seemed  the  least  worthy  of  mention  ; 
and  that  one  was  accomplished  by  a 
Royalist  officer.  Nevertheless  our 
fragmentary  remarks  on  the  Engineers 
could  not  perhaps  be  more  fittingly 
closed  than  by  the  fragment  from 
a  newspaper  of  March  1644-45,  in 
which  the  said  feat  is  described. 

"  Prince  Maurice  [Rupert's  brother] 
invented  a  new-fashioned  bridge  that 
was  never  seen  before,  in  this  manner. 
He  placed  a  boat  on  each  side  of  the 


river  Dee,  and  fastened  cords  to  them 
from  one  side  to  the  other  \  and  upon 
the  cords  laid  strong  canvas  drawn 
out  and  stretched  so  stiff  and  hard, 
and  which  was  so  firm  that  three  men 
could  walk  abreast  on  it."  Over  this 
frail  structure  Maurice  sent  nine 
companies  of  Infantry  ;  which  will  be 
admitted  to  have  been  a  pretty  good 
test  of  its  strength.  If  the  story  be 
true,  this  bridge  would  seem  to  stamp 
him  as  a  man  of  no  ordinary  resource. 
But  it  is  just  possible  that  the 
English  War-Correspondent  had  not 
yet  attained  to  his  present  standard 
of  infallibility. 


271 


THE  UNCONSCIOUS   HUMOURIST. 


IT  has  been  not  unreasonably 
observed  that  seriousness  is  the  true 
passport  to  success  in  life ;  and  that 
could  a  man  but  contrive  to  preserve 
a  grave  demeanour  under  every  pro- 
vocal  ion,  the  world  would  infallibly 
impute  it  to  him  for  wisdom  rather 
than  dulness.  Indeed,  if  we  look 
about  us,  we  shall  see  instances 
enough  of  puzzle-headed,  owl-like  men 
who  have  attained  to  high  places,  and 
some  few  perhaps  of  bright  and 
ingenious  spirits  who  have  in  general 
estimation  failed  to  fulfil  their  early 
promise.  For  there  is  a  tendency  to 
regard  a  light  humour  as  something 
dangerous  that,  like  a  bomb,  may 
explode  suddenly  at  any  moment  and 
with  consequences  more  serious  than 
were  intended.  Your  humourist, 
some  would  say,  with  his  sly  in- 
sinuations and  hidden  apologues,  is  a 
standing  menace  to  Church  and  State. 
There  is  far  too  much  uncertainty 
about  him.  He  may  attack  some  day 
by  implication  more  than  he  dreams 
of,  and  his  shafts  of  ridicule  (pretty 
fireworks  though  they  may  be)  are 
not  precisely  the  things  we  like  to 
see  shooting  about  near  this  great 
powder-magazine  of  Society.  For 
which  reason,  it  may  be,  neither 
Jonathan  Swift  nor  Sydney  Smith 
attained  the  Episcopate. 

Bit  though  from  a  worldly  point 
of  view  a  humourous  temperament 
may  be  a  bar  to  advancement,  there 
can  be  little  question  that  it  conduces 
to  ^he  personal  happiness  of  its 
possessor.  Indeed  we  may  regard  a 
capacity  for  seeing  the  ridiculous  side 
of  things  as  a  most  useful  lubricant, 
a  kind  of  oil  that  greases  the  wheels 
of  life  and  takes  us  over  even  the 
mosii  rugged  portions  of  this  road  of 
ours  in  quite  a  passable  fashion. 
Just  consider,  for  example,  what  is 


gained  in  a  quarrel  if  we  can  but 
make  our  opponent  laugh,  and  how 
anger  frequently  melts  away  thus  of 
itself,  irreconcilable  with  the  infectious 
jest.  A  sly  suggestion  of  humour  is 
often  effectual  where  serious  reason- 
ing, even  of  the  most  potent,  only 
adds  fuel  to  the  fire  of  his  wrath. 
But  it  is  noticeable  that  to  this  end 
your  humour  must  be  of  the  infectious 
order.  It  is  of  no  avail,  or  seldom, 
that  you  employ  satire  or  sarcasm. 
It  is  not  polished  wit  that  you  want, 
but  something  common  enough  and 
ready  to  the  hand,  so  it  have  a  cer- 
tain mirth-provoking  incongruousness. 
Even  if  you  succeed  only  in  inspiring 
a  good-natured  contempt,  it  may  serve 
your  purpose.  A  man  will  commonly 
let  his  anger  cool  if  he  conceives  his 
adversary  to  have  thus,  as  it  were, 
admitted  his  inferiority  in  argument. 
At  the  worst,  if  milder  methods  fail, 
you  may  play  a  sure  card  by  relating 
some  story  directed  against  yourself, 
thus  securing  peace  at  the  voluntary 
sacrifice  of  your  reputation  for  com- 
mon sense.  And  not  only  is  a  turn 
for  humour  actually  useful,  as  in  such 
cases,  but  it  is  also  an  undeniable 
blessing  in  the  ordinary  circumstances 
of  life.  A  good  wholesome  joke 
dissipates  as  by  magic  the  thousand 
petty  troubles  that  environ  us  day  by 
day;  and  where  your  sober  moralist 
will  fret  secretly,  or  fill  his  tender 
ears  ostentatiously  with  philosophic 
cotton-wool,  the  humourist  will  catch 
some  note  of  the  ridiculous  in  the 
jarring  discord,  and  be  off  laughing 
among  his  friends  at  the  comicality 
of  his  own  misfortunes.  Indeed,  it  is 
strange  how  sensible  a  difference  is 
made  in  this  manner  to  the  real  facts 
of  life.  A  touch  of  this  potent 
alchemy,  and  the  substance  we  were 
regarding  does  actually  change  form 


272 


The   Unconscious  Humourist. 


and  colour  to  us,  and  appears  no 
longer  formidable,  but  even  friendly. 
A  good  caricature  shall  inspire  in  you 
a  sneaking  kindness  for  your  worst 
enemy.  And  even  the  most  awful 
occasions,  such  as  the  morning  of 
your  wedding-day  or  the  few  hours 
before  your  first  public  speech,  will  be 
found  to  lose  in  great  part  their 
terrors  if  you  can  but  bring  yourself 
to  regard  them  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  humourist. 

At  the  same  time,  it  is  to  be  noted 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an 
inopportune  joke,  and  that  it  is 
necessary  or  at  least  advisable  to 
know  with  whom  you  are  dealing  in 
this  method.  A  humourous  answer 
does  not  always  turn  away  wrath. 
This  is  a  singular  world,  and  one  has 
need  to  walk  warily  in  order  to 
arrive  at  one's  destination.  Some 
are  so  unhappily  born,  or  have  so 
schooled  themselves,  as  to  have  no 
appreciation  of  the  ridiculous  at  all, 
while  to  others  certain  forms  of 
humour  alone  are  acceptable.  There 
are  quite  a  number  of  dull  pedants 
who  are  persuaded,  for  example,  that 
they  cannot  endure  a  pun,  and  who 
if  they  suspect  one  to  be  imminent, 
will  compose  themselves  consciously 
to  meet  it  with  the  gravest  fortitude. 
Now  and  again  it  may  be  possible  to 
catch  them  unprepared,  but  even  then 
they  will  do  their  best  to  laugh 
grudgingly,  or  check  your  friendly 
overture  with  a  frosty  smile.  These 
men  also  have  to  be  reckoned  with, 
and  their  crotchets  consulted.  It 
may  be  well  to  take  them  seriously ; 
yet  sometimes  by  persistent  battering 
the  incorrigible  punster  may  wear 
down  their  defences  and  win  them  to 
a  burst  of  open  laughter ;  and  they 
too  will  become  friendly,  for  a  time. 

We  are  inclined  to  think  that  the 
most  engaging  of  all  humourists  is  he 
who  lets  fall  his  pearls  as  it  were  by 
accident  and  unconsciously,  so  that 
you  cannot  always  be  certain  whether 
his  words  were  intended  for  a  jest  or 
no,  and  whether  the  comicality  was 
prompted  by  design  or  chance.  There 


is  a  something  modest  and  graceful  in 
this  ;  the  personality  of  the  speaker  is 
not  obtruded  upon  your  notice,  nor 
does  he  seem  to  be  calling  upon  the 
audience  to  admire  the  sharpness  of 
his  intellect.  The  majority  of  men, 
moreover,  prefer  to  enjoy  a  joke 
quietly  and  at  their  leisure  ;  and  the 
sign  of  true  appreciation  is  often  not 
the  sudden  roar  of  laughter  following 
hard  upon  your  word,  but  the  quiet 
chuckle  that  begins  some  few  minutes 
later  and  continues  to  break  out  again 
at  intervals  through  an  hour  or  so. 
To  the  hearer  there  is  an  added  value 
in  the  jest  slipped  out  thus,  unostenta- 
tiously and  without  immediate  recog- 
nition, in  that  he  may,  if  he  please, 
imagine  the  humour  of  the  application 
to  be  his  own,  or  at  the  least  that  he 
is  in  a  kind  of  partnership  with  the 
author.  There  is  also  a  pleasing  air 
of  reserved  force  about  the  man  who 
can  tell  a  laughable  story  with  an 
unmoved  face.  But  there  are  many 
varieties  of  the  unconscious  humourist, 
and  they  do  not  all  adopt  this  method 
from  choice.  There  are  some  men 
endowed  with  a  lack  of  sensibility 
to  the  ridiculous,  or  who  are  not 
sufficiently  educated  to  perceive  the 
point  of  what  they  utter.  There  are 
several  who  furnish  an  abundance  of 
good  stories  by  their  own  ineptitudes, 
acted  or  spoken.  And  there  are 
many  who  seem  to  possess  the  gift  or 
knack  of  habitually  conveying  a 
double  meaning,  and  who  do,  in  fact, 
occasionally  perpetrate  a  quite  witty 
remark  without  intending  more  than 
a  very  ordinary  repartee.  They  are 
in  the  position  of  a  sportsman  who 
brings  down  a  brace  of  birds  where  he 
had  only  aimed  at  one.  And  certainly, 
as  they  are  ever  on  the  watch  for  an 
antithesis,  it  is  strange  if  they  do  not 
stumble  sometimes  upon  an  epigram. 
Such  men  may  almost  be  said  to  have 
educated  themselves  into  wit,  and  by 
assiduously  practising  upon  a  multi- 
tude of  tolerable  jokes,  come  at  last 
to  say  the  right  thing  instinctively. 
Let  any  one  cultivate  the  habit  of 
cynical  speech,  and  it  will  go  hard  but 


The  Unconscious  Humourist. 


273 


some  day  he  will  startle  himself  and 
his  companions  by  some  sentence  con- 
taining unexpected  depths  of  meaning. 
And  as  in  this  game  it  is  the  suc- 
cesses alone  that  are  remarked,  while 
the  less  fortunate  attempts  are  speedily 
forgotten,  it  follows  that  in  general  a 
man  of  no  more  than  common  ability 
should  readily  acquire  a  substantial 
reputation  for  impromptu  sallies,  pro- 
vided that  he  can  school  himself  to 
make  use  of  every  opportunity  offered. 

But  the  most  truly  unconscious 
humour  of  all,  and  that  which  seems 
to  cause  the  sincerest  pleasure,  is 
perhaps  that  afforded  by  the  blunders 
of  the  half-educated.  The  mistakes  of 
a  schoolboy  appear  to  be  an  unfailing 
source  of  amusement  to  the  general 
public.  Indeed  the  chronicling  of 
these  bids  fair  to  open  quite  a  new 
vein  of  literary  employment,  and 
several  schoolmasters,  examiners,  and 
the  like  have  evinced  remarkable 
talent  in  the  narration  (or  invention) 
of  ridiculous  answers.  There  is  a 
large  field  before  them,  and,  with  the 
ever- widening  scope  of  Board  School 
education,  it  bids  fair  to  be  inex- 
haustible. So  long  as  weak  intellects 
are  compelled  to  learn  a  little  of 
everything,  there  is  bound  to  be  con- 
fusion ;  and  fortune  contrives  in 
general  that  the  confusion  shall  be 
ludic  rous.  With  careful  management 
we  suppose  that  most  examiners  could 
obtain  results  suitable  for  publication, 
if  they  set  themselves  to  do  so,  from 
the  majority  of  their  subjects.  In 
the  same  way  any  one  who  occupies  a 
position  for  which  he  is  mentally 
unfitted,  or  who  is  urged  by  ambition 
to  attempt  something  outside  his 
proper  province,  may  be  held  to  be 
a  potential  humourist.  There  is  al- 
ways a  chance  that  your  amateur 
mag  strate  may  expose  his  weakness 
in  law,  or  that  a  barrister  may  find 
himself  veritably  at  sea  in  some 
shipping-case.  But  there  is,  to  our 
mind,  a  touch  of  ill-nature  in  those 
who  find  much  amusement  in  such 
mischances,  even  though  they  may 
have  been  induced  by  carelessness  or 

No.  418. — VOL.  LXX. 


temerity.  And  we  cannot  acquit 
those  who  laugh  at  a  schoolboy's 
blunders  from  some  suspicion  of 
intellectual  pride.  There  is  commonly 
something  of  the  Pharisee  in  their 
attitude,  and  they  hasten  to  show  all 
men  by  their  smiles  how  they  are 
tickled  by  such  ignorance.  Some,  yet 
more  cunning,  will  even  contrive  to 
throw  a  spice  of  sadness  into  their 
countenance,  intimating  that  there  is 
to  them  a  touch  of  pathos  in  this 
confusion  of  mind,  not  appreciated 
by  the  general  crowd.  It  is  notable 
also  that  these  latter  would  frequent- 
ly be  hard  put  to  it  to  explain  the 
error  or  correct  the  mistranslation 
which  affords  them  their  melancholy 
pleasure. 

There  is  but  one  step  from  the 
sublime  to  the  ridiculous,  and  in 
accordance  with  this  maxim  we  see 
many  writers  who  aspire  to  a  lofty 
and  impassioned  style  succeed  to  ad- 
miration in  rendering  themselves 
laughable.  This  is  naturally  the  more 
to  be  noticed  in  serious  authors,  as 
historians  and  poets,  and  we  suppose 
that  Wordsworth  may  be  accounted 
the  chief  of  all  unconscious  humourists 
of  this  stamp.  Indeed  it  is  almost 
essential  to  a  poet  that  he  should  have 
a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  or  he 
may  ruin  everything.  How  many 
good  verses,  we  wonder,  have  been 
spoiled  by  some  one  unhappy  turn  of 
expression  that  has  given  a  handle  to 
the  scoffer.  The  dramatist  should  be 
especially  careful  upon  this  point. 
The  slightest  opening  for  caricature 
may  doom  him  to  failure.  In  fact, 
his  is  a  calling  beset  with  more  than 
ordinary  dangers  of  misconception ; 
for  he  has  not  only  to  review  with 
critical  eye  his  own  text  (mindful  of 
Thomson's  unfortunate  appeal  to 
Sophonisba),  but  he  must  be  respon- 
sible in  part  for  the  eccentricities  of 
the  players.  A  spindle-shanked  hero, 
a  stout  heroine,  these  are  matters 
almost  beyond  his  power  to  amend ; 
but  they  may  suffice  to  damn  his  play. 
Different  points,  moreover,  may  be 
dangerous  in  different  parts  of  the 


274 


The   Unconscious  Humourist. 


house.  Your  successful  dramatist  must 
eliminate  any  repartee  that  bears  a 
double  sense  to  pit  and  gallery,  as  well 
as  any  allusion  that  might  rouse  the 
latent  humour  of  stalls  and  boxes. 
Sometimes,  it  is  true,  genius  may 
boldly  take  up  its  position  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  ridiculous,  and  there 
balance  itself  in  triumph,  winning 
redoubled  applause.  But  it  is  a 
dangerous  experiment,  and  even 
genius  may  lose  its  footing  at  the 
supreme  moment.  Above  all  should 
the  minor  poet  or  playwright  beware 
of  handling  pathos.  It  should  be 
remembered  that  there  are  many,  of 
a  somewhat  nervous  temperament, 
who  have  the  strongest  objection  to 
being  overcome  by  imaginary  sorrows, 
and  who  will  seize  every  oppor- 
tunity for  a  laugh  that  they  may 
thus  prove  their  insensibility  to  tears. 
Probably  most  men  are  cast  something 
after  this  mould,  and  they  are  often 
quite  relieved  to  note  an  anticlimax 
or  some  touch  of  bathos  in  the  middle 
of  a  mournful  passage.  Women  are 
not  so  particular.  They  have  a  con- 
siderable capacity  even  for  diluted 
pathos,  and  have  been  known  to  shed 
tears  before  now  over  the  love-lyrics 
of  a  minor  poet. 

It  is  hard  to  leave  the  regions  of 
poetry  without  a  few  remarks  upon 
the  humours  of  criticism.  We  are 
not  concerned  much  here  with  common 
critical  blunders  ;  to  posterity  there 
will  generally  be  something  ludicrous 
in  contemporary  estimates  of  popular 
poets.  These  are  perhaps  instances 
rather  of  unconscious  suicide  than 
unconscious  humour.  But  among  the 
works  of  certain  commentators  there 
is  often  a  display  of  learned  dulness 
that  partakes  largely  of  the  latter 
element.  Certain  German  scholars 
are  notorious  for  their  ability  in  this 
line,  and  may  truly  be  said  to  have 
worked  wonders  with  some  of  the 
authors  whom  they  have  chosen  for 
annotation.  Indeed,  if  you  set  a 
pedant  to  elucidate  the  meaning  of  a 
poet,  it  is  odds  that  you  will  get  a 
sufficiently  comical  result.  The  modern 


commentator  also  has  usually  some 
grammatical  or  other  theory  of  his 
own  to  start  with,  and  will  devote  all 
his  learning  and  ingenuity  to  dis- 
cover or  manufacture  evidence  in 
corroboration  thereof.  He  has  the 
microscopic  eye  to  perfection,  and  the 
smallest  point  shall  not  escape  his 
notice  ;  but  for  a  comprehensive  view 
of  a  passage  the  first  intelligent  tyro 
can  teach  him  something.  At  dis- 
covering a  hidden  application  he  is  a 
marvel  to  all  men.  Like  Addison's 
medallist,  he  will  "  still  be  inventing 
mysteries  out  of  his  own  fancy,"  and 
will  bring  up  his  army  of  citations  in 
support  of  some  imaginary  allusion  of 
which  the  poet  himself  had  never  in 
all  likelihood  the  faintest  suspicion. 
But  it  is  not  foreigners  alone  who  thus 
employ  their  misplaced  talents.  A 
good  many  English  editors  are  tarred 
with  the  same  brush.  We  have 
noticed  several  selections  of  British 
poetry  edited  for  the  use  of  schools 
which  are  packed  with  instances  of 
false  literary  perception  and  unneces- 
sary information.  It  is  singular  how 
these  editors  contrive  to  obtain  so  much 
irrelevant  and  useless  matter.  On  any 
point  that  would  seem  obvious  to  ordin- 
ary intelligence  they  expend  a  note  of  six 
lines ;  while,  when  explanation  is  really 
needed,  they  are  dead  silent,  or,  worse 
still,  fob  you  off  with  some  impertinent 
question.  Then  come  their  references, 
drawn  from  all  ancient  and  modern 
literature,  elucidating  nothing  what- 
soever, save  possibly  some  superficial 
resemblance  in  sound.  When,  per- 
haps, the  editor  turns  from  his  cus- 
tomary definition  of  grammatical 
terms,  or  second-hand  etymology,  to 
consider  the  beauty  of  a  passage,  the 
chances  are  that  his  air  of  insolent 
patronage  disgusts  you,  and  that  the 
lines  he  selects  for  praise  become  an 
eyesore  for  ever.  Of  a  similar  stamp, 
and  equally  repugnant  to  our  mind, 
is  a  certain  class  of  picturesque  bio- 
graphers, who  are  fond  of  calling  our 
attention  to  imaginary  situations  in 
the  lives  of  their  subjects,  which  may 
have  taken  place,  but  for  which  there 


The   Unconscious  Humourist. 


275 


is  not  the  smallest  authority ;  who 
will  assume  an  air  of  jocular  fami- 
liarity with  a  Dante  or  a  Milton 
for  ihe  sake  of  imparting  to  their 
history  of  his  life  a  sort  of  pseudo- 
dramatic  effect.  There  is  something 
akin  to  sacrilege  in  this  ;  and  it  is 
only  at  the  more  serious  portions  of 
their  work  that  we  find  it  possible  to 
laugh  with  freedom  and  an  easy  con- 
science. 

In  fact,  it  is  to  be  noticed  that  the 
unconscious  humourist  of  this  stamp 
is  commonly  a  failure  when  he  attempts 
to  be  amusing  of  set  purpose.  Like  a 
bad  actor,  it  is  his  tragic  efforts  alone 
that  are  ridiculous,  while  his  comedy 
could  almost  provoke  us  to  tears.  We 
find  it  easy  enough  to  laugh  at  him ; 
but  to  laugh  with  him  is  another 
matter  altogether.  It  is,  no  doubt, 
hard  for  the  man  to  recognise  this 
fact.  He  is  slow  to  perceive  that  he 
can  only  amuse  unintentionally ;  and 
for  a  long  time  we  must  be  prepared 
to  have  our  quiet  enjoyment  inter- 
rupted by  the  painful  spectacle  of 
heavy  facetiousness.  There  is  nothing 
on  earth  so  irritating  as  this.  We 
know  not  why  it  should  be  so,  but  the 
majority  of  mankind  will  endure  any- 
thing sooner  than  an  incompetent 
jokes*.  Your  ponderous  man  who 
fancies  he  is  being  funny  is  the  terror 
of  society.  It  is  Lowell,  we  think, 
who  speaks  of  such  an  one  as  "  tramp- 
ling out  the  last  spark  of  cheerfulness 
with  the  broad  damp  foot  of  a  hippo- 
potamus ; "  and  the  condemnation, 
though  rough,  is  not  too  severe  for 


the  offence.  Dulness  itself  is  pardon- 
able, and  even,  on  occasion,  amusing ; 
but  to  see  a  dullard  place  himself  thus 
openly,  as  it  were,  upon  your  own 
level,  and  expect  the  homage  of 
laughter  due  to  brilliant  wit,  is  an 
experience  that  only  the  most  phleg- 
matic can  endure  unmoved.  It  is 
perhaps  some  excuse  for  our  intoler- 
ance that  we  know  he  may  spoil  a 
good  jest  irretrievably,  or  so  mangle 
some  unhappy  story  (which  possibly 
in  more  fortunate  circumstances  we 
ourselves  might  have  attempted  with 
credit)  as  to  give  us  a  distaste  for  it 
ever  afterwards.  It  is  like  watching 
a  bad  performer  at  the  covert-side, 
who,  after  missing  chance  upon  chance, 
contrives  at  length  to  bring  down  an 
easy  shot,  badly  winged,  and  then 
looks  round  expectant  of  applause.  It 
is  only  natural  that  we  should  feel 
inclined  rather  to  kick  him  for  his 
clumsiness  than  praise  him  for  his 
good  luck.  Your  literary  bore,  be  he 
poet  or  commentator,  or  even,  as  some 
may  hint,  essayist,  is  as  nothing  in 
comparison  with  this.  It  is  mercifully 
always  possible  to  escape  from  the 
society  of  a  humourist  on  paper, 
whether  conscious  or  unconscious ; 
and  if  we  are  forced  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  has  spoiled  some 
happy  thought  in  the  telling,  there  is 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  try  our- 
selves to  clothe  it  in  a  more  becoming 
dress,  thus  taking  advantage  of  his 
incompetence,  instead  of  suffering  in 
silent  wrath,  by  using  his  feeble  body 
as  a  stepping-stone  to  fame. 


276 


GLENBAEAGH. 


GLENBARAGH,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  is  a  wild  picturesque  district 
in  the  remote  south,  or  rather  south- 
west, of  Ireland,  round  which  nature 
has  thrown  to  the  north  and  east 
earthworks  of  such  formidable  mag- 
nitude as  to  defy  the  invasion  of  an 
iron  civilisation.  In  all  directions 
landwards  lie  savage  mountains  and 
gloomy  passes  fencing  in  a  country 
too  poor  to  tempt  even  the  sharp 
avidity  of  Irish  land-hunger.  Sea- 
ward, the  unresting  Atlantic  frets 
against  a  bleak  and  rugged  coast; 
abrupt  bare  rocks  beat  stubbornly 
back  the  angry  waters  ;  and  few  indeed 
are  the  days  when  the  roar  of  surf 
may  not  be  heard  a  full  mile  inland. 
Facing  landward,  the  hills  rise  in  a 
dreary  wilderness  of  tumbled  boulders, 
thinly  interspersed  with  lines  of 
green  and  russet,  as  quagmire,  or  a 
narrow  stretch  of  rustling  wiry  bog- 
grass,  clutch  at  existence.  Above, 
the  boulders  disappear,  and  the  barren 
hills  are  crowned  with  coarse-grained 
granite  peaks,  weather-beaten  to  the 
west  into  a  ghostly  white,  but  black 
with  lichen  to  the  east  and  north. 
Depressingly  gloomy  and  aggressively 
inhospitable,  the  marvel  is  that  life, 
human  or  animal,  could  pick  up  any 
existence  in  such  a  land.  But  even 
Glenbaragh  had  its  population ;  and  in 
the  hollows  and  valleys  of  the  hungry 
spurs  were  sheltered  small  holdings 
cleared  with  infinite  care  by  poverty- 
stricken  generations,  who  from  the 
sheer  conflict  with  nature  had  come 
out  victorious,  though  with  but  few 
spoils  and  not  unscathed.  The  severity 
of  the  fight  for  existence  showed  itself 
in  dreary  hopelessness,  and  faculties 
too  numbed  to  grasp  such  newer 
problems  of  civilisation  as  had  pene- 
trated even  to  the  wilds  of  Glenbaragh. 
But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  such 


holdings  were  numerous.  Half  a 
dozen  might  perhaps  cluster  in  an 
embayed  ravine  ;  then,  as  the  hillside 
stretched  unsheltered  to  the  winds,  a 
mile  or  two  would  lie  without  a  break 
in  the  lifeless  monotony,  until  a  fur- 
ther cleft  or  projecting  headland 
afforded  shelter. 

After  just  such  a  stretch  of  wild 
uncultivated  slope  came  a  group  of 
three  small  farms,  poor  enough  in 
soil,  and  to  a  farmer  from  the  mid- 
lands or  north  contemptible  in  extent, 
but  in  this  desolate  region  accounted 
prizes  of  the  highest  value  ;  for  Glen- 
baragh, with  its  meagre,  ill-fed  popula- 
tion starving  in  scarceness,  judged  by 
a  very  different  standard  from  that  of 
the  prosperous  farmer  of  many  deep- 
soiled  well-drained  acres.  In  honest 
truth  these  three  plots  were  miserably 
unproductive  and  poor,  carrying  a 
scanty  crop  of  wet  potatoes  too  often 
swept  away  by  disease,  or  affording  a 
meagre  supply  of  coarse  grass  to  half 
a  dozen  sheep  and  one  or  two  gaunt 
cows.  Yet  even  this  in  Glenbaragh 
was  wealth,  and  consequently  Donohoe 
and  the  two  Sullivans  were  envied 
their  unapproachable  prosperity. 

Of  these  three  holdings  two  were 
occupied  by  cousins,  both  Denis  Sulli- 
vans, the  one,  after  the  odd  custom 
of  that  district  and  for  distinction's 
sake,  being  known  as  Denis  Sullivan 
Fox,  or  shortly  as  Denis  Fox.  No 
tribute  to  his  superior  intelligence 
was  intended  by  the  affix ;  it  was 
rather  derived  from  his  ruddy  com- 
plexion and  thin  red  beard. 

These  holdings  of  the  Sullivans  lay 
to  the  uppermost  or  right-hand  side 
of  the  road ;  while  that  of  Donohoe 
was  on  the  left,  stretching  to  the 
water's  edge,  his  house  facing  the 
entrance  to  Fox's  farm.  Beyond  all 
these  the  road  took  a  sudden  turn  to 


GlenbaragJi. 


277 


the  right,  and  vanished  behind  a  mass 
of  boulders.  Donohoe's  house,  a  small 
thatched  cottage,  as  were  both  the 
others,  overlooked  the  road ;  while 
the  cabins  of  the  Sullivans  lay  more 
remote  under  the  shelter  of  the  hill, 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  distant 
from  the  highway.  In  addition  to 
these-  holdings  the  Sullivan  cousins 
had  until  lately  been  joint  tenants 
in  a  neighbouring  turf-bank,  which, 
being  the  only  dry  bog  in  the  district, 
was  regarded  as  a  valuable  possession. 
But  it  had  not  prospered  in  their 
hands,  chiefly,  it  was  said,  because  of 
Denis  Sullivan's  shiftless,  unthrifty 
ways  ;  and  the  tenants  having  failed 
to  pay  rent  for  over  two  years  they 
had  been  evicted  from  possession. 
The  same  careless  lack  of  energy  had 
told  upon  Sullivan  in  his  farm-holding, 
insomuch  that  he  had  been  glad  to 
pay  off  his  most  pressing  debts  by 
parting  with  a  portion  of  the  land  to 
his  more  active  cousin.  Of  the  three 
neighbours  Donohoe  was  the  least 
liked ;  a  man  of  few  words,  grave  and 
abrupt  in  manner,  he  lacked  the  easy- 
going joviality  of  Sullivan  and  the 
hearty  straightforwardness  of  Fox. 
Silent,  retiring,  energetic,  he  forced 
to  the  full  the  gifts  from  nature's 
unwilling  hand,  and  committed  the 
unpardonable  sin  of  prospering  where 
others  failed ;  and  so  it  came  that 
Donohoe  was  the  new  tenant  of  the 
coveted  turf-bank. 

It  was  Patsy  Quin  from  Glenbar- 
agh-More  who  first  brought  the  news 
of  Donohoe's  installation.  Fox  was 
in  the  shed  behind  his  cabin  piling  up 
the  last  few  turfs  remaining  from  the 
spoils  of  the  bank,  bitterly  rancorous 
over  his  loss,  when  the  boy  dashed  in. 
"  Och,  begor,  but  it's  well  to  take  care 
av  them,  for  not  many  more  ye'll  see. 
We'll  all  be  goin'  to  Mr.  Donohoe  wid 
our  hats  in  our  hand,"  said  he,  deter- 
mined that  the  story  should  lose  no- 
thing in  the  telling. 

"  Don't  be  botherin'  me  wid  yer  chat- 
ter. Get  out  now,  like  a  good  boy, 
before  I  hurt  ye." 

"Sure,    Fox,    didn't  ye    hear    the 


news  ?  Donohoe  do  be  sayin'  that  he 
bested  you  at  last,  and  that  he'll  never 
stop  till  he  gets  yer  bit  of  a  farm  here 
too,  bad  luck  to  him  for  a  land-grabber  ! 
And,  begor,  the  cuttin'  must  be  a  tidy 
good  thing,  for  they  tell  me  the  ould 
man  laughed  out  for  once  in  his  life." 

Fox  straightened  himself  with  a 
start.  "  What's  that  yer  sayin,''  boy.1? 
Spake  plain,  or  hould  yer  tongue  for  a 
fool!" 

"  Plain,  is  it  ? "  snapped  Patsy, 
nettled.  "  Donohoe  has  got  yer  cut- 
tin',  ye  lazy  lout ;  and  fool  yerself  for 
not  houldin'  a  good  thing  between  yer 
two  hands.  Is  that  plain?  " 

For  an  instant  Fox  stood  staring, 
his  fingers  plucking  and  crumbling  the 
turf  he  held ;  then  a  change  came 
over  his  face  that  awed  the  boy  into 
silence.  Slowly  he  dropped  on  his 
knees,  and  fumbling  at  first  blindly, 
then  with  an  awakened  purpose  in  the 
turf-heap,  he  drew  an  old-fashioned 
two-barrelled  gun  from  its  hiding- 
place.  Lifting  it  to  his  lips,  he  solemn- 
ly kissed  it  on  the  rusted  hammer,  and 
then  mumbling  to  himself,  hugged  it 
to  his  breast  as  he  swayed  backwards 
and  forwards,  stroking  the  tubes  the 
while.  Then  the  man's  mood  changed, 
and  he  sprang  to  his  feet  gesticulating 
madly,  his  dazed  eyes  rolling  in  their 
sockets,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face 
twitching  in  the  wild  excitement. 

Frightened  at  the  passion  he  had 
evoked,  Patsy  Quin  edged  noiselessly 
to  the  door,  fearful  that  Fox's  mad 
vengeance  would  fall  upon  him,  and 
fled  across  the  face  of  the  hill  out  of 
earshot  of  the  stammered  curses.  But 
a  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,  and 
Patsy's  wild  pace  soon  eased  down,  and 
as  Denis  Sullivan's  cabin  came  into 
view  he  turned  to  its  door,  his  soul 
laden  with  a  double  burden.  "God 
save  ye,  Denis,"  he  began  more 
cautiously  this  time ;  "  what's  the  good 
news  with  ye  1 " 

"News  yourself,  Patsy,"  said  Denis 
from  his  seat  on  the  doorstep.  "  Sure 
your  burstin'  with  it." 

"  Och,  but  it's  no  good  news  I  have, 
but  the  worst,  bad  scran  to  the  ould 


278 


Gleribaragh. 


miser !  Sure  Donohoe  has  bet  Fox  this 
time,  an'  Fox  is  just  hoppin'  mad,  an' 
there'll  be  bloody  murder  afore  he's 
done.  Sure  he  shook  his  gun  at  Donohoe, 
as  if  he'd  like  to  go  down  an'  brake 
his  skull  this  blessed  minute." 

Sullivan  took  the  pipe  leisurely  from 
his  mouth,  and  said  lazily,  "  Ah,  Patsy, 
you  was  always  a  great  little  fella  to 
talk  and  say  nothin'.  What  news 
are  you  spakin'  of  at  all,  an'  what  has 
Fox  to  do  wid  a  gun  ?  " 

"Oh,  faith,  I'll  tell  you  soon  enough," 
and  Patsy  moved  back  a  yard  or  two 
to  give  effect  to  his  speech.  "  Sure  it's 
more  shame  to  you,  Denis  Sullivan, 
that  black  Donohoe  has  grabbed  the 
turf-bank  you  and  the  Fox  couldn't 
hould  ;  an'  there's  news  for  you." 

The  man  looked  at  him  a  moment 
in  silence,  and  then  said  harshly : 
"An'  isn't  he  welcome  to  the  ould 
bank,  for  all  I  care  ?  As  well  him  have 
it  as  Fox.  But  what  was  Fox  doin' 
wid  the  gun  ?  It's  some  of  your  lies,  I 
suppose  ! " 

"  A  lie  !  "  said  Patsy  hotly,  coming 
forward  in  wrath,  and  forgetting  his 
weariness.  '*  Never  a  lie  in  it ! 
Didn't  he  take  his  ould  two-bar'ld  gun 
from  under  the  turf,  an'  curse  Dono- 
hoe, an'  swear  he'd  have  his  life  an'  be 
hung  for  it  ?  " 

With  a  sudden  movement  Denis 
gripped  the  lad  by  his  ragged  collar, 
and  rising  to  his  feet  looked  sternly 
down  at  the  excited  face.  Then  he  spoke 
slowly  and  impressively.  "  Patsy,  my 
son,  ayther  your  dramin ',  an'  if  you 
are  ye'd  best  wake  up  an'  spare 
breath  in  tellin'  yer  drame,  or  Fox'll 
cut  the  life  out  of  you;  or  if  yer 
tellin'  truth — well,  even  so  keep  a  quiet 
tongue  in  yer  head,  an'  don't  get  a 
dacent  man  into  trouble.  God  knows 
there's  enough  wid  out  your  meddlin'. 
Run  away,  boy,  run  away ;  an'  forget 
you  was  ever  inside  a  mile  of  Glen- 
baragh-Beg  this  day,"  and  giving  the 
lad  two  or  three  slow  shakes  he  re- 
leased him  and  turned  into  the 
cottage. 

Two  nights  later  the  patrol  loiter- 
ing along  the  Glenbaragh  road  in  the 


half -dusk  of  twilight  was  aroused  from 
the  lethargy  with  which  it  ordinarily 
made  its  rounds  by  two  loud  reports, 
either  from  a  rifle  or  large-bore  shot- 
gun, following  in  quick  succession,  and 
sounding  in  the  direction  of  Glen- 
baragh-Beg,  from  which  the  constables 
were  distant  something  less  than  half 
a  mile.  Five  minutes  later  they  were 
on  the  scene  of  a  tragedy  striking  in 
its  dramatic  elements. 

The  sun  had  set  not  only  behind  the 
hills  but  into  the  sea  beyond  ;  the  moon 
had  not  yet  risen,  but  the  sky  was 
cloudless,  and  the  night  clear  with  the 
lingering  of  a  long  twilight.  A  soli- 
tary candle  placed  upon  a  chair  shone 
feebly  through  the  open  door  of  Dono- 
hoe's  cabin,  and  in  the  broadening 
track  of  light  which  slowly  lost  itself 
in  the  whiteness  of  the  night,  and  full 
in  its  path,  stretched  a  black  shadow 
huddled  up  into  a  shapeless  heap,  from 
one  end  of  which  a  thin  dark  line 
crept  leisurely  lightwards  through  the 
dust.  Beyond,  upon  the  road,  stood  a 
small  turf-cart,  on  the  shaft  of  which 
Denis  Sullivan  leaned,  peering  with 
white  face  on  the  gathered  black- 
ness ;  while  opposite,-  behind  the  bars 
leading  to  his  pasture,  Denis  the 
Fox  stared  stupidly  at  the  gun  he  was 
slowly  turning  over  with  shaking 
hands. 

Where  the  light  faded  into  the  dust 
of  the  road  the  constables  paused,  and 
as  they  halted  Sullivan,  rousing  him- 
self, cried  sharply,  "  Up  the  hill,  Fox, 
you  fool,  and  God  forgive  you ! " 
With  slow  vacancy  Denis  the  Fox 
stared  at  him  for  reply ;  then  across 
the  road  into  the  faint  track  of  light, 
so  dismally  divided  by  that  tapering 
line  of  blackness  drawing  ever  closer 
to  its  open  door,  and  with  a  cry,  half 
sob,  half  wail,  he  turned  towards  the 
mountain — too  late. 

To  say  that  the  whole  country  was 
stirred  feebly  expresses  the  sensation 
created.  The  murder  was  not  only 
coldly  brutal,  but,  what  was  rare  in- 
deed in  agrarian  crime,  the  criminal 
was  taken  red-handed.  From  the 
Causeway  to  Cape  Clear  public  opinion 


Grleribamgh. 


279 


agreed    for    once,    and   Fox    Sullivan 
went  to  his  trial  a  doomed  man. 

T  ae  motive  ?  Motive  enough  !  Had 
not  Donohoe  ousted  him  from  his  hold- 
ing in  the  turf -bank,  and  had  not  Fox 
Sullivan  sworn  revenge,  though  he 
died  for  it?  For  though  Patsy  Quin 
tried  to  take  Denis  Sullivan's  well- 
meant  advice  and  keep  a  silent 
tongue,  yet  the  police  somehow  got 
wind  of  that  scene  at  the  prisoner's 
•cabin  ;  and  so  Patsy  appeared  on  the 
table,  and  with  much  inward  grief  and 
outward  perturbation  told  the  story, 
telling  it,  perhaps,  with  a  degree  of 
more  heat  and  a  larger  emphasis  of 
force  than  he  intended. 

Your  Crown  Prosecutor  is  very 
seductive  in  his  methods  of  extracting 
•evidence,  and  motive  was  soon  clear 
enough.  Then  as  to  fact.  Patsy 
identified  the  "  ould  two-bar 'Id  gun  " 
he  had  described  to  Denis  Sullivan, 
and  the  constables  could  swear  to 
arresting  the  prisoner  with  the  still 
warm  weapon  in  his  hands.  But  the 
chief  interest  centred  in  the  evidence 
of  Denis  Sullivan  as  being  that  of  the 
witness  first  on  the  spot  after  the 
•committal  of  the  crime.  Denis  had 
begged  hard  to  be  excused  appearing 
in  court.  "  Sure  ye  saw  it  all  yer- 
selves,  gentlemen,"  he  said  to  the 
constables.  "  I  can  say  no  more  nor 
yerselves.  An'  isn't  the  man  me  own 
cousin,  me  father's  brother's  son,  that 
you  must  go  an'  make  me  hang  him ; 
suro  won't  the  whole  country- side  howl 
'  informer '  an'  stone  me  an'  the  wife 
an'  the  childer  ?  Don't  ask  me,  gentle- 
men, don't  ask  me."  Then,  when  he 
found  the  law  obdurate,  as  indeed  it 
had  to  be,  he  changed  his  ground. 
"  Well,  then,  mebbe  I  won't  say  all 
ye  want  o'  me ;  jist  let  me  alone,  or 
ye'li  be  doin'  yerselves  a  harm."  But 
here  he  was  pinned  on  the  dilemma 
thao,  since  he  was  so  anxious  to  aid 
the  accused  and  could  do  the  prosecu- 
tion an  injury,  justice  must  put  him  in 
the  witness-box  by  force,  lest  &  wrong 
fall  on  the  prisoner.  So  with  many  a 
mustered  and  open  execration  Denis 
>Sul  livan  took  his  place  on  the  table. 


The  wary  passage-at-arins  between 
counsel  and  the  witness  may  be  con- 
densed into  the  admitted  narrative  of 
the  latter,   drawn  out  of    him   piece- 
meal, and  after  much  waste  of  time. 
On  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which 
the   murder   was   committed   he    had 
started  at  an  early  hour  to  fetch  a 
load  of  turf  from  the  village  of  Muck- 
lish,  distant  some  ten  miles  from  Glen- 
baragh-Beg,  the  contents  of  the  load 
being   partly  for  himself    and  partly 
drawn  on  behalf  of  the  prisoner.    And 
here  the  witness  made  no  secret  that 
he  resented  bitterly  the  loss  of    the 
turf-bank,   which  necessitated  a  long 
journey,  and  heavily  increased  the  cost 
of  the  fuel.    Questioned  as  to  whether 
the  prisoner  was  not  injured  equally 
with    himself,    Sullivan     hesitated    a 
moment,  and  said  cautiously  that  Fox 
was  a  "  strong  man,"  and  could  stand 
it  better  than  himself.     He  did  not 
go  often  to   Mucklish,    but  when  he 
did  he  made  a  day  of   it,  so  that  it 
was  "on  to  four  or  maybe  five  "  when 
he  started  home.     The  road  to  Muck- 
lish took  a  sudden  turn  to  the  right 
just  beyond  Donohoe's  cabin,  was  up- 
hill, and  with  high  land  on  either  side, 
shutting  out  the  straight  stretch  to- 
wards the  village  which  lay  along  the 
hillside.     It  was  dusk  when  he  neared 
this  bend  on  the  road,  not  black-dark, 
but  sundown  with  a  flush  of  twilight 
in  the  sky,  darker  under  the  hill  than 
most  places  because  the  hill  lay  to  the 
west,   but  clear  enough   to    know    a 
man  four  or  five  perches  away.     As 
he   reached   the    top  of   the   hill   be- 
yond the  bend  he  heard  a  shot  close 
at    hand,    then   another,    and   for    a 
minute  he  pulled  up  his  cart  and  lis- 
tened, but  heard  nothing  further  ;  then 
jumping  off  his  cart  he  led  the  pony 
round  the  bend  till  he  got   near   to 
Donohoe's  cottage,  when  he  saw  the 
door  open    and    light    streaming    out 
with  something  lying  across  the  white- 
ness— he    didn't    know  what,  till   he 
heard  a   stir  on  the  opposite   side  of 
the  road. 

Here  he  stopped  in  his  story,  and 
shooting  a  glance  at  Fox  broke  out, 


280 


Glenlaragh. 


"  I  won't,  then,  I  won't  ;  ye  may 
hang  me  if  ye  like,  but  I'm  no  in- 
former, an'  the  man  me  own  cousin. 
Divil  a  word  more  I'll  say,  good  or 
bad."  And  he  sank  back  in  a  shrunk 
heap  in  the  chair,  fluttering  his  open 
hands  in  front  of  his  ashen  face. 

"  What  did  you  see  at  Fox's  bars  1 
What  made  the  stir  you  heard  1 " 

"  Nothin',  I'll  tell  ye  no  more." 

Again  the  question  was  pressed,  only 
to  be  met  with  the  same  dogged 
refusal. 

"Was  it  Denis  the  Fox  you  saw 
standing  at  the  bars  ?  Answer  now  on 
your  oath,  Sullivan  ;  was  it  Denis  the 
Fox  with  the  gun  in  his  hand  1  " 

But  Sullivan,  dropping  his  head  on 
his  open  palms,  rocked  to  and  fro  in 
the  chair,  crooning  and  moaning  to 
himself,  and  answering  never  a  word. 

Then  the  Judge  intervened.  "  The 
constables  have  sworn  to  the  prisoner : 
what  more  do  you  want  ?  Must  you 
press  the  question  on  this  poor  man  ? " 

"  Very  well,  my  Lord.  Now,  Sul- 
livan, what  did  you  say  to  Fox  when 
you  saw  him  at  the  bars  with  the  gun 
in  his  hand  1 " 

"  What  did  I  say  ?  I  said— is  it  to 
Fox,  ye  inane,  sir?  Sure  I  never 
swore  Fox  was  there  at  all,  and  never 
another  word  ye'll  get ;  there's  my 
oath  to  that,  anyway.  I  know  yer 
tricks,  an'  I  can  hould  me  tongue  wid 
any  man."  Nor  could  questions  or 
threats  draw  another  word,  till  at  last, 
"I  think,  Mr.  Attorney,"  said  the 
Judge,  "  the  witness  may  go  down." 

Then  Sullivan  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  an  energy  which  sent  the  heavy 
chair  crashing  backward  on  the  table, 
and  raising  his  hands  he  cried  as  he 
shook  them  wildly  in  the  air  :  "  He's 
an  innocent  man,  my  Lord ;  I  swear  it 
by  Holy  Mary,  I  swear  it  by  the 
Cross;  an  innocent  man,  an  innocent 
man  !  "  And  his  voice  broke  from  its 
shrill  pitch  into  a  hoarse  sob  as,  with 
outstretched  hands  still  clutching  up- 
ward, he  stumbled  from  the  witness- 
table,  pausing  at  the  bar,  where  he 
gripped  the  prisoner  by  both  shoulders, 
kissing  him  convulsively  on  the  lips. 


Then  he  cried  again  :  "  An  innocent 
man  ;  sure  I  did  the  best  I  could,  Fox, 
I  did  the  best  I  could."  His  hands 
dropped  fumbling  down  the  seams  of 
Fox's  coat,  the  excitement  faded  from 
his  face,  and  it  was  with  the  feeble 
gait  of  an  old  man  that  he  passed 
slowly  out  of  the  Court-House. 

Perhaps  of  all  present  the  prisoner 
was  the  least  moved  by  the  painful 
scene.  His  eyes  kindled  at  Sullivan's 
outburst,  and  he  drew  himself  together 
with  a  certain  pride  and  dignity  as 
though  his  manhood  was  touched  by 
the  passionate  cry ;  and  as  his  cousin 
passed  faulteringly  through  the  door 
he  called  out,  "  Good-bye,  Denis ;  sure 
ye  tould  the  truth,  an'  what  could 
man  do  more  1 "  But  the  crowd  was 
deeply  stirred,  and  a  long  breath 
seemed  to  pass  over  the  range  of 
packed  benches  as  the  counsel  for  the 
defence  carried  the  proceedings  back 
to  dulness.  They  had  come  to  see 
a  fellow-man  struggle  to  thrust  back 
the  opening  gates  of  death,  and  they 
were  not  disappointed  of  the  sensation. 

Defence  there  was  none  beyond  a 
theory.  So  there  is  but  little  wonder, 
even  considering  the  solemn  issues 
involved,  that  ten  minutes  sufficed  in 
which  to  find  a  verdict,  and  then  Fox 
Sullivan  stepped  to  the  front,  while 
every  curious  face  was  turned  towards 
him. 

He  stood  gripping  the  bar  with  both 
hands,  while  his  white  face  looked 
straight  before  him  at  the  scarlet  cur- 
tains and  dusty  canopy.  "Innocent, 
my  Lord  !  The  gentleman  that  spoke 
for  me  tould  ye  true,  an'  God  be  good 
to  him  for  it.  I  can't  spake  much,  my 
Lord,  me  tongue  not  bein'  used  to  it,. 
an'  me  mouth  so  dry,  but  I  know 
what  ye'll  be  say  in',  sir,  an'  may  God 
deal  so  with  me  in  His  judgment  as  I 
have  dealt  with  Larry  Donohoe ;  and 
the  curse  of  the  four  angels  on  the 
black  scoundrel  that  killed  him." 

A  month  later  the  Glenbaragh  mur- 
der was  buried  with  Fox  Sullivan 
under  the  gallows  in  the  County 
Prison.  After  the  trial  Denis  Sulli- 
van returned  to  his  cottage,  and 


Gleribaragh. 


281 


resumed  his  normal  life  of  uneventful 
labour,  though  it  was  noted  that  the 
shock  of  that  autumn  night  scene,  and 
the  terrible  pathos  of  the  final  public 
act  in  the  drama,  had  preyed  upon 
his  spirits.  He  was  no  longer  light- 
hearted  and  genial  as  in  the  past, 
but  morose  and  sullen.  Slowly  but 
steadily  he  drifted  apart  from  his 
neighbours.  The  grim  asceticism  of 
Donohoe  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon 
him.  and,  unless  when  driven  by  ab- 
solutely sheer  necessity,  he  never 
quitted  his  little  holding. 

The  immediate  result  of  this  was 
the  gradual  improvement  in  his  con- 
dition. New  land  was  wrested  from 
the  iron  grasp  of  nature.  Fair  crops 
took  the  place  of  the  barren  rock- 
strewn  hill ;  and  in  time  he  even 
recovered  possession  of  the  coveted 
turf -bank.  But  for  all  his  good  for- 
tune his  gloom  never  lightened,  and 
as  the  generation  which  had  known 
the  Denis  Sullivan  of  younger  days 
passed  away,  there  were  few  left  to 
speak  a  kindly  word  for  him. 

By  laborious  toil  he  had  widened 
the  borders  of  the  turf-bank,  and  was 
seeking  to  reclaim  from  the  hill-side 
a  still  larger  extent,  when  in  one  of 
his  blasting  operations  a  boulder  was 
shaken  from  the  heights  above.  Intent 
upon  his  work,  he  gave  no  heed  to  the 
roar  and  crash  of  splintered  rock  as  it 
tore  its  headlong  way  towards  the  sea, 
until  escape  was  impossible.  Nor  when 
aware  of  the  danger  did  he  do  more 
than  draw  himself  to  his  height  and 
stand  facing  it.  Down  it  leaped  from 
rock  to  rock,  dragging  behind  it  a 
thundering  cascade  of  stony  wreck, 
and  thrusting  aside  a  crushed  mass 
of  humanity  which  had  been  known 
as  Denis  Sullivan. 

^Very  tenderly  they  carried  him 
down  the  hill ;  but  the  movement  over 


the  rough  ground  shook  him  back  to 
consciousness,  and  he  gasped  out : 
"  Lave  me  down,  boys  ;  it's  the  praste 
I  want ;  an'  ye'd  better  be  quick  while 
the  life's  in  me.  Lave  me  down  ;  sure 
ye  hurt  me  terrible." 

So  they  laid  him  on  the  grass  by 
Fox's  bars,  propping  up  the  palsied  head 
against  the  soft  moss  on  the  clay  wall. 
Already  he  seemed  dead  to  the  neck, 
but  there  was  life  in  the  piteous  eyes, 
and  a  trembling  existence  still  flickered 
about  the  white  lips. 

"  Will  ye  hurry,  boys,  or  I'll  die 
before  me  time !  "  Then  the  eyes  wan- 
dered round.  "  Fox's  bars,  by  God  ! 
Is  Donohoe  beyant  in  the  gloomin'  ? 
Fox's  bars,  Fox's  bars  !  Is  the  praste 
never  comin'  1 " 

Soon  it  became  clear  that  no  priest 
would  hear  Denis  Sullivan's  last  con- 
fession, and  smooth  away  the  fears  of 
his  troubled  life. 

"It's  growin'  cowld  I  am,  an'  the 
life  in  me,"  he  whispered.  "  Stand 
back  all  of  ye,  except  the  sarjint  there. 
Closer,  sarjint,  dear,  whisper  now." 
A  light  flashed  into  his  eyes.  "  It 
was  I  shot  Donohoe,  an'  curse  him  for 
a  land-grabber,  an'  Denis  the  Fox  for 
another,  for  didn't  he  take  my  bit  of 
a  holdin' "?  Sure  it  was  fine  ;  the  wan 
and  the  other  wid  a  pull  o'  the 
trigger,"  and  a  gleam  of  humour  that 
was  almost  a  laugh  lit  up  the  ghastly 
face.  "  I  stole  Fox's  gun  that  mornin' 
an'  dropped  it  at  the  bars, — just  where 
I'm  lyin', — when  I  heard  him  tearin' 
down  the  hill — both  wid  wan  stroke, 
serjint."  Slowly  his  head  rolled 
round  in  its  weakness.  "  Is  Donohoe 
beyant — I'm — thinkin' — the  praste — 
wouldn't  have — given  me — ' 

"Dead!"  said  the  sergeant,  rising 
on  his  knees.  "  Dead  and  damned  ; 
and  a  good  job  too  !  " 


282 


THE  POST-OFFICE  PACKETS 

(A    FORGOTTEN    CHAPTER    IN    NAVAL   HISTORY). 


FEW  nations  can  afford  to  forget 
their  past  history,  and  England,  of 
all  others,  whose  power  is  so  deeply 
rooted  in  sea-fights,  should  not  be 
careless  of  her  naval  records.  After 
many  generations  of  almost  ceaseless 
warfare,  there  has  been  a  long 
breathing-time  of  peace,  an  interval 
which  could  not  be  better  spent  than 
in  collecting  and  recording  the  actions 
of  those  brave  men  whose  struggles 
ensured  our  ease,  and  preserving  them 
for  our  own  benefit  as  well  as  for  that 
of  posterity.  This  has  been  done  of 
course  long  since  as  regards  the  great 
sea-battles,  and  most  even  of  the 
lesser  fights  in  which  the  ships  of  the 
Royal  Navy  were  engaged  have  been 
sufficiently  described.  But  there  re- 
mains a  service,  distinguished  over  and 
over  again,  an  ancient  service,  highly 
useful  to  the  public  and  associated 
with  a  great  department  of  State, 
whose  history  has  been  left  untouched 
till  all  the  officers  connected  with  it 
have  passed  away,  and  the  personal 
recollections  which  are  the  life-blood 
of  such  a  record  are  irretrievably  lost 
to  us— namely,  the  Post-Office  Packet 
Service. 

Probably  few  people  are  aware  that 
the  General  Post-Office  for  more  than 
a  century  and  a  half  maintained  a 
fleet  of  some  fifty  or  sixty  armed  ships. 
There  were  stations  for  these  vessels 
at  Dover  and  Harwich  (and  sometimes 
at  Yarmouth)  for  the  mails  to  France, 
Holland,  and  the  north  of  Europe,  at 
Holyhead  and  Milford  for  the  Irish 
Channel.  But  the  chief  station  was 
at  Falmouth ;  and  it  is  with  the 
Falmouth  Packets  only,  as  bearing 
the  brunt  of  the  fighting,  that  the 
present  article  is  concerned. 

There  were  Packets  at  Falmouth 
solely  under  Post-Office  control  from 
1688  to  1823.  They  carried  the 


mails  at  first  to  Spain  and  Portugal 
alone ;  but  early  in  the  last  century 
the  trade  with  the  American  Colonies 
increased  so  far  as  to  render  regular 
communication  with  them  necessary, 
and  extra  Packets  were  accordingly 
established  at  Falmouth  to  ply  to 
the  West  Indies  and  to  New  York. 
Throughout  the  wars  of  the  last 
century  and  the  early  years  of  this, 
the  Falmouth  Packets  steered  their 
steady  course.  Lightly  armed,  and 
carrying  no  more  men  than  were 
absolutely  necessary  to  work  the  ship 
and  to  fight  her  if  need  be,  they 
sought  no  enemy ;  but  if  any  came  in 
their  path,  they  faced  her  without 
flinching,  and  fought  for  the  honour 
of  their  flag,  the  credit  of  their  service, 
and  the  safety  of  their  mails  and 
passengers. 

How  well  the  Falmouth  men  fought 
might  be  shown  by  details  taken  from 
almost  any  period  of  their  history ; 
but  it  will  be  best  to  select  those  years 
in  which  the  Packet  Service  was  in  its 
fullest  vigour,  when  the  Packets  were 
most  numerous,  when  they  were  armed 
more  appropriately  than  at  any  other 
period,  and  when  they  were  called  on 
to  face  enemies  of  the  same  blood  and 
traditions  as  themselves.  This  was 
the  period  of  their  greatest  trial ; 
and  as  it  was  also  that  of  their 
greatest  distinction,  it  will  be  enough 
at  present  to  tell  briefly  how  the 
Packets  conducted  themselves  during 
two  years  of  the  American  war  of 
1812-1815. 

During  this  war  the  Falmouth 
Packets  fought  no  less  than  thirty- two 
actions  with  American  privateers. 
Seventeen  of  these  were  entirely 
successful,  while  of  the  remainder 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  some  of 
the  defeats  were  as  glorious  as  any 
victory.  There  was  no  one  of  these 


The  Post-Office  Packets. 


283 


fights  in  which  the  Post-Office  vessel 
was  not  heavily  outmatched  both  in 
men  and  guns ;  for  the  American 
privateers  were  the  most  complete  of 
their  kind,  and  no  one  among  them 
would  have  put  to  sea  without  an 
armament  far  exceeding  that  which 
the  Postmaster- General  provided  for 
the  Packets. 

The  war  broke  out  in  June  1812. 
In  September  the  Princess  Amelia, 
Captain  Moorsom,  carrying  twenty- 
eight  men  and  boys,  with  six  6- 
pounders  and  two  9-pounders,  was 
atta«3ked  by  the  privateer  Rossie, 
which  had  a  crew  of  ninety-five  picked 
men,  and  an  armament  of  ten  12- 
pounders,  besides  a  long  9-pounder 
mounted  on  a  traverse  amidships. 
Captain  Moorsom  came  of  a  family  of 
sailors,  and  knew  well  how  to  defend 
his  ship.  The  details  of  the  fight  are 
lost  to  us,  but  we  know  that  at  the 
end  of  fifty  minutes  Captain  Moorsom, 
his  master,  and  a  boy  were  dead,  the 
mate  (next  in  seniority  to  the  captain 
and  master)  was  most  severely 
wounded,  and  ten  ordinary  sailors 
had  been  carried  off  the  deck.  Thus 
every  other  man  in  the  ship  had  been 
hit,  and  the  remnant  being  quite  in- 
sufficient to  work  and  fight  the  vessel, 
no  alternative  remained  but  a  surren- 
der, in  which  there  was  assuredly  no 
disgrace. 

la  November  of  the  same  year  a 
fight  upon  a  greater  scale  took  place. 
Rightly  praised  in  the  official  records 
for  its  extraordinary  gallantry,  it 
deserved  a  better  fate  than  the 
oblivion  to  which,  with  only  two  or 
throe  exceptions,  the  actions  of  the 
Packets  have  been  consigned. 

The  Townsend  Packet,  Captain 
James  Cock,  was  armed  somewhat 
more  heavily  than  the  Princess 
Amelia,  having  on  board  eight  9- 
poi.nder  carronades,  with  a  long  gun 
of  similar  calibre  used  as  a  chaser. 
Her  crew  also  was  slightly  larger, 
numbering  twenty-eight  men  and  four 
boys.  She  was  within  a  few  hours 
of  dropping  her  anchor  at  Bridgetown, 
Barbadoes,  when  the  first  light  of 


the  23rd  of  November  revealed  two 
strange  vessels  cruising  in  company 
at  no  great  distance.  These  vessels 
proved  to  be  two  American  privateers, 
the  Tom,  Captain  Thomas  Wilson, 
and  the  Bona,  Captain  Damaron. 
The  former  was  armed  with  fourteen 
carronades,  some  18-  and  some  12- 
pounders,  as  well  as  two  long  9- 
pounders,  and  carried  one  hundred 
and  thirty  men.  The  latter  had  six 
18-pounders,  with  a  long  24-pounder 
mounted  on  a  traverse,  and  carried 
ninety  men.  The  forces  on  each  side 
were  therefore  as  follows,  assuming 
that  the  Tom  carried  as  many  18-  as 
12-pounders. 

Weight  of  Metal  in  pounds.     Number  of  Men. 

Privateers  .  360 220 

Packet    .    .    78 32 

Moreover,  this  great  disparity  of 
force  was  divided  between  two  as- 
sailants. Rarely,  perhaps,  has  an 
action  begun  in  such  hopeless  circum- 
stances. 

Captain  Cock  meant  to  fight,  how- 
ever, and  did  not  trouble  his  head 
about  disparity  of  force.  All  his 
preparations  were  completed  before 
the  privateers  came  within  range, 
which  they  did  about  7  A.M.  At  7.30 
the  Tom  had  placed  herself  abeam  of 
the  Packet  to  larboard,  while  the 
Bona  lay  on  the  starboard  quarter, 
and  both  their  broadsides  were  crash- 
ing into  the  Townsend  at  pistol-shot 
distance,  all  three  vessels  running 
before  the  wind.  This  lasted  till  eight 
o'clock,  when  the  rigging  of  the 
Townsend  was  so  much  cut  up  that 
her  sails  were  hanging  in  every 
direction ;  and  in  some  momentary 
confusion  from  this  cause  the  Tom. 
seized  an  opportunity  of  pouring  in 
her  boarders,  while  the  Bona  re- 
doubled her  fire  both  of  great  guns 
and  musketry  to  cover  their  attack. 
The  boarders  were  driven  back  after 
a  fierce  tussle,  in  which  the  little 
crew  of  Cornishmen  was  reduced  by 
four,  disabled  from  their  wounds  ;  and 
the  cannonade  was  resumed.  Then 
for  another  hour  the  Townsend  lay 


284 


The  Post-Office,  Packets. 


beneath  the  fire  of  her  enemy's  heavy 
guns,  the  courage  of  her  crew  as  high 
as  ever.  She  was  now  so  much 
shattered  that  she  could  with  difficulty 
be  handled.  Again  and  again  the 
Tom  bore  down  upon  the  disabled 
Packet,  and  hurled  her  boarders  into 
her.  Time  after  time  the  Americans 
were  driven  back,  though  men  fell 
rapidly.  Mr.  Sidgman,  the  master, 
was  killed,  and  six  more  of  the  crew 
were  desperately  wounded.  This  could 
not  last.  Captain  Cock  endeavoured 
to  run  his  ship  ashore,  but  the  effort 
was  frustrated .  Ere  long  the  Townsend 
was  a  mere  wreck.  Her  bowsprit  was 
shot  in  pieces;  both  jibbooms  and  head 
were  carried  away,  as  well  as  the 
wheel  and  ropes  ;  scarcely  one  shroud 
was  left  standing,  and  round  the 
helpless  wreck  the  Americans  sailed, 
choosing  their  positions  as  they 
pleased,  and  raking  her  again  and 
again.  Still  the  Cornishmen  lay  at 
bay.  It  was  not  till  ten  o'clock  that 
Captain  Cock,  looking  round  him, 
saw  no  means  of  further  resistance. 
There  were  four  feet  of  water  in  the 
hold ;  nearly  half  his  crew  were  in 
the  hands  of  the  surgeon  ;  the  lives  of 
the  others  must  be  saved.  Still  his 
pride  rebelled  against  surrender,  and 
as  he  saw  the  colours  he  had  defended 
so  well  drop  down  upon  the  deck  it  is 
recorded  that  he  burst  into  tears. 

There  lies  before  the  writer  a  faded 
yellow  scrap  of  paper  on  which  one  of 
the  American  captains  recorded  in 
generous  terms  his  opinion  of  his  foe. 
It  runs  as  follows  :  "I  do  certify  that 
Captain  James  Cock,  of  the  Packet 
brig  Townsend,  captured  this  day  by 
the  private  armed  schooners  Tom  and 
Bona,  did  defend  his  ship  with  courage 
and  seamanship,  and  that  he  did  not 
strike  his  colours  until  his  vessel  was 
perfectly  unmanageable  and  in  the 
act  of  sinking.  .  .  .  Thos.  Wilson,  on 
board  the  Townsend,  November  22, 
1812." 

One  of  the  privateers  was  so  shat- 
tered in  this  action  that  she  had  to 
return  to  port  to  refit.  The  Townsend 
was  so  much  injured  as  to  be  useless 


to  her  captors,  who  allowed  her  to- 
proceed  on  her  way.  She  was  partially 
refitted  at  Barbadoes,  and  sailed  again 
for  England  soon  after  the  new  year, 
still  hardly  fit  for  an  Atlantic  voyage. 
In  mid-passage  she  again  encountered 
a  privateer,  and,  half  crippled  as  she 
was,  beat  her  off  after  a  brilliant  little 
action  of  an  hour's  duration. 

When  such  desperate  fights  were  of 
common  occurrence,  and  any  Packet, 
however  seaworthy  and  well-equipped 
on  leaving  Falmouth,  might  return 
with  sides  riddled  with  shot,  and  need- 
ing repairs  which  could  not  be  ex- 
ecuted under  several  weeks,  it  became 
extremely  difficult  to  maintain  the  re- 
gular despatch  of  the  mails.  This 
difficulty  had  of  course  occurred  in 
former  wars,  and  had  been  met  with 
more  or  less  success ;  but  about  the 
time  of  which  we  write  it  was  aug- 
mented by  disturbances  among  the 
seamen  to  such  a  degree  as  to  cause 
the  greatest  anxiety  at  the  Post- 
Office. 

The  Falmouth  sailors  were  a  tur- 
bulent body  of  men,  by  no  means  free 
at  any  time  from  the  spirit  of  disaffec- 
tion which  pervaded  the  Navy ;  and  for 
several  years  they  had  been  grumbling 
at  the  withdrawal  of  a  privilege  which 
they  had  come  to  regard  as  theirs  by 
right.  This  was  the  privilege  of  private 
trade,  a  thing  forbidden  by  law  from 
the  first  establishment  of  the  Packet 
Service,  but  permitted  by  the  Govern- 
ment on  account  of  its  convenience  to- 
merchants  in  the  'West  of  England. 
Thus,  although  the  Packets  could  not 
at  any  time  be  regarded  as  merchant 
vessels,  having  no  stowage  for  cargo, 
yet  for  more  than  a  century  every  officer 
and  seaman  had  been  allowed  to  take 
out  goods  of  all  sorts,  hardware,  boots, 
cheeses,  to  sell  on  commission  for  the 
merchants,  or  as  a  private  venture  of 
his  own  ;  and  this  private  trade  in  the 
course  of  years  became  so  valuable 
that  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  find 
an  outward-bound  Packet  laden  with 
goods  to  the  value  of  some  thousands 
of  pounds. 

The  sale  of  these  goods  at  Lisbon  or 


The  Post-Office  Packets. 


285 


Barb  \does  was  of  course  very  profit- 
able in  those  days  of  war  and  high 
price?.  But  it  led  to  abuses  of  the 
worsi;  kind,  and  brought  disgrace  upon 
the  Falmouth  service.  It  was  there- 
fore stopped.  The  ancient  law  was 
for  the  first  time  enforced,  and  an 
officer  was  appointed  to  search  the  out- 
going and  incoming  Packets  and  turn 
out  all  goods,  wherever  they  were 
found,  whether  in  the  possession  of 
officers  or  men. 

The  duties  of  the  searcher  were  of 
course  highly  invidious,  and  a  per- 
petual source  of  friction  between  the 
authorities  and  the  seamen.  It  was 
long  before  the  men  could  be  taught 
that  the  new  rule  was  intended  seri- 
ously ;  and  many  a  brave  fellow,  who 
had  persuaded  himself  that  he  would 
be  exempted,  or  that  he  could  evade 
the  searcher,  had  the  mortification  of 
seeing  the  boots  and  cheeses  which  he 
had  bought  out  of  his  scanty  savings 
swimming  in  the  harbour,  or  tossed 
unceremoniously  into  the  first  boat 
which  came  alongside,  to  be  landed  on 
the  quay,  where  they  would  be  at  the 
mere  y  of  any  chance  passer-by. 

These  things  were  hard  to  bear,  and 
not  easily  forgiven ;  while  the  blow 
was  driven  home  on  the  arrival  of  the 
Packet  at  her  destination,  when  the 
merchants'  clerks  would  come  down, 
offering  Jack  famine  prices  for  the 
very  articles  he  had  been  robbed  of, 
as  be  would  put  it  to  himself ;  and 
the  price  of  many  a  spree  on  shore, 
not  to  speak  of  pretty  things  for  the 
wife  at  home,  would  go  back  into 
the  merchant's  pocket  when  the 
guineas  might  have  jingled  in  Jack's 
own. 

The  wages  were  raised  when  the 
private  trade  was  stopped,  but  they 
could  not  be  raised  to  such  a  point 
as  would  compensate  for  the  enor- 
mous profits  lost  by  the  new  rule  ;  and 
the  sailors  complained  that  they  were 
still  lower  than  the  current  rate  in  the 
Merchant  Service.  If  they  were  re- 
minded that  merchant  sailors  were 
exposed  to  the  danger  of  the  press- 
gan,^,  while  all  Packetsmen  carried 


protections,  they  retorted  that  the 
protections  were  not  always  respected. 
This  was  true  enough.  For  when  the 
press-gangs  were  sweeping  the  streets 
of  Falmouth,  bursting  forcibly  into 
sailors'  drinking  -  shops,  and,  half 
drunk  themselves,  giving  chase  to  any 
sturdy  fellow  whom  they  met,  it  often 
happened  that  a  Packetsman  was 
seized,  and  only  laughed  at,  or  knocked 
down  and  soundly  cursed,  when  he 
claimed  exemption.  Sometimes  his 
protection  was  torn  in  the  scuffie ;' 
sometimes  it  was  fraudulently  taken 
from  him ;  and  r  if  he  then  lost  his 
temper  and  became  violent,  he  was 
told  that  his  mutinous  conduct  had 
deprived  him  of  any  right  to  protec- 
tion, and  not  even  the  intervention 
of  the  Agent,  or  the  Postmaster- 
General,  could  restore  him  to  the 
Packet  Service.  Such  cases  of  injustice 
were  not  uncommon ;  and  though 
they  may  have  been  inseparable  from 
the  system  of  impress,  a  system  which 
was  founded  on  violence  and  disdained 
all  argument  of  right,  it  is  natural 
that  they  created  a  very  bitter  feeling 
among  men  who  were  already  ex- 
asperated by  the  loss  of  a  valuable 
privilege. 

Grievances  such  as  these  had  re- 
sulted in  1811  in  an  organised  strike 
of  seamen  in  Falmouth,  a  general 
refusal  to  proceed  to  sea.  The  men 
mustered  in  a  large  body,  perambu- 
lating Falmouth  in  numbers  sufficient 
to  secure  them  from  the  press-gangs. 
Troops  had  .to  be  called  in.  The  sea- 
men retreated  to  the  hills  above  the 
town,  where  they  opened  communica- 
tions with  the  miners,  and  for  several 
days  there  was  some  cause  to  appre- 
hend a  very  troublesome  disturbance. 
The  men  held  out  only  a  short  time, 
but  their  action  caused  so  much  em- 
barrassment to  the  Government  that 
all  the  Packets  were  sent  round  to  Ply- 
mouth, whence  they  sailed  for  several 
months. 

The  lesson  taught  on  that  occasion 
had  been  already  partly  forgotten  in 
1814.  On  the  12th  of  July  in  that  year, 
when  the  Speedy  Packet  had  completed 


286 


The  Post-Office  Packets. 


her  complement  of  men,  had  taken  her 
mails  on  board,  and  was  about  to  slip 
her  moorings,  a  number  of  her  crew 
refused  to  go  on  board,  and,  headed 
by  the  gunner,  went  to  the  agent's 
office  and  demanded  their  discharge. 
Being  asked  for  their  reasons,  they 
had  nothing  better  to  say  than  that 
they  did  not  like  the  voyage,  and  that, 
if  they  were  to  go  upon  it,  they  must 
have  more  pay.  The  agent,  willing 
to  concede  whatever  was  possible,  paid 
"them  a  month's  wages  in  advance, 
whereupon  they  became  more  riotous 
and  intractable  than  before. 

Seeing  that  they  were  not  to  be 
brought  to  reason,  the  agent  sent  a 
message  to  the  captain  of  the  Guard- 
ship,  and  in  an  hour  two  strong  parties 
were  scouring  every  alley  and  public- 
house  in  the  town,  in  search  of  the 
malingering  seamen  of  the  Speedy,  but 
could  find  no  trace  of  them.  Nor 
was  this  surprising,  for  the  deserters 
were  all  Falmouth  men,  and  the  old 
town  contained  hiding-places  which 
more  careful  searchers  than  the  press- 
gangs  had  failed  to  discover. 

Meanwhile  Captain  Sutherland,  who 
commanded  the  Speedy,  had  engaged 
other  men  at  unusually  high  rates. 
But  these  new  men,  fired  by -the  high 
example  set  before  them,  imitated  the 
others,  and  decamped  as  soon  as  they 
had  secured  a  payment  in  advance. 

It  was  impossible  to  allow  the  mails 
to  suffer  delay  from  conduct  such  as 
this ;  and  in  order  to  demonstrate 
that  the  Service  could  go  on  very  well 
with  sailors  drawn  from  other  ports, 
the  Speedy  was  sent  round  to  Plymouth, 
where  she  completed  her  complement 
without  difficulty.  This  reminder  of 
the  ease  with  which  the  prosperity  of 
Falmouth,  created  as  it  had  been  in 
large  measure  by  the  Packets,  could 
be  destroyed  by  their  removal,  had  a 
very  sobering  effect  on  the  Falmouth 
sailors  ;  and  for  some  time  there  seems 
to  have  been  no  repetition  of  their 
unruly  conduct. 

To  return  to  the  fighting,  and  best, 
part  of  our  story.  In  September  a 
very  desperate  action  was  fought  by 


Captain  James  Cunningham,  who  had 
been  Lord  St.  Vincent's  mailing-master 
in  the  action  of  the  14th  of  February 
1797.  Captain  Cunningham  com- 
manded the  Morgiana,  a  temporary 
Packet  of  somewhat  greater  size  than 
the  regular  Post-Office  vessels,  being 
of  about  two  hundred  and  twenty  tons, 
but  armed  only  with  eight  9-pounder 
carronades;  like  the  majority  of  the 
Packets. 

From  Captain  Cunningham's  own 
vivid  account  of  the  action  only  a  few 
passages  can  be  extracted.  The  priva- 
teer was  the  Saratoga,  of  Newport, 
Rhode  Island.  She  carried  sixteen 
guns,  chiefly  12-pounders,  and  one 
hundred  and  thirty-six  men.  At 
2  P.M.  she  came  within  range,  and 
Captain  Cunningham  kept  his  stern 
guns  playing  on  her  as  she  cam'e  up, 
though  without  doing  much  damage. 
Unhappily,  after  five  or  six  discharges 
from  these  guns,  it  was  found  that  the 
ring-bolts  had  drawn  out  from  both 
sides  the  stern,  and  that  the  guns 
were  useless.  The  Saratoga  bore  down 
with  the  evident  intention  of  board- 
ing, and  by  her  great  preponderance 
of  men  finishing  the  matter  at  a  single 
blow.  She  was  met,  however,  with 
such  a  heavy  and  well-directed  fire 
from  the  Morgiana's  remaining  guns 
as  obliged  her  to  abandon  this  design ; 
and,  taking  up  a  station  to  larboard, 
she  opened  a  tremendous  cannonade. 
At  the  same  time  riflemen  swarmed  up 
into  her  tops,  and  harassed  the  small 
crew  of  Cornishmen  very  seriously. 
Thus  both  vessels  ran  before  the  wind 
for  an  hour  and  twenty  minutes,  never 
more  than  a  few  yards  apart.  Two  or 
three  men  were  hit  in  this  part  of  the 
action,  and  of  himself  Captain  Cun- 
ningham says : — 

I  found  a  grape  shot  had  grazed  my  left 
leg,  and  stuck  in  the  opposite  side  of  the 
ship.  It  was  not,  however,  of  very  serious 
consequence,  and,  tying  it  up  with  a  hand- 
kerchief, I  was  enabled  to  resume  my 
station.  A  short  time  after  a  musket-ball 
struck  my  left  wrist,  which  made  but  a 
slight  wound,  and  at  the  same  instant  I 
saw  the  sail-maker,  who  was  stationed  at 


The  Post-Office  Packets. 


287 


the  wheel,  fall,  he  having  received  a  mortal 
wound  from  a  charge  of  grape.  In  con- 
sequence of  the  helm  being  left,  the  ship 
took  a  sheer,  by  which  the  sides  of  the 
two  vessels  came  in  contact,  and  the 
enemy,  exasperated  at  finding  himself  so 
long  disappointed  of  his  prize  by  such  a 
handful  of  men,  and  with  a  hope  of  end- 
ing the  contest,  took  this  opportunity  of 
heaving  his  boarders  into  us.  I  ran  to  the 
wheel  and  put  the  helm  a-port,  which 
cause  d  us  to  separate,  and  his  people,  many 
of  whom  had  established  themselves  in 
the  main  rigging  with  some  on  the  poop, 
now  thought  of  nothing  but  securing  a 
retre  it,  which  we  endeavoured  to  cut  off. 
We  pressed  them  warmly.  Some  gained 
their  vessel,  others  jumped  overboard  to 
escape  our  pikes,  and  one  man,  who  had 
reached  the  top  of  our  boarding-netting  and 
with  whom  I  had  been  personally  en- 
gaged, now  begged  for  quarter,  which  of 
course  I  granted.  In  this  conflict  I  received 
a  severe  cutlass  wound  on  the  head  from 
the  man  alluded  to  above,  who  in  a  state 
of  desperation,  from  his  pistol  having 
missed,  hove  his  cutlass  at  me  with  an 
extra  ordinary  violence  which  levelled  me 
with  the  deck,  from  which  position  I  pre- 
pared to  fire  at  him,  when  he  sued  for 
mercy  and  obtained  it.  Our  firing  again 
commenced,  but,  finding  the  strength  of 
the  enemy  much  too  powerful  for  us,  and 
with  some  apprehension  of  defeat,  should 
he  st  ill  attempt  to  carry  us  by  boarding, 
I  took  the  first  opportunity  of  tearing  up 
my  ]  irivate  signal  sheet,  and  hove  it  over- 
board together  with  my  instructions,  and 
gave  the  master  fresh  injunctions  respect- 
ing t  he  destruction  of  the  mail  in  case  of 
necessity.  Our  sails  and  rigging  being 
now  rendered  nearly  useless,  and  the  ship 
unmanageable,  the  enemy  was  enabled  to 
purs  le  his  resolve  to  carry  us  by  heaving 
the  bulk  of  his  crew  on  board,  and  accord- 
ingly closed  with  us  on  the  larboard  bow, 
which  I  found  it  impossible  to  prevent. 
With  an  anxious  desire  to  make  every 
praci  icable  resistance,  I  was  in  the  act  of 
runring  forward  to  the  threatened  part  of 
the  ship,  when  I  was  struck  by  a  musket- 
ball  in  the  upper  part  of  the  right  thigh, 
by  which  the  bone  was  shattered,  and 
which  brought  me  once  more  to  the  deck. 
In  t]  ds  state,  with  a  third  part  of  my  crew 
either  killed  or  wounded,  and  those  my 
best  men,  I  gave  up  all  hope  of  further 
resistance  in  a  contest  so  unequal,  and 
waving  to  the  master  to  sink  the  mail, felt 
a  secret  relief  when  I  saw  that  object 
accomplished.  At  the  same  time  one  of 
my  people  asked  me  if  he  should  haul 


down  the  ensign,  to  which  I  reluctantly 
assented.  The  crew  of  the  privateer  had 
gained  complete  possession  of  the  fore- 
castle and  fore-rigging,  and  the  remainder 
of  the  Morgiana's  men  fled  for  shelter. 
Further  resistance  was  now  out  of  the 
question,  for  more  than  seventy  men  had 
gained  a  footing  in  the  Packet,  the  two 
vessels  laying  yard-locked  with  each  other. 
I  was  much  weakened  with  the  loss  of  blood, 
which  was  flowing  fast  from  four  wounds, 
but  had  strength  to  intimate  to  the  first 
that  approached  that  we  had  struck  ;  but 
this  did  not  appear  to  satisfy  the  fury  of  a 
few  who  rushed  at  me  with  uplifted  cut- 
lasses, evidently  to  despatch  me  altogether, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  man  to  whom  I 
had  given  quarter.  He  advanced  to  check 
their  rage,  begging  them  to  spare  my  life 
for  having  given  him  his,  when  I  could 
easily  have  taken  it,  and  to  bis  timely  in- 
terference I  am  certainly  indebted  for  my 
existence. 

In  this  closely  fought  action  both 
vessels  were,  according  to  the  admis- 
sion of  Captain  Adderton,  who  com- 
manded the  Saratoga,  reduced  almost 
to  wrecks.  "  The  stays,  shrouds,  &c.," 
he  says  in  speaking  of  his  own  ship, 
"  were  almost  all  cut  away,  more  than 
a  hundred  shot-holes  in  our  main- 
mast, many  in  our  masts,  spars,  hull, 
&c.  .  .  .  They  fought  desperately, 
and  even  beyond  what  prudence  would 
dictate."  Captain  Cunningham  re- 
covered from  his  wounds,  and,  though 
permanently  crippled,  he  lived  to  do 
good  service  as  a  commander  of  an 
established  Packet,  a  post  conferred 
on  him  in  recognition  of  his  gallantry. 

It  is  to  the  fortunate  circumstance 
that  Captain  Cunningham  had  some 
skill  in  the  use  of  his  pen  that  we 
owe  the  possibility  of  realising  the 
details  of  his  great  fight  with  some 
exactness.  The  majority  of  the 
Packet  captains  were  less  adroit. 
They  were  hardy  men  of  action,  un- 
skilled in  description,  and  their  official 
reports  of  what  befell  them  are  couched 
in  terse,  abrupt  sentences,  giving  in 
bare  language  the  important  facts,, 
and  leaving  the  outline  to  be  filled  up 
by  verbal  amplification,  or  to  be  left 
unfilled  as  chance  would  have  it.  The 
verbal  statements  are  not  now  avail- 


288 


The  Post- 


Packets. 


able,  and  the  outlines  must  remain 
unfilled.  A  cloud  of  battle-smoke 
conceals  our  brave  sailors,  and  we 
know  only  in  general  terms  how  they 
fought  behind  it.  But  though  we 
have  let  slip  the  better  half  of  the 
materials  for  describing  these  gallant 
fights,  one  act  of  injustice  should  not 
be  covered  by  another,  and  if  there  is 
monotony  in  the  details  which  are 
still  preserved,  we  may  fairly  re- 
member that  there  was  probably  none 
at  all  in  those  which  by  carelessness 
have  been  lost. 

There  remains  one  action  fought  in 
the  year  1813  which  should  be  de- 
scribed with  some  fulness. 

The  Lady  Mary  Pelham  was  under 
orders  to  sail  for  Brazil,  when  her 
commander,  Captain  Stevens,  received 
news  which  made  him  desire  not  to 
perform  the  voyage,  and  he  cast  about 
for  some  person  to  act  as  his  substi- 
tute. The  proper  person  to  select 
would  have  been  his  own  sailing- 
master,  Mr.  Carter,  who  served  at 
Trafalgar  as  acting  first-lieutenant  of 
the  Thunderer,  and  had  been  present 
in  nearly  every  important  engagement 
of  the  war.  A  better  choice  could 
not  have  been  made  ;  but  Mr.  Carter 
had  only  recently  entered  the  Packet 
Service,  and  Captain  Stevens,  seized 
with  an  unaccountable  scruple,  de- 
clined to  select  an  officer  of  whom  he 
knew  so  little.  It  was  the  practice  of 
the  Post- Office  to  defer  as  much  as 
possible  to  the  wishes  of  the  com- 
manders on  the  rare  occasions  when 
it  was  necessary  to  choose  a  substi- 
tute :  and  the  agent  at  Falmouth  felt 
that  he  could  not  urge  Mr.  Carter's 
appointment  in  opposition  to  the 
captain's  wish,  especially  as  the  latter 
had  selected  a  person  whom  he  pre- 
ferred. This  person,  to  whom  the 
safety  of  the  Packet  on  an  Atlantic 
voyage  in  time  of  war  was  to  be 
entrusted,  was  not  even  a  trained 
sailor.  He  was  a  retired  lawyer 
living  at  Falmouth,  who  occupied 
much  of  his  leisure  in  yachting.  •  The 
agent  demurred  to  this  selection  ;  but 
the  time  was  short,  and  recollecting 


that  the  master  of  the  Lady  Mary 
Pelham  was  a  brave  and  experienced 
officer,  he  signed  the  appointment, 
and  the  Packet  sailed  on  the  13th 
of  October  1813. 

Six  days  later  the  Montagu  sailed 
on  the  same  voyage,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Captain  J.  A.  Norway,  R.N. 
The  crew  of  the  Montagu  had  proved 
their  courage  in  action  but  a  •  few 
months  before,  as  already  told.  Cap- 
tain Norway  had  served  for  twenty- 
one  years  in  the  navy.  He  was 
trained  by  Sir  E.  Pellew  (Lord 
Exmouth),  whom  he  had  served  from 
midshipman  to  first-lieutenant,  and 
had  shared  with  credit  in  the  numerous 
actions  fought  by  that  brave  captain. 
He  was  at  this  time  a  commander  on 
half-pay,  filling  an  interval  of  em- 
ployment. 

The  Montagu  made  a  better  passage 
than  the  Lady  Mary,  and  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  1st  of  November 
she  landed  her  mails  at  Funchal. 
Captain  Norway  did  not  anchor,  but 
stood  off  and  on,  waiting  for  the 
Brazil  mails  to  be  brought  on  board. 
Early  in  the  evening  he  saw  the 
Lady  Mary  to  windward,  and  made 
the  right  signal,  but  received  no 
answer.  Shortly  before  2  A.M.  a 
strange  schooner  hove  in  sight.  The 
crew  were  called  to  quarters,  and  at 
5  A.M.  the  schooner  ran  down  along- 
side the  Montagu,  poured  in  her  broad- 
side, received  one  in  return,  and 
sheered  off  without  much  damage  on 
either  side. 

The  officers  of  the  Lady  Mary 
Pelham,  lying  to  under  the  land, 
heard  the  firing,  which  appeared  to 
them  to  be  coming  off  shore.  At 
daybreak  they  sighted  the  Montagu, 
whereupon  Mr.  Carter  boarded  her, 
and  learned  what  had  occurred.  The 
schooner,  which  was  evidently  a 
privateer,  lay  to  all  day  in  sight  of 
the  land,  obviously  waiting  for  the 
Packets,  and  it  was  apparent  to 
every  one  that  there  must  be  fighting. 

Both  Packets  received  their  mails  be- 
tween seven  and  eight  in  the  evening, 
and  set  sail  in  company.  Nothing  was 


The  Post-Office  Packets. 


289 


seen  of  the  schooner  during  the  night, 
but  on  the  following  morning,  the 
2ndcf  November,  she  appeared  in  chase 
though  at  some  distance.  The  crew 
of  the  Montagu  exercised  their  great 
guns,  and  both  Packets  were  cleared 
for  action.  The  wind  was  moderate, 
bio  wing  from  the  east  or  north-east,  and 
at  2  P.M.  the  privateer  was  coming 
up  fist  astern  under  studding-sails. 
Captain  Norway,  having  ordered  the 
Lad}  Mary  Pelham  to  take  up  a 
position  ahead  of  the  Montagu  on  the 
starboard  bow  and  within  hail,  hoisted 
his  3olours,  and  the  crews  of  both 
Packets  gave  three  cheers.  At  2. 50 P.M. 
the  Montagu  opened  fire  with  her  stern 
chaser  (a  long  9-pounder),  to  which 
the  privateer  replied  with  her  bow 
guns.  Little  damage  was  done  by 
this  fire,  and  the  enemy,  continuing 
to  come  up  quickly  with  the  Montagu, 
was  upon  her  starboard  quarter  shortly 
after  three  o'clock. 

A  close  engagement  ensued  at  very 
short  distance.  It  had  not  lasted  long 
when  the  jibboom  of  the  privateer  ran 
into  the  Montagu's  main  rigging,  and 
a  party  of  twenty  boarders  came 
swarming  out  along  it.  A  desperate 
struggle  followed,  and  the  schooner 
having  brought  an  18-pounder  swivel 
to  bear,  sent  repeated  charges  of  grape 
and  chain-shot  among  the  Falmouth 
men.  A  great  number  of  the  Cornish- 
men  were  hit.  Captain  Norway  was 
wou  aded  severely  in  the  leg,  but 
refused  to  go  below,  though  the 
enemy  were  by  this  time  retreating, 
and  the  Packetsmen  were  driving 
ther<i  back  along  the  mainboom  by 
which  they  had  come.  At  this  mo- 
ment, by  some  wrench  of  the  vessels, 
the  mainboom  was  unshipped,  and 
ten  of  the  retreating  privateersmen 
fell  into  the  sea.  The  rest  were 
either  killed  or  piked  overboard.  Not 
one  regained  the  privateer. 

T  ae  affair  lasted  only  a  few  minutes, 
but  the  success  was  dearly  bought. 
Just,  as  the  fight  ended  Captain  Norway 
was  struck  in  the  body  by  a  chain- 
shoi,  which  cut  him  almost  in  two. 
Mr.  Ure,  the  surgeon,  a  native  of 

No.  418. — VOL.  LXX. 


Glasgow,  who  saw  the  captain  stag- 
ger, ran  up  to  catch  him,  but  as 
he  received  the  body  in  his  arms, 
his  own  head  was  shattered  by  a 
round  shot,  and  the  two  men  fell 
to  the  deck  together.  Two  seamen 
were  killed  in  this  sharp  encounter 
and  four  wounded. 

When  the  captain  fell,  the  command 
devolved  on  Mr.  Watkins,  the  master. 
The  privateer  did  not  disengage  her- 
self on  the  failure  of  her  assault, 
but  sheered  over  on  the  larboard 
quarter  of  the  Montagu,  and  pre- 
pared to  board  again  in  overwhelming 
numbers.  The  musketry  fire  from 
her  tops  was  very  galling,  and  to  this 
the  Montagu  could  make  no  effective 
reply,  having  no  hands  to  spare  for 
musket-practice.  Indeed,  her  few 
men  were  dropping  fast.  Mr. 
"Watkins's  lef£  hand  was  shattered 
by  a  ball,  and  almost  immediately 
afterwards  he  was  shot  through  the 
body,  and  carried  below,  incapable 
of  giving  any  further  orders.  The 
mate  and  the  carpenter  were  both 
severely  wounded,  and  the  gunner  had 
to  be  summoned  from  below  to  take 
command  of  the  ship,  Mr.  Watkins 
calling  out  as  he  was  carried  below, 
a  last  order, — "  Fight  the  ship  as  long 
as  you  can  stand." 

When  the  gunner  reached  the  deck 
he  found  the  colours  shot  away,  and 
at  once  rerhoisted  them.  The  pendant 
remained  flying  throughout  the  action. 
Seeing  nearly  half  the  crew  killed  or 
disabled,  and  the  Americans  preparing 
to  board  in  great  numbers,  he  judged 
it  prudent  to  sink  the  mail.  This 
was  scarcely  done  before  the  enemy 
were  upon  them  once  more.  There 
was  another  wild  scuffle.  Four 
only  of  the  enemy  set  foot  on  the 
decks  of  the  Montagu.  One  was  killed 
as  he  touched  them ;  two,  one  of  whom 
was  the  first-lieutenant  of  the  priva- 
teer, were  made  prisoners.  The  fourth 
was  recognised  as  a  Packetsman  who 
had  deserted  at  New  York,  and  for 
such  as  he  there  was  no  quarter.  In 
this  fight  the  cook  was  killed,  and  the 
total  number  of  casualties  brought  up 


290 


The  Post-Office  Packets. 


to  eighteen,  out  of  a  complement  of 
thirty-two. 

It  is  now  necessary  to  turn  to  the 
Lady  Mary  Pelham,  which  vessel,  it 
will  be  remembered,  had  been  ordered 
by  Captain  Norway  (as  senior  com- 
mander) to  take  up  her  station  ahead 
of  the  Montagu  on  the  starboard  bow. 
From  this  position  an  easy  manoeuvre 
would  have  laid  her  also  alongside  the 
privateer. 

At  this  crisis,  however,  the  in- 
competence of  her  commander  began 
to  manifest  itself.  His  orders  be- 
trayed so  absolute  an  ignorance  of 
the  management  of  a  ship  in  action 
that,  after  some  precious  minutes  had 
been  wasted,  Mr.  Carter  and  Mr. 
Pocock,  the  master  and  mate,  jointly 
represented  to  him  the  propriety  of 
deputing  his  command  to  Mr.  Carter. 
They  understood  that  he  had  accepted 
this  proposal,  but  at  the  moment 
when  the  seamanship  of  Mr.  Carter 
was  about  to  repair  the  follies 
of  the  commander,  the  helm  was 
suddenly  shifted,  and  the  Lady  Mary 
Pelham  stood  away  from  the  fight. 

Mr.  Carter's  first  thought  was  that 
this  was  a  piece  of  cowardice  on  the 
part  of  the  steersman,  and  knowing 
only  one  punishment  for  such  an 
action  in  presence  of  the  enemy  he 
ran  towards  him,  drawing  his  pistol, 
when  the  man  cried  out,  "  Don't  kill 
me,  sir ;  it  was  the  captain's  order." 

The  proper  position  of  the  ship 
could  not  be  regained  until  all  the 
fighting  was  over.  Then,  when  the 
danger  was  practically  past,  the 
Lady  Mary  Pelham  intervened  and 
maintained  a  cannonade  for  some  time. 
The  privateer  was  too  much  damaged 
to  wish  to  face  a  fresh  combatant,  and 
sheered  off  soon  after  four  o'clock, 
having  never  brought  the  Lady  Mary 
Pelham  to  close  action  nor  inflicted  on 
her  any  but  trifling  damage.  The 


acting-commander  received  a  ball 
through  his  thigh,  and  one  seaman 
was  slightly  hurt. 

The  circumstances  of  this  action 
were  of  course  very  closely  investi- 
gated, and  a  controversy  arose  out  of 
them  which  was  carried  on  with 
extraordinary  rancour,  and  was  even- 
tually taken  to  the  House  of  Commons 
itself.  The  acting-commander  of  the 
Lady  Mary  Pelham  claimed  to  have 
acted  with  notable  courage  and  dis- 
cretion ;  but  this  claim  was  consistently 
rejected  by  the  Postmaster-General 
and  by  the  Lords  of  the  Treasury 
whose  adverse  opinion  remained  un- 
shaken, and  was  expressed  with 
considerable  plainness.  Upon  Cap- 
tain Norway's  conduct  the  official 
verdict  was  to  the  effect  that  "  his 
reputation  stands  too  high  to  be  as- 
sailed by  anything  that  the  partisans 
of  Mr.  can  say." 

We  may  leave  the  Packet  captains 
at  this  point.  The  actions  of  1814 
and  1815  were  no  less  glorious  than 
those  already  described,  and  have  been 
equally  neglected.  But  the  same  ob- 
servation could  be  made  of  the  fights 
of  earlier  years,  and  they  cannot  all 
be  mentioned  in  this  place. 

They  were  no  child's  play,  the 
actions  of  these  hardy  Falmouth  men, 
and  history  has  no  excuse  for  passing 
them  by.  They  were  fought  by  small 
numbers  of  our  sailors,  but  usually 
against  great  numbers  of  the  enemy. 
They  were  not  sought  by  the  Packet  offi- 
cers, but  when  inevitable,  were  under^ 
taken  with  no  less  high  a  spirit  than  if 
the  enemy  had  been  hunted  from  coast 
to  coast  till  he  turned  to  bay  at  last. 
They  were  in  every  way  glorious  to 
this  country ;  and  if  this  article  should 
draw  attention  to  the  strange  oblivion 
which  has  fallen  on  them,  it  will  have 
achieved  the  writer's  purpose. 


291 


MR.  SECRETARY  THURLOE. 


A  LITTLE  to  the  south  of  the  great 
gateway  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Buildings, 
facir  g  Chancery  Lane,  may  be  seen 
one  of  those  tablets  for  which  we  have 
to  thank  the  Society  of  Arts,  bearing 
in  this  instance  the  following  inscrip- 
tion :  "  John  Thurloe,  Secretary  of  State 
to  Cromwell,  lived  here  during  his 
tenu.-e  of  office  1647-59."  The  Society 
of  lincoln's  Inn  has  no  part  in  this 
memorial.  Formerly  one  of  the  stones 
in  the  crypt  of  the  chapel  bore  another 
inscription,  now  long  since  ground  out 
by  thousands  of  careless  heels  :  "  Here 
lyeth  the  body  of  John  Thurloe,  Esq., 
Secretary  of  State  to  the  Protector 
Oliver  Cromwell,  and  a  member  of  this 
Honourable  Society.  He  died  Feb.  21, 
1667."  i 

Lincoln's  Inn  has  forgotten  John 
Thurloe.  Who  was  he?  Cromwell's 
greatest  confidant,  answer  M.  Guizot 
and  others,  and  say  no  more.  "  One 
of  ihe  expertest  secretaries,  in  the 
real  meaning  of  the  word  secretary, 
any  State  or  working  King  could  have," 
is  (larlyle's  verdict.  Private  secre- 
taries, unless  they  be  Edmund  Burkes, 
must  expect  to  be  merged  in  the 
personality  of  their  chiefs ;  but  to 
havo  been  the  most  trusted  adviser  of 
Oliver  Cromwell  and  chief  of  John 
Mibon  and  Andrew  Marvell,  these 
are  not  quite  small  things.  It  may 
be  worth  while  to  learn  something  of 
sucl,  a  man  ;  more  especially  when  we 
havo  for  material  the  complete  records 
of  his  office  in  the  seven  folio  volumes 
known  as  Thurloe' s  State-Papers. 

John  Thurloe,  son  of  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Thurloe,  Rector  of  Abbot's 
Rod  ing  in  Essex,  was  born  about  the 
mid  lie  of  the  year  1616.  We  hear  of 
him  first  as  "servant"  to  Mr.  Oliver 
St.  John,  the  well-known  St.  John  of 
the  Long  Parliament  who  became 

1  Old  style  ;  March  3rd,  1668,  new  style. 


Chief  Justice  under  the  Protector. 
As  we  learn  that  St.  John  educated 
Thurloe,  we  may  picture  to  ourselves 
the  Essex  squire  and  rising  lawyer 
(for  such  was  St.  John)  selecting  the 
most  promising  of  the  parson's  large 
family  for  his  clerk.  This  brought 
him  in  the  year  1 644  to  his  first  State 
employment,  as  secretary  to  the 
Parliamentary  Commissioners  (of 
whom  his  patron  was  one)  in  the 
fruitless  negotiations  with  the  King's 
party  at  Uxbridge.  In  1647  he  was 
admitted  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  in  the 
following  year  made  Clerk  of  the 
Cursitor's  fines  under  the  Commis- 
sioners of  the  Great  Seal,  a  place 
worth  £350  a  year.  In  1650  he  was 
appointed  an  officer  of  the  treasury  of 
the  Company  of  Adventurers  for 
draining  the  fens;  and  as  Cromwell 
himself  was  one  of  the  Company,  it  is 
probable  that  the  two  men  met  for 
the  first  time  over  its  business.  In 
March  1651,  however,  Walter  Strick- 
land and  Oliver  St.  John  were  sent 
over  to  Holland  to  negotiate  a  treaty 
with  the  Dutch,  and  took  Thurloe 
with  them  for  their  secretary.  Here 
he  learned  something  of  Holland  and 
of  diplomacy,  though  probably  not 
much  ;  for  the  negotiation  broke  down 
and  the  grand  scheme  which  was  to 
unite  England  and  Holland  in  a  single 
Republic  finally  issued  in  the  Naviga- 
tion Act  and  the  Dutch  War.  On 
his  return  from  Holland  Thurloe, 
always  in  St.  John's  service,  seems  to 
have  been  employed  by  him  as  steward 
of  his  property,  from  which  business 
he  was  suddenly  taken  away  by  his 
appointment,  in  April  1652,  to  be 
Secretary  of  the  Council  of  State. 
How  he  obtained  the  post  we  have  no 
clue ;  but  we  possess  St.  John's  letter 
to  him  on  the  occasion,  which  throws 
rather  a  pleasant  light  on  the  relations 

u  2 


292 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


of  the  "  dark-lanthorn  man  "  to  his 
former  servant.  He  writes  from 
Dalkeith,  being  employed  there  at  the 
head  of  the  Commission  engaged  to 
settle  the  union  with  Scotland. 


13  April,  1652. 

MR.  THURLOE,  —  I  hear  from  Sir  Henry 
Vane  and  others  of  your  election  into  Mr. 
Frost's  place  [Secretary  to  the  Council  of 
State].  God  forbid  I  should  in  the  least 
repine  at  any  of  his  works  of  providence, 
much  more  at  those  relating  to  your  own 
good  and  the  good  of  many.  No  !  I 
bless  Him.  As  soon  as  I  heard  the  news 
in  what  concerned  you  I  rejoiced  in  it 
upon  these  grounds.  No  !  Go  on  and 
prosper  :  let  not  your  hands  faint  :  wait 
upon  him  in  his  ways,  and  he  that  called 
you  will  cause  his  presence  and  blessing  to 
go  along  with  you.  And  if  I  were  other- 
wise minded  might  I  not  fear  a  curse  upon 
what  concerns  myself  in  seeking  my  own 
good  above  the  good  of  many.  —  Your 
assured  friend,  OL.  ST.  JOHN. 


A  few  years  later  St.  John  was  to 
address  him  as  /Sir,  and  sign  himself 
your  affectionate  servant,  but  Thurloe 
never  destroyed  this  letter.  We  can 
understand  the  reason. 

So  at  the  age  of  thirty-six  Thurloe 
was  fairly  installed  at  Whitehall  ;  as 
yet  only  the  clerk  of  a  council,  not  the 
right  hand  man  of  an  absolute  Gover- 
nor, but  already  busy  enough.  The 
times  were  critical  both  at  home  and 
abroad.  In  the  narrow  seas  the  Dutch 
and  English  fleets  were  bickering  with 
each  other,  exchanging  first  broadsides 
and  then  apologies,  throughout  the 
months  of  May  and  June,  till  the  final 
declaration  of  war  in  July.  At  home 
the  Rump  Parliament,  lulled  into 
security  by  the  victories  of  Dunbar 
and  Worcester,  modestly  proposed  to 
perpetuate  itself  in  power,  and  accord- 
ingly found  itself  dismissed  by  Oliver 
Cromwell  and  a  file  of  musketeers  on 
the  famous  20th  of  April  1653.  The 
Old  Council  of  State  was.  then  dissolved, 
and  a  new  one  constituted  with  the 
Lord  General  Cromwell  at  its  head, 
the  first  of  many  such  changes  to  be 
witnessed  by  the  Secretary.  Then  in 
July  the  Barebones  Parliament  brought 
more  new  faces  to  Whitehall,  notably 


those  of  Henry  Cromwell  and  William 
Lockhart,  with  both  of  whom  Thurloe 
was  to  have  much  business,  immense 
correspondence,  and,  with  Henry  in  par- 
ticular, close  and  intimate  friendship. 

Yet  another  member  of  that  Par- 
liament was  Thurloe  to  know  well, 
namely  George  Monk,  who  was  now 
at  sea  fighting  against  the  Dutch.  By 
virtue  of  his  office  Thurloe  was  in 
charge  of  the  secret  information  of  the 
State,  and  was  already  building  up 
the  system  of  intelligence  which  made 
Cromwell's  secret  service  so  famous 
in  later  days.  The  information  which 
he  gathered  as  to  Tromp's  fleet,  its 
strength,  equipment,  and  movements, 
is  very  full  and  accurate.  Copies  of 
Tromp's  own  despatches,  blunt  and 
straightforward  even  when  reporting 
defeat,  found  their  way,  by  what 
means  we  can  guess,  to  the  office  at 
Whitehall,  and  were  doubtless  valued 
at  their  true  rate.  Even  with  these 
advantages,  however,  seven  furious 
actions  and  the  death  of  Tromp  him- 
self alone  sufficed  to  bring  the  Dutch 
to  their  knees.  Then  Thurloe's  ener- 
gies were  turned  from  the  military 
into  the  diplomatic  channel.  In  June 
1654  four  envoys,  representing  differ- 
ent parties  and  bitterly  at  variance 
with  each  other,  were  despatched  from 
the  United  Provinces  to  treat  for 
peace.  Thurloe  obtained  copies  of 
every  despatch  which  they  wrote  and 
received,  and  thus  possessed  himself 
of  their  opinions  of  their  mission  and 
of  each  other, — nay,  sometimes  of  their 
opinions  when  drunk  as  well  as  when 
sober — which  simplified  the  business 
of  negotiation  not  a  little. 

But  the  palmiest  days  of  Thurloe's 
office  were  not  yet,  though  now  close 
at  hand.  On  the  llth  of  December 
1653  the  Barebones  Parliament  de- 
clared that  its  further  existence  would 
not  be  for  the  good  of  the  Common- 
wealth; on  the  15th  Cromwell  was 
installed  as  Lord  Protector,  and  the 
Council  was  reconstituted  for  the 
fourth  time  since  Thurloe's  appoint- 
ment as  secretary.  In  a  word,  the  fact 
was  recognised  that  there  was  at  that 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


293 


time'  but  one  means  whereby  England 
could  be  governed ;  namely  by  setting 
at  the  head  of  affairs  the  man  who 
had  drilled  the  victorious  party  in  the 
Civil  War  and  led  it  through  that  war 
to  some  semblance  of  peace.  It  is  the 
fashion  to  curse  Cromwell's  rule  for  a 
military  despotism,  instead  of  blessing 
it  for  having  been  at  any  rate  a  gov- 
ernment. It  is  too  often  forgotten 
that  the  Protectorate  was  simply  a 
provisional  government  struggling 
honestly  and  unceasingly  to  find  a 
permanent  basis.  "Truly,"  said 
Cronwell  himself,  "I  have  as  before 
God  often  thought  that  I  could  not 
tell  what  my  business  was,  nor  what 
was  the  place  I  stood  in,  save  compar- 
ing myself  to  a  good  constable  set  to 
keeD  the  peace  of  the  parish."  The 
disturbers  of  Cromwell's  parish  fell 
roughly  into  two  divisions  :  those  who 
sought  to  bring  about  the  reign  of 
Christ  on  earth ;  and  those  who  wished 
to  restore  the  reign  of  Charles  Stuart 
in  ] England.  In  the  former  class  may 
be  reckoned  the  Anabaptists,  Quakers, 
Levellers,  Fifth  Monarchy  men,  and 
all  the  visionary,  fanatical,  self-seek- 
ing mass  which  had  for  the  moment 
been  welded  together  by  the  pressure 
of  jhe  struggle  against  Royalty.  The 
second  category,  the  Royalists,  stood 
in  si  different  position.  Their  peculiar 
source  of  strength  was  that  they  knew 
exa3tlywhat  they  wanted,  and  laboured 
not  for  an  impossible  ideal,  but  for  a 
simple  return  to  an  old  order.  Being 
the  group  strongest  in  numbers  and 
directness  of  purpose  they  became  the 
general  rallying-point  of  anti-Crom- 
weHism;  the  nucleus  to  which  all 
dis<  Content  attached  itself  with  or  with- 
out consistency.  For  if  the  millennium 
does  not  follow  one  Reform  Bill  it  is 
boi  nd  to  follow  the  next ;  and  if  the 
defeat  of  Charles  failed  to  bring  it  to 
pass,  the  defeat  of  Cromwell  could  not 
fai  to  assure  it.  There  was  therefore 
but  one  way  in  which  Cromwell  could 
govern  England ;  by  keeping  his  foot 
firmly  on  the  Royalist,  and  by  check- 
ing sporadic  irreconcilability  gently 
or  firmly  as  occasion  demanded. 


Clearly  then  Cromwell's  first  re- 
quisite was  an  efficient  police.  To 
nip  rebellion  in  the  bud,  good  intelli- 
gence, that  is  to  say  vigilance  personal 
and  vicarious,  is  everything ;  and  the 
chief  of  Cromwell's  intelligence  de- 
partment was  John  Thurloe.  He  was 
now  Secretary  of  State  in  a  different 
sense ;  for  the  State  was  Cromwell,  and 
we  find  that  in  virtue  of  his  secret 
intelligence  he  was  not  only  Home 
Secretary,  Foreign  Secretary,  Colonial 
Secretary  and  War  Secretary,  but 
Cromwell's  right  hand  man.  He  was 
further  a  member  of  the  Council  of 
State,  being  a  man  whose  advice  was 
worth  having  ;  a  member  of  three  Pro- 
tectorate Parliaments,  acting  as  mouth- 
piece of  the  Government  when  required ; 
and  lastly,  general  composer  of  differ- 
ences and  easer  of  friction  in  the  public 
service  at  large. 

Thurloe' s  first  duty  was  of  course 
to  keep  the  Protector  in  supremacy, 
and  therein  the  first  consideration  was 
to  keep  him  alive  ;  no  very  easy  matter 
when  we  contemplate  the  interminable 
series  of  plots,  conspiracies,  and 
insurrections  that  were  eternally 
hatching  against  him.  We  have  not 
space  to  enumerate  those  that  were 
frustrated  even  in  the  first  year  of 
the  Protectorate,  much  less  for  an 
exhaustive  list.  Suffice  it  that  the 
unravelling  of  these  plots  was  one 
great  business  of  Thurloe's  life ;  and 
a  task  conducted  with  such  skill  as 
to  shed  a  halo  of  romance  around 
Cromwell's  secret  service.  Burnet's 
history  contains  a  deal  of  gossip  about 
it,  which  however  we  prefer  to  set 
aside  in  favour  of  the  solid  informa- 
tion in  the  State-Papers. 

One  means  of  intelligence  which  is 
particularly  prominent  in  the  Papers 
is  the  interception  of  letters.  Thurloe 
in  August,  1655,  added  the  office  of 
Postmaster  General  to  his  other 
functions,  chiefly  no  doubt  to  obtain 
control  of  the  postmasters  and  the 
mails.  The  position  and  duties  of 
the  postmasters  gave  them  special 
opportunities  for  observing  anything 
dark  or  suspicious  that  might  be 


294 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


going  forward  ;  and  of  these  oppor- 
tunities they  were  specially  enjoined 
to  avail  themselves  to  the  utmost, 
reporting  in  all  cases  to  Thurloe 
himself.  The  mass  of  letters  thus 
or  otherwise  intercepted  is  enormous, 
and  of  astonishing  variety;  but  the 
interest  thereof  is  dead,  so  we  must 
pass  them  by  with  the  remark  that 
Thurloe  intercepted  at  least  fifty  of 
Hyde's  or  of  the  King's  letters,  for 
one  that  Hyde  intercepted  of  Thurloe's. 
"We  turn  therefore  to  another  matter 
within  the  scope  of  police,  namely 
seditious  meetings,  to  all  of  which 
Thurloe  sent  his  own  reporters.  One 
specimen  of  their  reports  we  must 
give  for  its  interest  in  exemplifying 
the  persistence  of  a  certain  type  of 
mountebank-martyr  in  these  British 
Islands.  This  following  fragment  is 
from  a  speech  delivered  by  Mr.  Feak, 
the  Anabaptist,  on  Monday,  January 
5th,  1656-7.  "He  (Feak)  began  to 
intimate  that  possibly  there  might  be 
some  court  spies,  some  miserable 
intelligencer  or  intelligencers  who 
came  to  take  notes  ....  he  told 
among  other  things  the  story  of 
his  arrest,  all  the  circumstances  of 
which  he  did  set  out  in  a  very  path- 
etical  way  of  speaking  to  move  his 
audience  to  compassion,  in  the  same 
,  manner  as  he  represented  all  the  other 
particulars  and  passages  of  his 
suffering  in  a  very  enlarged  and 

ample    oration I    am    almost 

weary  of  repeating  this  kind  of  stuff," 
concludes  the  unhappy  reporter. 
"This  is  all  I  could  collect  [five 
huge  folio  pages]  being  far  Irom 
candle-light,  and  my  shoulders  laden 
with  a  crowd  of  women  riding  upon 
the  tops  of  the  seats,  so  that  this  is 
but  the  fortieth  part  of  what  he 
rambled  over." 

Of  other  reports,  sworn  statements 
and  the  like,  the  number  is  endless  ; 
but  none  have  any  biographical  in- 
terest except  a  letter  from  Oliver  St. 
John,  of  all  persons,  invoking  Thurloe's 
assistance  for  the  arrest  of  his  son. 
This  son  William,  it  appears,  was 
rather  an  unsteady  young  man,  had 


run  away  from  home,  and  could  not 
be  found  ;  so  Chief  Justice  St.  John, 
anticipating  the  methods  of  the  elder 
Mirabeau,  applied  to  Thurloe  for 
letlres  de  cachet.  Needless  to  say 
Thurloe  soon  restored  the  erring 
William  to  his  father,  who  like  a 
true  Englishman  decided  that  a  ne'er- 
do-weel  would  be  better  in  the 
Colonies  than  in  England,  and  de- 
spatched him  to  the  West  Indies. 
Thurloe  evidently  took  pains,  for  St. 
John's  sake,  about  the  young  man, 
for  he  caused  reports  of  his  behaviour 
to  be  sent  home  to  himself.  These 
were  not  very  satisfactory.  "  Mr.  Will. 
St.  John  behaves  himself  very  civilly, 
but  is  not  willing  to  undertake  any 
employment,"  wrote  one  correspondent 
from  Jamaica.  "  He  stands  in  need 
of  money  and  hath  had  some  of  me." 
Who  could  wish  it  to  be  otherwise  I 
We  have  met  so  many  men  of  Mr.  Will. 
St.  John's  stamp  in  the  Colonies  that 
our  heart  quite  warms  towards  him. 

Let  us  now  pass  to  a  more  compli- 
cated matter.  Cromwell,  according  to 
Pepys,  allowed  £70,000  a  year  for 
intelligence,  and  thereby  carried  the 
secrets  of  all  Europe  at  his  girdle  ; 
and  whatever  the  price  paid,  the  main 
statement  of  Pepys  is  true.  It  was 
the  rule  in  Thurloe's  department  to 
pay  high  for  good  intelligence  rather 
than  pay  a  little  for  bad.  "  Concern- 
ing a  good  correspondent  at  Rome," 
writes  Thurloe's  agent  at  Leghorn,  "I 
doubt  not  to  effect  it  to  content  when 
I  shall  know  your  resolution  what  you 
intend  to  spend  therein.  These  people 
cannot  be  gained  but  by  money,  but 
for  money  they  will  do  anything,  ad- 
venture body  and  soul  too.  .  .  .  Such 
intelligence  must  be  procured  from  a 
Monsignor,  a  secretary,  or  a  Cardinal. 
...  I  should  say  £1,000  a  year  were 
well  spent,  with  £500  pension  and  now 
and  then  £100  gratuity."  The  court 
of  the  exiled  King  was  the  place  where 
Thurloe's  agents  were  busiest,  and  it 
is  astonishing  to  find  what  men  were 
in  his  pay.  One  at  least  of  Charles's 
most  intimate  circle  was  permanently 
engaged.  The  first  of  these,  one 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


295 


Manning,  was  unfortunately  for  him 
dete  cted  by  Hyde  and  shot.  A  second, 
Sir  Richard  Willis,  fell  into  Thurloe's 
hands  first  as  a  prisoner,  arrested  for 
complicity  in  a  plot  against  Cromwell. 
He  was  released  on  accepting  service 
under  Thurloe,  and  was  employed  as 
a  spy  up  to  the  very  eve  of  the  Re- 
storation, without  provoking  the 
slightest  suspicion  from  Charles  or 
Hyde.  A  third,  Colonel  Bamfield, 
had  been  a  "  naming  Presbyterian 
Royalist,"  and  had  been  trusted  with 
the  duty  of  smuggling  the  Duke  of 
York  out  of  England ;  but  he  was  in 
Thurloe's  pay  even  before  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  Protectorate.  Bam- 
field was  rather  a  slippery  creature, 
and  required  to  be  carefully  watched ; 
but  he  stood  in  particular  awe  of 
Thurloe,  who  kept  him  in  great  order 
and  employed  him  to  the  very  last.  In 
fad-  Royalist  officers,  no  doubt  through 
the  pressure  of  impecuniosity,  seem  to 
have  been  obtainable  for  spy's  work 
without  the  least  difficulty.  Lord 
Broghill  found  one  agent  for  Thurloe 
in  the  person  of  one  Colonel  Black- 
adder  (Plackater  Broghill  spells  him 
phonetically)  who  had  fought  for  the 
King  all  through  the  war  in  Scotland, 
and  had  lost  an  arm  in  his  service. 
Broghill  intimates  that  he  has  no 
doubt  as  to  the  reception  of  Black- 
adder  by  Charles ;  and  Thurloe  finally 
sent  him  abroad  under  an  act  of 
banishment  to  make  him  the  more 
acceptable. 

]?or  other  services  "  an  ingenious 
priest  or  Jesuit "  was  preferred, 
especially  in  Catholic  countries,  but 
any  "  suitable  active  Papist "  was 
gladly  welcomed.  No  possible  advan- 
tages of  kinship,  or  sentiment,  or  re- 
ligion were  overlooked  in  the  search 
for  intelligencers.  Sir  James  Mac- 
donnell,  "  head  of  that  Clan  and  name 
in  Scotland,"  was  prevailed  upon  to 
use;  ties  of  clanship  in  order  to  obtain 
ini  elligence  from  two  kinsmen  serving 
with  the  Spanish  armies.  "  He  said," 
writes  Lord  Broghill,  "that  nothing 
in  the  world  would  induce  them  to 
be  intelligencers  to  me,  but  they  should 


be  his  intelligencers,  and  whatever 
they  sent  him  he  would  forthwith 
despatch  to  me.  ...  He  would  pre- 
vail with  them  not  to  remove  their 
families,  both  as  better  hostages  to 
their  faithful  dealing,  and  better  spurs 
to  their  diligence." 

The  command  of  such  a  secret 
service  gave  Thurloe  a  knowledge  of 
foreign  affairs  which  was  probably 
unequalled  in  Europe.  His  agents 
were  scattered  all  over  the  Continent, 
and  he  himself  held  all  the  ends  of  the 
strings  at  home.  The  best  proof  of 
its  efficiency  is  the  fact  that  all  con- 
spiracies whether  for  assassination  or 
insurrection  at  home,  or  invasion  from 
abroad,  were  timefully  and  decisively 
crushed.  The  "  vigilancy  of  Thurloe  " 
passed  almost  into  a  proverb,  for  it 
seemed  as  though  nothing  could  be 
kept  from  him.  He  himself  however 
appears  to  have  treated  this  portion 
of  his  duties  in  the  most  matter  of 
fact  fashion.  "  I  shall  in  the  story 
that  I  am  to  tell  go  back  no  further 
than  winter  was  twelvemonth,"  he 
says  casually,  in  reporting  the  dis- 
covery of  one  serious  conspiracy  to 
Parliament.  "  These  many  months," 
he  writes  respecting  another  plot,  "  I 
have  known  the  agents  dispersed  up 
and  down  for  the  purpose  and  some  of 
the  chief  persons  they  depend  upon  for 
their  enterprise,  and  some  of  the  places 
they  intend  to  begin  at.  ...  I  have 
now  made  the  designs  of  invasion  and 
insurrection  as  evident  and  demon- 
strable as  if  they  [the  conspirators] 
had  done  both."  Nevertheless  the 
strain  of  work  and  anxiety  must  have 
been  appalling ;  and  it  is  significant  to 
note  that  the  suppression  of  a  con- 
spiracy is  almost  invariably  followed 
by  a  temporary  breakdown  of  Thurloe's 
health.  Being  an  Essex  man  he  was 
subject  to  fever  and  ague,  which  seems 
to  have  seized  him  after  all  periods  of 
extraordinary  pressure  of  work.  That 
he  had  his  reward  in  the  gratitude  of 
Cromwell  we  cannot  doubt;  but  he 
received,  so  far  as  we  know,  no  public 
recognition  of  his  services  in  this  de- 
partment excepting  on  one  occasion  a 


296 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


vote  of  thanks  from  the  House  of 
Commons.  It  is  worth  while  there- 
fore to  record  a  short  spontaneous 
outburst  of  admiration  from  young 
Henry  Cromwell.  "  Really,"  he  wrote, 
"it  is  a  wonder  you  can  pick  as  many 
locks  leading  into  the  hearts  of  wicked 
men  as  you  do ;  and  it  is  a  mercy,  we 
ought  to  own,  that  God  has  made  your 
labours  therein  so  successful."  There 
was  also  this  discouragement  to  his 
efforts,  that  Cromwell  treated  the 
offenders  in  these  plots  for  the  most 
part  with  great  lenience,  until  at  the 
last  he  began  to  lose  patience,  and  was 
severe  to  the  Royalists,  "  judging  it 
very  unreasonable,"  to  use  Thurloe's 
own  words,  "that  we  should  be  alarmecl 
once  every  year  with  invasions  or  in- 
surrections by  them." 

It  may  be  thought  that  this  business 
of  detection  might  have  sufficed  as 
work  for  one  man  ;  but  it  was  only  a 
portion  of  Thurloe's  task.  All  the 
threads  of  diplomatic  business  were 
held  by  his  hand,  and  diplomacy  was 
active  in  the  years  of  the  Protectorate 
as  of  every  provisional  government. 
Negotiations  with  Holland,  with  Spain 
(until  the  war),  with  France,  with 
Denmark,  with  Sweden,  to  say  nothing 
of  smaller  matters,  kept  his  agents 
and  himself  continually  busy,  particu- 
larly when  men  like  Mazarin  were  to 
be  dealt  with.  Unceasing  vigilance 
was  his  motto  in  this  as  in  other 
matters.  Nor  was  he  less  active  in 
the  matter  of  military  intelligence  ; 
indeed  he  was  never  more  exacting  to- 
wards his  agents  than  in  this  province, 
rating  them  soundly  for  omissions, 
and  plainly  showing  by  his  directions 
that  he  was  as  much  a  master  of  their 
business  as  of  his  own.  Perhaps  his 
greatest  triumph  was  the  interception 
of  the  Spanish  plate-fleet  at  Teneriffe 
by  Blake  in  April,  1657.  That  fleet 
was  watched,  partly  by  good  luck  and 
partly  by  good  management,  from  as 
far  back  as  the  previous  November. 
The  first  clue  as  to  its  destination  was 
furnished  by  a  volunteer  intelligencer 
from  Jamaica.  The  agents  at  Leghorn 
and  Madrid,  with  their  subordinates 


at  the  various  ports,  verified  it  by 
questioning  every  skipper  who  came 
into  port  from  across  the  Atlantic ; 
and  the  result  was  that  Blake  was  at 
Santa  Cruz  at  the  right  moment/ 

It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  how 
one  who  held  so  many  strands  of 
administration  should  grow  to  be  recog- 
nised not  only  as  the  best  medium  of 
communication  with  the  Protector,  but 
also  as  the  chief  working-man  of  the 
Government.  No  one  who  has  had  to 
do  with  government  offices  is  ignorant 
that  there  is  generally  one  man  (he 
may  be  the  highest  or  the  lowest)  in 
every  department  who  alone  is  worth 
approaching  for  the  transaction  of 
business.  Such  a  man  was  Thurloe  in 
the  days  of  the  Protectorate.  Every- 
one seems  to  have  applied  to  him, 
whatever  their  business ;  even  if  it 
were  a  divine  who  desired  advice  as  to 
the  public  baptism  of  a  Turkish  con- 
vert, or  a  sea-captain  who  wished  for 
rules  as  to  the  precedence  of  the 
British  and  French  flags  when  the 
fleets  sailed  in  company,  or  an  am- 
bassador's wife  who  sought  for  an 
enlargement  of  her  husband's  suite. 
For  Thurloe  seems  to  have  been  one  of 
those  men,  so  invaluable  in  keeping 
any  service  together,  who  is  every- 
body's friend.  Officers  on  foreign 
service  never  hesitated  to  trouble  him 
about  their  private  affairs  ;  and  Thur- 
loe, so  far  as  can  be  judged  from  the 
test  of  a  few  cases  out  of  many,  never 
failed  to  give  help  where  he  could.  So 
rising  a  man  as  William  Lockhart, 
when  proceeding  on  his  first  diplomatic 
mission  to  the  French  court,  could 
write  and  beg  Thurloe  not  to  call  him 
"  your  Excellency,"  for  that  he  really 
"owned  him  as  his  master  and 
reverenced  him  as  his  father."  When 
we  remember  that  all  official  salaries 
were  in  arrear  in  those  days  we  can 
better  understand  how  invaluable  such 
a  man  as  Thurloe  must  have  been  to 
the  public  service. 

And  this  consideration  leads  us  to 
the  most  interesting  passage  of  Thur- 
loe's life,  to  his  relations  with  Crom- 
well's son  Henry.  Beyond  Whitehall 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


297 


there  were  two  men  on  whose  shoulders 
the  burden  of  government  principally 
lay,  George  Monk  in  Scotland  and 
Kerry  Cromwell  in  Ireland.  Both  of 
these  Thurloe  kept  carefully  informed 
of  all  current  news,  holding  them  in 
touch  with  Whitehall  by  admitting 
then,  though  at  a  distance,  to  its 
councils.  But  Henry  Cromwell  was  to 
Thurloe  not  merely  a  fellow-official, 
but  a  pupil  of  high  promise  from 
whom  great  things  were  expected.  At 
the  outset  Henry's  career  was  purely 
military.  He  had  entered  the  army  at 
sixtaen,  become  a  captain  at  twenty, 
and  at  twenty-two  was  a  colonel  fight- 
ing in  Ireland  under  his  father.  Early 
in  1654  he  was  entered  at  Gray's  Inn  ; 
but  was  almost  immediately  despatched 
to  Creland  to  report  on  affairs  in 
general.  After  a  short  stay  he  re- 
turned to  England,  but  in  the  following 
year  was  sent  over  once  more  to  super- 
sede Fleetwood,  at  first  with  the  title 
of  Major-General  only,  but  latterly 
wit]  i  the  title  as  well  as  the  office  of 
Lori  Deputy.  From  the  day  of  his 
arrival  at  Dublin  until  the  fall  of 
E-icnard  Cromwell,  Henry  and  Thurloe 
maintained  a  regular  correspondence, 
which  is  among  the  most  interesting 
of  <'  .11  the  records  of  the  Protectorate. 
Iceland,  when  Henry  took  over  the 
administration,  was  quiet  enough  so 
far  as  open  rebellion  was  concerned ; 
but  as  in  England,  there  were  mutin- 
ous and  discontented  spirits  in  the 
arny,  and  indeed  in  the  Council  of 
Government  itself,  the  worst  of  them 
being  John  Hewson,  afterwards  known 
as  1  he  "  lucky  shoemaker  "  of  Crom- 
wel  .'s  House  of  Lords.  Hewson,  and 
othor  veterans  of  the  Civil  War,  by 
no  neans  approved  of  the  substitution 
of  Henry  for  Fleetwood.  The  latter 
wa^  a  weak,  vacillating  creature,  not 
ove:  loyal  to  the  Protector,  an  old 
con  rade  of  theirs  and  easily  moulded 
to  ;heir  will.  Henry  was  imperious, 
zeaious,  and  capable,  devoted  to  his 
father,  highly  impatient  of  obstruction 
or  delay,  and  barely  eight-and-twenty. 
Th(  consequence  was  that  before  he 
had  been  in  Ireland  a  month  he  was  in 


violent  battle  with  some  of  his  Council, 
who,  having  failed  in  an  endeavour  to 
retain  Fleetwood,  were  trying  every 
means,  honest  or  dishonest,  to  under- 
mine Henry's  authority.  The  mischief 
was  serious,  for  the  spirit  of  insub- 
ordination spread  at  once.  A  meeting 
of  disaffected  officers  at  Wexford, 
"  put  it  to  the  question  whether  the 
present  Government  were  according  to 
the  word  of  God,  and  carried  it  in  the 
negative."  Henry,  a  quick-tempered 
man,  was  furious,  and  vented  his  feel- 
ings in  indignant  letters  to  Thurloe, 
complaining  at  great  length  of  the 
treatment  which  he  had  received  and 
inveighing  vehemently  against  the  dis- 
loyalty of  Hewson  and  all  other 
Anabaptists.  It  is  pleasant  to  see 
with  what  tact  Thurloe  smoothes  down 
Henry's  ruffled  feathers.  Of  course, 
he  says,  these  men  have  behaved  very 
badly  to  you  ;  and  we  know  it  as  well 
as  you,  "  and  therefore  I  hope  neither 
your  Lordship  nor  any  sober  man  will 
be  troubled  with  these  things  .... 
hard  sayings,  yea,  reproaches  and  worse 
is  the  portion  of  the  best  men  in  these 
uncertain  and  giddy  times,  and  you 
must  not  think  to  go  shot-free  ;  only 
let  me  entreat  you  not  to  be  jealous 
that  you  are  the  least  misunderstood 
by  your  friends  here."  This  was 
Henry's  first  lesson  in  the  art  of 
governing  men.  He  took  it  in  good 
part,  called  his  irreconcilables  together, 
assured  them  gently  that  he  meant  to 
be  master,  and  dismissed  them  with 
the  kiss  of  peace.  "  But,"  he  wrote 
to  Thurloe  with  the  delightful  con- 
fidence of  eight-and-twenty,  "  I  do  not 
think  that  God  has  given  them  a 
spirit  of  government." 

Then  for  a  few  months  the  insub- 
ordinate spirits  in  Ireland  were  quiet ; 
but  by  the  summer  of  1656  the  trouble 
had  begun  again,  and  this  time  Henry 
not  only  sent  long  letters  of  com- 
plaint but  asked  permission  to  resign, 
all  in  an  extremely  injured  and  sulky 
tone.  Once  again  Thurloe  smoothed 
the  ruffled  plumes,  and  forced  him 
gently  back  to  his  work.  His  diffi- 
culties, he  admitted,  had  been  and 


298 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


would  be  trouble  enough  :  "  But,  my 
lord,  it  is  not  your  portion  alone.  If 
opposition,  reproaches,  hard  thoughts 
and  speeches  of  all  sorts  would  have 
made  his  Highness  to  have  quitted 
his  relation  to  the  public,  he  had 
surely  done  it  long  since.  And  I 
persuade  myself  your  lordship  cannot 
be  ignorant  how  he  hath  been  exer- 
cised in  this  kind.  Everybody  can 
keep  his  place  when  all  men  applaud 
him,  speak  well  of  him.  But  not  to 
faint  in  the  day  of  adversity, — that  is 
the  matter.  He  that  looks  for  more 
than  his  own  integrity  and  sincerity 
at  this  time  of  day  for  his  reward 
will  be  mistaken;  and  truly  he  that 
hath  can  look  difficulties  enough  in 
the  face." 

These  two  brief  extracts  must  suf- 
fice to  show  how  delicately  Thurloe 
could  handle  men.  Henry,  it  is  clear, 
was  a  remarkably  able  administrator ; 
but  he  was  extremely  difficult  to 
manage.  He  had  all  the  selfishness 
that  belongs  to  a  masterful  nature ; 
he  was  desperately  jealous  of  his 
father's  good  opinion,  very  suspicious 
even  of  his  most  trusted  advisers, 
absolutely  devoid  of  all  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  and  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence almost  morbidly  sensitive. 
The  disloyal  factions  in  the  Councils 
of  State  both  at  Whitehall  and  in 
Dublin  were  quite  aware  of  his  fail- 
ings, and  took  constant  advantage  of 
them  to  excite  friction  between  Henry 
and  the  central  Government,  by  ob- 
structing Irish  business  at  Whitehall 
and  spreading  invidious  reports.  Their 
greatest  feat  in  the  latter  kind,  quite 
a  stroke  of  genius  in  its  way,  was  to 
compare  Henry  to  Absalom  who  stole 
away  the  hearts  of  Israel  from  his 
father.  Henry  went  frantic  with  rage, 
wrote  violent  letters  abusing  every- 
body and  everything,  sent  in  his 
resignation  and  demanded  summary 
punishment  of  the  author  of  the 
phrase.  Thurloe  in  vain  strove  to 
show  him  the  absurdity  of  such  a 
course  ;  but  Henry  only  became  more 
violent,  and  complained  that  his  au- 
thority was  never  supported.  Thur- 


loe however  would  neither  quarrel 
with  him  nor  truckle  to  him.  "You 
asked  me  what  I  think,"  he  wrote  in 
effect,  "  and  I  have  told  you ;  and  I 
am  sure  you  would  not  wish  me  to  pro- 
fess an  opinion  which  I  do  not  hold." 
And  within  a  few  weeks  Henry  dis- 
covers that  Thurloe,  without  saying  a 
word,  has  procured  for  him  greater 
powers  in  his  commission  as  Lord 
Deputy  than  he  had  ever  hoped  for. 
Straightway  he  overflows  with  grati- 
tude :  "  For  your  care  and  industry, 
for  your  seasonable  advice  and  prayers 
I  owe  you  more  thanks  than  I  can 
now  go  about  to  express."  But  after 
a  month  or  two  Henry  again  becomes 
impatient  with  the  attitude  of  White- 
hall to  Ireland,  and  writes  to  Thurloe 
not  only  with  vehemence  but  with 
impertinence,  ending  finally  with  a 
note  so  extremely  curt  that  he  him- 
self was  frightened  at  it.  "I  have 
not  heard  this  month  from  Mr. 
Secretary,"  he  wrote  to  Lord  Brog- 
hill.  "I  really  wish  if  he  be  under 
any  resentment  I  could  tell  which  way 
to  show  my  affection  to  him.  Pray 
let  me  know  as  particularly  as  you 
can  concerning  him.  He  is  a  man  of 
much  worth,  and  has  shown  a  par- 
ticular affection  for  me."  Thurloe 
was  not  offended,  but  broken  down 
by  ague  and  overwork ;  and  then  it 
seems  to  have  occurred  to  Henry  for 
the  first  time  that  Thurloe's  tasks 
were  even  more  difficult  than  his  own. 
In  its  ordinary  course  the  correspond- 
ence of  the  two  men  breathes  the 
same  tone ;  a  rare  loftiness  of  public 
spirit,  a  consciousness  of  almost  in- 
surmountable difficulties,  with  a  firm 
resolution  to  stand  up  to  them.  From 
time  to  time  Henry  breaks  down. 
He  clamours  for  heroic  remedies,  or 
like  Elijah  throws  himself  on  the 
ground.  Then  the  unwearied  Secre- 
tary, amid  all  the  press  of  his  own 
work, "raises  him  up  with,  "Go,  re- 
turn." Your  father,  he  says  in  effect, 
cannot  break  with  all  his  old  allies  \ 
we  must  do  our  best  with  things  as  we 
find  them.  Back  to  your  work. 

And  thus  the  two  men  approached 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


299 


the  last  desperate  year  of  the  Pro- 
tectcrate,  with  the  sad  knowledge 
that  in  spite  of  all  efforts  at  concilia- 
tion the  provisional  government  was 
no  rearer  to  settlement  into  a  per- 
manent government  than  at  its  out- 
set. From  the  beginning  Henry  had 
advocated  a  reversal  of  Cromwell's 
policy.  He  would  have  had  him  break 
with  all  the  unmanageable  sections, 
political  and  religious,  which,  though 
they  had  fought  with  him  against 
Charles,  were  now  conspiring  in  turn 
against  him.  "Does  not  your  peace 
depend  upon  his  Highness'  life  1 "  he 
wro'oe.  "  I  say,  beneath  the  imme- 
diate hand  of  God  there  is  no  other 
reason  why  we  are  not  in  blood  at  this 
day."  Let  the  Protector  then  have 
done  with  false  friends  and  the  so- 
callod  old  cause ;  let  there  be  a  new 
cause,  the  cause  of  Oliver  Cromwell 
and  peace  in  England,  and  let  the 
Projector  stand  or  fall  by  it.  And 
this  in  fact  Cromwell  was  inclined  to 
do.  "  His  Highness  declares  that 
henceforth  he  will  take  his  own  reso- 
lutions," says  Thurloe;  and  it  was 
time.  That  most  significant  symptom, 
hopeless  disorder  of  the  finances,  was 
showing  itself  with  terrible  intensity, 
and  rapidly  hastening  a  crisis.  But 
Cromwell's  resolution  was  taken  too 
late.  In  the  same  letter  wherein  he 
speaks  of  it,  Thurloe  mentions  that 
the  Protector  is  at  Hampton  Court  as 
well  for  his  own  health  as  for  that  of 
his  daughter  Elizabeth  Clay  pole.  This 
was  in  July,  1658;  on  the  6th  of 
August  Elizabeth  Claypole  died,  and 
a  ft  w  days  before  her  death  Cromwell 
hin  self  had  sickened.  By  a  strange 
irony  the  birth  of  the  new  policy  was 
bound  up  with  the  death  of  the  only 
man  who  could  execute  it. 

From  that  day  forward  the  letters 
follow  close  on  each  other,  full  of  sad 
forobodings  and  sickening  anxiety. 
On.)  postscript  brings  us  almosf  tothe 
door  of  the  sick-room.  "  His  Highness 
is  just  now  entering  into  his  fit.  I 
beseech  the  Lord  to  be  favourable  to 
him  in  it."  The  dying  Protector  was 
moved  from  Hampton  Court  to  St. 


James's,  and  very  soon  it  was  seen 
that  all  hope  of  his  recovery  was 
vain.  Then  arose  the  question  as  to 
his  successor.  Cromwell  had  nomin- 
ated one  in  a  sealed  letter  addressed 
to  Thurloe  a  year  before,  but  had 
revealed  the  name  to  no  one.  Search 
was  made  for  this  letter,  but  it  was 
never  found,  then  or  afterwards. 
There  is  a  mystery  hanging  over  this 
transaction,  and  over  the  succession  of 
Richard  which  will  never  be  cleared 
up.  We  have  no  space  to  enter  into 
it  here.  Two  things  alone  seem 
certain  :  that  Thurloe  was  the  only 
man  who  dared  approach  the  dying 
Cromwell  on  the  subject ;  and  that 
he  and  others  looked  to  see  the  suc- 
cession fall  on  Henry  rather  than 
Richard.  The  matter  was  to  no 
individual  more  important  than  to 
Thurloe,  who  was  by  the  nature  of 
the  case  bound  to  be  the  successor's 
chief  adviser.  Here  is  his  account  of 
the  matter  to  Henry. 

WHITEHALL. 
(Saturday,  4  September,  1658.) 

MAY  IT  PLEASE    YOUR    EXCELLENCY, — I 

did  by  an  express  on  Monday  give  your 
Excellency  an  account  of  his  Highness' 
sickness  and  the  danger  he  was  in.  Since 
then  it  hath  pleased  God  to  put  an  end  to 
his  days.  He  died  yesterday  about  four 
of  the  clock  iu  the  afternoon.  I  am  not 
able  to  speak  or  write.  This  stroke  is  so 
sore,  so  unexpected,  the  providence  of 
God  in  it  so  stupendous,  considering  the 
person  that  is  fallen,  the  time  and  season 
wherein  God  took  him  away  with  other 
circumstances,  that  I  can  do  nothing  but 
put  my  mouth  in  the  dust  and  say,  It  is 
the  Lord. 

His  Highness  was  pleased  before  his 
death  to  declare  my  Lord  Kichard  suc- 
cessor. The  Lord  hath  so  ordered  it  that 
the  Council  and  the  Army  hath  received 
him  with  all  manner  of  affection.  He  is 
this  day  proclaimed  ;  and  hitherto  there 
seems  a  great  face  of  peace.  The  Lord 
continue  it. 

So  the  end  was  come.  Richard, 
not  Henry,  was  Protector ;  and  there 
was  nothing  for  Thurloe  but  to  serve 
Richard  as  faithfully  as  he  had  served 
his  father,  which  he  joyfully  did. 


300 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


Richard  held  one  great  trump  card, 
Henry  Cromwell  and  his  army  in 
Ireland ;  but  the  difficulty  was  to 
know  when  to  play  it.  Henry  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  resign,  and  come  to 
England ;  but  though  anxious  for  his 
presence,  Thurloe  did  not  dare  to  let 
Ireland  pass  from  his  hands,  and 
accordingly  Henry,  though  much 
against  his  own  will,  remained  in 
Dublin.  The  mutinous  officers  in 
England  soon  showed  their  hand  by 
petitioning  Hichard,  in  effect,  to  resign 
all  control  of  the  army.  Eichard 
yielded  so  far  as  to  give  them  Fleet- 
wood  for  Major-General,  but  firmly 
declined  to  relinquish  the  supreme 
control ;  giving  his  reasons  in  a  very 
temperate  but  firm  and  quite  un- 
answerable speech,  which  was  written 
for  him  by  Thurloe.  The  officers  then 
tried  a  different  plan.  They  knew 
that  their  two  most  formidable  rivals 
were  Thurloe  and  Henry,  and  they 
concentrated  their  attacks  against 
them.  As  it  happened,  Thurloe  fell 
ill  at  this  time  and  was  unable  to 
attend  the  Council,  so  that  it  was  not 
difficult  for  them  to  decry  him,  upset 
his  work,  and  sow  dissension  between 
him  and  Henry.  Thus  Thurloe,  on 
his  recovery,  found  that  Henry's  new 
commission  as  Lord  Deputy  of  Ireland 
had  been  tampered  with  in  Council, 
and  that  Henry  was  furious  with  him 
in  consequence.  This  matter  was 
soon  put  right ;  but  other  difficulties 
were  not  so  easily  adjusted.  The 
officers  gave  him  no  rest.  They 
invaded  the  sick  man's  chamber,  and 
reproached  him  as  he  lay  white  and 
weak,  "not  able  to  put  pen  to 
paper  without  throwing  himself  down 
again  in  the  bed."  And  all  that  the 
officers  had  to  complain  of  was  that 
Richard  trusted  him,  and  was  led 
entirely  by  his  advice.  Thurloe 
wrote  the  story  in  weariness  of  mind 
and  body  to  Henry,  and  offered 
Richard  his  resignation.  But  Richard, 
to  his  credit,  would  not  accept  it ;  he 
was  at  any  rate  a  Cromwell.  "  Truly, 
my  lord,"  wrote  Thurloe,  "his  High- 
ness hath  carried  himself  very  steadily 


and  with  honour  hitherto  in  all  these 
agitations ;  and  I  am  persuaded  is 
not  afraid  of  men."  Still  the  perse- 
cution of  Thurloe  continued,  until  he 
wrote  to  warn  Henry  that  he  might 
have  to  fly  to  him  for  protection. 
Henry  on  his  side  begged  once  more 
to  be  allowed  to  join  his  brother  ;  but 
was  told  that  neither  he  nor  Ireland 
were  safe,  if  separated. 

The  mutinous  officers,  finding  them- 
selves too  weak  to  stand  alone,  coalesced 
with  the  malcontents  and  fanatics  of 
all  shades,  and  prepared  then  for  more 
decided  action.  But  first  came  the 
last  memorial  of  the  great  Oliver,  the 
public  obsequies  to  his  wax  effigy. 
Everything  passed  off  quietly  "  but 
alas !  it  was  his  funeral"  wrote  Thurloe 
pathetically,  one  of  the  few  sincere 
mourners  in  the  Abbey  on  that  day. 
A  week  later  the  Council  of  State 
decided  to  call  a  Parliament,  and 
every  one  became  active  ;  the  Republi- 
cans, poor  foolish  mortals,  "  disputing 
what  kind  of  Commonwealth  they 
should  have,  taking  for  granted  they 
may  pick  and  choose."  Thurloe  was 
elected  for  three  seats,  Tewkesbury, 
Huntingdon,  and  the  University  of 
Cambridge,  for  the  last  through  the 
influence  of  his  old  patron  St.  John, 
who  was  Chancellor  of  the  University. 
Thurloe  had  no  connection  with  Cam- 
bridge, but  the  University  judged  him 
to  be  pulchre  eligibilis,  and  naturalised 
him  by  conferring  on  him  the  degree 
of  Master  of  Arts,  which,  together  with 
the  seat,  he  gratefully  accepted.  He 
had  evidently  recovered  his  health  and 
spirits  by  this  time,  for  he  wrote  to 
Henry  that  he  meant  to  stand  up  to 
his  adversaries  to  the  last. 

The  Parliament  met  on  the  27th  of 
January  1659,  and  settled  down  to 
obstruction  at  once ;  obstruction  of 
the  modern  kind  as  any  one  who 
studies  Burton's  Diary  may  see.  The 
worst 'off  ender  was  Sir  Arthur  Hasel- 
rigge,  one  of  the  five  arrested  heroes 
and  never  forgetful  of  the  fact.  The 
type  of  man  is  perennial.  "  My  friends, 
Mr.  Hampden,  Mr.  Pym,  and  Mr. 
Strode"  (Holies  omitted  for  good 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


301 


reasons) — "O  fortunatam  natam  me 
consrle  Romam  !  "  Haselrigge  in 
this  Parliament  excelled  himself  with 
speeches  of  three  hours  and  the  like, 
wherein  he  had  of  course  his  peers, 
Thomas  Scot,  Luke  Robinson,  and 
Sir  Henry  Yane,  and  worse  still  his 
imitators  among  the  rising  genera- 
tion. "  Mr.  [name  not  given]  stood 
up  a  ad  told  a  long  story  about  Cain 
and  Abel,  and  made  a  speech  nobody 
knew  to  what  purpose."  So  deliberate 
was  ~>he  offence,  so  patent  the  inten- 
tion, that  it  was  openly  said  that  the 
Dutch  (who  were  behaving  rather  sus- 
piciously just  then)  would  gladly  give 
the  House  £2,000  a  day  to  waste  time 
in  this  fashion.  Hours  of  protracted 
deba  :e  were  occupied  by  the  important 
question  whether  or  no  Sergeant  Wal- 
ler could  present  a  report  to  the  House 
without  "  making  his  three  legs,"  that 
is,  three  congees  or  bows.  At  last 
after  five  days  of  such  trifling,  Mr. 
Secretary  Thurloe  stood  up,  "  very 
suddenly  and  abruptly,"  and  said, 
quite  in  the  Cromwellian  manner, 
"  You  have  spent  some  time  about  the 
forms  of  your  House,  it  is  now  time  to 
mine,  other  things  ";  and  therewith  he 
proceeded  to  move  the  first  reading  of 
a  bill  for  the  recognition  of  Richard 
and  of  the  government  established 
under  him.  From  that  moment  he 
seerr  s  to  have  acted  as  leader  of  the 
House  of  Commons  in  the  modern 
sense,  laying  before  it  all  questions 
and  proposals  of  financial,  domestic, 
and  foreign  policy.  He  appears  to 
have  spoken  as  little  as  possible ; 
waiting  as  a  rule  till  the  chatter  of 
debate  had  subsided,  and  then  sum- 
ming up  the  business  before  the  House 
with  great  temper  and  judgment. 
Occasionally  impatience  forced  him 
into  a  certain  crudeness  of  utterance, 
as  for  instance,  "You  may  make  as 
adv£  ntageous  a  peace  as  you  please 
with  Spain,  if  you  spoil  it  not  by  your 
discourse  here."  But  for  the  most 
part  he  bided  his  time  and  carried  his 
Bill  of  Recognition  and  other  points 
with  quiet  pertinacity  and  address. 
Once  only  did  he  blaze  out  into  ex- 


treme indignation,  and  then  he  had 
some  excuse.  A  Royalist  plotter,  who 
had  been  exiled  to  Barbadoes  and  had 
made  his  escape,  presented  a  petition 
to  the  House  stating  that  Mr.  Secre- 
tary had  sold  him  into  slavery  for 
.£100.  All  signs  point  to  the  proba- 
bility that  this  was  a  carefully  pre- 
pared scheme  to  obtain  Thurloe' s 
expulsion  from  the  House ;  and  it 
appears  that  things  would  have  gone 
hard  with  him,  in  spite  of  his  proved 
innocence,  but  for  an  accident.  The 
subject  of  course  gave  great  oppor- 
tunity for  high  talk  about  the  liberties 
of  free-born  Englishmen  and  so  forth, 
which  was  taken  advantage  of  to  the 
utmost.  But  unfortunately  in  the 
middle  of  it,  a  certain  Major-General 
Browne  rose  and  gave  a  particular  ac- 
count of  the  long  confinement,  hardship, 
and  suffering,  which  he,  always  a  good 
Parliamentarian,  had  endured  at  the 
hands  of  the  Long  Parliament.  After 
this  nothing  more  was  said  about  the 
liberties  of  free-born  Englishmen,  and 
Thurloe  was  left  unharmed. 

Nevertheless  he  did  not  deceive 
himself  as  to  the  doubtfulness  of  his 
prospects.  "  I  am  not  wise  enough," 
he  wrote  (April  13th,  1659)  "  to  under- 
stand the  present  condition  of  affairs 
here.  We  spend  much  time  in  great 
matters  and  make  little  progress  there- 
in." The  end  was  very  near.  The 
army  once  more  (April  6th,  1659)  came 
to  the  front  with  an  address  to  Richard, 
setting  forth  its  want  of  pay,  the 
designs  of  its  enemies  and  the  danger 
therefrom  to  "  the  good  old  cause." 
Richard  passed  the  petition  to  the 
House  of  Commons,  which  read  and 
ignored  it.  Thereupon  the  army  grew 
more  pressing  and  called  a  meeting  of 
officers  for  the  20th  of  April.  The 
House,  as  a  counterblast,  on  the  18th 
passed  at  one  sitting  and  in  a  great 
hurry  a  vote  to  prohibit  meetings  of 
officers,  and  other  votes  to  the  same 
effect ;  and-  Richard  ordered  all  officers 
to  their  regiments.  There  is  evidence 
that  Thurloe  spent  the  night  of  the 
19th  of  April  in  desperate  negotiation 
with  the  leaders  of  the  Republicans 


302 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


and  of  the  soldiers ;  but  to  no  purpose. 
The  officers  held  their  forbidden  meet- 
ing ;  and  General  Disbrowe,  Richard's 
uncle,  informed  him  that  if  he  did  not 
dissolve  Parliament  the  army  would 
do  it  for  him.  On  the  21st  Richard 
called  his  advisers  together  and  sought 
their  counsel.  The  majority  were  for 
a  dissolution  ;  but  Richard  fought  the 
point,  according  to  one  account,  all 
night  and  until  four  o'clock  next 
morning,  with  Thurloe  alone  at  his 
back,  maintaining  that  a  dissolution 
would  be  his  ruin  and  theirs.  At  last 
however  Richard  gave  in,  consented 
to  dissolve  Parliament,  and  therewith 
terminated  his  period  of  rule,  probably 
with  no  great  unwillingness.  He  seems 
to  have  been  an  indolent  creature,  but 
by  no  means  a  fool,  nor,  as  Thurloe 
recognised,  afraid  of  men.  It  required 
some  courage  to  say  openly  to  an  as- 
sembly of  his  father's  generals  :  "  Here 
is  Dick  Ingoldsby  who  will  neither 
preach  nor  pray,  and  yet  I  will  trust 
him  before  ye  all." 

So  Richard  retired,  and  his  brother- 
in-law  Fleetwood,  in  the  name  of  the 
army  brought  back  the  Rump  of  the 
Long  Parliament  to  reign  in  his  stead. 
Henry  Cromwell  resigned  his  com- 
mand in  Ireland  also,  taking  occasion 
to  write  a  letter  to  the  Speaker  so 
mercilessly  biting  in  its  sarcasm  as  to 
give  great  offence  at  Westminster. 
The  fall  of  Richard  of  course  carried 
with  it  the  fall  of  Thurloe.  A  new 
Council  of  State  was  installed,  and 
Thomas  Scot,  a  noisy,  incompetent 
windbag,  succeeded  him  as  secretary. 
It  must  have  been  at  this  time  that 
Thurloe  carried  off  his  papers  to 
Lincoln's  Inn  and  hid  them  in  the 
false  ceiling  in  his  chambers,  where 
they  remained  undiscovered  and  un- 
suspected until  the  reign  of  William 
the  Third. 

He  still  retained  the  threads  of 
secret  intelligence,  and  flatly  refused 
to  give  Scot  the  names  of  his  in- 
telligencers when  asked  for  them, 
knowing  well  that  betrayal  would 
mean  death  to  more  than  one.  For 
the  rest  he  seems  to  have  borne  him- 


self as  highly  when  overthrown  as  in 
power,  commanding  the  admiration 
even  of  Hyde's  agents.  "  This  only  I 
rejoice  in,"  writes  one,  "  that  Secretary 
Thurloe  dares  .boldly  defy  them,  he 
having  taken  no  man's  money,  invaded 
no  man's  privilege,  nor  abused  his 
own  authority,  which  is  and  merits  to 
be  great,  the  weight  of  all  foreign  and 
almost  all  domestic  affairs  lying  on 
him."  The  fact  was  that  his  with- 
drawal threw  much  of  the  adminis- 
trative machinery  out  of  gear;  and 
it  is  stated  that  he  preserved  his  safety 
under  the  Rump  mainly  by  granting 
occasional  doles  of  information.  His 
main  principle  remained  unchanged, 
the  exclusion  of  the  Stuarts  at  any 
cost ;  so  he  employed  himself,  in 
alliance  with  his  old  chief  St.  John, 
in  countermining  Hyde's  approaches 
to  various  men  of  influence  in  England. 
He  was  so  successful  that  Hyde  feared 
he  should  have  to  exclude  him  from 
the  coming  Act  of  Oblivion ;  while 
Hyde's  emissaries  frankly  declared 
him,  with  St.  John  and  Pierpoint,  to 
be  "  beasts." 

In  February  1660,  after  the 
changes  consequent  on  Monk's 
arrival  in  London,  the  wheel  turned, 
and  Thurloe  found  himself  in  office 
once  more.  Whereat  a  hum  of 
delight  ran  through  the  ranks  of  the 
British  agents  abroad  j  "  Our  old 
chief  has  come  back  !  "  Thomas  Scot 
had  been  a  sad  change  from  John 
Thurloe.  Hyde  was  prodigiously 
annoyed.  "  I  peeped,"  says  one  of 
Thurloe's  ubiquitous  intelligencers, 
"  into  a  letter  of  Hyde's  in  which 
was  this  passage  among  many  others  : 
'  I  am  extremely  sorry  to  hear  that 
Thurloe  is  again  like  to  get  into  employ- 
ment, who  knows  so  well  the  art  of 
doing  mischief,  and  who  is  I  am 
afraid  without  any  remorse  for  what 
he  has  done. ' ' 

So  Thurloe  returned  to  his  old  work, 
intercepting  Hyde's  letters  and  check- 
mating him  at  point  after  point.  But 
it  was  useless.  Thurloe  was  aware 
from  his  intelligence,  and  not  less 
from  other  indications,  that  the  end 


Mr.  Secretary  Thurloe. 


303 


was  come.  He  wished,  for  instance, 
for  a  seat  in  the  Convention  Parlia- 
ment, and  wrote  to  a  friend  at  Bridg- 
north  about  seeking  election  there. 
The  letter  was  returned  with  much 
grief  and  sorrow  of  heart.  Time  had 
been  when  the  writer  had  so  good  an 
interest  in  Bridgnorth  as  to  prevail 
for  burgesses  "  unworthy  to  be  named 
in  the  same  day  with  Mr.  Thurloe  "  ; 
but  those  days  were  gone. 

Clearly  the  game  was  up.  A  fort- 
night later,  Hyde  received  "very 
frank  overtures  "  from  Thurloe,  which 
seem  to  have  puzzled  him  a  good  deal. 
Thurloe  had  outwitted  him  so  often 
that  Hyde  looked  at  his  letter  with 
almost  comical  timidity.  The  next 
that  we  hear  of  Thurloe  is  the  order 
for  ris  arrest  for  high  treason  on  the 
15th  of  May  1660;  and  a  further 
order  six  weeks  later  allowing  him 
free  liberty  to  pass  to  and  from  the 
Secretary  of  State's  office.  So  Thurloe 
mado  his  peace  with  the  Stuarts,  by 
what  means  we  can  only  guess,  and 
regained  his  liberty.  Two  papers  on 
the  foreign  policy  of  the  Protectorate 
mark  the  transfer  of  his  work  to  his 
successor ;  but  these  contain  only  in- 
formation, advice  being  studiously 
excluded.  It  is  said  that  the  new 
King  pressed  him  hard  to  take  em- 
ploy tnent  in  his  service,  but  without 
success.  He  had  served  a  master  (he 
said  i  whose  rule  was  to  seek  out  men 
for  places  not  places  for  men,  a  phrase 
which  has  not  the  ring  of  genuineness 
and  was  probably  never  uttered  by 
him  His  last  interference,  charac- 
ter^ tically  enough,  was  a  letter  to  the 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons  in 
favour  of  his  old  master,  St.  John  : 
"Tie  truth  is  that  my  Lord  St.  John 
was  so  far  from  being  a  confidant  of 
his  Cromwell's]  that  those  who  loved 
and  valued  him  had  something  to  do 
to  preserve  him  under  that  govern- 
ment,"— a  curious  light  on  the  lasting 
attachment  of  the  former  servant  to 
his  (irst  master. 

Be  retired,  we  are  told,  to  his  seat 


at  Great  Milton  in  Oxfordshire,  com- 
ing up  to  his  chambers  at  Lincoln's 
Inn  during  term-time.  Nevertheless 
he  lost  heavily  by  the  Restoration,  hav- 
ing to  forfeit  a  new  house  which  he  had 
built  on  lands  granted  him  from  the 
confiscated  estate  of  the  see  of  Ely.  It 
is  pathetic  to  read  that  he  had  built  it 
on  the  model  of  St.  John's  seat  at 
Long  Thorp,  probably  enough  to 
realise  some  boyish  ambition  that  he, 
the  poor  parson's  son,  would  one  day 
live  in  a  house  like  the  squire's.  We 
may  therefore  picture  him  as  still 
somewhat  of  a  celebrity  at  Lincoln's 
Inn  in  the  early  days  of  the  Restora- 
tion. Very  strange  his  thoughts  must 
have  been  as  he  watched  the  Irrecon- 
cilables  meeting  their  inevitable  fate. 
Perhaps  with  Evelyn  he  saw  the 
quarters  of  Thomas  Scot,  "  mangled, 
cut,  and  reeking,"  borne  in  baskets 
along  the  Strand ;  perhaps  with  Pepys 
he  saw  Harrison  on  the  scaffold  at 
Tower  Hill.  Henry  Yane  and  Arthur 
Haselrigge,  the  high-spirited  gentle- 
men, Okey  and  Overton,  good  soldiers 
both,  met  with  the  same  fate  as 
Yenner  the  rebellious  wine -cooper. 
These  and  many  others  had  plotted 
against  the  Protector,  and  he  had 
spared  them, — for  this !  Thurloe  lived 
to  see  Dunkirk  sold  to  the  French, 
Dunkirk  which  had  cost  him  such 
mountains  of  work,  had  brought  such 
glory  to  the  Red -Coats  and  such  joy  to 
the  Lord  Protector,  sold,  so  folks  said 
and  believed,  to  satisfy  the  rapacity 
of  the  King's  concubines.  He  lived 
to  see  London  depopulated  by  the 
plague  of  1665  and  desolated  by  the 
fire  of  1666;  and,  worst  of  all,  he 
lived  to  hear  the  roar  of  the  Dutch 
guns  in  the  Medway  in  1667.  Fate 
spared  him  little.  He  died  suddenly 
on  the  21st  of  February  1667-8  in  his 
chambers  at  Lincoln's  Inn  and  lies 
somewhere  in  the  crypt  of  Lincoln's 
Inn  Chapel.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  figures  of  a  great  period ; 
and  no  man  knoweth  his  sepulchre  to 
this  day. 


304 


THE   WITCH   OF   YELL. 


THE  Witch  sat  placidly  sewing  in 
her  doorway  when  I  saw  her  first, 
looking  like  nothing  in  the  world  but 
a  sonsie  Zetlander  of  some  forty  odd 
years,  with  a  fresh  colour  and  a  thick 
coil  of  raven-black  hair  half  hidden 
by  her  headgear,  a  bright  blue  hand- 
kerchief spotted  with  white.  I  gave 
her  good-morning,  and  asked  her  if 
she  would  give  me  a  glass  of  water 
and  a  bannock  of  oat-cake,  as  I  had 
been  walking  for  some  hours  and  was 
both  hungry  and  thirsty. 

"  And  welcome,"  she  said  with  the 
pretty  Shetland  courtesy,  "  if  you 
be  from  Ireland,  mistress." 

"  I  am  Irish,"  I  said  ;  "  but  wouldn't 
you  give  an  oat-cake  to  an  English- 
woman, my  friend  1  No  1"  as  she 
shook  her  head  resolutely.  "And 
how  is  that  V 

"  No  food  of  my  baking  will  pass 
Scots  or  Southron  lips,"  she  said 
harshly.  "Sit  ye  down,"  pointing  to 
her  own  stool;  " ye' re  fair  tired  out, 
mistress." 

I  laughed  faintly  as  I  accepted  the 
seat.  "I  have  been  trying  to  walk 
away  from  myself,"  I  said ;  "  and 
though  I've  tramped  through  a  whole 
forenoon,  I  haven't  done  it  yet." 

"Ah!"  she  said  smiling  a  little, 
only  with  her  lips,  for  her  eyes  kept 
their  steady  sadness.  "  It's  a  far  way 
you  have  to  go,  mistress;  and  you 
must  walk  by  night  'stead  o'  day. 
You're  married,"  glancing  down  at 
my  ungloved  hands.  "  Have  ye  ever 
born  a  child  1  "  I  looked  down  at  my 
black  dress  and  nodded  silently.  The 
woman  drew  in  her  breath  sharply  as 
if  she  were  hurt  at  heart.  "  Ay," 
she  said,  "  so  have  I ;  and  lost  it  too. 
Poor  lass  ! "  and  to  my  intense  aston- 
ishment she  stooped  and  kissed  me 
once  and  again.  "  How  old  was  he  ?  " 
she  went  on  gravely,  taking  no  heed 


of  the  wonder  in  my  face.  "Mine 
was  a  man  grown,  but  yours  must  ha' 
been  but  a  bairn  ;  ye  have  the  look 
of  a  bairn  yourself." 

"Have  I?"  I  said  with  a  dreary 
laugh.  "An  old  bairn,  I'm  afraid. 
My  boy  was  seven  years  old." 

"  Ay  ;  and  your  man's  alive  1  Do 
I  know  your  man  1  And  what  for 
does  he  let  you  come  here  to  dree 
your  weird  alone  1 " 

"  My  man  knows  it's  the  kindest 
thing  he  could  do,"  I  said.  "And  I 
think  perhaps  you  know  him,"  I 
added  a  little  proudly.  "Nearly 
every  one  in  the  islands  knows  Hector 
MacKenneth." 

"  Ay  do  they  ;  he's  a  man  !  "  the 
Witch  said  emphatically,  as  she  came 
out  of  the  cottage  with  a  plate  of  ban- 
nocks and  a  big  cup  of  milk.  "  And 
there's  never  a  soul  in  the  islands  but 
he  has  done  a  kind  turn  or  spoken  a 
kind  word  to, — even  to  me." 

"  Why  <  even  to  you '  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  My  husband  has  a  great  respect  for 
you  ;  he  told  me  you  were  the  wisest 
woman  in  the  islands,  Lief." 

"  Did  he,  now  1  And  I  his  brother's 
wife  ! "  the  Witch  said  musingly. 

I  started.  "Whose  wife?  Not 
Ronald  MacKenneth' s,  Ronald  that 
died  in  England?" 

"That  same  Ronald,"  she  said 
quietly.  "He  died  in  the  South,  I 
know,  and  some  Southron  brought  the 
news  to  MacKenneth  himself.  But 
he  lies  buried  away  in  the  South,  I 
heard  say.  Do  ye  know /where,  Mistress 
MacKenneth  ? " 

"  No  ;  I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  poor 
soul,"  I  said,  pitifully.  "I  wish  I 
could  help  you." 

"My  bonny  Ronald,"  she  said, 
looking  out  to  the  blue  tumbling 
waves  of  the  Sound,  her  eyes  grave 
and  sad  and  her  voice  very  low.  "  It's 


The   Witch  of  Yell 


305 


little  ye  thought  of  me,  but  on  the 
day  we  were  handFasted  and  the  day  ye 
lay  a-dying."  Then  she  bent  down  a 
little  and  looked  sharply  into  my  face. 

"  Did  ever  any  one  in  the  islands 
say  to  ye  that  we  two  were  not  man 
and  wife?  Did  ever  MacKenneth 
himself  ? " 

"  Never  MacKenneth,"  I  said  hon- 
estly. 

"Others  have,  though,"  she  looked 
sharply  at  me  again ;  then  caught  my 
hand  in  hers,  and  dragged  me  up  from 
my  seat.  "  Come  wi'  me,  you  wife  of 
the  MacKenneth,  and  I'll  show  you 
what  handfasting  means  to  a  wo- 
man." 

I  drew  my  cloak  round  me  with  my 
free  hand,  and  we  went  slowly  to- 
gether over  the  scattered  rocks  and 
sand,  and  down  a  little  grassy  slope, 
till  we  stood  in  front  of  an  upright 
stone  with  a  round  hole  in  its  centre. 

"There,"  said  the  Witch,  still  hold- 
ing my  hand  fast  in  hers,  "there's 
where  we  were  married,  my  man  and 
I.  See  ye  here,  Eleanor  MacKenneth, 
do  you  love  your  man,  or  liked  ye  your 
first  lad  best?" 

I  cried  in  my  heart  to  the  dead-and- 
gone  Oscar  to  forgive  me,  and  then  I 
looked  the  woman  fairly  in  the  eyes, 
and  answered  her:  "I  love  MacKen- 
neth best." 

"  Where  were  ye  married  1  In 
kirk,  of  course?" 

"In  kirk,  yes.  We  were  married 
in  a  London  church,"  I  said,  "the 
church  of  St.  Stephen." 

"  Kirk-Stephen,  ay  ?  Well,  this  is 
Kirk-Odin,  where  thousands  have  been 
made  man  and  wife  in  their  day.  Go 
you  nearer  to  the  stone,  wife  of  Mac- 
Kenneth,  and  you  shall  be  married 
there  too,  if  you're  110'  afraid  !  " 

"  Do  I  look  afraid  1  "  I  said  with  a 
smile ;  and  she  smiled  back  at  me. 

"Put  your  hand — closed,  so — 
through  the  hole  in  the  stone."  I 
obeyed  with  some  difficulty,  for  the 
hole  was  unevenly  cut,  and  its  edges 
were  jagged.  "  Now,"  said  the  Witch, 
"  open  your  hand,  and  hold  it  so,  and 
now  say  after  me — " 

No.  418. — VOL.  LXX. 


I  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
repeated  after  her.  "  In  the  name  of 
the  One-Eyed,  the  name  of  Odin,  I  hold 
thee  and  have  thee  through  this  life, 
and  that  life,  and  all  lives  to  follow. 
I  call  thee  and  keep  thee,  my  hand  for 
the  witness,  my  lips  for  thy  kissing, 
my  strength  for  thy  weakness,  my 
tears  for  thy  sorrow,  my  breast  for  thy 
head  when  thou  boune  thee  to  sleeping, 
my  life  for  thy  calling — "  Then  she 
stopped  and  looked  vaguely  at  me  and 
beyond  me,  and  I  finished  the  oath 
with  words  that  rose  in  my  mind 
though  I  had  never  heard  them  before  : 
"  My  life  for  thy  calling,  my  death  for 
thy  living.  Hear,  Thor,  and  hear,  Odin, 
and  Hector  MacKenneth."  Then  I 
drew  my  hand  out  from  the  hole,  and 
turned  to  the  Witch ;  but  the  next 
minute  I  saw  that  her  thoughts  were 
not  with  me  or  with  this  ^material 
world  at  all,  and  I  went  softly  away, 
leaving  her  standing  with  her  back  to 
the  sea  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  great 
stone,  listening,  listening  intently  and 
vainly  with  her  hand  against  her 
ear. 

So  I  saw  her  the  next  time  I  passed 
her  neat  cottage.  She  had  been 
gathering  some  herbs,  and  now  she 
stood  listening  again,  with  the  herbs 
held  tightly  to  her  breast.  This  time 
I  stopped  to  speak  to  her.  "  Lief 
MacKenneth,"  I  said  quietly,  "are  you 
not  going  to  give  your  sister  the 
morn's  greeting  ?  " 

She  gave  me  a  quick,  wild,  wonder- 
ing look,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
sudden  sunshine.  "  God  bless  you  for 
the  MacKenneth,"  she  said  earnestly, 
"and  for  the  sisterhood.  But  you 
must  not  stop  with  me  to-day." 

"  Why  ? "  I  said.  "  We  are  not  going 
to  have  a  storm,  Lief." 

"  Are  we  no  1 "  she  laughed. 
"Woman  dear,  you're  no  Zetlander. 
There'll  be  a  storm  on  us  inside  of  an 
hour,  and  a  black  wind  strong  enough 
to  blow  the  heart  out  o'  your  breast, 
or—" 

"  Or  the  dead  out  of  their  graves," 
I  said  with  meaning,  and  her  face 
lighted  up  again. 


.306 


The   Witch  of  Yell. 


"Maybe,"  she  muttered,  "maybe. 
Now  go  home,  you  wife  of  MacKenneth, 
and  dream  o'  your  man,  and  the  bairns 
to  be.  Oh,  ay,"  as  I  drew  back  flush- 
ing hotly.  "  I'm  not  a  witch  for 
nothing,  and  I  can  see  their  shadows 
round  you,  Eleanor  MacKenneth,  two, 
three,  and  four.  Now," — she  turned 
and  caught  my  hands  in  hers  and 
kissed  me  on  lips  and  cheek  and  fore- 
head with  eager  close  kisses.  "  There 
now,  go  home,  Eleanor  woman,  and 
shut  the  storm  out.  When  do  you 
go  to  your  own  home, — soon  1 " 

"  Next  week,"  I  answered.  "  I  told 
Hector  to  expect  me  on  Thursday." 

"  Ay ;  and  a  fine  calm  journey  to 
you,  dear  heart.  But  I'll  see  you 
again.  Go  now,  and  good-bye,  woman 
dear." 

I  heard  very  little  of  the  storm  that 
night,  for  I  slept  as  soundly  as  a 
child ;  and  when  towards  morning  I 
began  to  dream,  my  dreams  where 
pleasant  enough,  though  they  were  all 
of  Lief.  The  last  dream  of  all  was 
the  one  which  made  the  deepest  im- 
pression on  me.  It  was  of  Lief  again, 


but  as  I  had  never  seen  her.  Young, 
and  with  a  wonderful  shy  gladness  in 
her  eyes,  she  stood  at  the  door  of  her 
cottage  in  the  driving  rain  with  her 
hands  fast  in  the  hands  of  a  man  with 
fair  hair  and  bold  blue  eyes,  a  younger 
edition  of  my  own  husband.  I  saw 
them  kiss  each  other,  nd  then  I 
woke. 

"  Ronald  has  come  back  to  her,"  I 
said  to  myself  as  I  rubbed  my  drowsy 
eyes ;  and  somehow  I  was  not  in  the 
least  surprised  or  grieved  when  mine 
hostess  came  in  later  on  in  the  morn- 
ing to  tell  me  that  the  storm  had 
wrecked  half  a  score  of  houses,  and 
had  blown  the  Witch's  cabin  out  to 
sea.  Nothing  was  ever  heard  of  the 
Witch  herself  ;  but  after  a  little  while 
my  husband  and  I  had  a  pine-wood 
cross  put  up  close  to  the  Stone  of  Odin, 
and  on  it  we  wrote  the  two  names, 
Lief  and  Ronald.  And  in  the  small 
church  of  Kirk-Harold,  where  Lief 
was  christened,  we  put  up  a  tablet  to 
the  glory  of  God  and  in  loving  memory 
of  Ronald  MacKenneth  and  Lief  his 
wife. 


307 


WILLIAM  COTTON  OSWELL. 

(AN  ADDRESS  DELIVERED  AT  RUGBY  SCHOOL,  OX  JUNE  24lH,  1894.) 


I  HOPE  you  boys  in  this  last  decade 
of  the  century  are  as  great  hero- 
worshippers  as  we  wer.e  in  the  fourth. 
Speoch-day,  1834,  was  the  first  I  was 
at,  as  I  had  come  as  a  new  boy  in 
February  of  that  year,  just  sixty  years 
ago.  It  was  held  at  Easter  then,  in 
the  middle  of  the  long  half-year,  which 
lastod  for  five  months  with  only  a 
break  of  three  days.  That  year  1834 
was  a  famous  one  for  Rugby.  At 
Oxford  Arthur  Stanley  had  got.  a 
Balliol,  and  at  Cambridge  Dean 
Yaughan  a  Trinity  scholarship,  while 
still  sixth-form  boys,  and  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  school  was  going  up  by 
leaps  and  bounds  at  the  universities 
and  in  the  country.  But  though  we 
smaJl  boys  were  proud  in  a  way  of 
Star  ley  and  Yaughan,  of  Clough  and 
Bur  oidge,  and  other  scholars  and 
poets,  we  looked  on  them  more  as 
providential  providers  of  extra  half- 
holidays  than  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
hero-worship.  This  we  reserved  for 
the  kings  of  the  Close,  round  whom 
clusi  ered  legends  of  personal  encounters 
with  drovers  at  the  monthly  cattle- 
fairs  (which  were  then  held  in  High 
Street,  and  came  right  up  to  the  school 
gates,  tempting  curious  yokels  to  tres- 
pass on  the  sacred  precincts),  or  the 
nav^  ies  who  were  laying  down  the  first 
line  of  the  London  and  North- Western 
Railway,  or  the  gamekeepers  of  a 
neighbouring  squire  with  whom  the 
school  was  in  a  state  of  open  war  over 
the  i  ight  of  fishing  in  the  Avon. 

I  did  not  myself  share  this  rather 
indiscriminate  enthusiasm ;  for  the 
kings  of  the  Close  were,  as  a  rule,  a 
rough  and  hard  set  of  taskmasters, 
who  fagged  us  for  whole  afternoons, 
and  were  much  too  ready  with  the 
cane.  But  for  this  very  reason  I  had 
all  the  more  to  bestow  on  the  one  who, 


to  my  boyish  imagination,  stood  out 
from  the  rest  as  Hector  from  the  ruck 
of  the  Trojan  princes  ;  and  this  hero 
was  William  Cotton  Oswell,  whose 
portrait  took  its  honoured  place  yester- 
day on  the  walls  of  our  Rugby  Yal- 
halla.  It  was  not  from  any  personal 
knowledge  of  or  contact  with  him, 
for  we  were  at  different  boarding- 
houses  and  at  opposite  ends  of  the 
school ;  and  I  doubt  whether  he  ever 
spoke  to  me  in  his  life,  though  I  often 
shared  his  kindly  nod  and  smile  when 
we  met  in  the  Close  or  quadrangle.  It 
was  the  rare  mixture  of  kindliness 
and  gentleness  with  marvellous 
strength,  activity,  and  fearlessness, 
which  made  him  facile  2yrinceps  among 
his  contemporaries.  I  don't  believe 
he  ever  struck  a  small  boy  here,  or 
even  spoke  to  one,  in  anger. 

And  so  there  was  no  drawback  to 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  one 
watched  him  leading  a  charge  at  foot- 
ball, or  bowling  in  a  Big-Side  match, 
or  jumping  two  or  three  pegs  higher 
on  the  gallows  than  any  other  boy. 
He  cleared  eighteen  feet  nine  inches  of 
water  in  Clifton  brook,  which  means,  as 
you  know,  at  least  twenty-one  feet 
from  take-off  to  landing.  No  doubt 
his  good  looks  added  to  the  fascination. 
You  can  see  from  the  portrait  what 
a  noble  face  his  must  have  been  even 
in  boyhood,  and  his  figure  was  quite 
as  striking.  He  stood  six  feet  in  his 
stockings  when  he  left  school  at  eight- 
een, but  did  not  look  his  height  r*c4i 
the  perfection  of  his  figure  ;  broad  in 
shoulder,  thin  in  flank,  and  so  well 
developed  that  he  was  called  "the 
Muscleman."  I  must  not  dwell  on  that 
time,  so  will  give  you  one  instance 
only  of  his  early  prowess  in  athletics. 
I  don't  know  what  the  record  has 
been  in  late  years,  but  in  my  time 

x  2 


308 


William  Cotton  Oswell. 


Parr  was  the  only  man  who  was  ever 
known  to  have  thrown  a  cricket-ball  a 
hundred  yards  both  ways.  No  record 
was  kept  here,  but  this  I  saw  Oswell 
do.  From  a  group  of  boys  at  a  wicket 
on  Little-Side  ground,  as  it  then  was, 
he  threw  a  cricket-ball,  over  as  I 
believe,  or  at  any  rate  through,  the 
great  elms  (which  were  then  standing 
in  a  close  row  at  right  angles  to  the 
school  buildings)  into  the  Doctor's 
garden,  for  there  it  was  picked  up. 
Measure  it  how  you  will,  that  throw 
must  have  been  considerably  over  a 
hundred  yards. 

He  left  a  great  blank  in  the  school 
life  in  1836.  We  heard  he  had  gone 
to  Haileybury  for  a  year  on  his  way 
to  India,  where  he  had  got  an  appoint- 
ment as  writer.  In  those  days  there 
was  no  telegraph,  no  cheap  post,  no 
overland  passage,  and  no  penny 
papers  to  spread  every  scrap  of  news, 
true  or  false,  over  the  whole  kingdom. 
No  one  thought  of  a  pleasure  trip  to 
India  for  a  month  or  two  in  the  winter 
to  look  up  friends  or  young  relations, 
for  the  voyage  round  the  Cape  even  in 
the  Company's  finest  ships  took  from 
three  to  four  months.  The  two  worlds 
were  wide  apart,  and  the  young  subal- 
tern or  civilian  was  lucky  who  man- 
aged to  get  a  run  home  once  in  ten 
years.  So  a  curtain  fell  between 
Oswell  and  his  old  schoolfellows, 
which  was  not  lifted,  for  me  at  any 
rate,  for  more  than  a  generation.  Now 
and  again,  at  long  intervals,  thinking 
over  schooldays,  his  figure  would  rise 
up  as  attractive  as  ever,  and  I  would 
wonder  what  had  become  of  him,  and 
that  no  heroic  rumour  of  him  had 
floated  back  from  the  other  side  of  the 
world. 

You  may  fancy,  then,  the  shock  of 
joy  which  I  felt  when  the  lift  came 
at  last.  I,  like  every  one  else,  had 
rushed  to  get  Livingstone's  first  book 
on  South  Africa,  and  was  deep  in  the 
second  chapter,  in  which  he  details 
the  drought  at  his  station,  the  threats 
of  the  Boers,  and  the  rumours  of  a 
lake  and  rivers  and  a  rich  country  to 
the  north  that  had  determined  him  to 


attempt  the  crossing  of  the  Kalahari 
desert  which  lay  between,  when  1 
came  on  this  passage  :  "  I  communi- 
cated my  intention  to  an  African 
traveller,  Colonel  Steele,  and  he  made 
it  known  to  another  gentleman,  a  Mr. 
Oswell.  He  undertook  to  defray  the 
entire  expense  of  guides,  and  fully 
executed  his  generous  intention." 
Surely,  thought  I,  that  must  be  "  the 
Muscleman," or  "handsome  Oswell," as 
we  used  sometimes  to  call  him  ;  that's 
just  what  he  would  have  done.  I  was 
not  long  in  doubt ;  it  was  my  boyhood's 
hero  sure  enough.  "  Oswell  was  one 
of  Arnold's  Rugby  boys,"  Livingstone 
wrote  ;  "  one  could  see  his  training 
in  always  doing  what  was  brave,  and 
true,  and  right."  Now  let  us  see  how 
it  was  that  he  managed  to  turn  up  in 
Africa  at  this  critical  moment. 

In  India  he  spent  ten  years,  rising 
rapidly  to  the  post  of  collector  and 
judge.  His  station  was  thirty  miles 
from  the  nearest  English  doctor,  so  he 
added  the  study  of  medicine  to  his 
regular  work.  This  was  heavy  enough, 
but  did  not  hinder  him  from  joining 
any  young  Englishman  who  came  to 
hunt.  In  one  of  these  hunts  he  saved 
the  life  of  the  then  Lord  Gifford, 
shooting  a  tiger  which  his  lordship, 
who  was  short-sighted,  had  not  no- 
ticed, and  which  was  in  the  act  of 
springing.  On  another  of  these  ex- 
cursions the  party  encamped  on  ground 
full  of  malaria,  and  were  struck  with 
jungle  fever,  of  which  several  died. 
Oswell,  thanks  to  his  splendid  consti- 
tution, struggled  through,  after  being 
insensible  for  several  days.  No  sooner 
had  he  recovered  consciousness  than 
he  set  to  work  on  a  pile  of  his  district 
papers  —  complaints  from  villages, 
reports  of  gang-robberies,  &c. — with  a 
wet  towel  round  his  head.  He  cleared 
his  table  at  the  cost  of  a  dangerous 
relapse,  the  effects  of  which  he  could 
not  shake  off  ;  so  he  was  sent  to  the 
Cape  on  sick-leave,  those  who  saw  him 
embark  doubting  if  he  would  ever 
reach  the  Cape  alive. 

Once  landed,  however,  the  dry  warm 
air  revived  him,  and  in  a  few  months 


William  Cotton  Oswell. 


309 


he  was  away  to  the  north,  exploring 
and  elephant-shooting,  in  which  pur- 
suits he  came  across  Dr.  Moffat,  the 
gre£,t  missionary,  Livingstone's  father- 
in-law,  and  Captain  -Steele,  the  hunter 
of  big  game,  who  directed  him  to 
Livingstone's  station,  Kolabeng,  two 
hundred  miles  to  the  north  on  the 
borders  of  the  Kalahari  desert.  He 
had  with  him  a  brother  sportsman, 
Mr.  Murray,  and  they  at  once  joined 
eagerly  in  Livingstone's  project  to  at- 
tempt to  cross  the  Kalahari  desert. 
"Mr.  Oswell,"  to  repeat  his  words, 
"  at  once  undertook  to  defray  the  whole 
cost  of  guides,  and  fully  executed  his 
generous  intention."  They  started  on 
the  1st  of  June  1849,  and  reached 
Lake  Ngami  in  two  months,  on  the 
1st  of  August,  the  first  white  men 
who  had  ever  seen  it.  The  story  of 
their  journey  has  been  told  both  by 
Livingstone  in  his  first  book,  and  by 
Oswell  in  the  chapter  he  wrote  for  the 
Badminton  Volume  on  BIG  GAME 
SHOOTING,  published  after  his  death  in 
1893.  I  know  no  reading  of  more 
absorbing  interest,  but  you  should  all 
read  it  for  yourselves.  And  when 
yon  are  reading,  remember  that  the 
whole  of  Central  Africa  was  a  blank 
the  a  on  our  school  atlases,  while  every 
lake  and  river  and  mountain  range  is 
now  laid  down,  right  away  to  the 
Red  Sea,  the  South  Atlantic,  and  the 
Mediterranean.  Here  I  can  only  give 
you  the  estimate  that  Livingstone 
formed  of  his  companion  before  they 
got  back  to  Kolabeng.  "When  my 
men  wished  to  flatter  me,"  he  wrote, 
"  they  would  say,  '  If  you  were  not  a 
missionary  you  would  be  just  like 
Oswell ;  you  would  not  hunt  with 
dogs.'  They  declare  he  is  the  greatest 
hunter  that  ever  came  into  the  coun- 
try." His  method  was  to  get  within 
twenty  or  thirty  yards  of  his  game — 
lion,  elephant,  or  rhinoceros — whereas 
most  men  fired  at  fifty  or  sixty.  Of 
course  this  doubled  the  danger  while 
it  made  surer  work,  and  his  marvellous 
escapes  were  frequent.  One  I  will 
content  myself  with  on  this  journey, 
an  encounter  with  a  rhinoceros,  which 


he  killed  at  last,  but  which  had  tossed 
him  and  torn  the  scalp  of  his  head 
almost  off.  Murray  went  to  look  for 
him,  and  told  Livingstone,  "  I  found 
that  beggar  Oswell  sitting  under  a 
bush  and  holding  on  his  head."  He 
had  in  fact  adjusted  his  scalp,  and  the 
blood  was  streaming  through  his  fin- 
gers. Let  me  here  cite  another  wit- 
ness or  two  as  to  his  character  as  a 
hunter.  Mr.  Horace  Waller,  of  the 
Oxford  Mission,  writes  :  "  Livingstone, 
who  knew  no  fear  himself,  spoke  of 
Oswell's  desperate  courage  in  hunting 
as  quite  wonderful ;  not  but  what  he 
suffered  from  it  to  the  day  of  his 
death,  the  result  of  an  engagement 
with  a  rhinoceros.  Oswell  would,  for 
instance,  ride  up  alongside  of  a  hyaena, 
and,  unloosing  his  stirrup  leather  while 
at  full  gallop,  brain  the  beast  with 
the  heavy  stirrup."  Again,  Sir  Samuel 
Baker  says  :  "  His  extreme  gentleness, 
utter  recklessness  of  danger,  and  com- 
plete unselfishness,  made  him  friends 
everywhere,  but  attracted  the  native 
mind  to  a  degree  of  adoration.  He 
was  the  Nimrod  of  South  Africa, 
without  a  rival  and  without  an  enemy, 
the  greatest  hunter  ever  known  in 
modern  times,  the  truest  friend  and 
most  thorough  example  of  an  English 
gentleman." 

In  April  1851  Livingstone  started 
again  from  Kolabeng,  this  time  with 
his  wife  and  children,  on  the  invita- 
tion of  Sebituane,  the  great  chief  of 
the  Makololo,  who  offered  him  a 
settlement  wherever  he  might  choose. 
Oswell  was  again  with  him,  and  went 
ahead  of  the  wagons  to  dig  wells  and 
provide  water;  but  even  with  this 
precaution  the  party,  which  included 
Mrs.  Livingstone  and  the  children, 
were  at  one  point  four  days  without  it, 
and  nearly  perishing.  Leaving  Mrs. 
Livingstone  and  the  children  as  the 
guests  of  Sebituane,  Livingstone  and 
Oswell  explored  north  and  east,  and 
discovered  the  Zambesi  River,  and  the 
great  Victoria  Falls  from  which  it  be- 
comes navigable  for  ships  to  the  Indian 
Ocean.  For  this  he  was  voted  the 
gold  medal  of  the  French  Geographi- 


310 


William  Cotton  Oswell. 


cal  Society.  On  their  return  Sebituane 
was  attacked  by  inflammation  of  the 
lungs,  and  died  in  a  few  days.  His 
death  altered  all  Livingstone's  plans, 
and  probably  the  subsequent  history 
of  the  continent  ;  for  now  Living- 
stone resolved  to  send  his  family  home, 
and  return  alone  the  next  year  to 

•  find  a  way  either  to  the  west  or  east 
coast.      He   had   already    drawn   his 
whole  salary  for   1852   and  half  thai 
for  1853,  and  so  would  have  been  quite 
unable  to  start  on  the  career  which 
opened  Africa  and  gained  him  a  tomb 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  but  for  Oswell ; 
but     he     proved     the     friend      who 
"sticketh  closer  than  a  brother."    He 
accompanied  them  to  Cape  Town,  and 
in    Livingstone's    words    "  made    all 
comfortable,"  giving  the  children  who 
were  in  rags  a  new  outfit  which  cost 
£200,    and   enabling    Livingstone    to 
start  once  more  for  the  north.     He 
answered  all  remonstrances  by  laugh- 
ingly protesting  that  it  all  came  from 
ivory,  and  that  the  Doctor  and   his 
wife  had  as  good  a  right  as  he  to  the 
money  drawn  from  the  preserves  on 
their  estates. 

Before  leaving  his  African  career  I 
must  give  shortly  a  characteristic 
story  which  was  told  incidentally  by 
him  in  "  South  Africa  Fifty  Years  ago," 
and  unconsciously,  as  though  he  were 

•  quite  unaware  of  what  I  cannot  but  call 
its  beauty  and  pathos.     It  is  of  his 
relations  with  an  Africander  who  bore 
the  (to  us  rather  comic)  name  of  John 
Thomas,  one  of  the  men  he  hired  at 
the  Cape  to  accompany  him  and  Living- 
stone on  their  first  expedition.     The 
contract  was  that  these  men  should  be 
bound  to  go  as  far  as  the  Lake  ISTgami, 
but  no  farther.     When  therefore  Os- 
well and  Livingstone  determined  to  go 
on  to  the  north,  they  called  the  men 
together  and  told  them  they  need  not 
go  any  farther,  but  could  choose  be- 
tween   waiting    for    their   return    or 
accompanying  them.    At  first  the  men 
hesitated,  and  seemed  likely  to  refuse 
to  go  farther,  when  Bono  Johnny  (as 
he  was  called  by  this  time)  jumped  up, 
and  in  Dutch,  which  he  spoke  when 


excited,  said,  "  What  you  eat  I  can 
eat,  where  you  sleep  I  can  sleep,  where 
you  go  I  will  go  ;  I  will  come  with 
you."  The  others  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  and  then  chorused,  "  We 
will  go."  "Do  you  think  after  that," 
Oswell  writes,  "it  was  much  matter 
to  us  whether  our  brother  was  black 
or  white  ?  "  Johnny  stayed  with  him 
through  four  years,  at  the  end  of 
which  Oswell  wrote  of  him,  "as  a 
grand  specimen  of  manhood,  good 
nature,  faithfulness,  and  cheerful  en- 
durance I  have  never  met  his  equal, 
white  or  black."  Johnny  at  the  last 
moment  begged  his  master  to  take 
him  over  to  see  England,  which  he  did, 
and  got  him  a  temporary  place  as  coach- 
man to  his  brother,  a  country  parson. 
A  few  weeks  later  Oswell  met  Johnny 
in  the  village  with  the  cook  on  one 
arm  and  the  lady's  maid  on  the  other, 
and  found  that  they  were  going  on 
with  his  education  which  Oswell  had 
begun  in  the  bush,  the  cook  under- 
taking his  reading  and  the  lady's 
maid  his  writing.  At  the  end  of  six 
months  Johnny  had  to  return  to 
Africa,  and  Oswell,  who  had  volun- 
teered on  the  outbreak  of  war  with 
Russia,  lost  sight  of  him.  It  was 
eighteen  months  before  they  met  again. 
Oswell  was  carrying  secret  service 
money  for  Government  in  the  East, 
and  came  across  the  camp  of  the  Six- 
tieth Rifles.  He  was  talking  to  an  offi- 
cer from  horseback,  when  he  felt  a.  hand 
laid  on  his  off-stirrup,  and  looking 
round  found  Johnny  there,  who  had 
become  messman  to  the  regiment  and 
was  in  high  favour.  He  jumped  down, 
and  they  had  a  long  African  talk,  and 
from  that  time  till  Johnny's  death 
Oswell  kept  his  eye  on  him,  and  got 
him  at  last  a  place  as  butler  to  a  friend 
in  England,  where,  as  everywhere  else, 
he  made  himself  indispensable  by 
cheerful  and  faithful  service.  There 
Johnny  was  struck  by  a  fatal  illness, 
and  died  in  a  few  hours.  "  I  heard 
of  his  illness,"  Oswell  writes,  "too 
late  to  see  him  on  earth ;  but  I  trust 
master  and  man  may  yet  meet  as 
brothers  in  heaven." 


William  Gotten  Oswell. 


311 


The  modesty  and  self-depreciation 
of  his  character  were  strong  to  the 
end.  Looking  back  at  his  relations 
with  Livingstone,  he  writes  in  "  South 
Africa  Fifty  Years  ago  "  :  "He  could 
talk  to  the  Kaffir  ears  and  hearts,  we 
only  to  their  stomachs ;  but  I  would 
fain  believe  his  grand  work  was  made  a 
little  smoother  by  our  guns."  I  should 
rather  think  it  was.  Thus,  when  a  tribe 
in  Livingstone's  district  was  on  the 
point  of  starvation  from  the  long 
drought,  and  the  people  reduced  to 
mero  walking  skeletons,  he  and  Mur- 
ray took  more  than  six  hundred  men, 
won  en,  and  children  with  them,  fed 
them  for  several  months  till  they  were 
"  all  fat  and  shining,"  and  sent  them 
back  with  a  store  of  dried  meat  enough 
to  kst  for  months,  without  one  miss- 
ing, sick,  or  feeble. 

How  one  wishes  that  England  were 
still  represented  by  Oswells  in  South 
and  Central  Africa  !  Happily  Rugby 
again  has  sent  one  such  in  Mr.  Selous, 
who  has  sustained  the  high  type  set 
by  C 'swell  in  early  days.  But  I  much 
question  whether  the  ordinary  type 
of  African  sportsman  of  to-day  will 
benefit  Africa,  or  raise  the  native 
enthusiasm  or  admiration  for  English- 
men. A  few  days  ago  I  was  reading 
a  review  of  the  last  book  published 
by  two  of  them  on  African  sport. 
They  would  seem  to  have  taken  with 
then  a  staff  of  trained  servants,  and 
horses  and  donkeys  loaded  with  sup- 
plies sufficient  to  have  made  the  ad- 
venture at  any  rate  quite  comfortable. 
Small  blame  to  them  for  that,  you  will 
say,  if  they  could  afford  it  \  and  I 
agree.  But  what  shall  we  say  as  to 
theiv  method  of  shooting  lions?  It 
seems  to  have  been  to  tether  an  un- 
fortunate donkey  in  a  clearing,  and 
leave  him  there  for  hours  till  a  lion 
sprang  on  the  poor  shuddering  jackass 
and  had  taken  a  good  suck  at  his 
blood,  and  then  to  shoot  him  from  a 
neighbouring  place  of  safety.  Well,  we 
will  say  at  any  rate  that  Oswell  would 
prol  ably  havens  soon  thought  of  tether- 
ing his  black  brother  Bono  Johnny  for 
bait  to  a  lion  as  a  poor  jackass. 


To  go  back  to  our  story.  After 
sending  off  Mrs.  Livingstone  and  the 
children,  Oswell  followed  to  England 
for  family  reasons,  and  was  at  home 
when  the  Crimean  War  broke  out 
a  year  later.  He  at  once  volun- 
teered, as  I  have  already  told  you, 
went  out  to  Constantinople,  and  was 
employed  by  Lord  Raglan  to  carry 
despatches  and  secret  service  money 
to  Sir  Lintorn  Simmons  at  Shumla, 
and  on  other  missions.  On  the  fall 
of  Sebastopol  he  returned  to  England, 
and  at  once,  without  waiting  for  the 
shower  of  titles  and  decorations  which 
came  when  peace  was  made,  the  old 
longing  for  wandering  and  adventure 
being  still  strong,  sailed  for  South 
America,  in  November  1855.  On 
board  the  mail-steamer  he  met  his 
future  wife,  who  was  going  out  to  her 
sister,  Lady  Lees,  the  wife  of  the 
Chief  Justice  of  the  Bahamas.  After 
wandering  through  Chili,  the  West 
Indies,  and  the  United  States,  he 
came  home,  renewed  his  acquaintance 
with  Miss  Agnes  Rivaz,  who  had  also 
returned,  and  they  were  married. 
From  that  time  he  settled  down  to 
the  quiet  life  of  an  English  country 
gentleman,  built  himself  a  house  at 
Groombridge,  near  Tunbridge  Wells, 
which  he  filled  with  his  African 
trophies,  and  found  a  sphere  for  his 
energy  in  his  parish  and  neighbour- 
hood. Every  neighbour  who  needed 
him  became  his  special  care.  To  the 
poor  he  was  not  a  mere  benefactor, 
but  each  man's  and  woman's  and 
child's  personal  friend.  His  Indian 
experience  here  came  into  play.  Every 
little  ailment  or  accident  was  a  cer- 
tain summons  to  "  the  Master,"  as  he 
was  generally  called  ;  and  if  remon- 
strated with  he  would  smile  and  say, 
"there  was  something  in  being  able 
to  send  for  a  doctor  whom  they  had 
not  to  pay."  He  was  an  enthusiastic 
gardener,  and  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood was  stocked  with  plants  and 
flowers  from  Hillside.  His  great 
strength  remained  to  the  end.  One 
day  calling  at  an  old  friend's  he  found 
him  very  ill,  and  his  wife  and  son 


312 


William  Cotton  Oswell. 


consulting  how  he  could  be  moved. 
In  a  moment  he  was  in  Oswell' s  arms, 
carried  and  placed  gently  in  the  place 
they  had  prepared  for  him.  The  Paris 
Geographical  Society,  as  has  been  said, 
had  sent  him  their  gold  medal,  and 
he  was  made  a  Fellow  of  the  English 
Society;  but,  writes  Francis  Galton, 
another  African  explorer  and  admirer 
of  Oswell,  "  He  was  too  shy  and 
modest,  and  could  not  be  induced  to 
take  that  prominent  share  in  those 
stirring  times  of  the  Geographical 
Society  which  was  his  right,  and 
which  he  was  often  urged  to  take." 
In  the  same  way,  though  an  excellent 
recounter  to  friends  of  his  exploring 
and  sporting  experiences,  he  steadily 
resisted  the  offers  of  publishers  and 
the  persuasion  of  friends  to  take  the 
public  into  his  confidence  in  print. 

It  was  only  in  the  last  year  of  his  life 
that  he  was  induced  to  put  pen  to  paper 
as  to  his  hunting  and  exploring  work. 
Happily  the  editor  of  the  Badminton 
Library  persuaded  him  to  write  in  the 
volume  on  BIG  GAME  SHOOTING.     The 
result   was   the  chapters    on  "  South 
Africa    Fifty    Years   ago"    in   that 
volume,  which  in  my  judgment  stand 
quite  foremost  in  our  sporting  litera- 
ture.    Read   them,    and,    while    the 
interest  is  absorbing,  you  will  not  find 
•a  trace  of  that  delight  in  and  relish 
for  mere  slaughter  which  is  so  offen- 
sive in  most  books  of  sport.     Here  is 
a  short  characteristic  quotation,  which 
will  give  you  the  mood  in  which  the 
mighty  hunter  looked  back  on  his  own 
exploits.      "  I  am   sorry  now  for  all 
the  fine  old  beasts  I  have  killed  :  but 
I  was  young  then  ;  there   was  excite- 
ment   in     the    work ;    I    had   large 
numbers  of  men  to  feed,   and  every 
animal  except  three  elephants  was  eaten 
by  man,  and  so  put  to  good  use. l     I 

1  These  three  elephants,  which  he  regrets 
were  not  eaten  by  man,  were  shot  by  him  away 
from  camp  in  order  to  send  the  valuable  ivory 
to  an  Englishman  who  was  shooting  in  the 
neighbourhood,  to  buy  a  supply  of  lead,  Oswell 
having  run  short,  and  the  nearest  store  at 


filled  their  stomachs,  and  thus  in  some 
mysterious  way,  as  they  assured  me, 
made  their  hearts  white." 

On  the  other  hand,  the  zest  for  the 
old  desert  life  of  his  early  manhood 
comes  back  even  as  he  writes  :  "There 
is  a  fascination  to  me  in  the  remem- 
brance of  the  free  life,  the  self-depend- 
ence, the  feeling  as  you  lay  under 
your  kaross  that  you  were  looking  at 
the  stars  from  a  point  on  the  earth 
whence  no  other  European  eye  had 
ever  seen  them ;  these  are  with  me 
still,  and  were  I  not  a  married  man, 
with  children  and  grandchildren,  I 
believe  I  should  head  back  to  Africa 
again  and  end  my  days  in  the  open 
air.  Take  the  word  of  one  who  has 
tried  both  ;  there  is  a  charm  in  the 
wild  life;  the  ever-increasing  never- 
satisfied  needs  of  the  tame  my  soul 
cannot  away  with." 

I  could  call  a  dozen  well-known 
witnesses  to  confirm  everything  I  have 
said  as  to  the  charm  of  a  character 
to  which  Lamartine's  saying,  "Rien 
n'est  si  doux  que  ce  qui  est  fort," 
applies  more  truly  than  to  any  one  I 
can  remember.  I  will  cite  one  only 
whose  testimony  will,  I  know,  be  of 
special  interest  here,  as  it  comes  from 
an  intimate  friend  of  Oswell,  but  not 
a  Rugbeian,  Lord  Rendel.  "  He 
carried,  as  well  as  deepened,  the  stamp 
of  Rugby  at  its  best ;  fearless  of  soul 
and  body,  yet  tender,  kindly,  gay ; 
wise  with  a  large  experience,  but 
utterly  unworldly.  I  would,  as  an 
Etonian,  give  all  the  mere  gentlemen 
Eton  could  breed  for  a  handful  of  such 
men  as  Oswell.  Manliness  without 
coarseness,  polish  without  complacency, 
nobility  without  caste  !  May  Rugby 
keep  the  mould,  and  multiply  the 
type  !  "  Amen  ! 

THOMAS  HUGHES. 

which  he  could^buy  being  fourteen  hundred 
miles  away  to  the  south.  Mr.  Webb,  of 
Newstead  Abbey,  the  sportsman  in  question, 
sent  the  ivory  back  to  Oswell  with  a  liberal 
gift  of  bars  of  lead,  and  they  became  intimate 
friends. 


313 


THE   FRENCH    REPUBLIC  AND  HER  NEW  ALLIES. 


"  WHEN  you  live  near  a  volcano," 
said  Bismarck  once  in  reference  to 
France,  "  you  must  always  look  out 
for  i;he  smoke."  That  was  a  felicitous 
remark,  made  by  one  who  had  spent 
the  greater  part  of  a  long  and  busy 
life  in  watching  the  drift  of  the  smoke 
&s  it  floated  over  Europe.  There  is 
probably  no  country  in  the  world 
whose  affairs  are  so  necessary  to  care- 
fully follow.  There  is  no  history  so 
•dramatic  as  the  French.  France  is  a 
land  of  surprises,  and  the  place  of  all 
•othors  where  the  unexpected  con- 
stantly happens.  Every  year,  indeed 
almost  every  month,  has  its  store  of 
inexhaustible  wonders.  Last  autumn 
it  was  the  celebration  of  the  alliance 
with  Russia,  and  the  outburst  of 
•enthusiasm  which  on  that  occasion 
drov^e  all  France  into  a  frenzy  of  ex- 
cite ment  will  be  fresh  in  everybody's 
mind.  Such  an  ebullition  of  national 
feeling  had  rarely  if  ever  before  been 
anywhere  witnessed,  and  it  at  once 
Astonished  and  perplexed  the  world. 
Tho  feeling  of  amused  surprise  was 
nol  unmixed  with  a  touch  of  trepida- 
tion, for  there  were  few  who  grasped 
the  true  import  of  the  event  in  all  its 
bearings.  It  was  an  incident  of  some 
gravity,  which  will  mark  an  epoch  in 
•the  history  of  Europe. 

Twice  within  the  last  three  years 
lias  the  French  Republic  taken  a  step 
of  very  great  consequence.  First  of 
all  it  succeeded  in  coming  to  a  friendly 
understanding  with  the  Vatican,  and 
in  inducing  the  Pope  to  look  upon 
republican  and  democratic  institutions 
wish  a  benevolent  regard.  That  was 
a  great  advance  for  the  Republic.1  It 
was  an  event  which  assuaged  the  re- 
ligious warfare  which  had  long  caused 

See  an  article  on  "France  and  the 
Papacy"  in  MACMILLAN'S  MAGAZINE  for 
January  1893. 


bitterness  and  strife ;  it  almost  com- 
pletely crushed  the  Legitimist  party, 
and  removed  one  cause  of  that  inter- 
national isolation  which  had  soured 
the  sensitive  minds  of  the  French. 
The  ecclesiastical  ban  under  which  the 
Republic  had  been  thrown  was  at  last 
removed,  and  it  became  possible  for  a 
Frenchman  to  heartily  embrace  the 
established  form  of  government  and  at 
the  same  time  to  remain  a  faithful  son 
of  the  Church.  But  that  was  not 
enough.  To  have  won  over  the  Pope 
was  something  ;  but  to  secure  the 
hearty  recognition  and  friendship  of 
one  of  the  old  and  great  traditional 
monarchies  would  be  better  still. 
Hitherto  they  had  regarded  her  at 
best  with  a  kind  of  benevolent  neu- 
trality. In  the  nature  of  things  there 
is  a  great  gulf  fixed  between  a  monarch 
and  a  president,  which  mere  goodwill 
cannot  in  itself  abridge ;  and  the 
French  Republic  had  to  attain  its 
majority  before  the  first  break  in  its 
isolation  could  be  made.  The  fetes  at 
Cronstadt  and  Toulon  showed  to  the 
world  that  this  had  been  accomplished, 
and  that  the  Czar  of  all  the  Russias 
had  embraced  the  French  Republic. 
This  Franco-Russian  Alliance  was  the 
second  step,  and  of  its  history  and 
meaning  it  is  proposed  to  say  some- 
thing here.  For,  if  regarded  from  a 
large  and  philosophic  point  of  view,  it 
will  be  seen  to  mark  an  epoch  in  that 
confused  and  turbid  stream  of  human 
affairs  which  it  is  the  part  of  the  his- 
torian to  analyse  and  clarify. 

At  the  time  of  the  festivities  which 
took  place  last  October  in  Paris  and 
Toulon,  there  were  few  who  did  not 
express  their  surprise  that  the  French 
and  Russians  could  have  any  senti- 
ments or  interests  in  common.  It  was 
cited  as  an  extraordinary  case  of  ex- 
tremes meeting.  People  asked  what 


314 


The  French  Republic  and  her  New  Allies. 


could  there  be  about  Russian  autocracy 
to  attract  the  French,  and  how  it  was 
possible  for  the  Russians  to  associate 
themselves  with  such  extravagant 
effusiveness  with  a  nation  whose 
democratic  institutions  they  could 
only  regard  as  alien  and  abhorrent. 
But  there  are  traits  in  human  character 
and  nature  which  forms  of  government 
cannot  affect ;  and  between  the  Rus- 
sians and  the  French  there  would  seem 
to  have  long  existed  some  subtle  sym- 
pathy of  temperajnent  and  tastes  which, 
in  spite  of  political  obstacles  of  the 
most  imperious  kind,  tended  continu- 
ally to  bring  them  together.  Tt  was 
in  the  time  of  Peter  the  Great  that 
the  two  nations  first  came  into  contact. 
Before  his  time  the  Russians  cannot 
properly  be  said  to  have  belonged  to 
Europe  at  all.  The  Czars  kept  a 
separate  and  semi-barbaric  state  at 
Moscow.  Peter  altered  all  that.  He 
laid  the  foundations  of  St.  Petersburg 
in  order,  as  he  said,  to  knock  out  a 
window  for  the  Russians  to  look 
through  into  Europe ;  or,  as  Dean 
Stanley  wrote  in  one  of  his  graphic 
letters,  Russia  was  "  literally  dragged 
by  the  heels  and  kicked  by  the  boots  of 
the  giant  Peter  into  contact  with  the 
European  world."  His  ambitions  were 
unbounded,  and  in  pursuit  of  them  he 
turned  to  France  for  assistance.  His 
audacity  was  such  that  he  sought  a 
marriage  between  his  daughter  Eliza- 
beth and  Louis  the  Fifteenth,  or  some 
other  member  of  the  French  royal 
family,  and  in  furtherance  of  this  design 
he  visited  Paris  in  1719.  The  uncouth 
giant  was  received  with  amused  dis- 
dain and  not  a  little  curiosity,  and  his 
proposals  were,  as  might  be  supposed, 
somewhat  coolly  received.  Little  came 
of  this  visit  at  the  moment,  but  for 
the  first  time  a  French  ambassador 
was  sent  to  Russia,  in  the  person 
of  M.  de  Campredon.  The  first 
stone  was  laid,  and  the  seed  was 
sown  which  was  destined  some  day  to 
bear  fruit.  Paris  had  fascinated 
Peter,  and  he  carried  home  with  him 
a  knowledge  of  things  French  for 
which  those  about  him  soon  conceived 


a  passion.  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of 
Peter,  inherited  a  large  share  of  her 
father's  ambitious  character,  and  in 
1740,  during  the  minority  of  Ivan 
the  Sixth,  she  seized  the  throne 
mainly  owing  to  the  assistance  she 
received  from  the  French  through 
their  ambassador,  the  Marquis  de  la 
Chetardie.  She  vowed  she  would 
never  forget  the  help  she  had  received, 
and,  to  do  her  justice,  she  kept  her 
word.  The  Russians  hitherto  had 
adopted  German  fashions  more  than 
any  other ;  but  Elizabeth  did  her  best 
to  transform  St.  Petersburg  into  a 
sort  of  Russian  Paris,  and  her  efforts 
were  eagerly  seconded  by  the  society 
of  the  capital.  There  was  a  rage  for 
everything  French.  The  great  ladies 
gossiped  in  French,  wore  French 
toilettes,  and  regaled  their  guests 
with  French  dinners  and  sweetmeats. 
Masqued  balls,  the  Italian  opera,  and 
the  French  comedy  were  speedily  in- 
troduced, and  the  Empress  went  so 
far  as  to  ask  Louis  the  Fifteenth 
to  authorise  two  celebrated  French 
comedians  to  come  and  play  at  St. 
Petersburg.  The  request  was  refused, 
for  a  reason  that  was  thoroughly 
characteristic  of  the  French,  that  it 
would  annoy  the  Parisians  to  be  de- 
prived for  a  time  of  their  two  most 
admired  comedians.  Under  the  reign 
of  the  Empress  Catherine  the  trans- 
formation was  complete ;  and  when 
the  French  emigres  flocked  to  St. 
Petersburg  at  the  time  of  the  Revolu- 
tion they  were  delighted  to  find  it 
as  much  Parisian  as  Paris  itself. 
During  the  Revolution  all  diplomatic 
relations  were  cut  asunder  by  the 
Russians,  who  looked  upon  the  Re- 
publican leaders  as  a  gang  of  male- 
factors ;  but  they  were  renewed  when 
Napoleon  became  First  Consul,  and 
later,  in  1807,  he  entered  into  an  actual 
alliance  with  Alexander  the  First.  It 
was  sacrificed  of  course  to  Napoleon's 
insatiable  ambition,  with  the  result 
that  is  now  a  matter  of  history. 

On  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons 
the  relations  of  the  two  nations 
entered  on  a  new  era.  When  the 


The  French  Republic  and  her  New  Allies. 


315 


Allied  Powers  entered  Paris,  Alexander 
declared  his  conviction  that  it  was 
necessary  for  the  welfare  of  Europe 
that  France  should  be  great  and 
strong,  and  it  is  therefore  only  natural 
to  find  that  the  two  Courts  entered 
once  more  into  cordial  relations.  The 
French  Minister,  the  Due  de  Richelieu, 
who  liad  been  an  emigre  at  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  who  had  been  made  by  the 
Empress  Catherine  the  Governor  of 
Odessa,  did  much  to  foster  a  feeling 
of  friendship.  Things  progressed  so 
far  that  in  1821  the  Czar  offered  an 
alliar  ce  to  France  on  the  terms  that 
she  saould  give  Russia  her  assistance 
in  Greece,  while  she  was  invited  to 
state  what  compensation  she  would 
ask  i  i  return.  It  is  of  some  interest, 
in  the  light  of  subsequent  events,  to 
note  that  the  French  Government 
would  consent  to  nothing  short  of  the 
.extension  of  the  frontiers  of  France 
to  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  from 
Strasburg  to  Cologne.  The  proposal 
found  a  powerful  advocate  in  Chateau- 
briand, and,  though  no  formal  alliance 
was  actually  signed,  it  is  certain  that 
Charles  the  Tenth  and  the  Czar  played 
a  concerted  part  in  the  politics  of 
Europe.  There  can  be  little  doubt 
that  it  was  due  to  Russia  that 
Great  Britain  abstained  from  interfer- 
ing to  prevent  the  French  conquest  of 
Algiers,  and  that,  on  the  other  hand, 
France  supported  Prince  Otho,  the 
son  of  the  King  of  Bavaria,  the 
Russian  candidate  for  the  throne  of 
Greece.  It  is  said  that  King  Louis  of 
Bavaria  subsequently  remarked  to  a 
distinguished  Frenchman  that  he  had 
two  (Towns  in  his  family,  and  that  he 
owed  one  of  them  to  God  and  the 
othei  to  the  French.  If  the  story  be 
not  true,  it  must  have  been  an  ingeni- 
ous invention  to  fit  the  facts  of  the 
case. 

With  the  accession  of  King  Louis 
Philippe  a  coolness  between  the  two 
Cour:s  ensued.  The  Czar  had  no 
liking  for  the  Monarchy  of  July.  He 
was  strictly  Legitimist  in  his  views, 
with  a  strain  in  his  nature  of 
chivalrous  romance  which  at  once 


awakened  his  sympathy  for  the  fallen 
King  and  filled  him  with  aversion  for 
what  he  regarded  as  a  usurping  dy- 
nasty. And  the  Court  and  reign  of 
Louis  Philippe,  who  owed  his  throne 
to  the  bourgeois,  had  about  it  a 
commonplace  air  of  inglorious  medi- 
ocrity which  was  unlikely  to  win 
sympathy  abroad.  If  men  like  to 
have  a  monarchy  at  all,  they  like  to 
see  it  dignified  and  splendid,  while 
they  have  nothing  but  contempt  for  a 
crown  and  sceptre  with  the  gilt  off. 
Nowhere  was  this  more  felt  than  in 
the  palace  of  St.  Petersburg ;  and  with 
the  fall  of  Charles  the  Tenth  an  end 
was  put  to  the  cultivation  of  that  feel- 
ing of  friendship  which  had  brought  the 
two  nations  to  act  together  in  the 
common  interests. 

During  the  period  of  the  Second 
Empire  the  two  nations  suffered  a 
complete  estrangement.  The  part 
taken  by  France  in  the  Crimean 
War,  and  the  sympathy  for  the  Poles 
which  Napoleon  openly  displayed, 
was  cause  enough  for  this  ;•  and  it  was 
only  natural  that  the  Czar  should 
turn  towards  Prussia  for  support. 
That  country  had  earned  a  debt  of 
gratitude  for  the  sympathy  she  showed 
for  Russia  during  the  progress  of  the 
war,  and  it  formed  a  natural  bond  of 
friendship  between  the  two  nations. 
This  state  of  things  lasted  until 
1866,  when  the  Prussians  routed 
the  Austrians  at  Sadowa.  The 
consequent  aggrandisement  of  Prussia 
created  a  feeling  of  jealousy  in  Russia, 
which  subsequent  events  tended  to 
increase.  It  was  in  vain  that  Bis- 
marck sent  General  Manteuffel  on 
a  special  conciliatory  mission  to  St. 
Petersburg,  and  that  the  Grand  Cross 
of  St.  George  was  conferred  by  the 
Czar  upon  the  King.  The  little  rift 
was  opened  which  became  the  ever- 
widening  breach.  Yet  friendly  rela- 
tions were  ostensibly  maintained;  and, 
when  the  Franco-German  War  began, 
Bismarck  was  able  to  count  upon 
Russian  neutrality,  which,  true  to  his 
principle  of  Do  ut  des,  he  purchased 
from  Gortschakoff  with  the  promise 


316 


The  French  Republic  and  her  New  Allies. 


that  he  would  not  oppose  Russia  when 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  war  she 
should  demand  to  be  released  from 
that  portion  of  the  Treaty  of  Paris 
which  restricted  her  liberty  of  action 
in  the  Black  Sea.  As  Bismarck 
afterwards  admitted  with  a  touch  of 
cynical  humour,  "  I  gave  her  a 
pourboire."  Both  sides  faithfully 
performed  their  portion  of  the  bar- 
gain ;  and,  while  Russia  held  aloof  and 
made  Austria  do  the  same,  Bismarck 
permitted  Gortschakoff  to  tear  up  the 
treaty  in  the  face  of  Europe. 

Upon  the  conclusion  of  the  war  the 
relations  of  France  and  Russia  entered 
on  a  new  and  interesting  phase,  the  last 
scene  of  the  drama,  so  to  speak,  which 
culminated  in  the  important  events  of 
last  year.  If  after  Sadowa  the  Russian 
jealousy  of  Prussia  was  roused,  much 
more  was  it  so  after  the  victory  of 
Sedan  and  the  capitulation  of  Paris. 
The  creation  of  the  German  Empire, 
with  the  cession  of  Alsace  and  Lorraine, 
was  a  stupendous  fact  which  Russia 
could  not  afford  to  regard  with  in- 
difference. It  meant  the  existence  on 
her  frontier  of  a  gigantic  Power,  and 
interest  as  well  as  natural  inclination 
drew  her  once  more  towards  France. 
On  her  side,  too,  nowhere  but  in  Russia 
could  France  hope  for  much  support. 
The  diplomatic  history  of  the  next 
twenty  years,  from  1873  to  1893,  pre- 
sents the  curious  spectacle  of  France 
assiduously  courting  the  alliance  of 
Russia,  and  of  Russia  turning  a  sym- 
pathetic ear,  but  receiving  from  time  to 
time  affronts  which  filled  her  with  not 
a  little  feeling  of  distrust.  It  is  said 
that  the  quarrels  of  lovers  are  the  re- 
newal of  love,  and  so  it  was  with  France 
and  Russia.  Periods  of  coolness  and 
warmth  continually  alternated.  It 
was  in  1873  that  France  made  the  first 
approach  towards  Russia,  and  it  seems 
impossible  to  doubt  that  at  that  time 
and  during  the  next  two  years  the  latter 
country  performed  for  France  an  in- 
valuable service.  To  the  amazement 
of  the  world,  France  had  already  suc- 
ceeded in  paying  off  the  war  indemnity 
of  five  milliards  of  francs — a  sum  so 


large  that  when  the  French  statesman 
Jules  Favre  heard  of  it  he  exclaimed, 
"  There  have  not  been  as  many  minutes 
since  the  birth  of  our  Saviour."  It 
was  such  evidence  of  the  recuperative 
vitality  of  France  that  it  alarmed 
the  Germans,  and  made  them  regret 
that  they  had  not  been  a  good  deal 
more  exacting  in  their  demands  upon 
the  vanquished.  Whatever  may  have 
been  the  real  wishes  of  the  Emperor 
and  of  Bismarck,  it  is  beyond  question 
that  there  was  a  party,  and  that  chiefly 
the  military  party,  in  Germany,  which 
was  anxious  to  provoke  France  into 
a  war  before  she  could  still  further 
recover  her  strength.  In  particular, 
the  BERLIN  POST,  the  organ  which, 
according  to  Continental  fashions,  was 
supposed  to  draw  its  inspiration  from 
Bismarck,  appeared  with  an  article 
entitled  "  War  in  sight,"  which  caused 
a  tremendous  sensation  in  Europe. 
Even  before  this  the  attitude  of 
Germany  had  awakened  the  pro- 
foundest  distrust,  and  not  only  had 
General  de  Flo,  the  French  ambassa- 
dor at  St.  Petersburg,  approached  the 
Czar  on  the  subject,  but  the  French 
Premier,  the  Due  de  Decazes,  and  his 
Foreign  Minister,  the  Due  de  Broglie, 
had  sent  the  Comte  de  Chaudordy  on  a 
special  mission  to  plead  the  case  of 
France  with  Gortschakoff  during  his 
stay  in  Switzerland.  The  French  Go- 
vernment protested  themselves  as  un- 
able as  they  were  undesirous  for  war ; 
and  President  MacMahon  summed 
up  the  situation  by  saying  that  if  any 
one  was  to  stamp  on  his  foot  he  would 
simply  apologise.  The  appeals  of  Le 
Flo  and  Chaudordy  were  not  made  in 
vain ;  and  both  the  Czar  and  his 
Chancellor  were  able  to  assure  the 
French  that  so  far  as  Russia  could 
prevent  it  there  should  be  no  war. 
When  the  Czar,  accompanied  by 
Gortschakoff,  visited  the  Emperor  and 
Bismarck  at  Berlin  in  1875,  it  was 
made  clear  that  any  attack  made  by 
Germany  on  France  would  be  regarded 
in  Russia  with  disfavour,  and  the 
peace  of  Europe  was  thus  secured. 
As  time  went  on  the  Russians  and 


The  French  Republic  and  her  Neiv  Allies. 


317 


Germans  drew  more  and  more  apart. 
The  llussians  had  reason    to    believe 
that     both     at     the     Conference     at 
Constantinople   and  at    the    Congress 
at  Berlin  the  German  representatives 
were    pursuing    a    policy    of     active 
opposition,  and    they   were   therefore 
more    inclined    than    ever  to  favour 
the   advances    of    the    French.      The 
development  of  events,  and  more  par- 
ticularly the  formation  of  the  Triple 
Alliance,  seemed  to  throw  France  and 
Russia  into  the  arms  of  one  another ; 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  blunders 
of  the  French,  and  the  curious  insta- 
bility of   their    political    institutions, 
there  can    be    little    doubt    that    the 
Franco-Russian   Alliance  would   have 
been  at  least  ten  years  older  than  it 
is.     The    Russians   could   not    see  in 
France    any   guarantee    for    even    a 
moderate     degree     of     continuity    of 
policy.       The    parliamentary    govern- 
ment  of    the  Republic  might  be    de- 
scribed as  a  chronic  ministerial  crisis. 
Ministries     succeeded     ministries    in 
perpetual      procession,      like     figures 
shadowed  by  a  lantern  on  a   screen. 
Not  all  were   equally  favourable  to  a 
Russian    alliance.      M.     Waddington, 
for    instance,    was   said    to    be    more 
inclined  to  England,  and  M.  Ferry  to 
Germany.     Nor   were   the    successive 
Presidents    all    of    one    mind.       M. 
Grevy,     for     instance,     openly     pro- 
fessed himself    indifferent   to  foreign 
politics,  and  looked  coldly  on  alliances 
witt  any  foreign  Power.     These  were 
obstacles   arising   from   the   essential 
nature  of  French  institutions  which 
it    was    impossible    for    anybody    to 
overcome.  But  beyond  this,  the  French 
contrived  to  give  the  Russians  some 
gratuitous  affronts.     In  1879  a  well- 
known  Russian  Nihilist  of  the  name 
of   Hartmann  fled  to  Paris,  and  not- 
withstanding the  urgent  entreaties  of 
the  Russian  Government  the  French 
authorities  refused  to  extradite  him. 
When  it  is   borne  in  mind  that  the 
Czar  not  long  afterwards  fell  a  victim 
to  ii  bomb,  it  is  not  surprising  that 
the  Russian  Government  marked  their 
displeasure    by   recalling    their     am- 


bassador. And  again,  in  1883,  M. 
Freycinet  gave  much  offence  by 
pardoning  the  Russian  Nihilist  Kro- 
potkine.  In  the  light  of  these  events, 
it  seems  a  curious  Nemesis  of  fate 
that  M.  Carnot  should  have  fallen  by 
the  hand  of  one  of  that  brood  of 
desperadoes  who  spare  neither  presi- 
dent nor  monarch,  and  of  whom  the 
Russians  had  had  so  bitter  an  ex- 
perience. Added  to  these  causes  of 
offence  were  others  engendered  by 
some  unhappy  mistakes  which  the 
French  made  in  the  choice  and  treat- 
ment of  their  ambassadors  at  St. 
Petersburg.  In  particular,  in  1883 
General  Appert,  who  was  in  high 
favour  at  the  Russian  Court,  was 
recalled  in  circumstances  which 
gravely  affronted  the  Czar,  and  for  a 
time  he  not  only  refused  to  receive 
a  successor  in  his  place,  but  also 
recalled  his  own  ambassador  from 
Paris.  Thus  twice  within  a  very  few 
years  diplomatic  relations  between 
the  two  countries  were  suspended. 

To  M.  Flourens,  who  in  1886  took 
the  portfolio  of  the  Foreign  Office,  is 
due  more  than  to  any  other  Minister 
the  active  cultivation  of  friendly 
relations  with  Russia.  In  the  first 
place,  he  took  up  the  Russian  side  in 
his  treatment  of  the  question  of 
Bulgaria ;  and  when  the  Bulgarian 
delegates,  who  had  gone  the  round  of 
Europe  to  induce  the  various  Govern- 
ments to  exert  pressure  upon  Russia, 
arrived  in  Paris,  they  found  they 
could  hope  for  nothing  but  active 
hostility  from  the  French  Government. 
Nor  was  this  all.  It  would  appear 
that  in  the  time  of  Pius  the  Ninth 
the  See  of  Rome  came  into  conflict 
with  the  Russian  Government  over 
the  Church  question  in  Poland,  and 
that  in  consequence  diplomatic  rela- 
tions between  the  two  Courts  had 
been  broken  off,  and  never  since  re- 
sumed. When  Leo  the  Thirteenth 
was  about  to  celebrate  his  Jubilee,  he 
thought  it  a  favourable  opportunity 
to  attempt  to  renew  those  relations, 
and  to  this  end  he  determined  to 
make  use  of  the  good  offices  of  France. 


318 


The  French  Republic  and  her  New  Allies. 


He  applied  to  M.  Lefebvre  de  Behaine, 
the  French  ambassador  at  the  Yatican, 
and  through  the  medium  of  M. 
Flourens  his  wishes  were  made  known 
at  St.  Petersburg.  The  result  was 
entirely  successful,  and  M.  Flourens 
had  the  gratification  of  obliging  both 
the  Czar  and  the  Pope. 

One  obstacle  alone  remained  to  the 
formation  of  a  Franco-Russian  Alli- 
ance, and  that  was  a  financial  one. 
Hitherto  Russia  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  going  to  Berlin  for  her  money,  and 
Russian  stock  was  largely  held  by 
German  banks.  It  was  a  circum- 
stance which,  though  apparently 
trivial  in  itself,  made  the  Russian 
Government  more  dependent  on  the 
German  financiers  than  it  liked.  So 
that  when  a  French  syndicate,  with 
M.  Hoskier,  a  Paris  banker,  at  its 
head,  made  advances  to  M.  Wischne- 
gradski,  the  Russian  Finance  Minister, 
their  proposals  fell  on  very  willing 
ears.  Of  the  financial  details,  of  the 
prolonged  negotiations  and  the  Ger- 
man opposition,  it  would  be  weari- 
some to  speak.  It  will  be  enough  to 
say  that  in  1888  a  Russian  loan  of 
500,000,000  francs,  and  again  in  1891 
a  further  loan  of  360,000,000  francs, 
were  raised  in  France  and  subscribed 
for  many  times  over.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  financial  operations  of 
modern  times ;  and  if  any  proof  were 
wanted  of  French  confidence  in  Russia 
it  would  be  found  in  the  fact  that  no 
less  a  sum  than  four  milliards  of  francs 
of  Russian  stock  are  calculated  to  be 
now  held  by  the  cautious  French  in- 
vestor, who  rarely  travels  beyond  a 
home  security.  This  is  one  of  those 
substantial  facts  which  mean  a  great 
deal  more  than  the  florid  and  bom- 
bastic declamations  in  which  inter- 
national amenities  are  frequently 
expressed. 

Such,  in  very  brief  outline,  is  the 
history  of  the  events  which  led  up  to 
the  Franco-Russian  Alliance.  Whether 
that  alliance  is  founded  on  a  written 
contract,  and  what  are  its  terms,  can 
be  known  only  to  those  who  have 
access  to  the  archives  of  the  Quai 


d'Orsay  or  the  Chancellerie  of  St. 
Petersburg.  But  that  there  exists 
between  the  two  Governments  some 
more  or  less  definite  understanding 
there  can  be  little  doubt.  Wherein, 
then,  lies  its  value  and  importance  ] 
Russia  gains  a  useful  ally  in  case  of 
war,  and  her  people  are  put  in  closer 
touch  with  a  nation  to  which  they 
seem  to  be  drawn  by  natural  in- 
clination. Racial  sympathies  and 
antipathies  are  too  impalpable  and 
indefinable  to  be  easily  explained, 
and  not  the  least  curious  of  them  is 
the  deep-seated  feeling  of  aversion 
which  the  Slav  has  always  had  for 
the  Teuton.  It  is  an  indisputable 
fact  that  the  Russians  as  a  race, 
putting  aside  the  Government  in  its 
official  capacity,  regard  the  Germans 
with  dislike.  It  is  said  that  this  may 
be  partly  owing  to  the  feeling  of 
jealousy  aroused  by  the  immense 
number  of  German  residents  in 
Russia,  who  make  their  competition 
severely  felt.  But,  whatever  be  the 
causes,  there  can  be  no  doubt  at  all 
about  the  fact.  In  the  French  people 
the  Russians  see  the  incarnation  and 
embodiment  of  the  arts  and  sciences 
which  give  dignity  to  life  and  clothe 
it  with  grace,  and  they  must  view  with 
satisfaction  an  alliance  which  may  help 
to  counteract  the  influence  and  power 
of  the  Teuton,  from  which  they  would 
be  glad  altogether  to  escape. 

This  is  the  Russian  side  of  the 
account ;  but  France,  it  is  plain,  gains 
very  much  more.  To  her  the  alliance 
is  of  incalculable  value,  and  the  ob- 
vious anxiety  with  which  she  has  pur- 
sued it  in  itself  is  evidence  enough  of 
that.  Of  its  worth  from  a  purely 
military  point  of  view  we  forbear  to 
speak.  But  not  merely  to  France  as 
a  nation,  but  to  France  as  a  Republic, 
and  indeed  to  republican  institutions 
as  a  whole,  the  event  is  of  very  great 
importance.  It  is  the  secular  com- 
plement of  the  establishment  of 
friendly  relations  with  the  Papacy  to 
which  reference  has  already  been 
made.  Without  it  there  would  have 
been  a  ser.se  of  incompleteness.  The 


The  French  Republic  and  her  New  Allies. 


319 


prophecy  of    Napoleon  that   in   fifty 
years  Europe  would  be  either  Repub- 
lican or  Cossack  has  in  both  alterna- 
tives proved  entirely  false  ;  and  when, 
in    1371,   the    French    Republic   was 
created,    Republics    were    thoroughly 
discredited    things.      In   the    modern 
histoi-y  of  Europe  they  were  almost 
totally  unknown,  and  what  little  was 
known  had  filled  people's  minds  with 
horror  and  disgust.     The  Republics  of 
Central  and  Southern  America  might 
have  been   specially  created  by  Pro- 
vider .ce  to  serve  as  warnings  to  man- 
kind ;  and  throughout  the  whole  world 
the  United  States  was  the  sole  exam- 
ple   of    a    great    and    successful  Re- 
public.    The    creation    of    the    third 
French   Republic    was    felt    to    be    a 
great'   experiment,  and  so  in  truth  it 
was.     If  there  were  many  Frenchmen 
who   were  republicans  by  conviction, 
there   were  probably  many  more  who 
were  so  by  necessity ;  and  even  Thiers 
himself  found  its  best  apology  in  his 
belief  that  it  was  the  form  of  govern- 
ment which  divided  Frenchmen  least. 
The  great  Monarchies  of  Europe  re- 
gardod  it  of  course  with  suspicion  and 
dislike,  and  they  entirely  disbelieved 
in  its  stability.     When  Bismarck  had 
that  historical  interview  with  Jules 
Favre   at   Madame   Jesse" 's   house   at 
Sevres  to  negotiate  a  peace,  he  plainly 
told  bim  that  after  he  had  had  some 
experience  of  the  government  of  men 
he  would  become  a  monarchist.     In- 
deed, the  restoration  of  the    Empire 
was  ;t  notion  which  the  Germans  for 
a   time   seriously   entertained,   for   a 
Republic  was  thought  hardly  capable 
of  giving  sufficient  guarantees  for  the 
canning    out    of    any   treaty    which 
might  be  entered  into,     The  Republic 
has,  however,  prospered  in  a  way  which 
no  ore  at  its  birth  would  have  ventured 
to  prophesy,  and  it  has  extorted  the  re- 
spect and  sympathy,  if  not  the  admira- 
tion, of  the  world.     It  has  claimed  to 
stand  on  an   equality  of  footing  with 
the  Old-established  forms  of    govern- 
ment, and  the  claim  is  now  conceded. 
The    Pope    led    the    way    when    two 
yeai>  ago  he  commanded  the  Clerical 


and  Royalist  party  to  throw  in  their 
lot  with  the  Republic,  and  so  shattered 
the  most  powerful  of  its  foes.  By  a 
stroke  of  his  pen  he  did  more  to  firmly 
establish  the  Republic  than  might  have 
been  otherwise  accomplished  in  per- 
haps a  score  of  years.  It  is  a  sign  of 
the  times  that  a  Radical  journal  com- 
mented on  M.  Casimir-Perier's  election 
to  the  Presidency  with  the  declaration 
that  it  was  due  to  a  "Coalition  of 
Reactionaries  "  with  the  help  of  the 
Pope  ;  a  ridiculous  statement,  which 
was  based  on  a  dim  conception  of  the 
truth.  For  the  union  of  the  quondam 
Royalists  with  the  moderate  Repub- 
licans destroyed  the  chances  of  the 
Radical  candidate.  And  now  the  Czar 
has  followed  suit.  A  strange  inver- 
sion of  the  policy  of  the  times  of  the 
Holy  Alliance  !  Alexander  the  First, 
who  made  it  an  object  of  his  life  to 
combat  the  advancement  of  democracy, 
would  have  held  up  his  hands  in  horror 
at  the  act. 

Republics  must  always  indeed  lack 
that  dignity  and  splendour  which 
Courts  prevent  from  dying  out,  which 
help  to  redeem  the  world  from  a 
monotony  of  dulness,  and  which 
human  nature  at  bottom  dearly 
loves  to  see.  The  Americans  who 
throng  the  reception  rooms  of  the 
White  House  may  reflect  with 
satisfaction  on  the  fact  that  Gar- 
field  once  occupied  a  log  hut  or  that 
Abraham  Lincoln  split  rails  in  Illinois  ; 
but  in  their  heart  of  hearts  they  have 
a  liking  for  pageantry.  And  even 
where  democracy  is  rampant  the  here- 
ditary principle,  which  is  the  principle 
of  monarchy,  makes  itself  felt  with  a 
curious  persistence.  The  late  French 
President  was  a  grandson  of  that 
Carnot  who  was  the  "  organiser  of 
victory  "  in  the  times  of  the  Conven- 
tion, and  his  successor  is  the  grandson 
of  a  wall-known  Minister  of  the  reign 
of  Louis  Philippe.  And  so  from  its 
alliance  with  the  Czar  the  French 
Republic  gathers  a  few  rays  of  re- 
flected glory,  loses  its  sense  of  isola- 
tion, and  gains  a  considerable  accession 
of  strength.  That  alliance  is  the 


320 


The  French  Republic  and  her  New  Allies. 


crowning  glory  which  has  raised  the 
nation  to  a  pitch  of  exaltation  such  as 
it  has  never  felt  since  the  conclusion 
of  the  war,  and  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand the  uncontrollable  frenzy  of 
delight  to  which  last  year  the  people 
gave  themselves  up.  It  was  a  red- 
letter  day  for  the  Republic.  As  an 
immediate  result  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  the  French  people  have  shown  an 
increased  consciousness  of  power  that 
may  become  a  very  dangerous  sym- 
ptom. Their  vigorous  action  in  Siam, 
and  their  fierce  denunciation  of  the 
Anglo-Belgian  Treaty  with  reference 
to  the  Congo,  are  somewhat  ominous 
signs  of  the  times.  The  Frenchmen's 
belief  in  their  superiority  to  the  rest  of 
the  world  in  every  branch  of  human  ac- 
tivity almost  amounts  to  a  dogma.  With 
the  average  Frenchman  it  is  an  article 
of  faith  that  if  France  were  blotted 
out,  not  merely  the  gaiety  of  nations, 
but  civilisation  itself,  would  suffer 
eclipse.  Every  art  and  every  science 
is  supposed  to  take  its  fountain-head 
in  France.  Countless  Frenchmen,  for 
example,  and  M.  Thiers  among  the 
number,  have  believed  that  the  dis- 
covery of  the  law  of  gravitation  is  due 
not  to  Newton  but  to  Pascal ;  and  a 
French  author  of  a  treatise  on  the 
history  of  chemical  theory  begins  it 
by  declaring  that  chemistry  is  a 
French  science,  and  was  founded  by 
Lavoisier  of  immortal  memory.  Even 
M.  Casimir-Perier,  in  his  message  to 
the  Chambers,  could  not  abstain  from 
declaring  that  France  was  "  the  centre 
of  intellectual  light."  It  would  be  a 
harmless  trait  of  character,  if  it  was 
confined  to  the  pursuits  of  peace,  and 


did  not  extend  to  an  insatiable  thirst 
for  military  glory.  M.  Guizot,  who 
knew  his  countrymen  well,  once  said 
that  there  was  no  folly  for  which  they 
were  not  ready,  provided  only  it  was  a 
military  folly  ;  and  that  it  was  almost 
impossible  for  a  French  statesman  to 
pursue  a  policy  of  peace  and  not  to  be 
accused  of  unpatriotic  motives.  Here 
lies  the  danger  of  the  present  situa- 
tion. There  is  a  story  which,  if  not 
true,  may  at  least  well  be  so.  Not 
long  before  the  Franco-German  War, 
a  French  general  said  to  Bismarck, 
' '  We  shall  soon  have  to  cross  swords 
with  you."  When  Bismarck  asked 
him  why,  he  replied  :  "  We  are  both 
cocks,  and  one  cock  cannot  bear  to 
hear  another  crow  too  loud.  Now  you 
crowed  too  loud  at  Sadowa."  It  is  a 
good  illustration  of  the  feeling  of  the 
French,  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
in  its  fit  of  exultation  the  Gallic  cock 
may  be  inclined  to  crow  aloud  again. 
The  French  themselves  say  that  when 
France  is  satisfied  Europe  is  tranquil ; 
but  the  period  of  satisfaction  never 
seems  to  come,  and  the  Russian  alli- 
ance may  serve  only  to  whet  the  appe- 
tite. But,  however  that  may  be,  when 
the  history  of  this  century  comes  to 
be  written,  when  the  mass  of  material 
is  sifted  and  the  permanent  severed 
from  the  transient,  when  a  large  view 
is  taken  of  the  course  of  human  pro- 
gress, the  alliance  of  Russia  and  the 
French  Republic  will  be  given  not  the 
least  important  place.  And  if  a 
proper  perspective  of  the  picture  is 
sustained,  it  will  be  found  to  be  one 
of  the  most  striking  objects  on  the 
canvas. 

C.  B.  ROYLANCE-KENT. 


LACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


SEPTEMBER,    1894. 
THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL. 

II. SCOTT    AND    DUMAS. 


IT  would  be  difficult  to  find  anything 
in  the  history  of  literature  quite  similar 
to  the  achievement  of  the  Waverley 
Novols.  Their  uniqueness  does  not 
consist  wholly,  or  from  the  present 
point;  of  view  even  mainly,  in  the  fact 
that  for  bulk,  excellence,  and  rapidity 
of  production  combined  they  can  pro- 
bably challenge  anything  else  in 
letters.  That  they  can  do  this  I  am 
by  10  means  disposed  to  deny.  But 
the  point  of  pre-eminence  at  present 
to  be  considered  is  the  singular  and 
miraculous  fashion  in  which  Sir  Walter, 
taking  a  kind  of  writing  which  had,  as 
we  Lave  seen,  been  tried,  or  at  least 
tried  at,  for  more  than  two  thousand 
years,  and  which  had  never  yet  been 
got  1,0  run  smoothly  on  its  own  lines 
to  its  own  end,  by  one  stroke  effected 
what:  the  efforts  of  those  two  millen- 
niums had  been  quite  vainly  endeavour- 
ing fco  accomplish.  That  WAVERLEY 
itself  is  the  ideal  of  an  historical  novel 
need  not  be  contended  by  any  intelli- 
gent devotee.  It  bears,  especially  in 
its  earlier  chapters,  too  many  marks  of 
the  old  false  procedure ;  and  that  in- 
sipidity of  the  nominal  hero,  which  is  so 
constantly  and  not  so  unjustly  charged 
against  Scott,  appears  in  it  pretty 
strongly.  Even  his  unworldly  educa- 
tion with  the  flustering  influence  of  the 
Blessed  Bear  added,  does  not  wholly 
excise  Waverley  in  so  early  a  matter 

as  the  Balmawhapple  duel.     We  can 
v^    AT  a 


hardly  blame  his  brother  officers  for 
suspecting  him  of  poltroonery ;  and  he 
can  only  clear  himself  from  the  charge 
of  being  a  coward  by  submitting  to 
that  of  being  a  simpleton.  And 
though  it  is  by  no  means  the  case 
that,  according  to  the  stupid  old  rule 
of  critics  like  Rymer,  a  hero  must  be 
always  wise  as  well  as  always  fortu- 
nate, always  virtuous  as  well  as 
always  brave,  yet  the  kinds  of  folly 
permitted  to  him  are  rather  limited 
in  number.  It  is  worth  while  to 
dwell  on  this  in  order  to  show,  that 
what  is  most  wonderful  about  WAVEK- 
LEY  is  not  its  individual  perfection  as 
a  work  of  art ;  though  the  Baron, 
the  Bailie,  most  of  the  actual  scenes 
after  the  war  breaks  out,  and  many 
other  things  and  persons,  exalt  it  in- 
finitely above  anything  of  the  kind 
known  earlier. 

But  the  chief  marvel,  the  real  point 
of  interest,  is  the  way  in  which,  after 
thousands  of  years  of  effort  to  launch 
one  particular  ship  into  one  particular 
ocean,  she  at  last  slips  as  by  actual 
miracle  into  the  waves  and  sweeps  out 
into  the  open  sea.  Exactly  how  this 
happened  it  may  be  impossible  to 
point  out  with  any  exhaustive  cer- 
tainty. Some  reasons  why  the  thing 
had  not  been  done  before  were  given 
in  the  last  paper  ;  some  why  it  was 
done  at  this  hour  and  by  this  man 
may  perhaps  be  given  in  the  present. 


822 


The  Historical  Novel. 


But  we  shall  have  to  end  by  assigning 
at  least  a  large  share  of  the  explana- 
tion to  the  formula  that,  "  Walter 
Scott  made  historical  novels  because 
there  was  in  him  the  virtue  of  the 
historical  novelist." 

Nevertheless  we  can  perhaps  find 
out  a  little  about  the  component  parts 
of  this  virtue,  a  little  more  about  the 
antecedents  and  immediate  workings 
of  it.  The  desiderata  which  have  been 
referred  to  before, — the  wide  know- 
ledge of  history,  the  affectionate  and 
romantic  interest  in  the  past — Scott 
possessed  in  common  with  his  genera- 
tion, but  in  far  larger  measure  and 
more  intense  degree.  Nor  was  it  pro- 
bably of  slight  importance  that  when 
he  commenced  historical  novelist  he 
was  a  man  well  advanced  in  middle 
age,  and  not  merely  provided  with 
immense  stores  of  reading,  and  with 
very  considerable  practice  in  composi- 
tion of  many  kinds,  but  also  experi- 
enced in  more  than  one  walk  of  prac- 
tical business,  thoroughly  versed  in 
society  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest 
ranks,  and  lastly  absolute  master  of  a 
large  portion  of  his  own  time.  It 
had  indeed  for  years  pleased  him  to 
dispose  of  much  of  this  leisure  in 
literary  labour ;  but  it  was  in  labour 
of  his  own  choosing,  and  neither  in 
task-work  nor  in  work  necessary  for 
bread- winning.  The  Sheriffdom  and 
the  Clerkship  (least  distressful  of 
places)  freed  him  from  all  cares  of  this 
kind,  not  to  mention  the  extraordinary 
sums  paid  for  his  poems. 

But  the  most  happy  predisposition 
or  preparation  to  be  found  in  his 
earlier  career  was  beyond  all  doubt 
his  apprenticeship,  if  the  word  seem 
not  too  unceremonious,  to  these  poems 
themselves.  Here  indeed  he  had  far 
less  to  originate  than  in  the  novels. 
From  the  dawn  of  literature  the  narra- 
tive romance  had  been  written  in 
verse,  and  from  the  dawn  of  literature 
it  had  been  wont  to  pretend  to  a 
historical  character.  I  am  not  sure, 
however,  that  the  present  age,  which, 
while  it  gives  itself  airs  of  being  un- 
just to  Scott's  prose,  is  unjust  in 
reality  to  his  poetry,  does  not  even 


here  omit  to  recognise  the  full  value 
of  his  innovations  or  improvements. 
Of  most  classical  narrative  poems  (the 
ODYSSEY  being  perhaps  the  sole  excep- 
tion) the  famous  saying  about  Richard- 
son, that  if  you  read  for  the  story  you 
would  hang  yourself,  is  true  enough. 
It  is  true  to  a  great  extent  of  Milton, 
to  some  extent  even  of  Spenser,  and  of 
nearly  all  the  great  narrative  poets  of 
the  Continent  except  Ariosto,  in  whom 
it  is  rather  the  stories  than  the  story, 
rather  the  endless  flow  of  romantic 
and  comic  digression  than  the  plot  and 
characters,  that  attract  us.  As  for 
the  medieval  writers  whom  Scott  more 
immediately  followed,  I  believe  I  am 
in  a  very  decided  minority.  I  find 
them  interesting  for  the  story ;  but 
most  people  do  not  find  them  so,  and  I 
cannot  but  admit  myself  that  their  in- 
terest of  this  kind  varies  very  much 
indeed,  and  is  very  seldom  of  the 
highest. 

With  Scott  it  is  quite  different. 
Any  child  who  is  good  for  anything 
knows  why  THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST 
MINSTREL  was  so  popular.  It  was  not 
merely  or  mainly  because  the  form 
was  novel  and  daring ;  for  nearly 
a  hundred  years  past  that  form 
has  been  as  familiar  as  Pope's 
couplet  was  to  our  great-grandfathers. 
It  was  not  merely  (though  it  was 
partly)  because  the  thing  is  inter- 
spersed with  passages  of  genuine 
and  delightful  poetry.  It  was  be- 
cause it  was  and  is  interesting  as  a 
story  ;  because  the  reader  wanted  to 
know  what  became  of  Deloraine  and 
the  Goblin  page,  and  the  rest ;  because 
the  incidents  and  the  scenes  attracted, 
excited,  fixed  attention.  This  was 
even  more  the  case  in  MARMIOX  (which 
moreover  approaches  the  historical 
novel  in  verse  more  nearly  still),  and  it 
never  .failed  in  any  of  the  rest.  It 
was,  to  take  some  of  the  least  popular 
of  all  the  poems,  because  Scott  could 
tell  an  incident  as  he  has  told  the 
vengeance  of  Bertram  Kisingham  in 
ROKEBY,  because  he  could  knit  to- 
gether the  well-worn  and  world-old 
string  of  familiar  trials  and  tempta- 
tions as  he  has  done  in  THE  BRIDAL 


The  Historical  Novel. 


323 


OF  ^RIERMAIN,  that  he  made  his  for- 
tune in  verse.  He  had  the  secret  of 
tale- telling  and  of  adjusting  tales  to 
fact  5.  He  taught  it  to  Byron  and 
others,  and  he  made  the  popularity  of 
the  thing. 

The  suitableness  of  verse,  however, 
for  the  story  as  the  story,  and  especially 
for  i,he  Historical  Novel  as  the  Histori- 
cal Novel,  is  so  far  inferior  to  that  of 
proee,  and  the  difficulty  of  keeping  up 
a  series  of  fictions  in  verse  is  so  im- 
measurably greater  than  that  of  doing 
the  same  thing  in  prose,  that  I  am 
disposed    to    believe    that  WAVERLEY 
would  have  appeared  all  the  same  if 
there   had    been   no    Byron,   and    no 
chance  of  dethronement.     In  fact,  the 
Historical    Novel  had    to   be  created, 
and  Scott  had  to  create  it.     He  had 
learned, — if  so  dull  and  deliberate  a 
process  as  learning  can  be  asserted  of 
what  seems  to  have  been  as  natural 
and   as   little  troublesome  to   him  as 
breathing  —  to    build    the     romantic 
stn  cture,   to   decorate  it   with    orna- 
ment   of    fact    and    fancy    from    the 
records  of  the  past,  to  depict  scenery 
and  manners,  to  project  character,  to 
weave  dialogue.     And  I  do  not  know 
thai  there    is    any   more   remarkable 
pro)f    of    his    literary    versatility    in 
general,    and    his    vocation    for    the 
Historical  Novel  in    particular,    than 
the  fact  that  the  main  fault  of  prose 
ron  ances,  especially  those  immediately 
pre  ceding  his  own,  was  also  one  most 
lik(  ly  to  be  encouraged  by  a  course  of 
poetical  practice,  and  yet  is  one  from 
which  he  is  almost  entirely  free. 

The  Godwins  and  the  Mrs.  Rad- 
clif/es  had  perpetually  offended,  now 
by  dialogue  so  glaringly  modern  that 
it  -vas  utterly  out  of  keeping  with 
the  r  story  and  their  characters,  now 
by  the  adoption  of  the  conventional 
star;e-j argon  which  is  one  of  the  most 
detestable  lingos  ever  devised  by  man. 
"Wi  ^h  very  rare  exceptions  Sir  Walter 
con  pletely  avoids  both  these  dangers. 
Hit  conversation  has  not,  indeed,  that 
pro  ninence  in  the  method  of  his  work 
which  we  shall  find  it  possessing  in 
the  case  of  his  great  French  follower. 
Bu  it  is  for  the  most  part  full  of 


dramatic  suitableness,  it  is  often  ex- 
cellently humorous  or  pathetic,  and  it 
almost  always  possesses  in  some  degree 
the  Shakespearean  quality  of  fitting 
the  individual  and  the  time  and  the 
circumstances  without  any  deliberate 
archaism  or    modernism.      No   doubt 
Scott's  wide  reading  enabled  him  to 
do  a  certain  amount  of  mosaic  work 
in  this  kind.     Few,  for  instance,  ex- 
cept those  whose  own  reading  is  pretty 
wide  in  the  plays  and  pamphlets  of 
the  seventeenth  century,    know  how 
much  is  worked  from  them  into  THE 
FORTUNES  OF  NIGEL  and  WOODSTOCK. 
But  this  dialogue  is  never  mere  mosaic. 
It  has  the  quality  which,  already  called 
Shakespearean,  also  belongs  to  men  of 
such    different   kinds    and   orders    of 
greatness  from  Scott's  or  Shakespeare's 
as,     for     instance,    Goldsmith, —  the 
quality  of  humanity,   independent  of 
time.      Now  this  is  of  itself  of  such 
importance  to  the  Historical  Novelist, 
that  it  may  be  doubted  whether  any 
other  kind  of  craftsman  can  find   it 
more  important.      The  laborious  and 
uninspired     attempt     at     fidelity    to 
the   language   of    the  time  is   nearly 
as    destructive     of     the     equanimity 
proper   to    the    reception  of  a  novel, 
as    is  the  perpetual   irritation  which 
glaring  and  tasteless  anachronisms  of 
speech  excite.     And  it  is  not  particu- 
larly easy  to  say  whether  this  knack 
plays  a  greater  part  in  the  fashioning 
of  the  "  Scotch  novel,"  as  it  used  to 
be  called,  than  the  other  ingredients 
of    plot,    character,    and   description. 
In  regard   to    plot,    Scott   was   from 
one  point  of  view  a   great  and  con- 
fessing sinner ;  from  another,  a  most 
admirably  justified  one.     Plot,  in  the 
strict   sense,  he   never  achieved,  and 
he  very    seldom    even    attempted    to 
achieve   it.     It    was    only   the   other 
day  that  there  was  published  for  the 
first  time  a  letter  from  his  intimate 
friend   and    one    of    his   best    critics, 
Lady  Louisa  Stuart  (who,  to  be  sure, 
had  literature  in  the  blood  of    her), 
stigmatising,  more    happily     perhaps 
than  has   ever   been   done  since,    Sir 
Walter's   habit  of  "huddling  up  the 
cards  and  throwing  them  into  the  bag 

Y  2 


324 


The  Historical  Novel. 


in  his  impatience  for  a  new  deal."  It 
may  almost  be  said  that  Scott  never 
winds  up  a  plot  artfully;  and  the 
censure  which  he  makes  Captain 
Clutterbuck  pass  in  the  introduction 
to  THE  FORTUNES  OF  NIGEL  is  un- 
doubtedly valid.  When  Peacock,  in 
CROTCHET  CASTLE,  made  that  very 
crotchety  comparison  of  Scott  to  a 
pantomime  librettist,  he  might  at  least 
have  justified  it  by  the  extraordinary 
fondness  of  the  novelist  for  a  sort  of 
transformation-scene  which  finishes 
everything  off  in  a  trice,  and,  as  Dryden 
says  of  his  hasty  preacher, 

Runs  huddling  to  the  benediction. 

The  powerful  and  pathetic  scenes  at 
Carlisle  and  the  delightful  restora- 
tion of  the  Baron  somewhat  mask  in 
WAVERLEY  itself  the  extreme  and 
rather  improbable  ease  with  which 
the  hero's  pardon  is  extorted  from 
a  government  and  a  general  rather 
prone  to  deal  harshly  than  mildly 
with  technical  traitors.  I  never  could 
make  out  how,  if  Sir  Arthur  War- 
dour' s  fortune  was  half  so  badly 
dipped  as  we  are  given  to  understand, 
his  son,,  even  with  more  assistance 
from  Lovel  than  a  young  man  of  spirit 
was  likely  to  accept  from  his  sister's 
suitor,  could  have  disengaged  it  at  the 
end  of  THE  ANTIQUARY.  It  is  true 
that  this  is  the  least  historical  of  all 
the  novels,  but  the  procedure  is  the 
same.  Diana  and  her  father  were 
most  theatrically  lucky,  and  Clerk 
Jobson,  and  even  Rashleigh,  scoun- 
drels as  both  were,  were  astonishingly 
unlucky,  at  the  close  of  ROB  ROY. 
It  is  especially  difficult  to  understand 
why  the  attorney  was  struck  off  the 
rolls  for  joining  in  the  attempt  to 
secure  an  attainted  person  who  subse- 
quently got  off  by  killing  the  officers 
of  the  law  in  the  execution  of  their 
duty.  One  might  go  on  with  this  sort 
of  peddling  criticism  right  through  the 
novels,  winding  up  with  that  catas- 
trophe of  WOODSTOCK,  where  Crom- 
well's mercy  is  even  more  out  of 
character  and  more  unlikely  than 
Cumberland's.  Nor  are  these  conclu- 
sions the  only  point  where  a  stop- 


watch critic  may  blaspheme  without 
the  possibility  of  at  least  technical 
refutation  of  his  blasphemies.  Scott 
has  a  habit  (due  no  doubt  in  part  to 
his  rapid  and  hazardous  com  position) 
of  introducing  certain  characters  and 
describing  certain  incidents  with  a 
pomp  and  prodigality  of  detail  quite 
out  of  proportion  to  their  real  import- 
ance in  the  story;  and  even  a  person 
who  would  no  more  hesitate  to  speak 
disrespectfully  of  the  Unities  than  of 
the  Equator  may  admit  that  such  an 
arrangement  as  that  in  ROB  ROY,  where 
something  like  a  quarter  of  the  book 
is  taken  up  with  the  adventures  of 
four  and-twenty  hours,  is  not  wholly 
artistic. 

Yet  for  my  part  I  hold  that  the 
defence  made  by  the  shadowy  Author 
of  WAVERLEY  in  the  Introduction 
aforesaid  is  a  perfectly  sound  one,  and 
that  it  applies  with  special  propriety 
to  the  historical  division  of  the  novels, 
and  with  them  to  historical  novels 
generally.  The  Captain's  gibe,  con- 
veyed in  an  anecdote  of  "  his  excellent 
grandmother,"  shows  that  Scott  (as  he 
was  far  too  shrewd  not  to  do)  saw  the 
weak  points  as  well  as  the  strong  of 
this  defence.  Indeed  I  am  not  sure 
that  he  quite  saw  the  strength  of  the 
strongest  of  all.  It  was  all  very  well 
to  plead  that  he  was  only  "  Trying  to 
write  with  sense  and  spirit  a  few 
scenes  unlaboured  and  loosely  put 
together,  but  which  had  sufficient  in- 
terest in  them  to  amuse  in  one  corner 
the  pain  of  body  ;  in  another  to  relieve 
anxiety  of  mind  ;  in  a  third  place  to 
unwrinkle  a  brow  bent  with  the  fur- 
rows of  daily  toil ;  in  another  to  fill 
the  place  of  bad  thoughts  and  suggest 
better  ;  in  yet  another  to  induce  an 
idler  to  study  the  history  of  his 
country  ;  in  all,  save  where  the  peru- 
sal interrupted  the  discharge  of  serious 
duties,  to  furnish  harmless  amuse- 
ment." But  the  Captain  might,  if  he 
had  ventured  to  take  such  a  liberty 
with  the  author  of  his  being,  have 
answered  :  "  But,  sir,  could  not  you 
amuse  and  relieve  and  unwrinkle  and 
fill  and  induce  and  furnish,  and  all  the 
rest  on't,  at  the  same  time  joining  your 


The  Historical  Novel. 


325 


flats  a  little  more  carefully?"  The 
Eidolon  with  the  blotted  revise  would 
have  done  better,  argumentatively 
speaking,  to  have  stuck  to  his  earlier 
plea,  that,  following  Smollett  and  Le 
Sage,  he  tried  to  write  rather  a  "  his- 
tory of  the  miscellaneous  adventures 
which  befall  an  individual  in  the 
course  of  life,  than  the  plot  of  a 
regular  and  concerted  epopoeia,  where 
every  step  brings  us  nearer  to  the 
final  catastrophe."  For  it  so  happens 
that  this  plea  is  much  nearer  to  the 
spec  al  business  and  ends  of  the  His- 
torical Novelist  than  to  those  of  the 
avoT/edly  inventive  writer.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  we  do  know  that 
Smollett  certainly,  and  suspect  Le 
Sage  probably,  wove  a  great  deal  of 
actual  experience  into  their  stories ; 
while  Fielding,  who  is  contrasted 
with  them  in  the  passage  cited,  seems 
never  to  have  incorporated  incidents, 
and  seldom  characters,  except  such  as 
those  of  his  wife,  Allen,  and  one  or  two 
more  whom  he  drew  in  the  most  general 
and  far-off  manner.  A  man  who  thus 
keeps  clear  of  the  servitude  of  actual 
occurrence,  communicating  reality  by 
the  results  of  his  observation  of  human 
nature  and  human  life  generally,  can 
shape  the  ends  of  his  story  as  well  as 
rough-hew  them.  But  the  man  who 
makes  incident  and  adventure  his  first 
object,  and  in  some  cases  at  least  draws 
then  from  actual  records,  is  bound  to 
allo  v  himself  a  licence  much  greater 
than  epic  strictness  permits.  That 
truth  is  stranger  than  fiction  is  only 
the  3opybook  form  of  a  reflection  which 
a  hundred  critics  have  made  and  en- 
forced in  different  ways  since  a  thou- 
sand writers  put  the  occasion  before 
them, — to  wit,  that  in  real  life  things 
happen  in  a  more  remiss  and  disorderly 
fasl  ion  than  is  allowable  in  novels. 

This  point  is  indeed  put  very  well 
by  Scott  himself  in  the  introduction  to 
THI  ABBOT  :  "  For  whatever  praise 
may  be  due  to  the  ingenuity  which 
brings  to  a  general  combination  all 
the  loose  threads  of  a  narrative  like 
the  knitter  at  the  finishing  of  her 
stocking,  I  am  greatly  deceived  if  in 
mai.y  cases  a  superior  advantage  is 


not  attained  by  the  air  of  reality  which 
the  deficiency  of  explanation  attaches 
to  a  work  written  on  a  different  sys- 
tem. In  life  itself  many  things  befall 
every  mortal  of  which  the  individual 
never  knows  the  real  cause  or  origin  ; 
and  were  we  to  point  out  the  most 
marked  distinction  between  a  real  and 
a  fictitious  narrative,  we  would  say 
that  the  former  in  reference  to  the 
remote  causes  of  the  events  it  relates 
is  obscure,  doubtful,  and  mysterious, 
whereas  in  the  latter  case  it  is  a  part 
of  the  author's  duty  to  afford  satisfac- 
tory details  upon  the  causes  of  the 
events  he  has  recorded,  and,  in  a  word, 
to  account  for  everything." 

The  Historical  Novel,  however,  es- 
capes this  stricture  in  part  because 
there  the  irregularities,  the  unexpect- 
ednesses, the  disproportions  of  action, 
are  things  accepted  and  not  to  be 
argued  about.  Certain  well-attested 
points  and  contrasts  in  the  character 
and  conduct  of  Marlborough  and  of 
Catherine  the  Second  might  be  justly 
objected  to  as  unnatural  in  fiction; 
such  historical  incidents  as  dive's 
defence  of  Arcot,  or  as  the  last  fight 
of  the  Revenge,  would  at  least  be 
frowned  or  smiled  at  if  they  were 
mere  inventions.  Dealing  as  the  His- 
torical Novelist  must  with  actual  and 
authenticated  things  like  these,  and 
moulding,  as  he  will  if  he  is  a  deacon 
in  his  craft,  his  fictitious  incidents  on 
their  pattern  and  to  suit  them,  he  can 
take  to  himself  all  the  irregularity,  all 
the  improbability,  all  the  outrages  on 
the  exact  scale  of  Bossu  in  which  life 
habitually  indulges.  And  he  is  not 
obliged  to  adjust  these  things,  he  is 
even  decidedly  unwise  if  he  tries  to 
adjust  them  to  theory  and  proba- 
bility by  elaborate  analyses  of  charac- 
ter. That  is  not  his  business  at 
all ;  he  not  only  may,  but  should, 
leave  it  to  quite  a  different  kind  of 
practitioner.  His  is  the  big  brush, 
the  bold  foreshortening,  the  composi- 
tion which  is  all  the  more  effective 
according  as  it  depends  least  upon 
over-subtle  strokes  and  shades  of  line 
and  colour.  Not  that  he  is  to  draw 
carelessly  or  colour  coarsely,  but  that 


326 


The  Historical  Novel. 


niggling  finish  of  any  kind  is  unneces- 
sary and  even  prejudicial  to  his  effects. 
And  in  the  recognition,  at  least  in  the 
practical  recognition,  of  these  laws  of 
the  craft,  as  Scott  set  the  example,  so 
he  also  left  very  little  for  any  one  else 
to  improve  upon.     He  may  have  been 
equalled  ;  he  has  never  been  surpassed. 
I    have    before     now    referred    by 
anticipation   to  another  point  of   his 
intuition,  his  instinctive  grasp  of  the 
first  law  of  the  Historical  Novel,  that 
the  nominal  hero  and  heroine  and  the 
ostensibly  central  interest  and  story 
shall  not  concern  historical  persons,  or 
shall  concern  them  only  in  some  aspect 
unrecorded  or  at  best  faintly  traced  in 
history.     The  advantages  of  this  are 
so  clear  and  obvious  that  it  is  astound- 
ing that  they  should  have  been  over- 
looked as  they  were,   not  merely  by 
'prentices  of  all  kinds  and  all  times, 
but  by  persons  of  something  more  than 
moderate  ability  like  G.  P.  R.  James 
and  the  first  Lord  Lytton.     These  ad- 
vantages   have    been   partly   touched 
upon,  but  one  of  them  has  not,  I  think, 
been  mentioned,  and  it  may  introduce 
us  to  another  very  important  feature 
of  the  subject.    It  is  constantly  useful, 
and  it  may  at  times  be  indispensable, 
for  the    Historical   Novelist   to  take 
liberties  with  history.     The  extent  to 
which  this  is  permissible  or  desirable 
may   indeed    be   matter   for  plentiful 
disagreement.    It  is  certainly  carrying 
matters  too  far  to  make,  as  in  CASTLE 
DANGEROUS,  a  happy  ending  to  a  story 
the  whole  historical  and  romantic  com- 
plexion of  which  required  the  ending 
to  be  unhappy  ;  but   Sir  Walter  was 
admittedly  but  the  shadow  of  himself 
when  CASTLE  DANGEROUS  was  written. 
Although  Dryasdust  and   Smelfungus 
have    both    done   after    their    worst 
fashion  in  objecting  to  his  anachron- 
isms in  happier  days,  yet  I  certainly 
think  that  it   was   not   necessary   to 
make  Shakespeare  the  author  of  A  MID- 
SUMMER NIGHT'S  DREAM  in  the  eleventh 
year  of  his  age,  if  not  earlier,   as  is 
done  in  KENILWORTH,  or  to  play  the 
tricks  with  chronology  required  by  the 
narrative  of  the  misdeeds  of  Ulrica  in 
IVANIIOE.     Nothing  is  gained  in  either 


of  these  cases  for  the  story.  But 
there  are  cases  where  the  story  does 
undoubtedly  gain  by  taking  liberties 
with  history.  And  it  is  evident  that 
this  can  be  done  much  more  easily  and 
much  more  effectively  when  the  actual 
historical  characters  whose  life  is,  so 
to  speak,  "coted  and  marked,"  do  not 
play  the  first  parts  as  far  as  the  in- 
terest of  the  story  goes. 

But  it  might  be  tedious  to  examine 
more  in  detail  the  special  character- 
istics of  work  so  well  known.  Enough 
must  have  been  said  to  show  that 
Scott  had  discovered,  and  to  a  great 
extent  had  discovered  consciously,  not 
merely  how  to  write  an  historical  novel, 
but  how  to  teach  others  to  write  it. 
His  critical  faculty,  if  not  extraordin- 
arily subtle,  was  always  as  sound  and 
shrewd  as  it  was  good-natured.  And 
there  is  hardly  a  better,  as  there  is 
not  a  more  interesting,  example  of  this 
combination  than  the  remarks  in  his 
Diary  under  the  dates  of  October 
17th  and  18th,  1826,  occasioned  by 
Harrison  Ainsworth's  and  Horace 
Smith's  attempts  in  his  style,  SIR 
JOHN  CHIVERTON  and  BRAMBLETYE 
HOUSE.  In  one  so  utterly  devoid  of 
the  slightest  tendency  to  overvalue 
himself,  his  adoption  of  Swift's 
phrase, 

Which  I  was. born  to  introduce, 
Refined  it  first  and  showed  its  use, 

is  a  very  strong  affidavit  of  claim  ; 
and  it  is  one  which,  as  we  have  seen, 
is  absolutely  justified.  Not  less  so 
are  the  remarks  which  follow  later, 
on  what  he  calls,  with  his  unfailing 
modesty  his  "  own  errors,  or,  if  you 
will,  those  of  the  style."  "One  ad- 
vantage," he  says,  "  I  think  I  still 
have  over  all  of  them.  They  may 
do  it  with  a  better  grace,  but  I, 
like  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek,  do  it 
more  natural."  And  then  in  a 
succession  of  light  taps  with  the 
finger  he  indicates  not  a  few  of 
the  faults  of  the  worser  sort  of  His- 
torical Novel :  the  acquiring  informa- 
tion in  order  to  write,  instead  of 
using  in  an  unconstrained  fashion 
what  has  become  part  of  the  regular 


The  Historical  Novel. 


327 


furniture  of  the  mind  ;  the  dragging 
in  historical  events  by  head  and 
shoulders;  the  too  open  stealing  of 
actual  passages  and  pages  from  chron- 
icles or  previous  works  on  the  subject, 
and  ,so  forth  ;  though  he  ends  up  with 
his  usual  honesty  by  confessing  once 
more  his  own  occasional  carelessness 
of  the  management  of  the  story. 

H<3  did  not  consider  that  his  own 
plea  of  being  "  hurried  on  so  that  he 
has  no  time  to  think  of  the  story  "  is 
a  great  deal  more  than  an  excuse. 
There  is  extremely  little  danger  of 
much  fault  being  found,  except  by 
professional  fault-finders,  with  any 
writer  who  neglects  the  conduct  of  his 
story  becau  e  he  has  so  much  story  to 
tell.  It  is  the  other  people,  the  people 
who  are  at  their  wits'  end  to  know 
what  ought  to  come  next,  who  are  in- 
tolerable, not  those  who  have  such  an 
abui. dance  of  arrows  in  their  quiver 
that  they  sometimes  pull  out  one  the 
notch  of  which  does  not  exactly  fit 
the  string.  And  after  all,  who 
can  ever  praise  enough,  or  read 
enough,  or  enjoy  enough  those  forty- 
«ighfc  volumes  of  such  a  reader's  para- 
dise as  nowhere  else  exists  1  The 
very  abundance  and  relish  of  their 
puro  delightsomeness  has  obscured  in 
then  qualities  which  would  have 
made  a  score  of  reputations.  Of  pas- 
sion there  may  be  little  or  none; 
thai  string  in  Scott's  case,  as  in  those 
of  I  aeon,  of  Milton,  of  Southey,  and 
othtrs,  was  either  wanting,  or  the 
arti  it's  hand  shrank  from  playing  on 
it.  But  there  is  almost  everything 
^Ise.  I  once  began,  and  mislaid,  a 
collection  of  what  would  be  called  in 
our  modern  lingo  "  realistic  "  details 
from  Scott,  which  showed  at  least  as 
shrowd  a  knowledge  and  as  uncom- 
promising an  acknowledgment  of  the 
weaknesses  of  human  nature  as  with 
a.  little  jargon  and  a  little  brutality 
would  have  set  up  half  a  dozen  psy- 
chological novelists.1  In  the  observa- 

1  Curiously  enough,  after  writing  the  above, 
I  ca^ne  across  the  following  passage  in  a  little- 
known  but  extraordinary  shrewd  French 
crit  c  of  English  literature,  Mr.  Browning's 
friend  M.  Milsand.  "  II  y  a  plus  de  philoso- 


tion  and  delineation  of  his  own 
countrymen  he  is  acknowledged  to 
have  excelled  all  other  writers ;  by 
which  I  do  not  mean  merely  that  no 
one  has  drawn  Scotsmen  as  he  has, 
but  that  no  one  writer  has  drawn  that 
writer's  countrymen  as  Scott  has. 
And  the  consensus,  I  believe,  of  the 
best  critics  would  put  him  next  to 
Shakespeare  as  a  creator  of  indivi- 
dual character  of  the  miscellaneous 
human  sort,  however  far  he  may  be 
below  not  merely  Shakespeare  but 
Fielding,  Thackeray,  and  perhaps  Le 
Sage  in  a  certain  subtle  intimacy  of 
detail  and  a  certain  massive  com- 
pleteness of  execution.  And  all  these 
gifts, — all  these  and  many  more — he 
put  at  the  service  of  the  kind  that  he 
"was  born  to  introduce,"  the  kind  of 
the  Historical  Novel. 

Although  Alexandre  Dumas  had 
begun  to  write  years  before  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  death,  he  had  not  at  that  time 
turned  his  attention  to  the  novels 
which  have  ranked  him  as  second  only 
to  Sir  Walter  himself  in  that  depart- 
ment. Nor  was  he  by  any  means 
Scott's  first  French  imitator.  He 
was  busy  on  dramatic  composition, 
in  which,  though  he  never  attained 
anything  like  Scott's  excellence  in  his 
own  kind  of  poetry,  he  was  nearly  as 
great  an  innovator  in  his  own  country 
and  way.  Nor  can  it  be  doubted  that 
this  practice  helped  him  considerably 
in  his  later  work,  just  as  poetry  had 
helped  Scott ;  and  in  particular  that 
it  taught  Dumas  a  more  closely  knit 
construction  and  a  more  constant 
"eye  to  the  audience"  than  Scott  had 
always  shown.  Not  indeed  that  the 
plots  of  Dumas,  as  plots,  are  by  any 
means  of  exceptional  regularity.  The 
crimes  and  punishment  of  Milady  may 
be  said  to  communicate  a  certain  unity 
to  LES  TEOIS  MOUSQUETAIRES,  the  ven- 
geance of  Dantes  to  MONTE  CRISTO,  and 
other  things  to  others.  But  when  they 
are  looked  at  from  the  strictly  dramatic 
side,  all  more  or  less  are  "  chronicle- 

phie  dans  ses  [Scott's]  contes  (quoique  la 
philosophic  n'en  soit  pas  le  caractere  saillant) 
que  dans  bon  nombre  de  romans  philoso- 
phiques." 


328 


The  Historical  Novel. 


plays  "  in  the  form  of  novels,  rather 
than  novels  ;  lengths  of  adventure  pro- 
longed or  cut  short  at  the  pleasure 
or  convenience  of  the  writer,  rather 
than  definite  evolutions  of  a  certain 
definite  scheme,  which  has  got  to  come 
to  an  end  when  the  ball  is  fully  un- 
rolled. The  advantage  of  Dumas's 
dramatic  practice  shows  itself  most  in 
the  business-like  way  in  which  at  his 
best  he  works  by  tableaux,  connected, 
it  may  be,  with  each  other  rather  by 
sequence  and  identity  of  personages 
than  by  strict  causality,  but  each  pos- 
sessing a  distinct  dramatic  and  narra- 
tive interest  of  its  own,  and  so  en- 
chaining the  attention.  There  are 
episodes  without  end  in  Dumas ;  but 
there  are  comparatively  few  (at  least 
in  his  best  work)  of  the  "  loose  ends," 
of  the  incidents,  neither  complete  in 
themselves  nor  contributing  anything 
in  particular  to  the  general  story,  to 
which  Sir  Walter  pleads  guilty,  and 
which  certainly  are  to  be  found  in 
him. 

Another  point  in  which  Dumas  may 
be  said  to  have  improved,  or  at  any 
rate  alternated,  upon  Scott,  and  which 
also  may,  without  impropriety,  be  con- 
nected with  his  practice  for  the  stage, 
is  the  enormously  increased  part 
allotted  to  dialogue  in  his  novels. 
•  Certainly  Scott  was  not  weak  in 
dialogue ;  on  the  contrary,  the  in- 
trinsic excellence  of  the  individual 
speeches  of  his  characters  in  humour, 
in  truth  to  nature,  in  pathos,  and  in 
many  other  important  points,  is  far 
above  the  Frenchman's.  But  his 
dialogue  plays  a  much  smaller  part  in 
the  actual  evolution  of  the  story. 
Take  down  at  hazard  three  or  four 
different  volumes  of  Dumas  from  the 
shelf ;  open  them,  and  run  over  the 
pages,  noting  of  what  stuff  the  letter- 
press is  composed.  Then  do  exactly 
the  same  with  the  same  number  of 
Scott.  You  will  find  that  the  number 
of  whole  pages,  and  still  more  the 
number  of  consecutive  pages,  entirely 
filled  with  dialogue,  or  variegated  with 
other  matter  in  hardly  greater  pro- 
portion than  that  of  stage-directions, 
is  far  larger  in  the  French  than  in  the 


English  master.  It  is  true  that  the 
practice  of  Dumas  varies  in  this  re- 
spect. In  his  latter  books  especially, 
in  his  less  good  ones  at  all  times,  there 
is  a  much  greater  proportion  of  solid 
matter.  But  then  the  reason  of  this 
is  quite  obvious.  He  was  here  falling 
either  in  his  own  person,  or  by  proxy, 
into  those  very  practices  of  interpolat- 
ing lumps  of  chronicle,  and  laboriously 
describing  historic  incident  and  scene, 
with  which  in  the  passage  above 
quoted  Scott  reproaches  his  imitators. 
But  at  his  best  Dumas  delighted  in 
telling  his  tale  as  much  as  possible 
through  the  mouths  of  his  characters. 
In  all  his  most  famous  passages, — the 
scene  at  the  Bastion  Saint-Gervais  in 
LES  TROIS  MOUSQUETAIRES,  the  Vin  de 
Porto  and  its  ushering  scenes  in  YINGT 
ANS  APRES,  the  choicest  episodes  of 
LE  YICOMTE  DE  BRAGELONNE,  the  crises 
of  LA  REINE  MARGOT  and  LES  QUAR- 
ANTE-CiNQ,  the  thing  is  always  talked 
rather  than  narrated.  It  is  hardly 
fanciful  to  trace  Dumas's  preference 
for  heroes  like  D' Artagnan  and  Chicot 
to  the  fact  that  they  had  it  by  kind  to 
talk. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  worth 
while  to  lay  much  stress  on  another 
difference  between  Scott  and  Dumas, 
— the  much  greater  length  of  the 
latter's  novels,  and  his  tendency  to  run 
them  into  series.  Scott  only  did  the 
latter  once,  in  the  case  of  THE  MONAS- 
TERY and  THE  ABBOT,  while  it  was 
probably  more  a  determination  that 
the  British  public  should  like  him  yet 
in  his  dealings  with  so  tempting  a 
subject  as  the  troubles  of  Queen 
Mary's  reign  than  any  inherent  liking 
for  the  practice  that  determined  him 
to  it  in  this  case.  Even  if  we  neglect 
the  trilogy  system  of  which  the  ad- 
ventures of  D'Artagnan  and  Chicot 
are  the  main  specimens,  the  individual 
length  of  Dumas's  books  is  much 
greater  than  that  of  Scott's.  Putting 
such  giants  as  MONTE  CRISTO  and  the 
YICOMTE  DE  BRAGELONNE  aside,  YINGT 
ANS  APRES  would  make,  I  should  think, 
at  least  two  WAVERLEYS,  and  LA  HEINE. 
MARGOT  (one  of  the  shortest)  an 
IVANHOE  and  a  half.  But  this  increase 


The  Historical  Novel. 


329 


in  length  was  only  a  return  to  old 
practices;  for  Scott  himself  had  been 
a  gveat  shortener  of  the  novel.  To 
say  nothing  of  the  romances  of  chivalry 
and  the  later  imitations  of  them,  Le 
Sago,  Richardson,  Fielding,  Smollett, 
Mrs.  Radcliffe,  had  all  in  their  chief 
work  run  to  a  length  far  exceeding 
what  Sir  Walter  usually  thought 
suff  cient.  But  I  rather  doubt  whether 
even  Mademoiselle  de  Scudery's  pro- 
verbial prolixity  much  exceeds  in  any 
one  instance  the  length  of  the  VICOMTE 
DE  BRAGELONNE. 

That  this  length  is  pretty  closely 
connected  with  the  conversational 
manner  just  noticed  cannot,  I  think, 
be  doubted.  There  is  nothing  so  end- 
less as  talk  ;  and  inasmuch  as  an  hour's 
leisurely  speech  will  fill  some  thirty 
octavo  pages,  valiant  talkers  like  Miss 
Bates  must  deliver  (though  fortunately 
not  in  a  form  which  abides  with  pos- 
terity) their  volume  a  day,  year  in 
and  year  out,  given  health  and 
listeners,  without  any  difficulty  or 
muoh  exertion.  That  is  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  volumes  a  year  ;  whereas 
five  were  all  that  even  Southey's 
brazen-bowelled  industry  warranted 
itself  to  produce,  and  I  do  not  think 
that  Sir  Walter  himself  in  his  most 
tremendous  bursts  of  energy  exceeded 
the  rate  of  about  a  dozen. 

Of  the  advantages  and  disadvant- 
ages, on  the  other  hand,  of  the  length 
thus  reintroduced  into  novel-writing, 
it  i.s  not  possible  to  speak  with  equal 
confidence.  People  who  read  very 
fas* ,  who  like  to  read  more  than  once, 
anc  who  are  pleased  to  meet  old 
friends  in  constantly  new  situations, 
as  a  rule,  I  think,  like  long  books ; 
but  the  average  subscriber  to  circulat- 
ing libraries  does  not.  The  taste  for 
them  is  perhaps  the  more  generous,  as 
it  certainly  is  the  most  ancient  and 
mo  ;t  human.  It  showed  itself  in  the 
cycles  of  the  ancients  and  of  medieval 
romance  :  it  positively  revelled  in  the 
extraordinary  filiations  of  the  AMADIS 
story ;  and  it  has  continued  to  assert 
itsdf  in  different  forms  to  the  pre- 
sen  b  day,  now  in  that  of  long  single 
bocks,  now  in  that  of  direct  series 


and  continuations,  now  in  that  of 
books  like  Thackeray's  and  Trol- 
lope's,  which  are  not  exactly  series, 
but  which  keep  touch  with  each 
other  by  the  community  of  more  or 
fewer  characters.  Of  course  it  is 
specially  easy  to  tempt  and  indulge 
this  taste  in  the  historical  department 
of  novel-writing.  Even  as  it  is,  Dumas 
himself  has  made  considerable  progress 
in  the  task  of  writing  a  connected 
novel  history  of  France  from  the 
English  wars  to  the  Revolution  of 
1789.  I  really  do  not  know  that, 
especially  now  when  the  taste  for  the 
romance  seems  to  have  revived  some- 
what vigorously,  it  would  be  an  in- 
conceivable thing  if  somebody  should 
write  an  English  historical  AMADIS  in 
more  than  as  many  generations  as  the 
original,  deducing  the  fortunes  of  an 
English  family  from  King  Arthur  to 
Queen  Victoria.  Let  it  be  observed 
that  I  do  not  as  a  critic  recommend 
this  scheme,  nor  do  I  specially  hanker 
after  its  results  as  a  reader.  But  it 
is  not  an  impossible  thing,  and  it  would 
hardly  exceed  the  total  of  Dumas's 
printed  work.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  count  that  mighty  list  of  volumes 
twice  with  the  same  result,  a  phe- 
nomenon well  known  in  legend  re- 
specting the  wonderful  works  of 
nature  or  of  art.  But  it  comes,  I 
think,  to  somewhere  about  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  volumes  ;  that  is  to 
say,  a  hundred  and  twenty  novels  of 
the  length  of  LES  TROIS  MOUSQUETAIRES 
or  LA  REINE  MARGOT.  And  as  that 
would  cover  the  time  suggested,  at  not 
more  than  ten  or  twelve  years  to  a 
novel,  it  should  surely  be  ample. 

To  return  to  a  proper  seriousness  r 
the  main  points  of  strictly  technical 
variation  in  Dumas  as  compared  with 
Scott  are  the  more  important  use 
made  of  dialogue,  the  greater  length 
of  the  stories,  and  the  tendency  to 
run  them  on  in  series.  In  quality  of 
enjoyment,  also,  the  French  master 
added  something  to  his  English  model. 
If  Scott  is  not  deep  (I  think  him 
"much  deeper  than  it  is  the  fashion  to 
allow),  Dumas  is  positively  superficial. 
His  rapid  and  absorbing  current  of 


330 


The  Historical  Novel. 


narrative  gives  no  time  for  any  strictly 
intellectual  exertion  on  the  part  either 
of  writer  or  reader ;  the  style  as  style 
is  even  less  distinct  and  less  distin- 
guished than  Scott's ;  we  receive  not 
only  few  ideas  but  even  few  images 
of  anything  but  action — few  pictures 
of  scenery,  no  extraordinarily  vivid 
touches  of  customs  or  manners.  Du- 
mas is  an  infinitely  inferior  master  of 
character  to  Scott;  he  can  make  up 
a  personage  admirably,  but  seldom 
attains  to  a  real  character.  Chicot 
himself  and  Porthos  are  the  chief  ex- 
ceptions; for  D'Artagnan  is  more  a 
type  than  an  individual,  Athos  is  the 
incarnate  gentleman  chiefly,  Aramis 
is  incomplete  and  shadowy,  and  Monte 
Oristo  is  a  mere  creature  of  melo- 
drama. But  Dumas  excels  even  Scott 
himself  in  the  peculiar  and  sustained 
faculty  of  keeping  hold  on  his 
reader  by  and  for  the  story.  With 
Sir  Walter  one  is  never  quite  un- 
conscious, and  one  is  delighted  to  be 
conscious,  of  the  existence  and  in- 
dividuality of  the  narrator.  Of 
Dumas's  personality  (and  no  doubt 
this  is  in  a  way  a  triumph  of  his 
art)  we  never  think  at  all.  We  think 
of  nothing  but  of  the  story :  whether 
D'Artagnan  will  ever  bring  the  dia- 
monds safe  home ;  whether  the  com- 
pact between  Richelieu  and  Milady 
can  possibly  be  fulfilled ;  whether  that 
most  terrible  of  all  "  black  strap", 
that  flowed  into  the  pewter  pot  when 
Grimaud  tried  the  cask,  will  do  its 
intended  duty  or  not ;  whether  Mar- 
garet will  be  able  to  divert  the  silk 
cord  in  Alengon's  hand  from  its  desti- 
nation on  La  Mole's  neck.  No  doubt 
Scott  has  moments  of  the  same  arrest- 


ing excitement ;  but  they  are  not  so 
much  his  direct  object,  and  from  the 
difference  of  his  method  they  are  not 
so  prominent  or  so  numerous  or  en- 
gineered in  such  a  manner  as  to  take 
an  equally  complete  hold  of  the  reader. 
No  doubt  the  generation  which  as  yet 
had  not  Scott  affected  to  find  similar 
moments  in  Mrs.  Radcliffe ;  but  oh ! 
the  difference  to  us  of  the  moment 
when  Emily  draws  aside  the  Black 
Veil,  and  the  moment  when  the  corpse 
of  Mordaunt  shoots  above  water  with 
the  moonlight  playing  on  the  gold 
hilt  of  the  dagger !  Dumas  indeed 
has  no  Wandering  Willie ;  he  had  not 
poetry  enough  in  him  for  that.  But 
in  the  scenes  where  Scott  as  a  rule 
excels  him, — the  scenes  where  the  mere 
excitement  of  adventure  is  enhanced 
by  nobility  of  sentiment — he  has  a 
few,  with  the  death  of  Porthos  at  the 
head  of  them,  which  are  worthy  of 
Scott  himself ;  while  of  passages  like 
the  famous  rescue  of  Henry  Morton 
from  the  Cameronians  he  has  literally 
hundreds. 

'  It  was,  then,  this  strengthening  and 
extending  of  the  absorbing  and  ex- 
citing quality  which  the  Historical 
Novel  chiefly  owed  to  Dumas,  just  as 
it  owed  its  first  just  and  true  con- 
coction and  the  indication  of  almost 
all  the  ways  in  which  it  could  seek 
perfection  to  Scott.  I  shall  not,  I 
think,  be  charged  with  being  unjust 
to  the  Pupil ;  but,  wonderful  as  his 
work  is,  I  think  it  not  so  much  likely 
as  certain  that  it  never  would  have 
been  done  at  all  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  Master. 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY. 


(To  be  concluded.) 


331 


A   FORGOTTEN   EIGHT. 


FIVE  miles  inland  from  where  the 
greab  breakers  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay 
dash  themselves  on  the  rocks  of  Biar- 
ritz is  the  picturesque  old  town  of 
Bayonne,  which  has  played  many  a 
part  in  history,  and  was  even  once 
a  possession  of  our  own.  The  River 
Nivo  joins  the  greater  Adour  in  the 
town  itself,  and  their  joint  waters 
ripple  against  the  old  walls  of  the 
fortifications,  and  fill  the  ditches  of 
Van  ban's  bastions.  It  was  two  miles 
below  the  town  that  Wellington  built 
his  celebrated  bridge  of  boats  over 
the  Adour,  at  this  point  a  tidal  river 
from  five  to  six  hundred  yards  wide, 
in  order  to  invest  Bayonne  before  he 
himself  followed  Soult  to  Toulouse. 
And,  if  the  legend  be  correct,  would 
himself  have  been  captured,  while 
choosing  the  site  for  the  bridge,  by  the 
•commander  of  a  French  river  gun-boat, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  timely  warning 
of  his  chivalrous  adversary  General 
Thcuvenot,  then  commanding  the 
French  troops  in  Bayonne. 

Ihe  story  goes  that  Wellington 
used  to  ride  over  daily,  with  one  or 
two  of  his  staff,  from  his  headquarters 
at  St.  Jean-de-Luz,  and  take  his  stand 
on  <}he  top  of  a  wooded  sand-hillock, 
called  Blanc  Pignon,  on  the  left  bank 
of  the  Adour,  which  commands  a  view 
of  both  banks  and  the  town  itself 
twc  miles  up  stream.  This  had  been 
noticed  by  the  French,  who  had  still 
con  imand  of  the  river  and  the  opposite 
shore ;  and  the  zealous  sailor  aforesaid, 
Boi  trgeois  by  name,  conceived  the  plan 
of  entrapping  the  great  English  cap- 
tai)  L  by  lying  in  ambush  for  him,  with 
a  f aw  men,  among  the  undergrowth 
on  the  sand-dune,  which  happened  to 
be  on  neutral  ground  just  outside  the 
lino  of  French  picquets.  General 
Th  mvenot  very  honourably  declined 
to  sanction  this  tricky  proceeding; 


but,  seeing  through  his  glasses  from 
the  clock-tower  of  the  cathedral  in 
Bayonne  that  it  was  actually  being 
carried  out,  notwithstanding  his  dis- 
approval, he  sent  a  mounted  orderly, 
as  fast  as  he  could  gallop,  down  the 
road  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river  (the 
present  site  of  the  Alices  Marines), 
past  the  French  picquets,  to  warn 
Wellington  of  his  danger.  The  message 
was  just  in  time.  When  within  a 
short  distance  of  the  ambush  awaiting 
him  on  the  narrow  little  track  winding 
up  the  sand-dune,  he  turned  his  horse, 
and  moved  quietly  off  in  another 
direction. 

So  says  the  story,  which,  entirely 
believed  by  the  French,  is  placed  on 
record  by  Morel,  declared  in  a  foot- 
note to  be  correct,  and  then  (1846) 
within  the  memory  of  living  witnesses. 
We  can  entirely  agree  with  the  author 
in  his  succeeding  remark  :  "  Thus,  by 
one  of  those  strange  chances  beyond 
all  human  explanation,  there  fell 
through  a  design  which  might  have 
materially  changed  the  course  of 
events." 

It  is  almost  inconceivable  that  so 
chivalrous  an  opponent  as  this  story 
represents  General  Thouvenot  to  have 
been,  should,  eleven  weeks  later,  after 
the  conclusion  of  peace  had  become 
known  to  him,1  make  that  wilful  night 
sortie  from  the  citadel  of  Bayonne, 
which  cost  each  side  between  eight  and 
nine  hundred  men,  failed  to  attain  any 
object,  and  terminated  with  useless 
slaughter  the  last  action  of  the  Pen- 
insular War.  More  curious  still  that 
after  the  fight  he  should  have  harshly 
and  peremptorily  refused  to  allow  his 

1  Wellington  believed  that  Thouvenot  knew 
of  the  peace  before  he  made  the  useless 
sortie  from  Bayonne,  but  not  so  Soult  be- 
fore the  battle  of  Toulouse.  See  Lord  Stan- 
hope's "Conversations  with  the  Duke  of 
Wellington." 


332 


A  Forgotten  Fight. 


gallant  adversary  (the  brave  Sir  John 
Hope,  who  had  been  wounded  in  the 
sortie  and  had  temporarily  fallen  into 
his  hands,)  to  receive  a  visit  from 
any  English  officer,  although  the  in- 
vesting force  simply  wished  to  be 
assured  that  their  beloved  leader  lived, 
and  to  know  the  nature  of  his 
wounds. 

Without  trying  to  reconcile  these 
contradictory  traits  of  character  in 
the  same  individual,  let  us  pass  on  to 
the  more  immediate  subject  of  these 
notes. 

The  battle  of  St.  Pierre,  or  more 
correctly  Mouguerre,  was  fought  on 
the  13th  of  December  1813,  some 
four  months  prior  to  the  events  we 
have  just  referred  to,  and  some  four 
miles  above  the  town  of  Bayonne,  as 
the  sand-dune  Blanc  Pignon  is  some 
two  miles  below  it.  Here  that  great 
soldier,  Sir  Rowland  (afterwards 
Viscount)  Hill,  overmatched  in  men 
and  out-numbered  in  guns,  won  a 
glorious  victory  after  one  of  the  most 
bloody  actions  in  the  Peninsular  War. 

The  fight  was  remarkable  for  two 
very  different  events  :  one  worthily 
ennobling  a  great  English  family,  and 
thereby  rescuing  from  oblivion  the  old 
title  of  a  distinguished  fighting  regi- 
ment ;  the  other  resulting  in  the  dis- 
missal from  the  service  of  two  English 
officers,  each  of  whom  commanded  a 
regiment  in  the  battle. 

It  has  already  been  said  that  the 
Nive  joins  its  waters  with  those  of  the 
Adour  in  the  town  of  Bayonne,  and  in 
the  angle  between  those  rivers  lies  the 
well-marked  and  easily  distinguishable 
site  of  the  engagement.  Two  ponds, 
or,  as  Napier  correctly  calls  them,  mill- 
dams,  distinctly  fix  the  position  of 
Hill's  two  flank  brigades  to  this  day, 
while  the  centre  is  plainly  marked  by 
the  half-dozen  houses  of  the  hamlet  of 
Loste  or  Lostenia  ("at  the  host's" 
or  "landlord's,"  in  Basque,  enia mean- 
ing ««  belonging  to,")  on  the  ridge  over 
which  the  main  road  passes  from  Bay- 
onne to  Hasparren.  A  commanding 
eminence,  one  mile  in  rear  of  the 
centre,  now  covered  with  scattered  fir 


trees,  enabled  Hill  to  see  the  whole  of 
his  own  line  of  battle,  the  rivers  on 
both  his  flanks,  the  opposing  slope 
down  which  the  French  poured  from 
St.  Pierre  d'Irube  to  the  attack,  and 
away  to  his  left  rear  across  the  silver 
streak  of  the  Nive,  from  whence  alone 
he  could  hope  for  support.  The  whole 
panorama  of  the  fight  lay  stretched 
out  before  him. 

This  village  of  St.  Pierre  d'Irube, 
outside  the  works  of  Bayonne,  held  by 
the  French  and  through  which  they 
had  to  pass,  is  large  and  of  consider- 
able importance.  Hence  there  is  some 
difficulty  in  tracing  the  battle  ground 
of  St.  Pierre  which  Napier  so  named, 
presumably  not  from  St.  Pierre  d'Irube, 
but  from  the  small  outlying  hamlet, 
properly  called  Lostenia,  two  miles 
beyond  it,  where  the  English  centre 
rested,  but  which  is  also  within  the 
commune  of  St.  Pierre  d'Irube.  The 
French  more  justly  called  the  action 
Mouguerre,  from  a  large  village  of 
that  name  on  the  English  right  flank, 
where  Sir  John  Byng's  brigade  was 
posted,  which  was  carried  and  recap- 
tured during  the  fight. 

But  it  is  necessary  to  go  back  a- 
little.  Wellington,  after  driving  Soult 
before  him  out  of  Spain  across  the 
Bidassoa  and  from  the  mountain  of 
Larrhun,  passed  the  Nivelle,  and  es- 
tablished himself  on  French  soil,  but; 
found  himself  confined  to  a  narrow 
strip  hemmed  in  between  the  river 
Nive  and  the  sea.  Soult,  with  fortified 
Bayonne  and  an  entrenched  camp  at 
his  back,  was  in  his  front ;  the 
Pyrenees  were  behind  him.  To  re- 
main inactive  was  useless,  for  though 
in  France,  he  was  cut  off  from  all 
communication  with  the  rest  of  the 
country.  Wellington  therefore  ex- 
tended his  right,  and  pushing  Hill 
and  Beresford  across  the  Nive  at- 
Cambo  and  Ustaritz,  nine  and  twelve 
miles  respectively  above  Bayonne,  by 
a  bold  stroke  widened  his  front  and 
made  many  things  possible. 

On  the  9th  of  December  1813  Hill 
crossed  the  river  by  fords  under  a» 
heavy  cannonade,  and  Marshal  Beres- 


A  Forgotten   Fight. 


333 


ford  at  the  top  of  the  tideway  three 
miles  lower  down,  partly  by  pontoons. 
The  French  divisions  lining  the  op- 
posite bank  were  driven  in,  narrowly 
indeed  escaping  the  loss  of  an  entire 
brigade,  which  was  left  without  orders 
betv/een  two  fires.  Beresford,  pushing 
on  f  L'om  the  river  across  the  main  road 
running  up  the  valley  from  Bayonne 
to  St.  Jean-Pied -de-Port,  cut  off  the 
retr3at  to  Bayonne  ;  while  Hill,  sweep- 
ing round  to  his  left,  came  down  the 
rigtt  bank,  and,  joined  by  a  divi- 
sion of  Beresford's  men,  rested  for  the 
nig]  it  (after  a  cannonade  and  skirmish 
in  which  Villefranque,  five  miles  from 
Bayonne,  was  taken,)  on  some  heights 
wituin  view  of  the  cathedral  towers. 

It  was  a  dashing  and  dangerous 
days  work,  and  gallantly  done.  On 
the  following  day  Hill  occupied  the 
ridge  upon  which,  three  days  later,  he 
wa^  destined  to  fight  single-handed  a 
glorious  action  against-one  of  the  ablest 
Marshals  of  France.  These  three  days 
were  occupied  by  Soult  in  constant 
yet  futile  combats  with  Wellington  on 
the  other  side  of  the  tidal  Nive,  which 
now  separated  the  two  divisions  of  the 
English  army. 

The  personal  reminiscences  of  one 
engaged  in  these  battles  of  the  Nive 
are  delightfully  set  forth  in  THE 
SUBALTERN,  that  book  of  perennial  joy 
in  Biarritz  and  the  Basque  country. 

The  fights  were  severe  and  the  losses 
hei  ,vy  ;  and  Soult  finding  that  Welling- 
ton, was  always  ready  for  him,  decided 
to  try  his  fortune  with  Hill  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  river.  With  this 
object  in  view,  after  the  day's  fruitless 
fighting  was  over,  he  filed  his  troops 
across  a  bridge  of  boats  connecting  the 
two  portions  of  his  entrenched  camp, 
which  lay  one  on  each  side  of  the  river 
above  and  touching  Bayonne,  during 
tho  evening  and  night  of  the  12th  of 
December  1813  ;  and,  this  time  confi- 
de it  of  success,  prepared  to  demolish 
Hill  on  the  morrow. 

Oalm  and  still  broke  the  morning  of 
tho  battle,  and,  bating  certain  ominous 
rumblings  in  the  distance,  all  was 
peice.  A  thick  fog  hung  over  the 


landscape  :  little  could  be  seen  ;  and,  as 
if  the  very  elements  conspired  to 
favour  the  enemy,  the  Nive  had  come 
down  during  the  night,  and  carrying 
away  the  new  bridge  of  boats1  at 
Villefranque,  had  completely  isolated 
Hill  from  Wellington. 

One  can  imagine  Hill's  feelings  on 
receiving  this  intelligence  in  the  gloom 
of  that  winter  morning.  It  was  a 
moment  to  try  the  stuff  a  man  was 
made  of.  To  say  that  his  position  was 
critical  is  but  feebly  to  describe  it. 
Soult  was  in  his  front  with  five  and 
thirty  thousand  men  and  twenty-two 
guns,  covered  by  a  fortress  and  en- 
trenched camp  ;  both  his  flanks  rested 
on  tidal  rivers,  while  ten  miles  in  his 
rear  a  full  French  division  was  only 
held  in  check  by  a  despised  enemy  and 
Vivian's  cavalry.  The  previous  even- 
ing Hill  was  not  unconscious  of  the 
avalanche  likely  to  fall  upon  him. 
With  the  eye  of  a  true  soldier  he  had 
detected  in  the  fading  light  of  a 
winter  sunset  the  glint  of  arms  cross- 
ing Soult's  bridge  from  the  opposite 
side,  a  hint  which  he  did  not  fail  to 
rightly  interpret.  He  knew  his  dan- 
ger, and  prepared  for  it ;  but  then  he 
was  in  touch  with  Wellington  by  the 
bridge  of  boats  in  rear  of  his  left 
flank  ;  now  that  was  gone,  and  assist- 
ance could  only  come  by  a  long  detour. 

The  hint  of  the  preceding  evening 
had  fortunately  caused  Hill  at  once  to 
recall  a  brigade  which  he  had  ordered 
to  the  rear  to  support  Vivian  and  the 
Spaniards.  This  made  his  force  up 
to  fourteen  thousand  men  and  four- 
teen guns,  which  was  all  he  had  to 
oppose  the  coming  storm.  One  thing 
was  in  his  favour.  Soult  could  only 
leave  his  entrenchments  in  the  angle 
between  the  two  rivers  on  a  narrow 
front,  and,  gradually  deploying  his 
line  as  he  got  further  away,  put  his 
battle  in  order  ;  but  all  these  move- 
ments were  hidden  from  Hill  by  the 
fog.  An  occasional  glimpse,  as  the 
fog  lifted  in  parts  from  time  to  time, 
discovered  large  black  masses  moving 

1  Not  the  celebrated  bridge  over  the  Adour, 
but  a  bridge  across  the  Nive  above  Bayonue. 


334 


A    Forgotten  Fight. 


in  front,  only  to  be  again  quickly 
hidden  from  sight.  Everything  looked 
ominous,  and  for  Hill  it  must  have 
been  a  time  of  extreme  tension  indeed. 
The  thunderbolt,  he  knew,  was  close 
at  hand,  and  might  be  launched  upon 
him  at  any  moment ;  and  yet  he  could 
neither  see  nor  ascertain  his  enemy's 
dispositions. 

At  last  the  weary  waiting  came  to 
an   end.     The    sun   burst    forth,    the 
morning    mists   dispersed,    and    in   a 
moment  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the 
clash   of   arms   were   heard   far    and 
wide.       Hill's    three    brigades    were 
posted  as  previously  described,  stretch- 
ing some  three  and  a  half  miles  from 
river  to  river,    Le  Cor's    Portuguese 
division  being  in  reserve  behind  the 
ridge    of   Lostenia.       The   impetuous 
General  Abbe  furiously  attacked  the 
English    centre,    which   was   on     the 
main   road.      Ashworth's   Portuguese 
were  here,  in  advance   of  the   centre 
on  the  slope  of  the  ridge,  holding  a 
wood  on  their  right,  and  a  hedge  in 
front,  which,   though   sorely  pressed, 
they  never  lost,  and  which  materially 
contributed  to  the  success  of  the  day. 
The  wood  is  there   to   this  moment ; 
but  which  may  be  the  fortunate  fence 
it  is  difficult,  among  so  many,  to  de- 
termine.     Over   and    over  again   the 
•  attack  was  pushed  vehemently  against 
the  centre  ;  and  as  each  one  was  re- 
pulsed it  was  vigorously  renewed  with 
fresh  troops  on  the  French  side.  Then 
occurred    the    incident    of   the    brave 
Ninety-Second     (so     graphically     de- 
scribed by  Napier),  which,  shattered  and 
broken  in  the  constant  attacks,  had  to 
retire  and  reform  behind  the  village, 
and    then    came   again,    with   colours 
flying  and  pipes  skirling,  for  a  final 
and  desperate  effort  to  save  the  day, 
as   if    they    were    a    fresh    body    of 
troops  just  arrived  and  gaily  entering 
into     action     for     the      first      time. 
The   inspiration  was  that   of  a  born 
soldier ;    and    the    dogged   valour    of 
Colonel  Cameron's  men  was  worthy  of 
such  a  leader  and  of  such  a  moment. 
This,  too,  was  the  regiment  which  only 
five  months  before     had  been  cut  to 


pieces  on  the  Col  de  Maya,  leaving 
two-thirds  of  their  number  on  that 
field  of  honour.  Such  an  example 
was  inspiriting.  To  see  men  return 
to  the  combat  as  coolly  as  to  a  march 
past  on  parade  was  invigorating  to  the 
whole  line.  The  skirmishers  sprang 
forward,  and  the  leader  of  a  French 
column  just  coming  up  to  the  attack,, 
fortunately  mistaking  the  Ninety- 
Second,  thinned  though  their  ranks 
were,  for  a  fresh  body  of  troops,  hesi- 
tated, wavered,  and  lost  his  opportunity 
for  ever. 

While  this  was  going  on  in  the- 
centre,  the  left-centre,  partially  sepa- 
rated from  the  left  brigade  under 
Pringle  by  the  mill-pond  and  swampy 
ground,  was  fiercely  engaged.  Here 
Lieut.-General  the  Hon.  Sir  W. 
Stewart,  who  commanded,  betook  him- 
self to  sustain  and  encourage  his  own 
over-matched  line,  and  prevent  the 
persistent  French  columns  from  driv- 
ing a  wedge  between  him  and  Pringle. 
Most  of  his  staff  werekilled  or  wounded : 
the  Seventy-First  were  unhappily 
withdrawn ;  and  the  enemy  were  fast 
gaining,  and  at  last  did  gain,  the  crest 
of  the  rise. 

But  this  was  not  all.  Sir  Rowland 
Hill,  from  the  commanding  eminence  of 
Horlopo,  saw  that  the  Buffs  on  the 
extreme  right  had  retired  before  Dar- 
magnac's  men  fiom  the  advanced 
point  of  the  Partouhiria  ridge,  close  to 
where  now  stands  the  Croix  de  Mou- 
guerre,  so  frequently,  but  unwittingly,, 
visited  by  English  people ;  and  that 
the  enemy  had  advanced  along  the 
ridge  through  Vieux  Mouguerre,  had 
outflanked  the  right  brigade  under 
Sir  John  Byng,  and  were  in  fact  in 
rear  of  the  English  line.  This  in- 
deed was  Soult's  object ;  to  turn  tha 
English  right,  and  roll  up  Hill's  force 
in  confusion  on  the  Nive  before  assist- 
ance could  reach  him.  It  was  the 
critical  moment  of  the  day,  the  mo- 
ment of  victory  or  defeat,  of  instant 
action  or  annihilation. 

Then  from  his  eyrie,  a  mile  in  rear, 
galloped  Hill,  and  taking  with  him  on 
the  way  one  of  Le  Cor's  two  reserve 


A  Forgotten  Fight. 


335 


brigades  of  Portuguese,  he  despatched 
Buchan  to  the  right  with  the  other  to 
rallv  and  help  the  Buffs,  and  to  drive 
Darmagnac  back  along  the  Partouhiria 
ridge.  Hastening  himself  to  the 
centre,  he  turned  back  the  retreating 
Sevonty-First,  who  right  willingly 
responded  to  his  call,  and  personally 
led  i;he  Portuguese  Brigade  into  action. 
The  Second  Portuguese  regiment  man- 
aged to  get  round  the  French  right 
flank  while  the  Fourteenth  Portu- 
guese under  Major  Travassos  most 
gallantly  drove  home  a  charge  into 
the  enemy's  column  in  front,  across 
some  rough  ground  and  broken  fences, 
to  the  admiration  of  all  beholders, 
and  swept  them  back  from  the  crest, 
thus  effectually  retrieving  the  fortunes 
of  t,he  fight  in  the  left  centre  and 
covering  themselves  with  glory. 

Ashworth  had  been  wounded,  but 
his  Portuguese  and  the  gallant  old 
Fiftieth  still  tenaciously  held  the  hedge 
(which  they  had  never  relinquished), 
and  the  wood  on  the  right  of  the  road. 
Soubhey  in  his  PENLVSULAR  WAR 
bea^s  witness  to  the  bravery  of  the 
Portuguese  in  these  words:  "The 
artillery  fired  this  day  with  dreadful 
effect,  and  the  main  road  was  in  many 
places  literally  running  with  blood 
....  nearly  half  the  loss  fell  upon 
the  Portuguese,  upon  whom  indeed 
was  now  placed  as  much  reliance  as 
upoi  the  British  themselves." 

I  ut  what  was  Wellington  doing  all 
this  time  ?  With  his  usual  foresight 
he  had,  two  days  before,  ordered 
Ber3sford  (now  again  on  the  left  side 
of  r,he  Nive)  to  despatch  the  Sixth 
Div'sion  to  Hill's  assistance  without 
further  orders,  should  he  hear  that 
the  latter  was  attacked.  Beresford, 
with  similar  sagacity,  had  set  that 
divi  sion  in  motion  towards  Hill  at 
early  dawn  on  the  day  of  St.  Pierre, 
without  waiting  for  the  sound  of 
stri.e.1 

On  that  morning  Wellington  was 
on  the  Barrouilhet  ridge,  not  far  from 

1  Probably  crossing  tlie  Nive  by  the  pon- 
toon *  at  Ustaritz,  as  we  are  told  that  the  divi- 
sion passed  the  river  in  the  early  morning. 


the  present  Biarritz  railway-station, 
within  sound  and  even  distant  sight 
of  the  battle-field.  At  8.30  A.M.  the 
first  gun  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river  told  him  what  was  about  to 
happen.  He  put  spurs  to  his  horse 
and  straightway  galloped  best  pace 
direct  to  the  bridge  of  boats  at  Ville- 
franque,  some  three  and  a  half  miles 
off,  only  to  find  it  broken  down.  By 
twelve  o'clock  he  had  crossed  the 
river  and  was  leading  Beresford's 
Sixth  Division  to  Hill's  assistance  up 
the  reverse  slopes  on  the  opposite  side, 
with  the  Fourth  and  Third  Divisions 
closely  following.  In  less  than  three 
hours  then,  the  bridge  had  been 
repaired  and  two  divisions  passed 
over  it,  while  the  battle  was  raging 
close  at  hand.  Quick  work,  and 
typical  of  the  great  soldier  ! 

Meanwhile,  Buchan's  Portuguese 
had  not  been  idle.  They  crossed  the 
valley  to  the  right,  under  a  galling 
flank  fire  of  artillery,  joined  hands 
with  the  retiring  Buffs,  and  together 
tackled  Darmagnac  with  such  deter- 
mined courage  that  they  not  only 
stopped  his  advance,  but  drove  him 
back  through  and  out  of  Mouguerre  ; 
then  continuing  the  motion,  they  sent 
him  flying  pell-mell  over  the  point  of 
the  Partouhiria  ridge,  which  they  effec- 
tually cleared  of  the  enemy.  In  this 
way  that  dangerous  turning  move- 
ment, so  hazardously  near  completion 
and  success,  was  more  than  arrested, 
and  the  right  of  the  position  saved. 

Sir  John  Byng,  who  commanded 
the  right  brigade,  had  been  thus  far 
hard  at  work  helping  the  decimated 
centre  with  two  of  his  regiments,  the 
Fifty- Seventh  and  Thirty-First  (second 
battalion),  while  the  Buffs,  holding 
the  ridge  on  the  extreme  right,  were 
being  gradually  forced  back  by 
superior  numbers.  But  this  retreat, 
as  we  have  seen,  had  been  gallantly 
retrieved,  and  the  ridge  regained  and 
swept  clear  of  foes.  Then  Byng 
received  the  welcome  orders  to  re- 
unite his  brigade,  and  dislodge  the 
enemy  from  a  hill  in  front,  where 
they  were  very  strongly  posted  and 


336 


A  Forgotten  Fight. 


supported  by  cannon.  With  alacrity 
indeed  was  the  order  carried  out. 
Heading  his  brigade  in  person  he 
charged,  and  dro\ae  the  enemy  from 
the  height  and  down  the  slope  on  the 
opposite  side  into  the  suburbs  of 
St.  Pierre  d'Irube,  planting  the  colour 
of  the  Thirty-First  with  his  own  hand 
on  the  summit  of  the  mound,  where 
he  was  the  first  man  to  arrive,  and 
capturing  two  guns  which  the  enemy 
abandoned  in  their  flight.  Such  con- 
duct would  in  these  days  have  gained 
a  general  officer  the  coveted  cross  for 
personal  valour.  Two  young  pine 
trees,  on  a  conical  mound  in  front  of 
the  Croix  de  Mouguerre,  now  indicate 
.  the  site  of  this  intrepid  exploit. 

The  crisis  of  the  battle  was  over 
when  Wellington  arrived  on  the  scene. 
The  fighting,  however,  still  continued, 
but  the  enemy  did  not  attack  with 
the  same  fire  as  had  distinguished  his 
assaults  in  the  earlier  hours  of  the 
day ;  it  was  also  observed  that  there 
was  some  difficulty  in  inducing  his 
columns  to  advance.  Then,  the  rein- 
forcements being  at  hand  to  form  a 
reserve  in  place  of  those  which  had 
been  thrown  into  the  fight  by  Hill  in 
the  very  nick  of  time,  the  offensive 
was  taken,  and  a  general  advance  of 
the  whole  line  ordered.  Three  gen- 
erals had  been  wounded,  and  nearly 
all  the  staff  of  the  shattered  centre 
were  either  killed  or  hit ;  so  that 
when  Colonel  Currie,  the  aide-de- 
camp, arrived  with  the  order,  he 
could  find  no  superior  officer  to  whom 
to  deliver  it,  and  led  the  advance 
himself. 

Pringle's  brigade,  on  two  low  hills, 
La  Ralde  and  St.  Marie,  on  the  ex- 
treme left  overhanging  the  Nive,  had 
not  been  from  the  first  so  fiercely 
assailed  as  the  centre  and  right ;  but 
still  he  was  hotly  engaged  with 
Darricau,  who  kept  him  fully  em- 
ployed, notwithstanding  the  diffi- 
culties of  assaulting  so  strong  a 
position  from  swampy  ground.  He 
was  able,  however,  to  advance  his 
brigade  to  his  outposts,  and  wheeling 
his  right  regiment,  the  Twenty-Eighth, 


to  his  right,  to  pour  in  an  effectual 
and  destructive  flank  fire  on  the 
enemy's  columns  during  the  critical 
moment  of  the  assault  of  the  left 
centre.  When  that  was  finally  re- 
pulsed Darricau's  men  felt  it,  and 
were  gradually  drawn  into  the  retire- 
ment, Pringle  following. 

After  Byng's  brave  achievement, 
which  a  strong  counter-attack  failed  to 
disturb,  and  the  general  advance  which 
established  our  outposts  on  the  ground 
previously  held  by  the  enemy  touching 
the  suburbs  of  St.  Pierre  d'Irube,  the 
battle  dwindled  into  desultory  fighting, 
and  the  early  shades  of  a  December 
evening  closed  a  glorious  and  memor- 
able day.  It  must  not  be  overlooked, 
however,  that  even  after  so  severe  a 
struggle,  the  Allies  were  not  such 
complete  masters  of  the  ground  but 
that  a  French  Cavalry  Brigade  from 
Bayonne  passed  out,  on  the  English 
right,  along  the  Adour  and  joined 
Soult  in  the  rear. 

The  losses  on  both  sides  had  been 
terrible.  Soult's  amounted  to  three 
thousand  killed  and  wounded,  in- 
cluding two  brigadiers  and  four 
generals  ;  whilst  the  Allies  had  three 
generals  (Barnes,  Le  Cor,  and  Ash- 
worth),  and  fifteen  hundred  men 
killed  and  wounded. 

Notwithstanding  this,  the  French 
Marshal's  report  describes  and  dis- 
misses this  bloody  battle  in  these  few 
words  :  "'  The  attack  was  brilliant,  and 
at  the  outset  very  well  led ;  but  the 
repulse  of  two  regiments  of  Abbe's 
division  had  thrown  it  into  confusion 
and  caused  it  to  lose  ground.  Darri- 
cau's division,  which  was  on  the  im- 
mediate right,  perceiving  this  at  the 
moment  when  it  was  carrying  the 
enemy's  left,  became  albO  disordered.  I 
therefore  drew  up  Foy's  division,  and 
Gruardet's  brigade  of  Darmagnac's 
division,  which  was  not  yet  engaged, 
in  line.  Maransin's  division  replaced 
Darmagnac's  other  brigade.  The 
enemy's  advance  was  checked,  and  the 
action  continued  on  the  same  ground 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  One  gun, 
which  had  been  pushed  too  far  for- 


A  Forgotten  Fight. 


337 


ward,  remained  in  the  enemy's  hands, 
all  its  horses  having  been  killed."  l 

Napier,  on  the  other  hand,  in  his 
criticisms  on  this  action,  makes  the 
following  remarks.  "It  is  agreed  by 
French  and  English  that  the  battle  of 
St.  Pierre  was  one  of  the  most  desper- 
ate of  the  whole  war.  Wellington 
said  he  had  never  seen  a  field  so 
thickly  strewn  with  dead,  nor  can 
the  vigour  of  the  combatants  be 
well  denied,  where  five  thousand 
men  were  killed  or  wounded  in 
threo  hours,  upon  a  space  of  one  mile 
square."  And  this  is  confirmed,  on 
the  French  side,  by  Pellot,  in  his 
"  Ml  MOIRES  SUR  LA  CAMPAGNE  DE 
I/ARMEE  FRANQAISE  DITE  DES  PYRENEES 
EN  1813-14,"  published  in  Bayonne 
1818,  only  five  years  after  the  battle  : 
"  One  may  judge  of  the  severity  of 
the  ighting  from  the  losses  on  both 
sides.  We  had  two  thousand  five 
hundred  wounded,  and  four  or  five 
hunc :  red  killed  ;  but  the'  enemy's  loss 
was  far  more  serious." 

It  is  surely,  then,  surprising  that 
such  a  battle,  redounding  so  much  to 
the  credit  of  British  arms,  and  one 
of  the  most  desperate  of  that  heroic 
war,  should  be  a  name  unknown  on 
the  c  olours  of  the  regiments  engaged 
in  it.  And,  stranger  still,  it  is  not 
mem  ioned  in  the  list  of  battles  at  the 

1  Commandant  Clerc,  Forty-Ninth  French 
Regirient,  now  quartered  at  Bayonne,  who 
has  ji  st  published  CAMPAGNE  DE  MAKECHAL 

SOUL'1   DANS    LES    PYRENEES   OCCIDENTALES, 

make ;  the  following  remark,  very  creditable  to 
his  ii  ipartiality,  but  which  needs,  as  he  says, 
elucication,  as  to  Darmagnac's  and  Abbe's 
loss  c  f  guns  in  this  affair.  In  any  case,  only 
two  light  guns  appear  from  the  English  ac- 
count 5  to  have  been  taken  at  St.  Pierre  (Mou- 
guerr  •)•  '''The  Marshal  reports  the  loss  of 
only  i  >ne  gun,  while  Wellington  declares  that 
two  1  atteries  were  taken.  Now  the  returns 
of  th(  artillery  from  the  1st  to  the  16th  of 
Decei  iber  give  the  exact  difference  between 
119  ('.  110)  and  94,  namely,  16  pieces.  More- 
over, on  the  16th  of  December  Darmagnac 
had  n  it  a  battery  left.  He  had  therefore  lost 
his  gi  ns,  and  there  is  good  reason  to  believe 
that  Abbe  had  also  lost  his.  It  is  a  point  that 
needs  elucidation."  Commandant Clerc'swork 
(1894  will  be  found  of  great  service  to  mili- 
tary students,  as  it  contains  the  latest  French 
report  s  and  opinions. 
N«».  419. — VOL.  LXX. 


base  of  Lord  Hill's  column  at  Shrews- 
bury, erected  to  the  memory  of  that  great 
soldier.    The  word  "  Nive  "  is  supposed 
to  include  it.      Now  the    reason,  no 
doubt,  why  St.  Pierre  is  not  specially 
named,  and  is  in    consequence    com- 
paratively little    known    under  that 
title,   is  that  it  was  the    great   cul- 
minating    action     which    terminated 
those   five     days     of     hard    fighting 
collectively  known  as  the   battles  of 
the  Nive.      It  is  thus  merged   under 
the   word    "  Nive '    in    that   nest   of 
battles  which  took  place  chiefly  on  the 
other  (left)  bank  of  that  river  during 
the  four  previous  days  ;  but  it  was  in 
reality  a  distinct  action    apart  from 
the  rest,  fought  by  a  separate  portion 
of  the  force,  isolated   for  the  time  at 
least  from    the  remainder,  and    well 
worthy  of  a  special  place  among  the 
recorded  deeds  of    the  army   and  of 
Hill.      Never     was    gallantry    more 
signally  displayed  ;  never  was  a  battle 
more    courageously    won.       A    sight 
indeed  worth  witnessing  it  must  have 
been,  to  see  the  great  Captain  arrive 
at  the  head  of  the  Sixth  Division  on 
the  slopes  of  Lostenia,  and,  taking  in 
at  a  glance  the    situation,   grasp  the 
hand    of    his  trusty   lieutenant,   hot 
from   the   thickest   of   the    fray,    ex- 
claiming,   "Hill,    the    day    is    your 
own  !  "     What  a  picture  for  an  artist's 
brush  must  have  been  the  meeting  of 
those  two  great  men  amidst   the  din 
and  strife  of  that  bloody  field  ! 

Wellington  wrote  many  short 
despatches  that  afternoon  to  General 
Wimpffen  and  others  as  to  the  dis- 
position of  his  troops,  dated  "  On  the 
heights  before  Yillefranque,"  in  which 
he  never  fails  to  make  this  laconic 
remark  :  "  General  Hill  has  given  the 
enemy  a  devil  of  a  thrashing  (Va 
battu  diablement)." 

General  Sir  John  Byng,  afterwards 
Field  Marshal  and  Earl  of  Strafford 
(grandfather  of  the  present  peer),  in 
1815  received  by  royal  command, 
for  his  gallantry  at  St.  Pierre,  the 
following  honourable  augmentation  of 
his  arms :  "  Over  the  arms  of  the 
family  of  Byng,  in  bend  sinister,  a 


338 


A  Forgotten  Fight. 


representation  of  the  Colour  of  the 
Thirty-First  Kegiment,"  and  the  fol- 
lowing crest,  "Out  of  a  mural  crown 
an  arm  embowed,  grasping  the  Colour 
of  the  aforesaid  Thirty-First  Regiment, 
and,  pendent  from  the  wrist  by  a 
riband,  the  Gold  Cross  presented  to 
him  by  His  Majesty's  command,  as  a 
mark  of  his  royal  approbation  of  his 
distinguished  services,  and  in  an 
escrol  above,  the  word  Mouguerre, 
being  the  name  of  a  height  near 
the  hamlet  of  St.  Pierre."  In  this 
way  has  been  curiously  preserved 
the  designation  of  a  distinguished 
regiment,  well  remembered  in  con- 
nection with  the  burning  of  the  Kent 
in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  and  later  in  the 
Cabul,  Sutlej,  Crimea,  and  China 
campaigns,  which  in  former  times  had 
been  personally  led  into  action  at  Det- 
tingen  by  that  English  sovereign  who 
was  the  last  to  command  an  army  in 
battle.  For,  unlucky  enough  to  be  shorn 
of  both  number  and  county  in  the 
recent  changes,  civilian  readers  can 
now  hardly  be  expected  to  recognise 
the  Thirty-First  Huntingdonshire 
under  its  new  designation  of  the  East 
Surrey  Regiment.  By  a  singular 
turn  of  events,  however,  it  has  come 
about  that  the  old  title  of  the  Thirty- 
First  is  preserved  by  the  pages  of 
Burke  and  Debrett,  in  recording  the 
brave  deeds  at  St.  Pierre  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  century. 

Napier  concludes  his  observations 
on  this  battle  in  these  words  :  "Hill's 
employment  of  his  reserve  was  a  fine 
stroke,  He  saw  that  the  misconduct 
of  the  two  colonels  would  cause  the 
loss  of  his  position  more  surely  than 
any  direct  attack  upon  it,  and  with 
military  decision  he  descended  at  once 
to  the  spot,  playing  the  soldier  as  well 
as  the  general  ....  and  leading  the 
reserve  himself ;  trusting  meanwhile 


with  a  noble  and  well-placed  confidence 
to  the  courage  of  the  Ninety-Second 
and  the  Fiftieth  to  sustain  the  fight 
at  St.  Pierre.  He  knew  indeed  the 
Sixth  Division  was  then  close  at  hand 
and  the  battle  might  be  fought  over 
again ;  but,  like  a  thorough  soldier, 
he  was  resolved  to  win  his  own  fight 
with  his  own  troops  if  he  could ;  and 
he  did  so  after  a  manner  that  in  less 
eventful  times  would  have  rendered 
him  the  hero  of  a  nation."  One 
incident  alone  marred  the  honours  of 
this  day :  the  retirement  by  the  two 
colonels  of  their  respective  battalions 
without  orders  during  the  fight ;  but 
these  regiments  themselves  promptly 
and  signally  retrieved  that  error  in 
judgment  on  the  part  of  their  leaders, 
ere  many  minutes  had  passed. 

There  is  nothing  new  in  what  I 
have  written.  It  has  been  told  in  many 
books,  which  these  notes  (made  after  an 
intimate  personal  acquaintance  with 
the  ground  during  the  last  five  years) 
do  not  presume  to  elaborate,  much  less 
to  correct  or  criticise  ;  but  should  they 
in  any  small  degree  help  to  distinguish 
St.  Pierre  from  the  battles  which 
immediately  preceded  it,  and  to  make 
more  known  the  scene  of  the  action, 
they  will  have  served  some  kind  of 
purpose. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  added  that  our 
young  officers  might  do  worse  than 
take  a  look,  during  the  leave-season, 
at  these  sites  of  great  battles  all 
chosen  by  past  masters  in  the  art  of 
war.  St.  Pierre  is  within  an  after- 
noon's ride  of  Biarritz  ;  the  Nivelle  is 
but  little  more ;  the  Nive  is  within  a 
walk,  while  the  Bidassoa  and  St. 
Sebastian  are  but  a  day's  excursion. 

WILLIAM  HILL  JAMES, 

Lieutenant-  Colonel  (Eetd. ), 
Late  Thirty-First  Regiment. 


339 


THE  TREASURE    OF  SACRAMENTO   NICK. 


AVAY  on  the  northernmost  coast  of 
Australia  lies  a  little  world  all  by 
itself  and  unlike  anything  else  to  be 
found  in  the  whole  immemorial  East. 
Its  chief  centre  is  in  Torres  Straits, 
wher3  the  majority  of  the  inhabitants 
employ  themselves  in  pearl-fishing, 
gathering  b&cke-de-mer  and  tortoise- 
shell,  and  generally  in  accumulating 
those  gigantic  fortunes  of  which  one 
hears  so  much,  and  sees  so  little. 

Walking  the  streets  of  Thursday 
Island,  the  smallest  of  the  group,  yet 
the  centre  of  commerce  and  the  seat 
of  such  government  as  the  Colony  of 
Queensland  can  afford  it,  you  will  be 
struck  with  the  number  of  nationalities 
represented.  Dwelling  'together,  if 
not  in  unity  certainly  in  unison,  are 
Caucasians  and  Mongolians,  Ethiopians 
and  Malayans,  John  Chinaman  living 
cheek  by  jowl  with  the  barbarian 
Englishman, Cingalee  with  Portuguese, 
Fren3hman  with  Kanaka — all  pre- 
judices alike  forgotten  in  the  one 
absorbing  struggle  for  the  unchanging 
British  sovereign.  On  the  verandahs 
of  tl.e  hotels  sit  continually  men 
who  talk  with  the  familiarity  of  old 
friends  about  the  uttermost  parts  of 
the  ( arth,  and  whose  lives  are  mainly 
spen!  in  places  to  which  the  average 
man  never  goes  nor  dreams  of  going. 
If  yoa  are  a  good  listener  they  will  tell 
you  many  things  worth  knowing  ;  and 
towards  midnight  you  will  feel  stealing 
over  you  a  hazy  conviction  that  the  nine- 
teenth century  is  as  yet  unborn,  and 
that  you  are  listening  to  the  personal 
nam  tive  of  Sinbad  the  Sailor  in  an 
unexpurgated  form. 

Ore  afternoon  as  I  was  sitting  in 
my  verandah  watching  the  China 
mail-boat  steam  to  her  anchorage,  and 
wondering  if  I  had  energy  enough  to 
light  a  third  cheroot,  I  felt  my  arm 
touched.  Turning,  I  discovered  a 


little  Solomon  boy,  about  ten  years 
old,  attired  in  an  ancient  pair  of 
hunting-breeches,  and  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear.  Having  succeeded  in 
attracting  my  attention,  he  handed 
me  a  letter.  It  was  from  my  friend 
McBain,  the  manager  of  a  pearling- 
station  on  an  adjacent  island,  and  set 
forth  the  welcome  fact  that  he  would 
be  pleased  to  see  me  on  a  matter  of 
some  importance,  if  I  could  spare  the 
time  to  dine  with  him  that  evening. 
There  was  nothing  I  could  spare  more 
easily  or  more  willingly. 

Once  comfortably  seated  in  the 
verandah,  McBain  explained  his  reason 
for  sending  to  me.  "You'll  think 
me  mad,  but  I've  got  a  curiosity  here 
that  I  want  you  to  examine  before 
any  one  else  gets  hold  of  him." 

"Black  or  white?"   I  asked  with 
but  little  interest,   for  we  lived  in  a, 
land  of  human  curiosities. 
White." 
Nationality?" 

Cosmopolitan,  I  should  fancy." 
Profession  ? " 

;  Adventurer,  with  a  marvellous  big 
A. 

And  hailing  from —  ?  " 
Well,   he  doesn't  seem    to    know 
himself.     One  of  my  luggers  took  him 
out  of  an  open  boat  about  two  degrees 
west  of  the  Ladrones." 

"  But  he  surely  knows  how  he  got 
into  the  boat  ?  Men  don't  go  pleasure- 
trips  across  oceans  without  knowing 
whence  they  started.  Hasn't  he 
anything  to  say  for  himself  1 " 

"That's  just  what  I  want  you  to 
hear.  Either  the  man's  a  superhuman 
liar,  or  else  he's  got  the  secret  of  the 
biggest  thing  on  earth.  We'll  have 
him  up  to-night,  and  you  shall  judge 
for  yourself." 

When  dinner  was  over  we  took 
ourselves  and  our  cigars  into  the  cool 

z  2 


340 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


verandah,  and  for  half  an  hour  or  so 
sat  smoking  and  talking  of  many 
things.  Then  a  footstep  crunched  upon 
the  path,  and  a  tall  thin  man  stood 
before  us. 

McBain  rose  and  wished  him  "  Good 
evening,"  as  he  did  so  pushing  a  chair 
into  such  a  position  that  I  could  see 
his  face.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  but 
I  don't  think  you  told  me  your  name 
last  night." 

"  Sir,  my  name  is  Nicodemus  B. 
Patten  of  Sacramento  City,  State  of 
California,  U.S.A. — most  times  called 
Sacramento  Nick." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Patten,  let  me  intro- 
duce you  to  a  friend  who  is  anxious  to 
hear  the  curious  story  you  told  me 
last  night.  Will  you  smoke  ? " 

Gravely  bowing  to  me,  he  selected 
a  cheroot,  lit  it,  and  blew  the  smoke 
luxuriously  through  his  nose.  The 
lamp-light  fell  full  and  fair  upon  his 
face,  and  instinctively  I  began  to 
study  it.  It  was  a  remarkable 
countenance,  and,  in  spite  of  its 
irregularity  of  feature,  contained  a 
dignity  of  expression  which  rather 
disconcerted  me.  There  were  evident 
traces  of  bodily  and  mental  suffering 
in  the  near  past,  but  it  was  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other  which  had 
stamped  the  lines  that  so  much 
puzzled  me.  After  satisfying  myself 
on  certain  other  points,  I  begged  him 
to  begin. 

He  did  so  without  hesitation  or 
previous  thought. 

"  Gentlemen,  before  I  commence 
my  story,  let  me  tell  you  that  when 
first  the  things  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
of  came  about,  there  were  three  of 
us  :  Esdras  W.  Dyson  of  Milwaukee, 
Wisconsin,  U.S.A. ;  James  Dance  of 
London,  England ;  and  Nicodemus  B. 
Patten  of  Sacramento  City,  now  before 
you.  I  reckon  most  folks  would  have 
called  us  adventurers,  for  we'd  fer- 
reted into  nearly  every  corner  of  the 
globe.  Snakes  alive !  but  I've  seen 
things  in  my  time  that  would  fairly 
stagger  even  you,  and  I  guess  my  story 
of  to-night  ain't  the  least  curious  of 
'em. 


"  Perhaps  you  don't  remember  the 
junk  that  fell  foul  of  the  Bedford 
Castle  nigh  upon  three  years  ago, 
when  she  was  four  days  out  from 
Singapore  ? " 

I  remembered  the  circumstance 
perfectly.  It  was  an  act  of  flagrant 
piracy  which  had  made  some  noise  at 
the  time  ;  and  I  had  also  a  faint  recol- 
lection of  having  been  told  that  white 
men  were  suspected  of  being  mixed  up 
in  it.  On  being  asked  if  he  knew 
anything  of  the  matter,  he  said : 
"  Well,  I  don't  say  we  did,  mind  you. 
but  I  suspicion  we  were  in  China 
waters  at  the  time.  But,  bless  you, 
in  those  days  there  were  few  places 
and  few  things  that  ive  hadn't  a  finger 
in.  Understand,  I  am  telling  you  this 
because  I  don't  want  to  sail  under 
false  colours,  and  also  because  such 
work  is  all  over  now  \  the  Firm's 
smashed  up,  and  we'll  never  go  on  the 
Long  Trail  again. 

"  Two  years  ago,  for  certain  reasons 
not  necessary  to  mention,  we  wanted 
to  lay  by  for  a  while,  so  bringing  up  at 
Batavia  fixed  right  on  to  the  Neder- 
lander.  Java's  a  one-horse  place  for 
business  purposes,  but  if  you  know 
the  ropes — well,  there's  not  a  better 
place  in  the  world  to  hide  in. 

"Now,  gentlemen  both,  you  may 
take  it  from  me  that  there  never  was 
such  a  chap  for  browsing  about  among 
niggers,  finding  out  what  was  doing 
and  if  there  was  anything  to  be  made, 
as  Esdras  W.  Dyson  of  Milwaukee, 
U.S.A.  In  the  first  place,  he  could 
patter  any  lingo  from  Chinese  to 
Malay  with  a  tongue  that'd  talk 
round  the  devil  himself ;  and  when  he 
suspicioned  a  nigger  had  anything 
worth  knowing — well,  he'd  just  freeze 
to  that  charcoal  sketch  till  he  fairly  got 
it  out  of  him.  Rigged  out  in  native 
dress  and  properly  coloured,  he  could 
pass  in  anywhere.  It  was  he  who 
found  out  the  thing  that  ruined  us. 
brought  me  here,  and  left  Jim  and 
himself  feeding  the  fishes  a  thousand 
fathoms  deep. 

"  Directly  we  arrived  in  Batavia  he 
began    hanging     round    the    Native 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


341 


Quart  3r,  making  himself  mighty 
agreeable  for  some  particular  in- 
formation he  wanted.  He  was 
away  for  two  or  three  days ;  then 
one  right  as  Dance  and  me  were 
smoking  on  the  piazza,  he  came 
striding  up  the  path  in  the  devil's 
own  lurry.  '  Boys  ! '  says  he  in  a 
whisper,  '  I'm  on  it,  up  to  the  hilt, 
the  biggest  and  the  all  firedest  stroke 
of  good  fortune  we've  hit  yet.  I'm 
going  fantee  to-night,  so  keep  your 
weather  eyes  lifted,  and  when  «I  say 
come,  come  right  away  ! '  With  that 
he  went  to  his  room,  and  we  could 
hear  him  rummaging  about  in  his 
trunks. 

"A  bit  later  a  native  fruit- 
hawktr  came  round  the  corner 
bowing  and  scraping  towards  us. 
We  iold  him  to  clear  out,  but 
he  commenced  a  pitiful  yarn,  all 
the  time  pushing  his  baskets  closer  to 
us.  «  Fine  Duriens  and  the  sweetest 
of  Ms-ngosteens,  if  the  Presence  will 
only  buy  ! '  But  the  big  night-watch- 
man had  caught  sight  of  him,  and 
came  trundling  down  the  piazza.  You 
can  reckon  our  astonishment,  when 
the  hawker  said:  '  How  is  it,  boys?  Do 
you  think  they'll  savee  ?  Keep  your 
kits  jacked  and  be  prepared  to  trek 
directly  you  get  the  word  from  me.' 
Here  the  watchman  came  up.  'On 
the  word  of  a  poor  man,  the  Duriens 
are  freshly  plucked  and  the  Mango- 
steens  hung  upon  the  trees  this  morn- 
ing.' We  refused  to  buy,  and  he  went 
away  crying  his  fruit  towards  the 
Native  Quarter. 

"  F  )r  two  or  three  days  not  a  sha- 
dow of  a  sign  came  from  him.  Then 
one  of  those  Chinese  hawkers  came  into 
the  s(  uare  with  two  coolies  carrying 
his  goods,  and  as  soon  as  we  set  eyes 
on  the  second  nigger  we  recognised 
Milwaukee,  and  stood  by  to  take  his 
message  in  whatever  form  it  might 
come.  Pulling  up  at  our  chairs,  the 
Chink  ey  told  his  men  to  set  down  their 
loads,  himself  coming  across  to  us 
with  :u  tray  of  fans,  scents,  and  what 
not,  out  seeing  Milwaukee  had  a 
packe;  of  slippers  in  his  hands,  we 


only  wanted  slippers.  The  merchant 
sings  out,  and,  he  brings  'em  over, 
handing  one  pair  to  Dance  and  another 
to  me.  We  stepped  inside  to  try  them 
on,  and  as  we  expected,  in  one  of  the 
shoes  was  a  letter  neatly  stowed  away. 
I  forget  now  how  it  went,  but  it  was 
to  the  effect  that  he  had  found  out  all 
he  wanted  to  know,  and  that  we  were 
to  meet  him  at  eight  on  the  Singapore 
Wharf  at  Tanjong  Priok,  bringing  no 
kit  save  our  revolvers. 

"  After  squaring  things  at  the  hotel, 
and  destroying  what  was  dangerous  in 
our  baggage,  we  trekked  for  the  Priok 
just  as  dusk  was  falling.  Sharp  at 
eight  we  were  waiting  on  the  wharf 
where  the  Messagerie  boats  lie,  and 
wondering  what  the  deuce  was  going 
to  happen.  Inside  of  ten  minutes  a 
native  boat  came  pulling  up  the  river, 
and  as  it  passed  us  the  rower  sneezed 
twice  very  sharp  and  sudden.  It  was 
an  old  signal,  and  Dance  gave  the  re- 
turn. The  boatman  hitches  right  on 
to  the  steps  and  comes  ashore. 

'"Good  boys,'  says  he  very  quiet 
and  careful ;  '  up  to  time,  that's  right. 
Now  to  business!  D'ye  see  that 
schooner  lying  outside  the  breakwater  ? 
Well,  she  sails  at  daylight.  I  put  the 
skipper  and  mate  ashore  not  ten  min- 
utes ago,  and  they're  to  return  in  an 
hour.  There's  only  three  chaps  aboard, 
and  it's  our  business  to  cut  her  out 
before  the  others  come  back.  D'ye 
understand  1 ' 

<' « But  what  d'ye  reckon  to  do  then, 
Milwaukee  ? '  I  asked,  for  it  seemed  a 
risky  game,  just  for  the  sake  of  a 
mangy  Dutch  trader. 

"  «  Never  you  mind  now ;  when  I  da 
tell  you,  you'll  say  it's  worth  the 
candle.  Come,  jump  in  here,  and  I'll 
pull  you  aboard  ! ' 

"  The  harbour  was  as  quiet  as  the 
sea  out  yonder ;  a  Dutch  man-of-war 
lay  under  the  wing  of  the  breakwater, 
and  a  Sourabaya  mail-boat  to  the  left 
of  her.  We  passed  between  them,  down 
towards  the  lighthouse  and  out  into 
the  open.  Outside  there  was  a 
bit  of  a  sea  running,  but  Milwaukee 
was  always  hard  to  beat,  and  at  last 


342 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


we  managed  to  get  alongside.  Some- 
body, most  likely  the  anchor-watch, 
caught  our  painter,  and  took  a  turn 
in  it,  sa.ying  in  Dutch,  '  You're  back 
early,  Mynheer.'  By  the  time  he 
twigged  his  mistake  we  were  aboard, 
and  Dance  had  clapped  a  stopper  on 
his  mouth.  The  others  were  below, 
and  I  reckon  you'd  have  laughed  if  you 
could  have  seen  the  look  on  their  faces 
when,  after  Milwaukee's  thumping  on 
the  fo'c'sle,  they  turned  out  to  find  their 
craft  in  other  hands.  However,  they 
soon  saw  what  was  up,  and  reckoned 
it  was  no  use  making  fools  of  them- 
selves. Then  Milwaukee  went  to  the 
wheel,  singing  out  to  get  sail  on  her 
and  stand  by  to  slip  the  cable.  We 
knew  our  business,  and ,  in  less  than 
twenty  minutes  were  humming  down 
the  coast  a  good  ten  knots  an  hour. 

"  As  soon  as  the  course  was  set  and 
everything  going  smooth,  Milwaukee 
made  right  aft  to  where  Dance  was 
steering.  '  I  guess  it's  time,'  says  he, 
1  to  let  you  into  the  secret.  You  know 
me  and  I  know  you,  which  is  enough 
said  between  pards.  We've  been  in 
many  good  things  together,  but  this 
is  going  to  be  the  biggest  we've 
sighted  yet.  It  doesn't  mean  hun- 
dreds of  pounds,  but  thousands,  mil- 
lions maybe ;  anyhow,  enough  to  set 
us  three  up  as  princes  all  the  world 
over ! ' 

"'Sounds  well,  but  how  did  you 
come  to  know  of  it  ? '  we  asked,  a  bit 
doubtful  like. 

"Before  answering  he  took  a 
squint  at  the  card  and  then  aloft. 
'  Keep  her  as  she  goes,  Jim. 
How  did  I  come  to  hear  of  it? 
How  does  a  man  hear  anything? 
Why,  by  going  to  the  places  and 
among  the  folk  who  talk.  I  got  wind 
of  it  months  ago,  but  never  came 
across  anything  straight  out  till  I 
vfentfantee  amoog  the  niggers.  Losh, 
boys,  if  you  want  yarns  to  raise  your 
scalp,  go  down  town  and  smoke  among 
the  darkies  ;  I've  done  it,  and  you  bet 
I  know..  There  was  one  old  chap  who 
used  to  drop  in  every  night,  and 
smoke  and  chew  and  spit  and  lie  till 


you  couldn't  rest.  From  his  talk  he'd 
once  done  a  bit  in  our  line,  and  his 
great  sweat  was  about  an  island  he'd 
been  to  fifty  years  ago  where 
there's  an  old  Portugee  treasure- 
ship  aground,  chock  full  of  gold,  dia- 
monds, rubies,  and  pearls,  all  waitin' 
for  the  man  as'll  go  to  get  'em.  At 
first  I  reckoned  he  lied,  for  how  he 
got  there  he  didn't  rightly  remember  ; 
but  he  swore  he  found  the  ship,  and 
was  in  the  act  of  broaching  her  cargo, 
when  the  natives  came  and  sent  him 
back  to  sea  again.  What  he  did  get, 
except  a  bloomin'  old  dagger,  was 
stolen  from  him  in  Saigon.  Directly 
I  sighted  that  instrument,  I  began  to 
guess  there  might  be  something  in 
his  yarn  after  all ;  for  wherever  he 
got  it,  it  was  a  genuine  Portugee  weapon 
of  a  couple  of  hundred  years  back.  Well, 
as  any  lubber  knows,  the  Portugees 
sailed  these  seas  two  hundred  years 
ago ;  why  shouldn't  one  of  'em  have 
been  wrecked  with  all  her  cargo  and 
never  been  heard  of  since?  Answer 
me  that !  Anyhow,  you  bet  I  froze  to 
that  nigger. 

"  '  At  first  he  played  cunning  and 
seemed  to  suspicion  I  was  after  some- 
thing. So  one  night  I  got  him  alone 
and — d'ye  remember  Hottentot  Joe  in 
the  Kimberley  ? — well,  p'raps  I  played 
the  same  game  on  this  old  cove,  and 
when  he  was  sound  off  I  began  to 
pump  him  all  I  knew.  The  old  chap 
had  been  sailing  pretty  near  to  the 
truth,  but  still  he'd  kept  a  bit  up  his 
sleeve ; '  however,  I  got  that  bit,  and 
here's  his  chart  as  near  as  I  can  fix  it.' 

"  So  saying,  he  drew  out  a  paper 
and  held  it  to  the  binnacle.  Then 
putting  his  finger  on  a  coloured  mark, 
he  went  on  :  '  It's  a  bit  hazy  steering 
after  we  get  here,  inasmuch  as  being 
a  nigger  he  couldn't  keep  proper 
reckoning.  But  once  among  these 
islands,  I  guess  we  can't  be  far  off 
the  right  one,  and  to  find  it — by  God, 
we'll  search  every  mud-bank  in  the 
Pacific  !  Accordin'  to  his  fixin'  it  has 
a  big  mountain  climbing  from  its 
centre,  with  a  monster  white  rock 
halfway  up,  shaped  like  a  man's  fist. 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


In  a  bee-line  with  the  rock  there's  a 
creek  running  inland,  big  enough  to 
float  a  seventy-four  •  follow  that  creek 
up  a  mile  or  so  and  you  come  to  a  lake, 
and  on  the  other  side  of  that  lake's 
wheie  the  old  barge  ought  to  be. 
Now,  what  do  you  think]' 

"'What  do  I  think?  Why,  I  think, 
Milwaukee,  you  are  a  fool  to  have 
brought  us  on  such  a  rotten  chase,  and 
we're  bigger  fools  to  have  followed  you. 
The  island,  I  guess,  never  existed,  and 
we'll  get  stretched  for  this  boat  by 
the  first  warship  that  sights  us.  But 
now  we  are  here,  we'd  better  make 
the  best  of  it.  What  do  you  say, 
Jim'.' 

'"I  stand  with  you,'  said  Dance, 
and  ohat  settled  it. 

"  To  make  a  long  story  short,  we 
sailed  that  hooker  right  on  end  for  nigh 
upor  three  weeks.  The  wind  was 
mostly  favourable,  the  boat  had  a 
slippery  pair  of  heels,  and  the  stores, 
considering  they  were  laid  in  by 
Dutchmen,  were  none  too  bad.  Only 
one  thing  was  wrong  to  my  thinking, 
and  that  was  the  supply  of  grog 
aboard.  If  I'd  had  my  way  there'd 
have  been  a  gimlet  through  the 
lot ;  but  Milwaukee  was  skipper,  and 
wouldn't  hear  of  it. 

"Tuesday  the  13th  of  January, 
saw  the  tether  of  the  old  darkie's 
chart ,  so  we  held  a  bit  of  a  palaver, 
and  settled  to  go  on  cruising  about 
the  islands,  which  we  were  picking  up 
and  dropping  every  day. 

"  You  folk  who  live  inside  this  rot- 
gut  reef  don't  know  what  islands  are. 
Out  there  you  see  them  on  all  sides, 
push  ng  their  green  heads  up  to  watch 
the  ships  go  by,  with  the  air  so  warm, 
the  sea  so  green,  and  the  sky  so  blue 
that  it's  like  living  in  a  new  world. 
Birds  of  every  colour  fly  across  your 
bows  all  day,  and  in  the  hush  of  night, 
lying  out  on  deck,  you  can  hear  the 
waterfalls  trickling  ashore,  and  now 
and  again  the  crash  of  a  big  tree 
f  allh  g  in  the  jungle. 

"  ( )ne  forenoon  while  I  was  at  the 
wheel,  Milwaukee  and  Jim  Dance  fell 
to  quarrelling.  It  started  over  nothing, 


343 


and  would  have  come  to  nothing  but 
for  that  tarnation  liquor.  I  sung  out 
to  them  to  stop,  but  it  was  no  use,  so 
leaving  the  hooker  to  look  after  her- 
self, I  went  forrard.  Before  I  could 
reach  him,  the  skipper  had  drawn  a 
revolver,  and  I  heard  Jim  cry,  '  For 
Gawd's  sake  don't  shoot ! '  Then  there 
was  a  report,  and  sure  enough  Dance 
fell  dead. 

"Can  you  picture  it?  Overhead, 
the  blue  sky,  a  few  white  clouds,  and 
the  canvas  just  drawing  ;  on  the  deck, 
poor  Jim  lying  as  if  asleep,  and  Mil- 
waukee leaning  against  the  foremast 
staring  at  him.  Seein'  there  was  no 
use  in  keepin'  the  body  aboard,  I 
called  one  of  the  Dutchmen  aft  and 
told  him  to  fix  it  up  in  a  bit  of  canvas. 
Then  together  we  hove  it  overboard  ; 
it  sank  with  a  dull  plunge,  and  so  we 
lost  the  first  of  our  mess. 

"  Milwaukee  being  too  drunk  to 
take  his  trick  at  the  wheel,  I  stood  it 
for  him.  A  bit  before  sundown  he 
comes  on  deck  looking  terrible  fierce 
and  haggard.  Boiling  aft,  he  says 
with  a  voice  solemn  as  a  judge  :  'Sacra- 
mento Nick,  you're  a  good  man  and 
true.  On  your  Bible  oath,  may  God 
strike  you  dead  if  you  lie,  did  I  shoot 
James  Dance,  mariner  ? ' 

"  Seeing  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind,  I  said  simply,  '  You  did.' 

"  '  Was  I  drunk,  being  in  charge  of 
this  vessel  at  the  time  1 ' 

"  '  You  were  ! ' 

"  '  That  is  your  word  and  deed,  so 
help  you  God  1 ' 

"  '  Ay,  ay  ! ' 

" '  Well,  that  being  so,  no  more 
need  be  said.  It's  the  sentence  of  the 
court.  Shipmate,  your  hand.' 

"  We  shook  hands,  and  he  turned  to 
the  taffirail.  Before  I  knew  what  he 
was  about,  he  had  leaped  upon  it  and 
plunged  into  the  sea.  He  only  rose 
once  ;  then  the  white  belly  of  a  shark 
showed  uppermost,  and  never  again  did 
I  see  Esdras  W.  Dyson  of  Milwaukee 
City,  Wisconsin. 

"Three  days  later,  when  I  was  too 
dog-tired  to  keep  watch,  those  cut- 
throat Dutchmen  mutinied  and  sent  me 


34-4 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


adrift  in  the  long-boat  with  one  week's 
provisions  and  a  small  beaker  of  water. 

"Strangers,  have  you  ever  been 
cast  adrift  ?  I  can  see  you  haven't ; 
well,  hope  that  your  luck  don't  run 
that  way.  Fortunately  it  was  fair 
weather,  and  I  was  able  to  rig  a  bit 
of  a  sail ;  but  how  long  I  was  cruising 
among  those  islands,  drat  me  if  I 
know.  Being  ignorant,  so  to  speak, 
of  my  position,  one  way  was  as  an- 
other, and  when  short  of  provisions 
I'd  just  go  ashore,  pick  fruit,  fill  my 
beaker,  and  then  set  sail  again.  One 
warm  afternoon  I  found  myself  abreast 
of  the  largest  island  I'd  seen  yet. 
From  its  centre  rose  a  high  mountain, 
and,  strike  me  dead  if  I.  lie,  halfway 
up  that  last  was  a  big  white  rock  shaped 
like  a  man's  fist !  When  I  saw  it  I 
was  clean  staggered  ;  I  stood  up  and 
stared  till  I  could  stare  no  longer.  It 
was  just  as  if  I'd  stumbled  by  mistake 
on  the  very  island  we'd  set  out  to  seek. 
By  tacking  I  managed  to  get  right 
under  its  lee,  and  there,  sure  enough, 
between  two  high  banks  was  the 
entrance  to  a  fairish  river.  Furling 
the  sail,  I  took  to  my  oars  and  pulled 
inside.  The  sun  was  close  on  down  by 
this  time,  and  I  was  dog-tired ;  so,  as 
nothing  could  be  gained  by  bursting 
the  boilers,  when,  as  far  as  I  knew,  all 
the  future  was  afore  me,  I  anchored 
where  I  was,  and  stayed  in  my  boat 
till  morning. 

"  You  bet  as  soon  as  it  was  light  I 
pushed  on  again,  bringing  out  on  a 
slap-up  lake  perhaps  a  mile  long  by 
half  a  mile  across.  The  water  was  as 
clear  as  crystal  and  as  smooth  as  glass. 
Making  for  a  plain  of  dazzling  white 
sand  at  the  furthest  end,  I  beached 
my  boat  and  prepared  to  start  explora- 
tions. Then,  just  as  her  nose  grounded, 
my  eyes  caught  sight  of  a  big  creeper- 
covered  mass  lying  all  alone  in  the 
centre  of  the  plain.  May  I  never 
know  a  shieve-hole  from  a  harness- 
cask  again,  if  it  wasn't  an  old  galleon 
of  the  identical  pattern  to  be  seen  in 
the  Columbus'  picter-books.  Trembling 
like  a  palsied  monkey,  I  jumped  out 
and  ran  for  it. 


"  She  may  have  been  close  on  a  hun- 
dred tons  burden,  but  it  was  impossible 
to  calculate  her  size  exactly  for  the 
heap  of  stuff  that  covered  her.  How 
she  ever  got  on  to  that  plain,  and  why 
she  hadn't  rotted  clean  away  during 
the  two  hundred  years  or  more  she 
must  have  lain  there,  are  things  I 
can't  explain.  Anyhow,  I  didn't  stay 
to  puzzle  'em  out  then,  but  set  to 
work  hunting  for  a  way  to  get  inside 
her.  From  the  main-deck  seemed  to 
be  the  best  course,  and  to  reach  that 
I  started  hacking  at  the  blooming 
creepers.  It  was  harder  work  than 
you'd  think,  for  they'd  spliced  and 
twisted  'emselves  into  cables,  and  a 
jack-knife  was  about  as  much  use  on 
'em  as  a  toothpick.  When  night  came 
I'd  done  a  big  day's  work,  and  had 
only  just  got  a  footing  on  her  deck. 

"Next  morning  I  went  at  it  again, 
and  by  midday  had  the  satisfaction 
of  standing  before  the  cuddy  entrance. 
Again  I  felt  the  same  dod-dratted  funk 
creeping  over  me;  but  when  I  re- 
membered the  treasure,  I  said  good- 
bye to  that,  and  placed  my  shoulder 
against  the  door.  It  crumbled  away 
and  fell  in  a  heap  upon  the  deck,  and 
when  the  dust  had  passed  I  found 
myself  at  the  entrance  of  a  small 
alley-way  leading  into  the  saloon. 
I  entered  it,  stepping  gingerly,  but  had 
only  gone  a  few  steps  before  the  deck 
suddenly  gave  way,  and  I  found  myself 
disappearing  with  a  crash  into  the 
lower  regions.  The  fall  was  a  darned 
sight  bigger  than  I  liked,  but  it  served 
a  purpose,  for  my  weight  on  landing 
started  a  plank  and  brought  a  glimmer 
of  light  into  the  darkness. 

"  Finding  I  was  not  hurt,  I  fell  to 
groping  for  a  way  out  again ;  then  I 
noticed  the  rottenness  of  the  timbers, 
and  determined  to  enlarge  the  light  I 
had  just  made.  Two  kicks  and  a 
shove  brought  a  flood  of  sunshine 
pouring  in,  and  a  horrible  sight  met 
my  eyes.  I  was  standing  beside  an 
old-fashioned  bed-place  on  which  lay 
(you  may  believe  me  or  not)  the 
mummified  body  of  a  man  stretched  full 
out  and  hanging  on  to  the  stanchions 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento 


345 


like  grim  death.  He  was  not  alone, 
for  in  the  centre  of  the  cabin,  clutch- 
ing at  a  heavy  table,  was  another 
chap,  also  perfectly  preserved,  half 
standing  with  his  feet  braced  against 
the  thick  cross-bars  and  his  shrivelled 
parc'iment  face,  with  its  staring  eyes 
turn  3d  towards  me,  grinning  like  a 
poisoned  cat.  My  scalp  seemed  to  lift 
and  my  innards  to  turn  to  water. 
Lett:  ng  out  one  yell,  I  clambered  for 
the  open  air. 

"  Outside  all  was  sunshine,  blue 
sky,  and  bright  colour,  and,  as  if  to 
set  off  what  I  had  just  left,  a  big 
buttorfly  came  hovering  towards  me. 
In  a  few  minutes  my  presence  of  mind 
returned,  and  I  began  to  laugh  at  the 
idea  of  Sacramento  Nick  being  afeared 
of  dead  men  ;  so  back  I  went  in  search 
of  further  mysteries.  Again  I  entered 
the  cuddy  and  lowered  myself  into  the 
under-cabin,  but  this  time  I  was  pre- 
pared for  anything.  The  treasure- 
guard  stared,  but  said  nothing. 

"While  I  was  wondering  how  I'd 
best  set  about  my  search,  a  smart 
breeze  came  whistling  in,  caught  the 
tigur.i  at  the  table,  disengaged  his 
hold,  and  brought  his  old  carcass  with 
a  dry  rattle  to  the  floor.  With  his 
fall  a  small  piece  of  metal  rolled  to  my 
feet,  and  picking  it  up  I  found  it  to  be 
a  key  of  real  curious  shape  and  work- 
manship. Fired  with  my  discoveries, 
I  slipped  across  to  try  it  on  the  first 
of  the  chests  I  saw  ranged  round  the 
cabin,  when  to  my  astonishment  I 
found  it  open.  Somebody  had  been 
there  before  me  ;  perhaps  I  was  too 
late  !  All  of  a  sweat  I  looked  in,  but 
it  was  too  dark;  I  tried  to  pull  the 
whol<;  chest  towards  the  light,  but  it 
was  £  main  sight  too  heavy.  Then  I 
plunc  ed  my  hand  in  and  —  Great 
Jehoj-haphat,  how  I  yelled  !  Clutching 
what  I  could  hold  I  dashed  across  the 
cabin  up  into  the  light,  and,  throwing 
myse:f  upon  the  ground,  spread  what 
I  had  brought  before  me.  It  took 
less  than  a  second  to  see  that  they 
were  diamonds,  and,  by  all  the  stars 
and  stripes,  diamonds  of  the  first 
watei  !  There  they  lay,  winking  and 


blinking  at  me  and  the  sun,  and  for 
the  first  time  I  began  to  savee  my 
amazing  wealth.  For  the  minute  I 
was  clean  stark  staring  mad.  I  closed 
my  eyes,  and  wondered  if  when  I  opened 
them  again  I  should  find  it  all  a 
dream  ;  but  no,  the  beauties  were 
there  looking  brighter  and  even  larger 
than  before. 

"Gentlemen,  it's  strange  how  the 
habits  and  precautions  of  civilisation 
linger  with  a  man  even  in  the  queerest 
places.  For  while  not  twenty  yards 
from  where  I  stood  was  greater  wealth 
than  I  or  fifty  men  could  ever  spend, 
I  found  myself  fearful  of  losing  one, 
picking  each  gem  up  with  scrupulous 
care,  and  securing  it  inside  my  jumper. 
The  next  box  was  locked,  so  I  tried 
the  key.  In  spite  of  age  and  rust  the 
wards  shot  back  and  the  cover  lifted. 
Again  I  felt  the  touch  of  stones,  and 
again,  seizing  a  handful,  I  went  back 
into  the  light.  This  time  they  were 
rubies ;  Burmese  rubies,  my  experi- 
ence told  me,  and  not  a  tarnation  flaw 
in  one  of  'em.  For  a  second  time  I 
carefully  picked  them  up  and  was 
hiding  'em  as  before,  when  I  happened 
to  look  round.  Dash  my  buttons,  if 
I  was  alone!  On  all  sides  were 
niggers  regarding  me  with  considerable 
attention.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and 
felt  for  my  revolver.  Fool  that  I  was, 
I  had  left  it  in  the  boat!  Seeing 
that  I  was  aware  of  their  presence, 
they  closed  in  on  me,  and  as  they  did 
so  I  took  stock  of  'em.  They  were 
unlike  other  South  Sea  natives,  being 
of  better  build  and  but  little  darker 
than  myself.  True,  they  were  rigged 
out  in  a  short  loin  cloth  not  unlike 
tappa,  but  they  carried  neither  spear 
nor  shield.  When  I  saw  this  I  was 
for  showing  fight,  but  soon  gave  that 
idea  up  ;  they  were  too  many  for  me. 

"After  a  few  minutes'  inspection  they 
began  to  march  me  through  the  forest 
in  a  westerly  direction,  all  the  time 
talking  a  lingo  that  seemed  curiously 
familiar.  Just  upon  sunset  we  entered 
a  large  clearing  on  which  stood  a  fair- 
sized  native  village,  and  I  thought  as  I 
looked  at  it  that,  if  ever  I  got  out  of 


346 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


this  mess,  and  turned  to  blackbirding, 
I'd  know  where  to  come  for  niggers. 
It  contained  perhaps  fifty  huts,  all 
built  of  wood  and  with  conical- shaped 
grass  roofs.  A  trim  garden  ran  down 
the  centre,  at  the  furthest  end  of  which 
stood  the  largest  and  most  slap-up 
building  of  the  lot.  As  soon  as  we 
hove  in  sight,  a  crowd  came  out  to 
meet  us,  and  in  the  middle  of  hundreds 
of  yelling  darkies  I  was  marched  up  to 
the  big  house.  The  old  chief,  who  had 
been  bossing  affairs  with  the  swagger 
of  a  New  York  policeman,  told  me  to 
wait  while  he  carried  his  carcass  up 
some  steps  and  disappeared.  After  a 
little  while  he  returned,  and  signified 
that  I  should  follow  him. 

"  When  I  got  inside  I  had  plenty  of 
time  to  look  about  me,  for  it  must 
have  been  full  half  an  hour  before  any 
one  came.  Then  some  grass  curtains 
were  drawn  aside,  and  what  looked 
like  a  man  entered.  I  say  looked 
like,  because  I  ain't  really  clear  in  my 
mind  as  to  what  he  was ;  anyway, 
I  shouldn't  be  far  from  the  mark  in 
sayin'  he  was  quite  a  hundred  years 
old,  and  just  about  as  deformed  as  he 
well  could  be.  He  was  as  white  as 
myself,  and  from  the  antics  of  the 
chief  who  had  fetched  me  to  his  pre- 
sence I  could  see  that  he  had  a  great 
hold  over  the  niggers.  Throwing  him- 
self upon  the  ground,  that  old  fool  of 
a  chief  feebly  wagged  his  toes  till  told 
to  rise.  Then  he  started  explaining 
where  he  had  found  me  and  what  I 
was  doing. 

"  During  his  yarn,  old  grandfer', 
whose  name  I  afterwards  found  was 
Don  Silvio,  riddled  rue  into  augur- 
holes  with  his  evil  little  eyes,  then, 
having  ordered  the  chief  out,  he 
started  to  examine  me  himself.  He 
spoke  the  same  lingo  as  the  niggers,  a 
sort  of  bastard  Portugee,  and  still 
looking  me  through  and  through, 
asked,  '  Stranger,  how  came  you  to 
this  island  ? ' 

"  I  reckoned  it  best  to  keep  the 
real  truth  from  him,  so  said,  *  I  am 
a  shipwrecked  mariner,  Sehor,  and 
fetched  here  in  an  open  boat.' 


"  His  eyes  blazed,  and  his  long 
lean  fingers  twitched  round  his  jew- 
elled stick.  '  And  had  you  no  thought 
of  what  treasure  you  might  find  ? ' 

"  '  Senor,'  said  I,  looking  him  square 
in  the  face,  '  let  me  put  it  to  you.  Is 
it  likely  that  a  shipwrecked  mariner 
would  think  of  treasure  ? ' 

"  A  storm  was  brewing  in  his  eyes, 
and  I  guessed  it  would  break  on  me. 
Suddenly  he  yelled  :  '  You  lie — you 
dog,  you  thief — you  lie  !  You  came 
for  what  you  could  steal,  but  nothing 
shall  you  take  away,  nothing,  nothing 
— not  one  stone.  The  Fates  that 
consumed  those  who  came  aforetime 
shall  consume  you  also.  Shipwreck 
or  no  shipwreck,  you  shall  die  ! ' 

"  He  fell  to  beating  a  gong  with  his 
stick,  and  a  dozen  or  so  natives  came 
tumbling  in.  They  seemed  to  know 
their  business,  and  before  I  had  time 
to  get  in  a  word  I  was  being  dragged 
away  down  the  street  to  a  small  and 
securely  guarded  hut,  where  I  was 
pushed  in  and  the  door  closed.  Dis- 
liking the  look  of  things,  as  soon  as  I 
recovered  my  breath  I  started  hunt- 
ing about  for  a  way  of  escape,  but 
that  was  no  good.  Added  to  my  other 
troubles,  I  was  just  famishing,  and  was 
beginning  to  fix  it  that  my  end  was 
to  be  starvation,  when  footsteps  ap- 
proached, the  door  opened,  and  a  native 
girl  appeared,  bearing  on  her  head 
two  wooden  dishes  which  she  set  down 
before  me.  Being  a  favourite  with  the 
sex,  I  tried  to  draw  her  into  conversa- 
tion, but  either  she  didn't  understand 
my  talk  or  fear  had  taken  away  her 
tongue  ;  anyway,  not  a  word  would  she 
utter.  After  she  had  left  me  I  set  to 
work  on  the  food,  and  never  before  or 
since  have  I  enjoyed  a  meal  so  much. 
Then  stretching  myself  on  some  dry 
reeds  in  a  corner  I  soon  fell  asleep. 

'"  I  was  awakened  in  the  chill  grey 
of  dawn  by  the  entrance  of  the  same 
beauty,  who  put  down  my  breakfast, 
saying  as  she  did  so,  '  White  man,  eat 
well,  for  at  sunrise  you  die  ! '  For  a 
moment  the  shock  cleared  me  out  of 
speech  ;  I  could  only  sit  and  stare  at 
her.  She  seemed  to  see  what  was 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


347 


goirg  on  in  my  mind,  and  as  if  in  com- 
fort added,  '  Stranger,  why  do  you  fear 
death  1  It  can  only  come  once  ! ' 

"  Her  reasoning,  though  logical 
enough,  wasn't  of  the  kind  calculated 
to  meet  my  trouble,  and  when  she  had 
left  me  I  started  wondering  if  anybody 
in  Sacramento  City  would  ever  hear 
of  i.iy  fate,  and  bitterly  cursing  the 
day  I  set  out  in  search  of  this  vil- 
lancus  island.  As  T  sat  with  my 
head  upon  my  hands,  the  jewels  I  had 
stuck  in  my  jumper  fell  to  the 
floor  and  lay  there  taunting  me  with 
thei:  sparkling  splendour.  Howsom- 
ever,  it  was  no  use  crying  over 
spilled  milk;  I  had  brought  the  situ- 
atio  i  on  myself,  and,  whatever  hap- 
pened, must  go  through  with  it.  Sud- 
denly my  ear  caught  the  pat  of  naked 
feet  outside  the  cell.  Then  the  door 
was  unbarred  and  the  chief  entered. 
'  Come,  white  man,'  he  said,  '  all  is 
made  ready,  and  the  axe-  waits  for  the 
bare  flesh  ! '  How  would  you  have 
felt  in  such  a  situation  ?  As  for  my- 
self, I  put  a  good  face  on  it,  and  re- 
solv3d,  since  I  could  no  longer  live  a 
free  and  independent  American  citizen, 
to  d'e  as  such.  Pity,  I  thought,  there 
wasn't  a  band.  I  was  led  up  the  vil- 
lage to  the  open  plot  before  Don  Sil- 
vio's house.  It  might  have  been  the 
Fourth  of  July  for  the  crowd  that 
was  assembled.  In  the  centre,  for 
my  special  benefit,  was  an  object  which 
held  an  awful  fascination  for  me  :  a 
curiously  carved  block  of  wood,  dull 
brown  in  colour,  and  on  two  sides 
much  stained  and  worn.  It  didn't 
take  me  a  year  to  understand  what  it 
mea  it,  and  you  may  think  it  strange, 
seeing  the  nature  of  my  position,  but 
true  as  gospel,  I  fell  to  wondering 
how  my  long  neck  would  figure 
streiched  across  it. 

"  When  I  was  halted,  I  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  work  of  despatching 
me  would  commence  at  once,  but  1 
was  mistaken.  The  execution  could 
not  take  place  until  the  arrival  of 
Don  Silvio,  and  the  sun  was  a  good 
hour  up  before  there  was  a  stir  in  the 
crowd,  and  the  withered  monkey-faced 


little  devil  came  stumping  towards 
me.  If  he  had  appeared  a  hundred 
years  old  in  the  half-dark  of  his  house, 
he  now  looked  double  that  age,  but 
the  fire  in  his  eyes  was  as  bright  as 
ever.  Hobbling  to  within  a  dozen 
paces  of  where  I  stood,  he  took  tho- 
rough stock  of  me.  Then,  tapping  the 
block  with  his  stick,  he  said  :  *  Seiior, 
you  are  about  to  hunt  treasure  in  a 
golden  country,  where  I  trust  your 
efforts  may  meet  with  better  success. 
I  wish  you  farewell.'  After  relieving 
himself  of  this,  he  went  to  his  seat ; 
two  natives  raised  a  great  grass  um- 
brella above  his  head,  and,  all  being 
comfortable,  he  gave  orders  for  the 
performance  to  begin.  A  nigger 
stepped  from  the  crowd  and  ap- 
proached me,  carrying  in  his  hand  an 
axe.  .Reaching  the  block  he  signed 
me  to  kneel.  I  took  a  last  look 
round — first  at  the  thick  jungle,  then 
at  the  great  mountain  pushing  itself 
up  into  the  blue  sky.  After  that  my 
eyes  returned  to  the  block,  and,  gentle- 
men both,  a  wonderful  circumstance 
happened.  Understand  me  clearly  ! 
Standing  on  either  side  of  it  were  two 
thin  columns  of  palest  blue  smoke, 
maybe  six  feet  in  height.  As  I  stared 
at  'em  they  gradually  took  the  shapes 
of  men,  till  I  could  make  out  the 
features  of  old  Milwaukee  and  poor 
Jim  Dance  of  London  Town.  They 
seemed  to  be  gently  beckoning  me  and 
telling  me  not  to  fear.  P'raps  I  kind 
of  understood,  for  I  stretched  my  long 
neck  across  the  block  without  a  sign 
of  funk.  I  heard  the  cackling  laugh 
of  Don  Silvio,  I  saw  the  headsman 
draw  a  step  closer,  his  arms  go  up,  and 
then  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  remember  no 

more. 

*  *  #  * 

"  When  I  came  to  my  senses  I  was 
lying  on  the  bed  of  rushes  in  my  old 
quarters,  and  the  native  girl,  before 
mentioned,  was  seated  beside  me.  On 
putting  my  hand  to  my  head  to  sort 
of  fix  matters,  she  laughed  merrily, 
and  said  :  «  Stranger,  it  is  still  there, 
but  to-morrow  it  will  certainly  be 
gone  !  '  Why  they  hadn't  killed  me  I 


348 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


couldn't  understand,  unless  it  was  to 
put  me  to  the  torture  of  waiting 
another  day  ;  anyhow,  the  following 
morning  I  was  prepared  for  the 
guard  when  they  came  to  lead  me 
out. 

'•Once  more  the  crowd  was  there, 
once  more  that  villanous  old  Don 
kept  me  waiting,  and  once  more  the 
axe  went  up  but  failed  to  strike.  I 
was  respited  for  another  day.  Well, 
this  sort  of  thing  happened  every 
blessed  morning,  till  I  nearly  went 
mad  with  the  strain  of  it.  On  the 
eighth  day,  instead  of  being  kept  in 
the  square,  I  was  marched  straight  to 
the  Don's  house.  The  old  pirate  was 
waiting  for  me,  and  as  soon  as  I  ar- 
rived fell  to  questioning  me  about  the 
outer  world,  seeming  to  take  an  all- 
fired  interest  in  such  parts  of  my  own 
life  as  I  thought  fit  to  tell  him.  When 
he  had  found  out  all  he  wanted,  he 
said  :  *  Go  now,  for  the  present  you 
are  free;  but  remember,  if  you  but 
approach  that  ship  by  so  much  as  half 
a  mile,  that  same  moment  you  die  ! ' 
1  stumbled  out  of  his  presence  and 
down  the  street  like  a  man  dazed. 
That  he  had  some  reason  for  sparing 
my  life  was  certain,  but  what  it  was 
for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  then  deter- 
mine. Arriving  at  my  hut,  I  threw 
myself  upon  the  rushes,  and  tried  to 
think  it  out. 

"  That  evening  a  little  after  sun- 
down, while  walking  outside  the  village 
and  racking  my  brain  for  a  chance  of 
escape,  an  event  happened  which 
changed  all  my  thoughts  and  plans. 
I  was  passing  through  a  bit  of  jungle, 
where  the  fireflies  were  beginning  to 
play  to  and  fro,  when  I  came  face 
to  face  with  the  most  beautiful  girl 
I  had  ever  seen,  and — well  I'm  a 
free-born  American  citizen,  and  as 
such  the  equal  of  any  man  living, 
but  I  reckon  that  young  woman  took 
the  conceit  out  of  me.  She  couldn't 
have  been  more  than  eighteen  years  of 
age :  her  skin  was  as  white  as  milk, 
her  hair  and  eyes  of  the  deepest 
black ;  and  when  she  walked  it  was 
like  the  sound  of  falling  rose-leaves. 


Seeing  me,  she  started  with  surprise, 
and  was  half  inclined  to  run,  but 
something  seemed  to  tell  her  I  wasn't 
particular  harmful,  so  overcoming  her 
fear  she  said,  *  Senor,  I  am  glad  my 
grandfather  has  given  you  your  free- 
dom ! '  Her  grandfather  !  Not  being 
able  to  make  it  out,  I  said,  '  Surely, 
Miss,  Don  Silvio  ain't  your  grand- 
father r  'No,  Senor,  he  was  my 
father's  grandfather,  but  I  call  him 
so  because  the  other  is  so  tedious.' 
Perhaps  my  manner,  as  I  say,  didn't 
appear  very  dangerous  ;  anyway, 
after  this  her  bashfulness  seemed  to 
vanish,  and  we  walked  back  to  the 
village  as  comfortable  as  you  please. 
She  told  me  that  it  was  she  who 
had  induced  the  old  rascal  to  spare 
my  life,  and  I  reckon  the  look  I  gave 
her  for  that  had  something  to  do 
with  the  flush  as  spread  across  her 
face.  She  also  let  me  into  the  risk  I 
had  run  by  breaking  into  the  old 
galleon,  which,  accordin'  to  her  tellin', 
was  a  sacred  thing  upon  the  island. 
She  did  not  know  how  long  it  had 
lain  there,  but  suspicioned  her  great- 
grandfather had  commanded  it  as  a 
young  man,  and  that  all  the  rest  who 
came  with  him  were  dead,  a  fact  which, 
you  bet,  I  could  quite  believe. 

"  The  moon  was  full  up  before  we 
sighted  the  village,  and  when  she  left 
me  I  went  back  to  my  hut  in  a  flumux 
of  enchantment,  as  much  in  love  as 
the  veriest  schoolboy.  Somehow  after 
this  I  never  thought  of  escape,  but  set 
to  work  improving  my  quarters  and 
laying  out  a  garden.  Every  day  Don 
Silvio  came  to  question  me,  and  you'd 
better  guess  I  did  my  best  to  corral 
the  old  chap's  confidence.  How  I  got 
on  you'll  hear  shortly. 

"Well,  each  evening,  as  soon  as 
the  sun  was  down,  I  visited  the  grove 
beyond  the  village,  where,  sure  enough, 
I  always  met  the  Don's  great-grand- 
daughter. Her  beauty  and  amazin' 
innocence  so  held  me  that  I  was 
nearly  mad  to  make  her  my  wife; 
and  when  I  found  that  she  reckoned 
to  have  the  same  liking  for  me,  I 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  so  went  right 


The  Treasure  of  Sacramento  Nick. 


349 


off  to  ask  the  old  man  for  her  hand. 
Not  having  the  least  hope  of  being 
successful,  you  can  judge  of  my  surprise 
when  he  promised  her  to  me  straight 
away,  and,  what's  more,  fixed  it  that 
the  wedding  should  take  place  next 
day  He  kept  his  word,  and  on  the 
following  morning,  in  the  presence  of 
all  1  he  village,  she  became  my  wife. 

"  The    year   that    followed   topped 
everything  I  ever  knew  of  happiness. 
It  slipped  by  in  a  rosy  mist,  and  when 
our    boy  was   born  my  cup  was  full. 
I   proclaimed  him  American,  accord- 
ing to  the  constitution  of  the  United 
States,  and   the  old  Don  announced  a 
grert  feast  in   his   honour.      It   was 
spread    in    the    square,    and   all   the 
village   sat    down   to    it.     I   can    see 
the   sight  now  :    the   shadowy  outline 
of    the    mountain    beyond   the   great 
flaring  torches  of  sweet-smelling  wood, 
the   long  rows  of   tables,  the  shouts 
and  laughter  of  the   niggers,  and  at 
the  head,   between  my  wife  and  her 
gree  t-grandf ather,     the    boy    in     his 
cradle.     When   the    feast    was    right 
at  its  height,   the  old  Don  rose  and 
handed  me  a   silver  mug  filled  with 
som  3    sweet  liquor.     He   told   me  to 
drink  to  my   son's  health,  and,  sus- 
pecting no  treachery,  I  did  so.     Next 
moment    a    change    stole    over    me; 
I   made  a  try  to  get  on  to  my  feet, 
but  it  was  no  use  ;  everything  seemed 
to  b  3  slipping  away.     I  could  just  see 
my   vife  start  towards  me  and  the  old 
Don   pull    her  back,   when  my   head 
sank   on  the  table  and  my  senses  left 
me. 

"  The  next  thing  I  remember  is 
finding  myself  lying  precious  sick  and 
weal:  at  the  bottom  of  my  own  boat, 
with  nothing  but  the  big  green  seas 
rolli  ig  around  me.  The  island  had 
vanished,  and  with  it  my  wife  and 
chile .  At  first  I  reckoned  I  must  have 
been  asleep  and  dreamed  the  last  year  ; 
but  ao,  the  food  with  which  the  boab 
was  stocked  was  clear  enough  evidence 
of  its  truth.  For  an  eternity  I  sailed 
thos<  cursed  seas  this  way  and  that, 


seeking  for  the  land  I  had  lost ;  but  I 
must  have  drifted  into  different  waters, 
for  I  saw  no  more  islands.  My  food 
ran  out,  and  I  had  given  up  all  hope 
of  being  saved,  when  one  of  your 
luggers  hove  in  sight  and  picked  me 
up. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  you've  heard  my 
story.     Whether   you    believe   it    or 
not,  of  course  I  don't  know  ;  but  I 
take  my  affidavy  that  all  I  have  told 
you  is  true ;  and,  what's  more,  if  you'll 
fit  out  a   vessel    to   search   for  that 
island    and    its     treasure,    I'll    take 
command  of  her.    Should  we  find  it,  I 
reckon  I  can  make  you  the  two  richest 
men  on  earth ;   and  when  I  get  my 
wife  and  child,  I  shall  be  the  happiest. 
In    proof    that  the  treasure's  there, 
and  as  my  contribution  towards  the 
expenses,  I  hand    you   this."      From 
an  inner  pocket  he  produced  a  leather 
pouch,  from  which  he  took  what  at  first 
appeared  to  be  a  small  piece  of  crystal ; 
on  inspection  it  turned  out  to  be  a  dia- 
mond, worth  at  least  a  hundred  pounds. 
"  That  stone,"  said  he,  holding  it  at 
the  angle  which  would  best  show  its 
fire,   "  came  from    the  coffers  of  the 
treasure- ship,  and  is  the  only  one  left 
out  of  all  I   saw  and  took.     I   will 
leave   it  with    you  for  the    present. 
.Remember,   there's    thousands    more 
aboard    the  old   galleon,   bigger   and 
better  nor  that.     Say,  gentlemen,  will 
you  adventure  for  such  merchandise  I  " 
It  was   too    late    to   go    into   the 
question  that  night,  so  we  bade  him 
come   up  for   a   further   talk  in   the 
morning.     Rising,  he  gravely  bowed 
to  us,  and  without  another  word  with- 
drew.    Next  day  he  was   not  to   be 
found,  nor  has  he  ever  made  his  ap- 
pearance since.    Whether  he  lost  him- 
self and  fell  into  the  sea,  or  whether 
he  was  an   impostor   and  feared   de- 
tection, I  haven't  the  remotest  idea. 
I  only  know  that  I  have  a  valuable 
diamond  in  my  possession  which  I  am 
waiting  to  restore  to  its  uncommonly 
curious  owner. 

GUY  BOOTHBY. 


350 


AT    THE    BOARD    OF    GUARDIANS. 


IT  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turn- 
ing, and  by  degrees  the  country  road 
gets  less  countrified,  until  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  town  is  advertised 
by  an  occasional  bay-windowed  villa, 
which  not  many  years  ago  was  a 
plain  farmhouse.  The  villas  are  soon 
so  numerous  that  they  have  some  diffi- 
culty in  "  standing  in  their  own 
grounds."  Then  there  is  a  pleasant 
suburb,  embellished  with  an  embryo 
avenue  of  limes,  behind  which  gleams 
the  white  paint  of  the  cottages  and 
mansions  inhabited  respectively  by 
flourishing  tradesmen  and  manufactur- 
ers, who,  like  the  present  Ministry, 
have  not  yet  made  up  their  minds  to 
go  to  the  country. 

At  a  point  where  suburb  clearly 
merges  into  town  are  two  enorm- 
ous iron  gates,  guarded  on  the  right 
hand  by  a  rather  pretentious  red- 
brick lodge.  Inside  the  iron  gates, 
on  the  far  side  of  a  gravelled  yard, 
stands  the  Workhouse,  as  it  is  still 
called ;  though  some  less  repellent 
name  might  ere  this  have  been  found 
for  a  retreat  many  of  whose  in- 
mates have  earned  their  right  to  a 
shelter  as  little  as  possible  degrading. 
The  Workhouse  is  an  enormous  build- 
ing, or  collection  of  buildings,  which 
have  been  added  to  from  time  to  time 
as  the  neighbourhood  got  more  popu- 
lous, the  requirements  of  our  compli- 
cated civilisation  more  clamorous 
and  exacting,  and  the  Paupers  (last 
to  respond  to  the  spirit  of  the  age) 
more  desirous  of  a  little  improvement 
in  their  hard  and  dull  way  of  life. 

Adjoining  the  lodge,  and  separated 
by  the  gravel  yard  from  the  main 
structure,  is  a  new  two-storied  building; 
and  on  the  ground  floor  of  this  building 
the  Paupers  who  have  to-day  to  nar- 
rate their  tales  of  distress  are  seated 
in  rows  on  deal  benches,  and  somewhat 


significantly  with  their  backs  to  the 
door.  In  a  corner  of  the  brick-paved 
hall  is  a  staircase,  and  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  is  a  door.  Entering  by  this 
— at  once  if  you  are  a  Guardian,  later 
if  you  are  a  pauper — you  find  yourself 
in  a  long  narrow  room,  down  the  centre 
of  which  runs  a  narrower  oblong 
table  encircling  a  hollow  space  some- 
times utilised  for  the  "carpeting"  of 
officials. 

The  minutes  of  the  last  meeting 
have  been  read  and  confirmed,  and 
the  business  of  the  day  is  being  pro- 
ceeded with.  A  little  man  is  standing 
at  the  table,  in  front  of  a  big  armchair, 
declaiming  to  the  assembled  Guardians. 
His  gestures  are  of  a  very  high  order, 
and  of  these  a  stranger  might  consider 
the  subject  unworthy ;  but,  no  doubt, 
as  a  vehicle  for  eloquence  one  thing 
serves  as  well  as  another.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  the  Chairman  is  only  having 
his  usual  scrimmage  with  the  Idle 
Parson,  a  character  to  be  met  with 
on  most  Boards  of  Guardians,  and 
whom  ample  unbeneficed  leisure  impels 
to  the  discovery  of  innumerable  mares' 
nests. 

The  Chairman  is  a  little  man  of 
rather  striking  appearance,  about 
sixty  years  of  age,  with  a  fine  head  a 
little  too  big  for  him,  clean-cut  features, 
and  small,  carefully  curled  moustache. 
Perhaps  he  rather  too  consciously 
adorns  the  position.  He  is  an  excellent 
speaker,  and  he  brings  in  to  assist  a 
flexible  voice  a  vast  amount  of  gesticu- 
lation. His  attitudes — as  when  he 
turns  for  corroboration  to  the  Vice- 
chairman,  a  heavy  red-faced  man,  ap- 
parently lost  in  perpetual  admira- 
tion, who  sits  at  his  right  hand,  or 
withers  up  with  a  fine  sneer  an  un- 
fortunate bucolic  Guardian — leave 
little  to  be  desired,  and  suggest  that 
he  would  have  made  an  admirable 


At  the  Board  of  Guardians. 


351 


actor.  This  is  indeed  the  stage  where- 
on he  "  struts  "  (while  the  Guardians 
"fiet")  for  considerably  more  than 
his  hour.  The  little  man  once  sat  in 
Parliament  for  a  time,  and  this  fact 
he  allows  no  one  to  forget.  He  util- 
ised his  brief  experience  in  the  ac- 
quirement of  almost  Gladstonian 
fluency.  He  may  be  unaware  that 
this  very  fluency  caused  an  unappre- 
ciative  constituency  to  desert  him ; 
and  the  look  of  long-suffering  weari- 
ness to  be  seen  on  the  faces  of  the 
majority  of  the  Guardians  present 
foretells  perhaps  another  desertion. 
There  will  be  cases,  no  doubt — and 
this  may  be  one  of  them — when  the 
Guardians  elected  under  the  new  Act 
will  decline  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
permission  to  appoint  a  Chairman  from 
outside. 

The  mark  at  which  the  Chairman's 
elocutionary  darts  are  at  present  being 
directed  is  a  stiffly  built,,  middle-aged, 
gray-haired  man,  whose  face  wears  the 
determined  but  unintelligent  look  of 
a  bull  preparing  to  charge  a  stone 
wall.  Beneath  his  white  tie  is  clearly 
to  be  seen  his  flannel  shirt,  to-day  of 
an  jrritant  red  hue ;  and  this  may 
symbolise  the  fact,  that  though  still  a 
Parson  he  is  superior  to  the  prejudices 
by  which  the  ordinary  Parson  is 
dominated.  He  has  taken  his 
"  trouncing "  with  indifference,  for 
which  he  is  partly  indebted  to  use,  but 
still  more  to  the  thickness  of  skin 
which  is  characteristic  of  the  race. 
It  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  before 
long  he  will  be  revenged  on  his  rival. 
The  untiring  energy  of  the  Idle 
Parson,  who  has  nothing  else  to  do, 
or  at  least  nothing  else  that  he  cares 
to  do,  in  bringing  himself  forward  on 
ever\  possible  occasion  will  almost 
certainly  result  in  his  reappearance  on 
the  r  ewly  constituted  Board. 

The  Chairman's  official  seat,  which 
indeed  is  seldom  occupied  during  the 
"  sitting  "  (a  misnomer  so  far  as  he  is 
concerned),  is  so  placed  as  to  divide, 
as  it  were,  the  sheep  from  the  goats, 
the  town  from  the  country  Guardians. 
Sprin  kled,  like  salt,  among  the  latter 


(of  whom  they  are  indeed  the  recog- 
nised leaders)  are  the  ex-officio  mem- 
bers, making  the  most,  let  us  hope,  of 
their  brief  remainder  of  existence. 
Fortunately,  the  farmers  are  beginning 
to  show  themselves  more  capable  than 
heretofore  of  looking  after  their  own 
affairs.  It  will  be  noticed  that  the 
talking  Guardians  are,  almost  without 
exception,  Radicals,  and  when  once  on 
their  legs  they  resemble  the  Chairman 
in  not  knowing  when  to  sit  down 
again.  The  latter,  however,  has  the 
one  merit  of  letting  no  one  else  talk 
if  he  can  help  it. 

The  most  notable  difference  between 
town  and  country  Guardians  is  in 
dress.  The  former  are  clothed  in 
black,  as  if  for  a  funeral,  and  when 
they  depart  will  be  seen  to  don 
tall  silk  bats.  The  ex-officio  mem- 
bers are  more  evidently  country 
gentlemen  on  the  Board  of  Guardians 
than  elsewhere.  How  farmers-  dress 
every  one  knows.  Another  difference 
is  in  speech.  Many  country  Guardians 
attend  the  Board  regularly  for  years 
without  ever  opening  their  mouths 
except  to  yawn.  When  they  do  speak 
it  is  in  a  slow  and  hesitating  way, 
while  the  words  of  the  town  Guardians 
flow  apace.  But  while  the  remarks  of 
the  latter  are  not  always  wise,  those 
of  the  country  Guardians  are  seldom 
foolish.  The  greatest  talker,  after  the 
Chairman,  is  an  elderly  townsman  ;  his 
countenance  has  been  made  cheerful 
with  soap,  and  he  is  evidently  just  out 
of  the  barber's  hands — which  are  his 
own. 

The  frequent  squabbles  between  the 
town  and  country  Guardians  are  almost 
all  on  the  question  of  expenditure. 
The  latter  are  perpetually  accusing 
the  former  of  extravagance  ;  and  for 
this  there  is,  no  doubt,  some  founda- 
tion, since  big  manufacturers  and 
members  of  flourishing  companies 
naturally  feel  any  increase  in  the 
rates  less  than  the  struggling  farmers, 
and  can  afford  far  better  than  the 
latter  (who  pay  for  all)  to  pose  as  the 
poor  man's  friend.  Political  differ- 
ences-are of  course  never  mentioned, 


352 


At  the  Board  of  Guardians. 


but  no  doubt  (when  the  town, 
which  returns  half  the  Guardians, 
happens  to  be  Radically  inclined)  ac- 
centuate the  other  causes  of  disagree- 
ment. Yet  on  the  whole  a  Guardian 
with  a  genuine  grievance  or  a  sensible 
suggestion  (and  occasionally  without 
either)  may  rely  on  some  support 
even  from  his  natural  enemies  on  the 
other  side  the  Chairman.  Cliques 
form  and  reform,  overlap  one  another, 
and  retire  again  within  their  proper 
boundaries.  Once  the  feeling  of  anta- 
gonism between  town  and  country 
Guardians,  which  the  Chairman  inten- 
sifies by  his  constant  denials  of  its 
existence,  is  got  over,  almost  every 
member  of  the  Board  may  be  trusted 
to  be,  to  a  certain  extent,  sensible  and 
independent.  Of  the  strength  of  this 
feeling  of  antagonism  the  dispute  now 
on  the  point  of  terminating  is  an 
example.  The  Idle  Parson  has,  it 
seems',  been  writing  a  letter  to  the 
Head  Department  about  some  decision 
of  his  colleagues  with  which  he  dis- 
agreed— "  going,"  as  the  Chairman  has 
told  him,  "  behind  the  back  of  the 
Board."  The  bluff  country  guardians, 
while  blushing  for  the  Idle  Parson's 
methods,  yet  thought  it  their  duty 
(since  he  is  Guardian  for  a  country 
district)  to  give  him  a  lukewarm 
support.  But  the  Chairman  has  suc- 
cessfully talked  out  the  affair.  The 
Guardians  have  now  sat  (with  the 
exception  of  the  Chairman)  for  an  hour 
and  a  half,  and  not  a  word  has  yet  been 
heard  of  the  Paupers,  so  that  a  listener 
might  fondly  hope  they  were  no  more 
with  us.  The  original  duties  of  Guar- 
dians are  now  so  supplemented  with  sani- 
tary works,  drainage-schemes,  infec- 
tious hospitals,  cemetery-making,  and 
other  matters  which  involve  more 
than  a  suspicion  of  jobbery,  that  the 
primary  object  of  their  appointment 
(to  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  there  will 
one  day  be  a  partial  return)  appears 
to  have  been  almost  lost  sight  of.  The 
oratorical  display  being  at  last  con- 
cluded, and  the  ornamental  members, 
with  their  tall  hats  and  umbrellas, 
having  departed  together  with  the  re- 


porters (no  one,  it  will  be  noticed, 
thinks  of  making  a  speech  after  the  re- 
porters have  left),  the  business  remain- 
der proceed  at  separate  ends  of  the  long 
table  to  entertain  the  claims  of  their 
respective  clients,  who  (some  of  them 
finding  great  difficulty  in  mounting 
the  stairs)  are  called  in  one  by  one. 

To  some  it  would  appear  a  by  no 
means  necessary  corollary  to  the  dic- 
tum, "Who  drives  fat  oxen  should 
himself  be  fat,"  that  those  who  have 
the  care  of  Paupers  should  always 
be  the  reverse  of  lean.  Perhaps  the 
first  thing  to  catch  the  eye  of  an  un- 
accustomed onlooker  would  be  the  fact 
that  the  officials,  who  are  standing 
together  apart  from  the  Guardians,  as 
if  to  facilitate  admiring  inspection, 
personally  present  as  great  a  contrast 
to  their  charges  as  did  the  youthful 
Squeers  to  the  unfortunate  lads  for 
whom  his  fond  parent  used  him  as  a 
decoy.  Of  the  three  officials  present 
one  has  an  enormous  double  chin, 
while  the  youngest  has  already  grown 
quite  unwieldy,  and,  as  the  institution 
stands  in  no  pressing  need  of  adver- 
tisement, one  feels  that  his  bulk  is,  so 
to  speak,  thrown  away. 

The  first  suppliant  to  appear  at  the 
country  Guardians'  end  of  the  long 
table,  up  to  which  she  is  pushed  rather 
roughly  by  the  man  with  the  double 
chin,  is  a  pale,  thin  young  widow,  a 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  a  rather  more 
elderly  child  clinging  to  her  skirts. 
She  takes  her  stand  in  the  hollow 
space,  and  (how  anxiously  who  can 
say  ?)  submits  herself  to  cross-examina- 
tion. She  has  so  many  children — 
awful  improvidence  ! — so  much  rent  to 
pay,  so  much,  or  rather  so  little,  to  live 
on.  As  she  answers  her  interrogator 
in  a  tremulous,  almost  shameful  whis- 
per (yet  why  should  it  be  shameful  ?), 
she  rocks  the  baby  she  holds  in  her 
arms,  which  has  just  waked,  and  is 
looking  as  if  it  would  like  to  cry. 
The  noise  might  offend  the  gentlemen. 
As  she  sways  backwards  and  forwards 
with  her  infant,  her  head  almost  comes 
in  contact  with  that  of  the  presiding 
Member.  There  is  a  long  dispute 


At  the  Board  of  Guardians. 


353 


between  two  of  the  Guardians  (one  of 
whom  feels  apparently  more  moved  by 
his  iluty  to  the  ratepayers  than  to  the 
pooi1)  as  to  an  extra  loaf.  The  cost  of 
this  luxury  is  about  twopence  half- 
penny, and  the  woman  is  temporarily 
dismissed  till  this  weighty  matter  is 
somehow  adjusted.  She  walks  up 
and  down  one  side  of  the  board -room, 
rocking  her  baby,  and  casting  occa- 
sional wistful  glances  at  the  table. 

While  her  case  is  being  considered 
there  is  time  to  think  matters  over  a 
little.  "Were  Workhouses  intended 
to  be  places  to  hatch  schemes  in 
for  the  aggrandisement  or  im- 
poverishing of  a  parish?  Is  any 
improvement  desirable  in  the  way  in 
which  the  poor  are  treated,  and,  if  so, 
will  this  improvement  be  supplied  by 
the  new  Boards  1  Will  the  present 
Poor-Law  remain  much  longer  in  force, 
and,  if  it  does,  will  it  be  found 
sufficient  ?  Many  of  the  town  and 
almost  all  the  rural  inma'tes  arrive  at 
the  Workhouse  by  no  fault  of  their 
own.  and  the  keen  winds  which  they 
have  borne  so  long,  but  which  advanc- 
ing age  and  weakness  makes  them  no 
longer  able  to  withstand,  should  be  as 
far  i ,s  possible  tempered  to  them.  The 
schenes  for  old-age  pensions  make 
no  advance,  nor,  chiefly  for  political 
reasons,  are  they  very  likely  to  make 
any.  It  appears  certain,  too,  that  no 


one  of  them  could  coexist  with  the 
present  Poor-Law,  which  has  been 
elaborately  built  up,  and,  like  most 
ancient  buildings  in  England,  before 
the  advent  of  the  jerry-builder, 
would  be  hard  to  destroy.  Probably 
sensible  alterations  in  the  Poor-Law 
would  be  less  difficult  and  less 
damaging  than  in  some  other  institu- 
tions— in  the  Church,  for  instance, 
where  the  slightest  meddling  threatens, 
in  the  minds  of  so  many,  immediate 
collapse  to  the  whole. 

Another  question  which  it  is 
impossible  confidently  to  answer  is, 
"  Who  will  be  the  new  Guardians  ? " 
There  may  be  a  great  change  in  the 
constitution  of  the  new  Board,  or 
hardly  any  difference.  If  the  former, 
it  will  be  more  gradual  than  many 
expect,  for  the  Democracy  is  slow  to 
recognise  its  powers.  At  several 
meetings  held  lately  to  discuss  the 
new  Act  and  make  preparations  for 
District  Councils,  scarcely  a  ' '  working 
man  "  was  present,  and  matters  were 
arranged  by  the  same  men  who  had 
previously  had  the  conduct  of  affairs. 
But  this  is  scarcely  likely  to  continue. 

But  the  poor  woman's  case  is  settled 
at  last,  let  us  hope  in  her  favour. 
Having  been  made  acquainted  with 
the  Guardians'  decision,  she  is  hustled 
with  her  babies  out  of  the  room  by 
the  man  with  the  double  chin. 


No.  419. — VOL.  LXX. 


A    A 


354 


PHILORNITHUS  IN  THE  PARK. 


ONE  of  the  most  observed  people  in 
London  during  the  late  spring  has  been 
the  old  mother  Cormorant  who  has 
been  sitting  with  exemplary  patience 
on  her  floating  nest  in  the  waters 
of  St.  James's  Park.  She  has  been 
very  patient,  and  now  is  rewarded, 
for  there  is  a  young  Cormorant,  in 
whom  father  and  mother  take  most 
intense  interest.  It  is  not  their 
first  experiment  in  that  line.  Day 
after  day  a  bird  like  the  old  Cor- 
morants, but  smaller  and  of  lighter 
plumage,  has  been  sitting  on  the  raft 
beside  the  nest  and  the  brooding 
mother-bird.  Sometimes  he  has  dived 
off  and  gone  a-fishing  among  the 
water-weeds,  but  for  the  most  of  the 
day  he  sits  on  the  moored  raft.  He 
has  never  been  seen  to  mount  on  the 
sort  of  towel-horse  on  which  the  other 
Cormorants  sit  and  spread  their  wings 
to  dry.  They  say  that  he  is  not  able, 
or  is  afraid,  to  mount  so  high  from 
the  water;  for  of  course,  like  the 
Cormorants  and  most  of  the  other 
birds  on  the  ornamental  water,  he 
has  one  wing  pinioned.  This  brown 
fellow,  then,  faithful  watcher  of  the 
mother  in  her  nest,  is  a  young  bird  of 
last  year,  one  whom  the  same  mother- 
bird  hatched  out  in  the  same  manner 
as  she  has  now  succeeded  in  hatching 
the  young  one  of  1894 ;  and  this 
brown  fellow  is  probably  the  first 
Cormorant  that  ever  has  been  born 
and  reared  in  captivity.  Yet  he  ap- 
pears a  modest  fellow,  not  unduly 
exalted  by  his  claim  to  fame,  and 
unconscious  of  having  made  an  epoch. 

I  do  not  think  he  has  taken  any 
hand  in  the  domestic  arrangements. 
The  father  has  been  very  assiduous  in 
feeding  the  mother,  and  now  both 
parents  have  all  their  time  taken  up 
with  feeding  their  child.  There  are 
few  fish,  probably,  in  the  part  of 


the  water  which  is  wired  off  for 
the  Cormorants  and  the  Heron. 
Rather,  the  truer  way  of  stating  it 
would  be  to  say  that  they,  Cormorants 
and  Heron,  are  wired  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  world  of  water.  It  was 
not  always  so.  At  one  time  these 
birds  were  allowed  to  rove  all  over 
the  lake.  But  they  brought  a  spirit 
of  unrest  with  them.  The  Cormorants 
would  go  a-fishing  all  a  summer  morn- 
ing, pursuing  at  great  speed  through 
the  water  the  shoals  of  terrified  dace 
or  gudgeon,  or  whatever  those  little 
fishes  are  which  you  see,  on  a  quiet 
day,  waiting  beneath  the  bridge  for 
the  crumbs  which  sink  before  the 
Ducks,  to  whom  they  are  offered,  have 
time  to  gobble  them  up.  And,  when 
tired  or  satisfied  with  fishing,  then  the 
Cormorants  would  set  to  amusing  them- 
selves with  practical  joking — coming 
up  beneath  a  fat  old  black  Duck  or  a 
sleepy  Widgeon,  stuffed  full  of  the 
crumbs  of  charity,  and  giving  a  tweak 
at  the  broad-webbed  foot  such  as  was 
enough  to  frighten  any  bun-fed  Mal- 
lard into  an  apoplexy.  Life  was 
scarcely  worth  living  in  these  waters 
then,  and  the  Anatidse  began  to  recog- 
nise excellent  reason  in  Milton's  mak- 
ing Satan  assume  the  form  of  a  Cor- 
morant when  he  came  to  vex  the 
tranquillity  of  the  garden  of  Eden. 

The  Heron  is  no  joker  :  you  can  see 
that  by  a  glance  at  him  ;  but  he  made 
life  on  the  waters  a  very  strenuous 
thing,  very  real  and  very  earnest.  He 
would  stand  motionless,  like  a  gray 
ghost,  for  hours,  on  one  leg  for  pre- 
ference. He  deluded  you  into  the 
belief  that  he  was  a  gray  peeled  limb 
of  a  tree.  If  you  were  a  dace  you 
glided  up  to  him  fearlessly,  perhaps 
with  some  attraction  of  curiosity  even 
at  the  quaint  gray  aspect  of  the  thing. 
Suddenly  a  great  beak  shot  out  of  the 


Pliilornithus  in  the  Park. 


355 


withered  limb,  bayonet-like,  at  the 
end  of  a  long  neck,  and  guided  by  two 
bale!  ul  gleaming  eyes.  You  did  not 
knov/  much  more,  for  you  were  trans- 
figured ;  and  in  another  moment  you 
were  no  longer  dace  but  Heron. 

Or  supposing  you  were  a  Duck,  a 
mother  Duck,  proudly  sailing  down 
the  waters  with  a  squadron  of  little 
yellow  puff-balls  behind  you  :  what 
notice  were  you  likely  to  take  of  this 
pale  gray  spectre  on  the  water-side? 
Suddenly  you  hear  behind  you  a  little 
splash,  a  cry  that  rends  your  heart. 
You  turn  back,  and  find  the  pale 
spectre  transformed  into  a  hideous 
Heron,  gulping,  half  throttling,  as  the 
dear  little  webbed  feet  of  your  puff- 
ball  disappear  down  his  horrid  throat. 
What  is  there  that  one  can  do  1  One 
can  cry  aloud  to  the  police  for  justice, 
can  squawk  a  few  words  of  protest  to 
the  unheeding  Heron,  but  the  bad 
best  is  to  hurry  on,  lest  the  bayonet- 
beak  make  another  plunge  and  leave 
one  the  poorer  by  yet  another  puff- 
ball.  After  this,  what  comfort  can 
there  be,  what  joy  in  life,  in  sailing 
past  the  shores  ?  Does  not  every  bough 
take  the  semblance  of  a  waiting  Heron, 
every  gleam  across  a  shadow  suggest 
his  wall  menacing  form  ? 

So  now  the  cries  of  the  afflicted  have 
been  heard.  Cormorants  and  Heron 
are  shut  off  in  a  department  by  them- 
selvas,  and  there  is  comparative  (it  is 
only  comparative)  peace  over  the 
wators. 

A  s  a  rule,  creatures  are  very  careful 
how  they  go  near  a  thing  with  such  a 
beak  as  the  Heron's.  The  London 
Spa  TOWS  are  not  careful  enough ; 
perhaps  the  quality  of  fear  does  not 
exist  in  the  London  Sparrows.  I  am 
not  aware  that  the  Heron  himself  ever 
harms  them  :  probably  he  keeps  too 
mm  h  in  the  water  for  them  to  come 
in  his  way ;  but  some  close  cousins  of 
the  Heron  occasionally  make  them 
pay  toll  for  their  audacities.  These 
are  the  big  black  Storks  which  you 
will  often  see  walking  about  on  the 
gra^s  near  the  Cormorants'  nest, 
where  young  ladies, 'on  certain  days, 


sit  sketching.  They  look  harmless 
enough — I  do  not  mean  the  young 
ladies  ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  the  London  Sparrow,  who  will 
alight  between  the  wickets  when  Mr. 
Grace  is  batting  and  Mr.  Kortright 
bowling,  will  deem  that  he  has  any- 
thing to  fear  from  these  long-legged 
black  Storks.  But  presently  there 
comes  a  dab,  which  is  no  trouble  at 
all  to  the  Stork — only  just  such  a, 
dab  as  he  has  been  making  all  the 
morning  at  the  earthworms  and  in- 
sects ;  but  it  is  ail  over  with  the 
Sparrow. 

The  Heron's  bill  is  a  thing  of  which 
we  have  learned  the  terror  from  the 
stories  handed  down  to  us  from  the 
days  of  falconry ;  how  that  many  a 
fine  Falcon,  swooping  upon  the  Heron, 
has  been  received  on  his  up-turned 
bill,  and  spitted,  so  that  the  two  have 
fallen  helpless  to  the  ground  together. 
Schoolboys  going  gunning  along  the 
shore  or  marshes  ought  always  to  be 
warned  of  the  danger  of  approaching 
a  wounded  Heron.  The  bird  strikes 
always  at  the  eye,  with  lightning 
quickness  and  with  deadly  aim. 

I  was  lately  told  of  a  clump  of  trees 
on  a  certain  estate  in  Scotland  which 
were  the  common  nesting-place  of  a 
pair  of  Herons  and  a  pair  of  Ravens. 
All  the  spring-time  through,  fighting 
and  scolding  went  on  constantly  be- 
tween them,  until  one  day  the  hen 
Raven  was  found  lying  dead  beneath 
a  tree  with  a  stab,  as  of  a  dagger  in 
her  breast,  inflicted  upon  her  by  the 
Heron.  After  that,  there  came  no 
more  Ravens  to  that  clump,  and  the 
Herons  now  hold  undisputed  posses- 
sion. On  the  water  of  St.  James's  Park 
the  Cormorants  seem  well  enough 
acquainted  with  the  Heron's  powers 
to  keep  well  out  of  his  reach.  Probably 
there  is  not  a  -bird  there,  unless  per- 
haps it  be  those  Storks  who  are  simi- 
larly armed,  of  whom  he  is  not  undis- 
puted master.  He  even  pecked  an 
eye  out  of  one  of  those  black-necked 
Canada  Geese  which  have  brought  up 
such  a  nice  brood  of  goslings  this 


spring. 


A  A  2 


356 


Philornithus  in  the  Park. 


There  are  few  better  fighters  than 
a  Goose,  or  a  Gander  more  particularly. 
Those  ragged  white  Russian  Geese  on 
this  water  bite  like  bull-dogs.  It  is 
no  mere  peck,  with  them ;  they  bite 
and  hang  on.  The  common  old  farm- 
yard Gander  is  a  capital  fighter  when 
he  is  driven  to  it.  At  a  certain  place 
in  Scotland  there  used  to  be  a  caged 
Golden  Eagle.  He  preferred  to  kill 
his  own  dinner ;  and  it  used  to  be  a 
cruel  sport  to  watch  him  dispose  of  any 
unfortunate  Hen  or  Guinea-fowl  that 
was  put  into  his  cage.  They  tried  him, 
I  believe,  with  every  sort  of  domestic 
poultry.  Ducks,  Pea-Fowl,  Turkeys  ; 
the  Eagle  was  master  of  them  all. 
He  had  no  trouble  in  finishing  them 
off,  no  trouble  even  with  the  "  bubbly- 
jock."  But  at  length  they  tried  him 
with  a  Gander ;  but  he  could  make 
nothing  of  it.  The  Gander  crouched 
into  a  corner,  drew  back  his  head, 
presenting  nothing  but  a  broad  spade- 
like  bill  from  whichever  quarter  the 
Eagle  tried  to  attack  him.  The  Eagle 
fumed  and  fretted  and  grew  very  angry : 
he  made  desperate  attempts  to  take  the 
Gander  in  the  flank  ;  but  the  wise  old 
bird  defeated  them  all.  In  the  end 
they  had  to  give  the  Gander  his 
liberty,  as  the  reward  of  his  courage, 
and  to  satisfy  the  Eagle  with  the  much 
more  succulent  dainty  of  a  young 
Turkey-Poult. 

We  all  know  the  tradition  about 
the  power  of  a  Swan's  wing — that  its 
blow  will  break  a  man's  leg.  Certain 
naturalists  have  thrown  discredit  on 
the  tradition.  I  questioned  a  man 
who  has  much  to  do  with  Swans 
about  the  credibility  of  the  tale,  and 
he  told  me  that  he,  for  one,  was  ready 
to  believe  it,  and  thought  that  any 
other  man  who  had  received  such  a 
blow  from  a  Swan's  wing  as  he  had 
suffered  would  be  likely  to  believe  it 
also.  It  happened  in  this  way.  He 
was  summoned  from  his  cottage  by 
the  news  that  one  of  the  Cygnets  was 
in  trouble.  A  boy  had  been  amusing 
himself  with  the  elegant  sport  of 
giving  the  Cygnets  meat  attached  to 
a  long  string.  When  the  Cygnet  had 


swallowed  the  meat  well  down,  the 
boy  would  pull  it  up  again  by  means 
of  the  string.  It  was  great  fun  for 
the  boy ;  and  the  Cygnet  was  unable 
to  express  its  feelings  intelligibly. 
On  the  occasion  in  question,  however, 
the  lump  of  meat  stuck.  It  would 
not  come  out ;  and  the  boy,  fearing 
consequences,  had  let  slip  the  string 
and  bolted.  The  Cygnet  did  its  best 
with  the  string  by  swallowing  several 
yards  of  it,  but  began  to  choke  before 
it  got  to  the  end.  At  this  juncture 
my  friend  was  summoned  to  its  aid, 
and  simultaneously,  as  it  appeared, 
the  stately  parent  of  the  Cygnet,  who 
was  swimming  on  the  pond  close  by, 
perceived  that  something  was  amiss 
with  its  offspring.  It  swam  to  the 
bank  and  commenced  making  its  way 
to  the  young  one's  assistance.  But 
the  Swan's  method  of  progression  on 
land  is  as  awkward  and  slow  as  on 
the  water  it  is  graceful  and  swift. 
The  swan-herd  was  first  to  reach  the 
Cygnet,  and,  soon  seeing  the  trouble, 
had  calculated  to  remove  it  before  the 
parent  came  up  with  him.  But 
his  calculations  had  underrated  the 
length  of  the  string  or  the  pedestrian 
speed  of  the  Swan.  Just  as  he  had 
succeeded  in  extricating  the  lump  of 
meat  from  the  gullet  of  the  distressed 
youngster  the  old  bird  caught  him  a 
blow  with  its  wing  on  that  part  of  the 
person  which  is  most  exposed  to  at- 
tack when  a  man  is  stooping  and  the 
onset  is  made  from  behind.  He  was 
knocked  over  on  his  face,  and,  continu- 
ing the  impetus  received  from  the 
Swan  by  scuttling  over  the  grass  on 
his  hands  and  knees,  was  able  to 
escape  from  the  bird's  fury,  which  was 
soon  transferred  to  solicitude  for  its 
little  one.  But  the  blow  had  been 
sufficiently  powerful  to  make  the 
sitting  posture  uninviting  for  several 
days,  and  to  incline  him  to  give 
credence  to  any  legends  about  the 
strength  of  a  Swan's  wing. 

After  the  Cormorants  and  the 
Heron,  the  least  agreeable  neighbours 
on  the  St.  James's  Park  water  are  the 
Sheldrakes.  They  are  all  alike— 


Philornithus  in  the  Park. 


357 


ruddy  Sheldrake,  golden  Sheldrake,  or 
common  Sheldrake,  there  is  not  a  whit 
to  choose  between  them  ;  the  one  kind 
is  just  as  quarrelsome  and  unpleasant 
as  the  last.  The  common  Sheldrake 
breeds  quite  readily  on  the  island.  In 
many  parts  of  England  they  are  called 
the  33urrow-Duck,  from  their  habit, 
presumably,  of  breeding  in  the  disused 
burrows  of  rabbits.  Here,  on  the 
island,  artificial  burrows  have  been 
made  and  boarded  over  for  them.  The 
old  hird  is  quite  fearless,  and  only 
hisses  fiercely  when  you  lift  the  board 
to  look  at  her  as  she  sits  upon  her 
eggs.  They  do  not  insist  absolutely 
on  a  burrow,  but  are  ready  to  nest 
wherever  they  can  get  a  nice  dark 
nook.  They  seem  to  make  a  point  of 
having  darkness.  In  many  places 
round  the  coast,  where  there  are  not 
rabbi  ,-holes,  they  will  nest  in  crannies 
and  fssures  of  the  rocks. 

Some  people  have  a  way  of  saying 
that  ^he  Widgeon  will  not  breed  in 
ornamental  waters ;  but  here,  on 
the  inland,  there  is  a  nest  or  two 
yearly. 

Several  yards  out  from  the  shore, 
where  the  overhanging  boughs  go 
weepi ng  down  to  the  water,,  is  a  thick 
weedy  mat,  a  foot  or  two  square.  It 
is  the*  nest  of  a  Dabchick,  which  she  has 
formed  by  diving  down  to  the  lake's 
botto  n  for  weeds  and  weaving  them 
round  and  about  the  hanging  branches. 
Some  irnes  the  wind  will  unship  these 
nests  from  their  moorings,  and  they 
will  ,jo  floating  away  whithersoever 
the  winds  and  eddies  may  drift  them. 
But  j  ,t  present  there  is  the  nest,  safe 
and  sound,  and  a  very  damp  mattress 
it  mu  st  be.  But  that  does  not  matter 
to  th(  Dabchick,  who  spends  more  of 
her  life  below  water  than  above  it. 
She  is  there  now,  sitting  on  her  eggs. 
If  we  approach  she  will  begin  scraping 
away  at  the  reedy  weeds  which  form 
her  3iest,  gathering  them  up  and 
spreading  them  over  her  eggs  (for 
conce;  ilment's  sake,  as  one  may  guess), 
before  slipping  off  into  the  water  and 
diving  out  of  sight.  She  will  not  go 
far,  bit  will  rise  and  watch  all  our 


movements  till  we  have  gone,  and 
she  may  come  safely  back.  As  soon 
as  the  young  are  hatched  they  will 
dive  off  from  the  nest  as  readily  as 
the  mother,  and  then  we  may  see  a 
very  curious  sight.  The  mother  will 
come  to  the  surface,  and,  calling  her 
young  ones  to  her,  will  spread  out  her 
wings  and  gather  the  chicks  under 
them  as  comfortably  as  if  the  family 
were  in  their  nest. 

Most  of  the  Ducks  on  the  orna- 
mental water  have  learned  to  dive. 
As  a  rule  common  Ducks  and  Mallards 
do  not  dive  ;  but  these  have  learned 
the  art.  When  the  keeper  throws 
the  corn  to  the  assemblage  of 
swimming  things  who  come  to  his 
call,  the  Pochards  and  other  habitual 
divers  at  first  get  an  advantage  by 
diving  after  the  maize  as  it  sinks. 
After  a  while,  however,  the  other 
Ducks  come  to  understand  this,  and 
dive  for  the  corn  just  as  readily  as 
the  others.  It  is  a  mistake,  there- 
fore, to  think  that  Wild-Duck  cannot 
dive.  When  one  is  wounded,  and 
cannot  fly,  he  will  often  attempt  to 
escape  by  swimming  under  water. 

The  ways  of  birds  with  wounded 
ones  of  their  own  kind  are  very 
bingular,  and  illustrate  one  of  Nature's 
many  modes  of  working  out  the  sur- 
vival of  the  fittest.  Instead  of  lending 
the  wounded  one  help  and  sympathy, 
as  one  might  expect,  they  seem  to 
regard  him  at  once  as  an  enemy  or 
an  outcast,  a  proper  object  of  attack. 
The  writer  once  wounded  a  Pochard 
who  was  swimming  about  on  a  pond 
in  loving  amity  with  some  tame  Ducks. 
Until  their  wild  friend  had  been 
maimed  the  domesticated  birds  had 
been  treating  him  with  all  amiability  ; 
but  no  sooner  had  he  shown  his  plight 
by  the  piteous  beatings  of  his  helpless 
wing  in  the  attempt  to  rise,  than  the 
tame  birds  attacked  him  in  a  body, 
and  treacherously  aided  the  shooter's 
purpose  by  driving  him  right  off  the 
pond  and  on  to  the  land,  where  he  could 
be  captured  and  put  into  the  bag 
without  trouble.  The  Terns  are  a 
noble  exception  to  this  harsh  rule; 


358 


Philornitlius  in  the  Park. 


they  show  a  Samaritan  concern  and 
affection  for  a  stricken  comrade. 

The  wise  birds  on  this  Park- water 
nest  upon  the  island,  from  which 
the  public  are  rigorously  excluded, 
and  where  they  are  under  the  special 
care  of  a  keeper,  who  wards  them 
with  all  the  knowledge  borne  of 
long  and  loving  observation.  But 
there  are  others,  less  prudent  ones, 
who  nest  in  all  manner  of  places 
along  the  banks,  whence  their  «ggs 
are  brought  in  to  be  placed  beneath  a 
good  mother  on  the  island.  Thus  it 
often  happens  that  the  eggs  are 
hatched  under  a  mother  of  another 
species  from  the  chicks  which  come 
out  of  them.  And  these  foundling 
chicks  never  seem  to  lose  the  sense  of 
gratitude  to  their  foster-mother  and 
her  kin.  A  Pochard  hatched  and 
brought  up  by  a  black  Duck  will  live 
out  his  life  in  company  with  the  black 
Ducks  by  preference,  and  will  be 
received  in  all  good  fellowship  by 
them  just  as  if  his  ancestors  for  genera- 
tions back  had  been  of  their  species. 
And  so  it  is  with  all  the  birds.  It 
often  happens  that  birds  of  different 
species  lay  in  the  same  nest.  Perhaps 
some  mothers  are  too  idle  to  build  a 
home  of  their  own,  and  do  their  own 
hatching  ;  but,  however  that  may  be,  it 
always  happens  that  the  alien  young 
ones  affect  through  life  the  society  of 
their  fellow-nurslings  rather  than  that 
of  their  own  kind. 

Rats  are  the  worst  enemies  that  the 
birds  have  to  fear  on  the  island ;  but 
their  numbers  are  kept  down  by  con- 
staot  war  waged  against  them  by  the 
keeper  and  his  red  retriever.  The 
birds,  with  few  exceptions,  know  the 
keeper  for  their  friend,  and  hail  his 
coming  with  pleasure,  forgiving  him 
that  in  their  early  youth  it  was  he 
that  had  performed  the  pinioning 
operation,  before  the  last  wing-joint 
had  hardened  into  bone  and  muscle. 
A  pair  of  Magpies  live  in  the  trees  on 
the  island,  and  have  their  full  share  of 


the  corvine  love  of  mischief  and  stolen 
eggs.  They  are  not  even  above  giv- 
ing a  playful  dig  of  the  beak  to  a  poor 
young  Gull  or  Duckling  that  strays 
across  their  way.  It  is  all  done  light- 
heartedly,  just  for  fun ;  but  though 
fun  for  the  Magpies  it  is  death  to  the 
Duckling. 

Among  the  overhanging  tree- 
branches  are  several  rafts  of  sticks 
which  it  is  very  possible  to  mistake 
for  nests  of  the  Dabchick.  But  really 
these  are  not  nests  at  all,  only  rafts 
built  by  the  Moorhens  as  resting- 
places  for  their  young  ones  when 
tired  of  swimming  on  the  great  water. 
A  single  pair  will  sometimes  build 
two  or  three  of  these,  so  careful  are 
they  of  the  soon-fatigued  muscles  of 
their  nestlings. 

And,  over  them  all,  the  Wood- 
Pigeons  keep  coming  and  going, 
slanting  down  through  the  blue  haze 
of  London  as  if  they  were  descending 
along  an  inclined  wire.  The  Wood- 
Pigeons  nest  in  the  trees  all  about  the 
Park,  and  are  increasing  fast  in  num- 
bers and  in  boldness.  The  writer 
counted  no  less  than  six  young  ones, 
with  their  parents,  having  a  sociable 
party  on  the  grass  in  a  space  that  a 
tablecloth  would  almost  cover.  In 
boldness  they  are  beginning  to  rival 
the  London  Sparrow  himself,  settling 
on  the  road  in  front  of  the  noses  of 
the  cab-horses  and  quite  regardless  of 
pedestrians.  Occasionally  little  boys 
stone  them,  but  they  have  a  just 
estimate  and  contempt  of  the  stone- 
throwing  abilities  of  the  London 
urchin.  They  know  that  an  old  lady 
will  be  hit,  or  a  policeman  will  come 
round  the  corner  before  the  urchin  is 
likely  to  hit  them,  and  peck  on  un- 
concernedly. Only  on  Coronation 
Day,  when  the  guns  fire  salvoes  from 
the  Horse-Guards,  do  the  Wood- 
Pigeons  go  coursing  high  up  in  the 
sky  with  inherited  memories  of  the 
terrors  of  the  great  autumn  mas- 
sacres. 


359 


THE  COMPLETE  LEADER-WHITER. 

(BY  HIMSELF.) 


THE  Ideal  Leader- Writer  is  young. 
It  is  only  when  you  are  young  that 
you  know  everything,  and  are  at  no 
pains  to  conceal  the  fact.  With  years 
there  comes  a  something  which  passes 
for  modesty,  and  is  generally  loss  of 
animal  spirits.  It  will  sometimes 
make  the  most  practised  journalist 
hesitate  for  a  moment  or  two  over  a 
problem  which  has  been  puzzling  the 
wisest  statesmen  of  Europe  for  many 
years.  This,  of  course,  will  never  do. 
It  takes  all  the  fire  out  of  the  article, 
for  one  thing,  "  sicklies  it  o'er  with  the 
pale  cast  of  thought,"  so  to  speak ;  for 
another  and  much  more. serious  one, 
it  may  make  the  last  bit  of  writing  go 
in  too  late  ;  and  that  is  the  unpardon- 
able sin. 

The  conditions  under  which  the 
Leader- Writer  works  are  not  such  as 
seem  at  first  sight  to  tend  to  profound 
thought  or  polished  achievement.  To 
begin  with,  the  hours  of  work  are  un- 
holy. You  come  down  to  your  task 
at  a  time  when  decent  folk  are  in  their 
morning-bath  or  smoking  their  last 
pipe.  You  have  scarcely  forgotten 
your  dinner  comfortably,  or  you  have 
not  had  time  to  eat  a  respectable 
breakfast.  The  latter  is  probably  the 
hardor  fate  ;  it  is  the  daily  lot  of  him 
who  works  for  the  journals  which 
come  out  before  lunch  and  are  called 
(for  historical  reasons)  Evening 
Papers.  Labour  is  the  curse,  we  all 
knov> ,  and  every  man  acknowledges  it 
in  his  heart,  however  he  may  prate 
abou:  the  dignity  of  work,  the  bur- 
dens of  idleness,  the  blessings  of 
drudgery,  and  similar  phantasies  ;  but 
a  man  never  more  thoroughly  realises 
this  Dhan  when,  unshaven,  imperfectly 
breakfasted,  and  heavy  with  the  gloom 
of  a  raw  London  morning,  he  settles 
dowi.  to  express  his  editor's  views  on 


Bimetallism  or  Secondary  Education. 
He  smokes  wearily,  and  enters 
savagely  upon  his  daily  enterprise  of 
writing  against  time.  Of  course, 
occasionally,  it  is  his  luck  to  have  to 
handle  his  pet  aversion,  and  then  his 
mood  is  appropriate  and  his  labour 
light ;  but  the  awful  part  of  the 
business  is  that  as  often  as  not  we 
have  to  write  about  the  pillars  of  our 
party  and  the  friends  of  our  policy. 
This  is  truly  terrible.  Figure  to 
yourself  a  man  filled  with  a  sane  and 
natural  hatred  of  the  arrangements  of 
the  whole  world,  distressed  beyond 
Carlyle's  imaginings  as  to  his  place 
among  the  Infinites  and  his  relation 
to  the  Verities,  conscious  of  a  horrible 
want  of  order  in  his  inward  parts — 
figure  to  yourself  that  man  compelled 
to  be  civil  through  thirteen  hundred 
words !  This  is  the  daily  tragedy  of 
the  Leader- Writer's  life  ;  this  is  one 
of  the  reasons  why  the  Ideal  can 
scarcely  be  aged.  The  young  man 
bears  this  trial  easily  and  at  first 
almost  unconsciously  ;  when  he  has 
just  left  the  university  he  knows  that 
salvation  lies  in  his  particular  set  of 
placemen  and  panaceas.  But  the 
middle-aged  writer  has  no  such  conso- 
lation. To  him,  in  the  early  mornings 
or  at  mirk  midnight,  one  politician  is 
about  as  good,  or  as  bad,  as  another  ; 
save  for  the  fact  that  those  who  ought 
to  be  carrying  out  his  views  seem  too 
inconceivably  stupid  and  personally 
disagreeable  for  anything. 

Before  you  can  get  to  work,  you 
have  of  course  to  consult  your  editor, 
and  to  make  yourself  in  some  degree 
acquainted  with  the  subject  on  which 
you  are  to  write.  At  least  it  is 
decent  to  maintain  both  these  sup- 
positions, but  it  is  not  well  to  strain 
your  intellect  too  much  over  either. 


.360 


The  Complete  Leader- Writer. 


Your  editor  will  fall  in  'with  your 
views,  or  you  with  his.  If  you  are  an 
old  hand,  you  know  that  the  subject 
of  your  article  does  not  make  the 
least  difference,  and  you  give  way 
meekly  and  at  once.  You  are  sincerely 
sorry  for  your  editor,  but  after  all  his 
intellect  and  the  conduct  of  the  paper 
are  his  business,  not  yours  ;  besides,  he 
is  paid  to  do  the  thinking.  If  you 
are  a  young  man,  you  have  probably 
not  yet  written  forty  leading-articles 
on  the  same  subject,  so  you  accept 
cheerfully  what  is  assigned  to  you,  or 
you  actually  have  some  ideas  of  your 
own.  This  last  case  is  not  common, 
but  it  has  been  known  to  happen. 
When  it  does,  the  editor  is  generally 
much  annoyed,  but  he  always  yields  ; 
his  time  is  far  too  precious  to  waste  it  in 
arguing  with  a  boy.  Your  article  is  of 
course  aot  a  penny  the  better  for  those 
wonderful,  original  ideas  of  your  own 
— those  ideas  which  are  burningly  new 
to  you  and  commonplaces  to  all  of  us 
who  are  over  thirty — but  at  least  you 
get  some  fun  out  of  writing  it.  You 
feel  (as  we  have  felt  in  our  day)  that 
you  are  a  teacher  and  a  prophet,  and 
you  realise  how  true  is  all  you  have 
heard  and  read  about  the  power  of  the 
Press  and  the  might  of  the  written 
word.  What  you  do  not  realise  at 
the  time  is  that,  for  one  person  who 
is  moved  by  your  brilliant  diatribe 
and  subtle  argument,  there  is  another 
who  is  equally  stirred  by  the  similar 
brilliancy  and  subtlety  of  the  young 
gentleman  who  is  teaching  and 
prophesying  in  an  exactly  opposite 
sense  on  the  other  side.  Also,  you 
have  probably  not  yet  been  touched 
by  the  paralysing  notion  that  out  of 
twenty  people  who  buy  the  paper 
scarcely  two  read  the  leading-articles 
at  all.  This  disagreeable  conviction 
comes  upon  you  later  ;  but  it  brings 
its  consolations  with  it.  When  you 
become  conscious,  long  after  there  is 
any  chance  of  rectifying  it,  that  you 
have  committed  some  egregious 
blunder  in  your  rapid  scribble  of 
the  morning,  it  will  comfort  you  to 
think  how  very  few  of  your  readers 


are  likely  to  notice  it,  especially  if  the 
paper  is  selling  better  than  usual. 
For  this  means  that  there  is  a  great 
race  being  run  somewhere,  or  a 
peculiarly  succulent  divorce-case  on 
trial,  when  of  course  nobody  thinks  of 
frivolous  things  like  ministerial  or 
international  complications.  The 
leading-article  is  indeed  a  survival 
from  the  time  when  the  reading  public 
was  small,  educated,  and  leisured,  and 
really  took  an  interest  in  such  things  ; 
under  present  conditions  its  existence 
is  an  anachronism.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, wholly  without  its  uses.  It  pro- 
vides, for  instance,  a  decent  livelihood 
for  many  an  estimable  person  who 
would  otherwise  find  it  difficult  to  earn 
his  bread.  For  our  own  part,  we  know 
not  what  we  should  do  without  it. 
We  suppose  we  should  have  to  come 
down  to  teaching.  One  can  always  do 
that,  of  course. 

But  it  is  time  to  return  to  our 
practical  instructions.  With  regard 
to  a  mastery  of  the  subject,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  here  experience  tells  ; 
however,  a  clever  young  fellow  can 
pick  up  all  the  essentials  of  this 
branch  in  three  weeks  or  so,  especially 
if  Parliament  is  sitting.  One  is  apt, 
when  quite  a  novice,  to  endeavour  to 
look  carefully  into  the  facts  and 
arguments  on  both  sides,  and  to  pry 
into  unnecessary  details.  This  is  the 
one  and  only  serious  disadvantage  of 
the  beginner,  and  he  is  no  good  until 
he  has  broken  himself  of  this 
amateurish  trick.  If  an  editor  will 
take  the  trouble  (which  is  unlikely) 
he  may  cure  a  promising  man  in  one 
day.  Start  him  at  8.30  on  an  article 
upon  Home  Rule  in  connection  with 
last  night's  debate;  he  will  have  to 
write  that  leader  two  or  three  times 
a  week  for  the  next  few  years,  so  he 
may  just  as  well  begin  by  practising 
with  it.  Then .  set  another  man  on 
the  article  you  mean  to  use,  and 
return  to  your  beginner  in  a  couple 
of  hours;  that  of  course  is  a  trifle 
over  the  time  by  which  the  last  slip 
of  his  writing  ought  to  have  been  in 
the  printer's  hands.  If  you  have 


The  Complete  Leader- Writer. 


361 


given  your  novice  no  definite  caution, 
you  will  probably  find  him  turning 
the  rinth  column  of  the  report  in  THE 
TIMES  or  trying  to  reconcile  the  totally 
different  and  antagonistic  conclusions 
drawn  from  the  debate  by  half  a  dozen 
of  the  morning  papers.  He  has  not 
yet  written  a  word,  but  he  is  inwardly 
mediating  a  really  profound  and 
epoch-making  article.  This,  of  course, 
is  tbe  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  the 
preposterous  theory  that  the  Leader- 
Writer  must  get  up  his  subject 
thoroughly;  and  the  kind  brutality 
of  such  a  lesson  will  not  be  wasted 
on  a  young  man  of  parts. 

You  have  to  send  your  article  to 
the  printer  bit  by  bit  as  it  is  written, 
a  thiag  which  naturally  tends  to  give 
unity  to  the  whole  as  a  literary  com- 
posit:on;  and  twenty-five  minutes  is 
the  vory  utmost  you  can  afford  to  waste 
before  the  first  slip  goes  in.  Indeed 
we  ourselves  prefer  to  get  something 
Avritten  within  the  first  ten  minutes. 
Any  one  can  look  through  a  couple 
of  papers  in  the  train,  and  compose 
the  opening  sentences  as  he  fills  his 
pipe.  All  he  has  to  do  then  is  to 
jot  them  down  and  touch  the  electric 
bell.  Thereupon  a  boy  is  precipitated 
into  his  room  from  the  void,  and 
departs  with  his  first  booty  into  the 
unknown.  You  feel  much  happier 
when  this  is  done.  You  must  take 
care,  however,  to  complete  your  sen- 
tence on  the  second  slip  before  letting 
the  first  go;  otherwise,  when  you 
begin  writing  again,  you  may  find  that 
you  have  entirely  forgotten  what  you 
have  said.  The  custom  of  saying  the 
same  thing  at  least  twice  in  the 
course  of  a  leading-article  is  not  at 
all  to  be  deprecated ;  but  it  is  best 
not  to  use  exactly  the  same  words  for 
it.  Hence  the  aforesaid  precaution 
will  be  found  convenient.  At  the 
same  time  you  must  not  get  into  the 
habit  of  keeping  two  or  three  slips 
by  you  till  you  have  completed  the 
next ;  if  you  do,  you  will  infallibly  be 
tempted  to  read  through  all  you  have 
written,  and  alter  things;  this  is  a 
perfectly  futile  expenditure  of  time 


and  trouble,  and  leads,  in  Mr. 
Browning's  phrase,  to  "doubt,  hesita- 
tion, and  pain."  The  man  who  hesitates 
over  Leader-Writing  is  lost.  It  will 
suffice  for  all  practical  purposes  to 
make  any  necessary  amendments  in 
the  proof;  there  is  generally  a  clear 
six  minutes  for  reading  this. 

The  hint  we  have  given  about 
filling  your  mind  on  the  way  to  the 
office  will  show  that  we  attach  no 
light  value  to  the  importance  of  a 
conscientious  preparation  with  due 
regard  to  the  exigencies  of  the 
business.  Thus  in  dealing  with  a 
Parliamentary  debate  a  man  ought 
always  to  peruse  a  colourless  summary 
in  one  of  the  morning  papers,  of  his 
own  party,  of  course.  If  time  allows, 
he  should  look  at  the  speech  of  the 
chief  spokesman  on  the  other  side. 
He  must  not  read  it  through,  but 
it  is  well  to  get  hold  of  enough  to 
make  fun  of.  Quotation  is  also  use- 
ful, and,  if  carefully  selected  and 
dissevered  from  its  surroundings,  is 
often  very  effective.  Sarcasm  is  also 
good  ;  it  is  much  less  exhausting  than 
argument,  and  more  convincing; 
besides,  it  makes  the  article  "  light." 
You  need  only  look  at  your  own 
party  chief's  remarks  in  extreme 
cases ;  you  always  know  what  to  say 
of  him  if  you  have  acquired  the 
merest  rudiments  of  the  craft.  Thus 
of  Mr.  Balfour  or  Sir  William  Har- 
court  (as  the  case  may  be)  it  is  safe 
to  remark  that  it  was  "a  speech  of 
extreme  vigour  and  quite  exceptional 
debating  force,"  and  some  allusion 
may  be  appropriately  introduced  to 
its  "trenchant  phrases"  and  "its 
humour  which  never  deviated  into 
mere  frivolity  or  buffoonery,  as  is  so 
often  the  case  with  -  — 's  laboured 
exercitations."  The  space  left  blank 
you,  of  course,  fill  in  with  the  name 
of  Sir  William  Harcourt  if  you 
are  eulogising  Mr.  Balfour's  oratory, 
and  vice  versd.  All  practical  journal- 
ists will,  we  think,  agree  with  us  as 
to  the  soundness  of  this  advice.  They 
will  all  admit  that  it  is  sheer  folly  to 
wade  wearily  through  the  whole  of 


362 


The  Complete  Leader- Writer. 


a  debate  for  the  purpose  of  writing 
one  article  on  it.  Your  treatment  of 
it  will  be  the  same  after  a  fortnight's 
experience,  whether  you  read  it  or 
not ;  so  you  may  just  as  well  save 
your  pains  and  time,  and  not  run 
the  hideous  risk  of  making  the  leader 
late. 

This,  we  have  said,  is  the  Unpardon- 
able Sin.  You  may  be  as  prosy,  as 
dogmatic,  as  illogical  as  you  like  ;  you 
may  even,  in  some  offices,  be  clever, 
nay,  in  exceptional  cases  (though  this 
is  as  dangerous  as  it  is  rare),  you  may 
be  original.  These  things  may  be 
forgiven  or  even  approved ;  but  the 
unforgivable,  the  intolerable,  is  to  be 
late.  The  one  essential  to  the  exist- 
ence of  a  daily  paper  is  the  regularity 
with  which  it  appears.  If  you  are  the 
guilty  cause  of  two  minutes'  delay  in 
letting  the  huge  rollers  unwind  their 
daily  reams  of  unending  print,  you 
are  properly  anathema.  It  were 
better  for  you  to  write  epic  poetry 
for  a  living,  or  to  cultivate  the  pro- 
motion of  Companies  on  principles  of 
the  nicest  honour,  than  to  do  this 
thing.  Consider  just  this  one  feature 
of  the  matter ;  it  will  bring  upon  you 
the  scorn  and  pity  of  the  head-printer 
(known  officially  as  "the  printer") 
and  the  proprietor.  This  is  degrada- 
tion enough  for  any  man  ;  but  it  is 
not  the  offender's  sole  punishment. 

The  proprietor's  main  business  does 
not  much  concern  you,  for  it  is  the 
drawing  of  profits.  These  are  very 
big  in  most  offices,  and  it  is  not  well 
to  let  your  fancy  dwell  on  them.  As, 
however,  this  is  not  quite  sufficient  to 
employ  all  the  energies  of  an  able- 
bodied  man,  the  proprietor  has 
generally  a  good  deal  of  time  to 
devote  to  interfering  with  the  editor. 
He  usually  does  this  very  successfully, 
and  it  is  not  for  us  to  grudge  him 
this  amusement.  It  is  generally 
understood  that  there  is  not  much  fun 
in  paying  people  if  you  cannot  make  it 
clear  to  them  that  they  are  your 
inferiors.  Editors  are  often  quite  well- 
educated  men,  and  these,  of  course, 
make  the  sport  much  more  fascinating 


for  the  proprietor  and  the  rest  of  the 
staff.  He  is  not,  however,  brought,  as 
a  rule,  into  close  contact  with  the 
Leader- Writer ;  you  will  find  (if  it 
interests  you  to  do  so)  that  he  gener- 
ally grumbles  at  your  work  or  praises 
it  according  as  the  editor  is  pleased  or 
displeased  with  it.  This,  we  need 
hardly  say,  has  no  connection  at  all 
with  the  value  of  your  writing  or  with 
his  real  estimate  of  it ;  it  is  part  of 
the  game.  Sometimes  he  may  deign  to 
converse  with  you.  In  that  case  you 
had  better  treat  him  with  cold  civility, 
and  teach  him  his  right  place  at  once  ; 
he  will  think  much  better  of  you  for 
doing  so.  However,  if  he  has  occasion 
to  suspect  in  you  a  tendency  to  be 
late,  that  is  a  very  different  matter. 
With  the  extra  sense  which  all  good 
men  of  business  have,  he  rapidly  per- 
ceives that  you  may  actually  occasion 
him  the  loss  of  a  few  pennies  some 
day,  and  that,  of  course,  is  serious. 
You  are  a  marked  man,  and  the  next 
time  the  printer  grumbles  much  more 
than  usual,  you  depart. 

It  is  bad,  then,  to  incur  a  serious 
ebullition  of  the  printer's  wrath. 
Everybody  in  a  newspaper  office  is 
always  in  a  hurry,  and  everybody  in 
a  newspaper  office  grumbles ;  that  is 
the  etiquette  of  the  profession.  But 
it  is  the  peculiar  function  of  the 
printer  to  be  in  a  greater  hurry  and 
to  grumble  more  than  any  one  else. 
He  is  paid  extra  for  this,* and  "the 
custom  of  the  trade  "  would  probably 
be  a  good  legal  defence  in  an  action 
brought  for  wrongful  dismissal  by  a 
printer  who  neglected  his  duty  in  this 
respect.  The  case,  however,  has  never 
yet  occurred,  for  printers  are  a  most 
conscientious  body  of  men.  It  is 
the  printer  who  sends  a  specially 
fierce  breed  of  little  boys  to  plague 
you  in  the  midst  of  your  neatest 
epigram  with  demands  for  more 
"  copy ;' ;  it  is  the  printer  who  de- 
putes an  underling  to  tell  you  that 
your  leader  is  far  too  long  and  he 
wants  "ten  lines  out";  it  is  the 
printer  who  assures  you  with  sad 
civility,  long  after  the  time  for  alter- 


The  Complete  Leader- Writer. 


363 


ing  it  is  past,  that  your  article  is  the 
shoi'test  that  has  ever  been  in  the 
papor.  It  is  he  who  tames  the  young 
writer's  pride  and  teaches  him  that 
the  contents  and  literary  form  of  his 
mosb  cherished  article  are  as  dust 
in  the  wind  so  far  as  the  produc- 
tion of  the  paper  is  concerned. 
And  it  is  he  who  emerges  in  person 
— ir.k-begrimed,  linen-aproned,  most 
important,  a  visitant  from  regions 
unexplored — into  the  editorial  rooms, 
and  declares,  with  gloomy  conviction, 
that  the  paper  cannot  be  out  in  time 
to-day:  "Mr.  Blank's  leader  late,  sir — 
again  !  "  In  return  he  gives  us  a  little 
amusement  perhaps.  For  every  day 
the  conviction  burns  itself  afresh  into 
his  ,soul  that  it  is  impossible  to  squeeze 
all  the  "  copy  "  in  ;  five  minutes  before 
the  "  make-up  "  is  finished  his  agony 
is  aii  its  height,  and  you  may  watch 
it  with  some  satisfaction  if  you  do  not 
happen  to  be  in  any  way  responsible 
for  it.  Here,  once  more,  it  is  the 
young  man  who  has  the  best  of  it ; 
he  gets  some  excitement,  if  only  of  a 
paicful  kind,  out  of  the  daily  drama  ; 
the  aged  writer  has  grown  used  to 
the  farce,  and  it  no  longer  amuses 
him.  All  printers  behave  so,  he 
knows,  just  as  all  boys  leave  doors 
open.  Nothing  much  ever  comes  of 
it ;  the  paper  always  does  come  out 
with  its  usual  quantity  of  matter 
about  the  usual  time,  just  as  the  door 
does  always  manage  to  get  itself  shut. 
The  occasional  dismissal  of  an  habitu- 
ally dilatory  writer,  or  the  cuffing  of 
a  peculiarly  peccant  boy,  are  incidents 
hardly  worth  mentioning. 

As  for  the  specific  mental  qualifica- 
tions of  the  Ideal  Leader- Writer— 
"there  never  was  a  situation,"  says 
Carlyle,  "  that  had  not  its  ideals  "—we 
muse  admit  that  they  are  mainly 
negative.  First  and  foremost  comes 
the  absence  of-  a  sense  of  humour.  If 
the  Leader-Writer  perceives  how 
ludicrous  is  his  assumption  of  omni- 
science and  infallibility,  he  may  be 
seriously  hampered  in  his  work;  if 
he  laughs  too  much  while  he  is  patting 
an  aged  statesman  on  the  back  or 


taking  an  archbishop  severely  to  task, 
he  must  waste  time;  if  his  fancy  is 
outrageously  tickled  by  the  contrast 
between  the  earnestness  of  his  state- 
ments and  the  inadequacy  of  his  con- 
victions, he  may  be  tempted  into 
dangerous  compromise.  A  man  must 
not  let  himself  be  cajoled  by  his  per- 
ception of  the  comic,  any  more  than 
he  must  allow  himself  to  be  bullied  by 
the  vain  shows  of  conscience.  And 
on  this  latter  point  one  word  may  be 
necessary  and  sufficient.  Let  the 
Leader- Writer  be  as  upright  and 
independent  as  he  will  in  private  life, 
he  must  remember,  if  he  is  to  succeed, 
that  inside  the  office  his  business  is 
that  of  an  advocate  only  ;  if  he  re- 
members this,  he  will  be  saved  much 
humiliation.  Some  people  call  this 
want  of  principle,  but  that  is  ridicu- 
lous. We  prefer  to  regard  it  as 
absence  of  pedantry,  and  to  set  it 
down  as  the  second  great  qualification 
for  the  Ideal  Leader- Writer.  He 
ought  to  be  able  to  write  with  equal 
ability  on  either  side  of  any  subject, 
remembering  always  that  he  is  merely 
there  to  give  the  best  expression  he 
can  to  his  editor's  policy,  which  policy 
is  in  its  turn  shaped  in  accordance 
with  what  is  believed  to  be  the  wish 
of  the  bulk  of  the  regular  subscribers. 
Hence  the  Leader- Writer  endeavours 
to  say  what  the  average  reader  would 
say  himself  if  he  could  ;  and  this  is  as 
it  should  be,  as  the  average  reader 
pays  for  it.  A  third  qualification 
closely  akin  to  the  last-named  is 
freedom  from  long-sightedness.  Some 
people  suffer  seriously  from  this 
defect  in  its  physical  form,  and  wear 
refracting  glasses  to  rectify  it.  We 
cannot  suggest  an  analogous  remedy 
to  the  Leader- Writer,  and  we  con- 
gratulate him  who  is  so  constituted 
for  this  exalted  calling  as  to  be 
mentally  blind  to  anything  that  tells 
against  his  case  and  to  everything 
that  is  too  far  ahead  to  interest  the 
readers  of  to-day's  paper.  Perhaps 
none  of  us  need  despair  of  reaching 
this  happy  state,  but  it  is  much  when 
Nature"  spares  a  man  laborious  effort. 


364 


The  Complete  Leader-  Writer. 


Let  the  novice  remember  that  to- 
morrow and  his  party's  nearest  object 
should  be  the  extreme  limits  of  his 
mental  horizon. 

There  needs  little  warning  against 
depth  of  thought  and  the  habit  of 
careful  literary  work ;  these  are  so 
easily  and  naturally  avoided  in  most 
instances.  Nearly  all  men  are  so  far 
fitted  to  be  Leader- Writers.  The 
impatient  and  sensitive  young  man 
must  look  sharply  after  himself  in  one 
or  two  particulars.  Complacency, 
fluency,  and  the  tranquillity  which 
comes  from  ignoring  anything  one 
does  not  happen  to  understand,  are 
what  he  must  most  cultivate.  If,  by 
so  doing,  his  writing  becomes  a  trifle 
fatuous  or  a  little  too  decorated  for 
refined  tastes,  that  does  not  greatly 
matter.  The  daily  paper's  business  is 
to  appeal  to  the  million,  not  to  pander 
to  fastidiousness.  For  this  reason, 
too,  allusions  to  history,  books 
written  before  the  penultimate  year, 
and  literary  parallels  must  be  sedu- 
lously avoided.  Certain  quotations, 
however  (from  Shakespeare's  most 
frequently  acted  plays,  Macaulay's 
Lays,  or  the  better-known  poems  of 
Tennyson),  are  always  appropriate. 
The  Bible  may  also  be  used,  but  it 
needs  careful  treatment,  and  is,  as  a 
rule,  only  safe  in  very  earnest  demo- 
cratic prints.  About  Latin  there  is 
little  chance  of  going  wrong :  you 
would  be  considered  illiterate  if  you 
did  not  use  Ex  Africa  semper  aliquid 
novi  whenever  Uganda  or  Mr.  Rhodes 
or  the  Dual  Control  was  your  theme  ; 
and  it  was  noticed  as  a  strange  over- 
sight, or  else  a  foolish  piece  of  affecta- 
tion, that  a  certain  Unionist  journal 
omitted  to  remark  Omnium  consensu 
imperii  capax  nisi  imperasset  soon 
after  the  appointment  of  Lord  E-ose- 
bery  to  the  Premiership.  About  a 


dozen  old  friends — Ccelum  non  animum, 
&c.,  Vi  et  armis,  Labor  omnia,  &c., 
Cunclando  restituit  rem — strike  a 
chord  in  the  breast  of  the  great 
middle  .classes  to  whom  you  mainly 
appeal,  but  beyond  these  it  is  not  well 
to  go.  One  evening  paper,  it  is  true, 
uses  American  and  Greek  (without 
the  accents)  very  freely  ;  but  that  is 
owned  by  a  Transatlantic  millionaire 
who  does  not  want  to  make  money 
out  of  it.  We  must  not  take  example 
by  him,  since  most  of  our  proprietors 
have  their  eyes  fixed  directly  on 
profits  rather  than  peerages.  In  some 
offices,  we  are  credibly  informed,  one 
aged  and  honoured  member  of  the 
staff  is  specially  paid  to  act  as  foolo- 
meter.  Anything  which  falls  under 
the  suspicion  of  being  too  clever,  or 
impartial,  or  profound,  or  delicate  for 
widely  popular  acceptance,  is  submitted 
to  him.  If  he  dislikes  or  does  not  at 
once  understand  it,  it  is  promptly 
removed.  This  is  a  good  plan  ;  but 
if  we  were ^  all  Ideal  Leader- Writers 
we  should  have  no  need  of  his  kindly 
aid. 

There  is,  however,  at  least  one 
essential  qualification  for  the  Leader- 
Writer .  We  do  not  refer  to  a  know- 
ledge of  grammar  and  spelling,  though 
this  is  an  advantage  ;  still,  printers' 
readers  belong  to  a  very  superior  class, 
and  they  are  generally  able  to  rectify 
any  little  slips  of  this  sort ;  besides, 
if  an  accident  does  happen,  so  very 
few  people  will  notice  it.  But  there 
is  one  power  he  absolutely  must  have, 
and  here  again  the  young  man  is 
generally  at  an  advantage  compared 
with  the  old,  since  it  depends  upon 
muscle  and  nerve  rather  than  brain. 
He  must  be  able  to  write  fast ;  and  the 
possession  of  this  power  will  alone  go 
far  to  the  making  of  the  Complete 
Leader-Writer. 


365 


THE  LITTLE  CHORISTER. 


S  \VEET  cherub  !  do  you  not  already 
beg:  n  to  picture  him  so  in  your  fancy  ; 
the  pure  streams  of  melody  that  flow 
frori  his  rosy  mouth,  the  heart-shaking 
uncDnscious  thrill  with  which  those 
almost  baby  lips  utter  the  solemn 
words  of  the  anthem  1  Ay,  such  was 
Toby  Watkins  once,  but  'tis  many 
lustres  back.  Yet  he  is  still  a  Little 
Chorister,  with  a  round  face  and  thin 
sweot  voice,  and  a  heart  of  childlike 
freshness,  albeit  the  chubbiness  of 
you  ;h  sits  somewhat  comically  upon 
his  mature  years.  Toby  is  a  whimsical 
fellow,  full  of  strange  conceits  and  old- 
world  enthusiasm ;  and  indeed  to  see 
his  }ueer  little  physiognomy  is  almost 
a  cure  for  the  spleen,  and  the  mouth 
wrinkled  in  such  fantastic  wise  that  to 
a  stranger  it  must  be  problematical, 
when  the  face  begins  to  work,  whether 
it  bo  for  mirth  or  weeping.  Yet  I  can 
very  clearly  call  to  mind  that  the  first 
timti  I  saw  him  'twas  with  a  sort  of 
admiring  awe  Toby  is  now  but  little 
accustomed  to  inspire. 

The  holiday  times  of  a  somewhat 
lonely  childhood  were  spent  by  me  for 
the  most  part  at  the  residences  of 
certain  bachelor  uncles,  my  guardians. 
There  was  one,  my  father's  mother's 
brot  ler,  that  matched  in  his  aspect  of 
beautiful  and  venerable  age  the  anti- 
quit/  of  his  surroundings,  with  which 
he  hid  indeed  so  grown  up  as  to  seem 
to  hf  ve  become  a  part  of  their  grandeur. 
TlKK'e  ancient  gray  buildings  and  the 
seda  ;e  life  of  the  elder  members  of  a 
university  consorted  perhaps  little 
with  my  rosy  youthfulness,  but  I  think 
I  was  at  that  age  of  a  gentle  specula- 
tive turn,  and  found  a  charm  in  the 
clois  :ers  and  winding  river-walks,  and 
even  in  my  uncle's  uncomprehended 
talk.  There  was  a  gentle  monotony 
and  peace  in  this  life  that  has  ever 


clung  to  me.  The  kind  shy  faces  of 
the  old  students  that  were  my  uncle's 
friends,  the  orderly  quiet  of  the  lat- 
tice-windowed house,  and  the  daily 
services  in  the  beautiful  cathedral, 
made  up,  as  I  remember  them,  these 
unchildlike  visits  to  my  relative.  I 
was  told,  and  heard  it  with  a  dim 
wonder,  that  he  had  never  for  fifty 
years  missed  one  of  those  services  in 
his  canopied  stall  in  the  cathedral.  1 
marvelled  indeed  if  the  cathedral  could 
itself  be  so  very  old. 

It  was,  this  cathedral,  albeit  full  of 
mystery,  so  very  pure  and  fair,  so 
young  with  that  eternal  newness  of 
beauty  and  poetic  association,  that 
perhaps  there  was  the  less  foolishness 
in  my  childish  thought.  The  delicate 
pillars  and  carving  of  the  roof,  the 
high  arches  and  monuments,  appeared 
to  me  to  be  cut  from  rich  ivory  but  a 
little  yellowed.  The  galleries  and  small 
dark  spaces  retreating  behind  rows  of 
pillars  that  half  concealed  them  were 
of  infinite  mystery  and  import.  And 
there  was,  immediately  in  front  of  my 
accustomed  seat,  the  periwigged  bust 
of  some  deceased  worthy,  and  beneath 
the  description  of  his  virtues  a  great 
grinning  skull  in  stone,  with  feathered 
wings  as  of  an  angel  outspread  on 
either  side.  'Twas  an  effigy  that  caused 
me  much  disquiet  and  curious  half- 
formed  thoughts ;  vague  gleams  of 
meaning  struggled  athwart  my  brain, 
that  was  overclouded  again  as  the  in- 
congruousness  of  the  image  appealed 
to  me,  and  I  was  fain  to  create  for  it 
a  special  class  of  beings  unknown  to 
scripture  or  to  fairy  lore.  Such  im- 
aginings were,  however,  lightly  dis- 
pelled by  the  flutterings  of  a  starling 
that  through  some  crevice  had  pene- 
trated from  the  outer  air  into  the  dark 
heights  of  the  tower,  and  must  there 
beat  and  starve  its  life  out  (but  this  I 


366 


The  Little  Chorister. 


did  not  know) ;  or  by  a  lime  that 
leaned  and  swayed  against  the  pale 
green  glass  of  a  north  window,  pictur- 
ing it  beautifully.  And  my  heart 
warmed  within  me  when  the  sun, 
moving  round,  cast  from  the  great 
rose-window  shifting  rainbows  of  glori- 
ous colour  upon  the  pale  stone.  I 
never  tired  of  gazing  at  this  phantas- 
magoria, and  the  radiance  appeared 
indeed  no  passing  light  but  a  spirit, 
the  very  spirit  of  the  place.  A  pagan 
notion  this,  and  yet  not,  I  think, 
wholly  unchristian.  For  I  held  it,  as 
I  suppose,  to  be  a  kind  of  symbol ; 
not  in  itself  adorable,  but  a  manifesta- 
tion and  type,  as  it  were,  of  that 
which,  being  so,  I  could  yet  more 
hardly  comprehend.  Such  feelings  are 
at  the  heart  of  that  childish  reverence 
for  the  mystery  of  beauty,  that  some 
few  are  happy  enough  to  possess  still 
in  later  life.  Toby  Watkins  is  of  the 
number,  but  has  not  the  poet's  skill 
in  words  to  reveal  in  the  mirror  of 
his  own  childlike  soul  the  mystery  of 
our  ancient  selves. 

And  then  in  the  midst  of  my  fancies 
such  music  broke  in  as  it  seems  to 
me  I  have  never  heard  since.  Indeed 
I  was  too  young  to  know  aught  of  the 
sadness  of  the  loveliness  we  call  per- 
fect; and  yet  in'  my  dark  corner  I 
have  trembled  and  wept  as  that  thrill- 
ing sweetness  pierced  through  the 
self  I  knew  and  spoke  of  something 
infinitely  greater  and  beyond. 

'Twas  Toby's  voice  first  bore  me 
this  celestial  message.  The  little  fellow, 
smaller  and  younger  yet  than  myself, 
appeared  all  that  the  sentimental  are 
apt  to  imagine  in  these  little  sweet 
songsters,  and  his  voice  was  of  a  rare 
quality.  I  never  pictured  him  as 
possibly  dirty-handed,  or  commonly 
clothed,  and  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  "knuckle-boning"  with 
one  of  those  translucent  effigies  of 
the  apostles  as  with  this  grave  young 
denizen  of  holy  haunted  places. 

But,  since  we  were  destined  very 
shortly  to  become  intimates,  this  illu- 
sion quickly  vanished,  and  indeed  he 
was  of  parts  nothing  above  the  aver- 


age, except  in  all  that  concerned 
music,  wherein  young  Silver-tongue 
was  to  me  an  oracle  and  seer.  I  was 
put,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  to  the  same 
school,  that  I  might  be  under  the  pro- 
tecting eye  of  my  uncle,  and  found 
Toby,  though  dull  at  books,  to  have  a 
love  for  the  old  city,  and  above  all  the 
old  cathedral,  even  greater  than  mine. 
I  think  he  imbibed  knowledge  from 
the  very  stones  of  the  place.  No  one 
ever  saw  him  read  (unless  it  were  a 
book  of  poetry,  for  which  he  had  a 
passion),  and  yet  when  he  was  in  the 
vein  you  could  perceive  that  he  had  a 
very  pleasant  store  of  information. 
But  as  for  the  dry  bones  of  learning, 
'twas  scarcely  to  be  called  aversion 
that  he  felt  for  them  ;  he  wanted  them 
not ;  syntax  and  theorem  were  to  him 
uncomprehended  fantasies  of  no  pos- 
sible service  to  his  intelligence,  and 
he  never  strove  to  acquire  them. 
Sure,  no  boy  was  ever  so  often  and 
righteously  beaten  ;  but  nothing  could 
sour  the  sweetness  of  his  temper,  and 
before  he  had  scrubbed  the  tears  from 
his  little  twinkling  eyes  his  yelling 
laugh  would  be  heard  as  he  devised 
impish  tricks  upon  his  superiors. 

We  all  loved  Toby— poor  Toby,  that 
never  had  a  penny  and  never  wanted 
a  friend ;  and  I  have  heard  him  say 
that,  despite  the  PEINCIPIA,  and  a  cer- 
tain bigoted  persistency  upon  the  part 
of  his  masters,  those  were  happy  days. 
I  look  back  upon  them  with  a  tender 
melancholy,  for  methinks  one  is  never 
truly  happy  but  when  the  feeling  is 
unconscious.  And  when  in  ripe  years 
we  gaze  across  troubled  waters,  that 
sheltered  harbour  where  we  sailed  our 
little  toy-boats  glimmers  in  a  mist  of 
sunlight  whose  gold  was  distilled  in 
the  alembic  of  perpetual  youth,  the 
alembic  where  hope  is  fashioned,  of 
which  the  beams  may,  if  we  are  fortu- 
nate, shed  some  mild  radiance  on  our 
hearts  even  in  our  grand  climacteric. 

All  the  memories  of  Toby  float  to 
me  upon  a  tide  of  song.  Music  was 
his  passion  ;  nay,  so  much  the  integral 
part  of  him  that  I  sometimes  thought 
'twas  his  soul  itself  spoke  face  to  face 


The  Little  Chorister. 


367 


with  those  of  his  hearers  in  his  sing- 
ing, and  the  shy  spirit  then  alone 
stood  forth  revealed  and  beautiful,  its 
shabby  comical  envelope  for  the  mo- 
ment lost  and  forgotten.  Later,  when 
his  voice  broke  into  a  mellow  tenor,  a 
great  career  seemed  to  open  before  the 
littlo  prosaic-seeming  fellow.  Whilst 
I,  now  a  junior  member  of  the  univer- 
sity, still  plodded  my  way  dully  along 
the  well-worn  road  of  humane  letters, 
this  Toby,  who  was  ever  the  easy  butt 
of  our  youthful  waggeries,  was  achiev- 
ing greatness.  Success  came  without 
his  seeking,  and  where  it  led  he  fol- 
lowed gaily ;  but  whatever  his  busi- 
ness or  engagements,  each  Sunday  saw 
him  at  the  old  cathedral,  and  the 
echoes  caught  his  voice  and  hid  away 
the  remembrance  of  its  sweetness  be- 
hind the  carven  saints  and  fair  tall 
pillars,  as  the  perfume  of  a  withered 
rose  hangs  in  the  air  of  a  great  room. 
Metliinks  the  spirit  of  Toby  haunts 
the  place. 

"Whimsical  fellow  !  he  came  to  me 
one  day  with  a  tale  of  love  which  I, 
ever  regarding  him  as  but  a  boy,  re- 
ceived with  mock  solemnity,  the  quips 
and  odd  enthusiasm  of  the  narrator 
half  warranting  such  an  interpreta- 
tion. And,  lest  I  should  be  too  much 
blamed  in  the  matter,  I  must  confess 
that  about  this  time  I  was  myself  in 
love  and  so  perhaps  more  dull  than 
my  wont  with  my  friends.  However, 
I  dii  not  speak  of  it,  being  a  thing 
foreign  to  my  naturally  shy  and  cold 
temper,  although  Toby,  I  think  from 
his  very  diverseness,  was  among  the 
chief  of  my  intimates.  As  boys  we 
had  sworn  a  pact  of  eternal  brother- 
hooci,  with  mystical  rites  of  his  own 
devising.  I  see  him  now  in  his  little 
ragged  gown,  his  countenance  full  of 
that  quaint  earnestness  no  one  ever 
took  for  earnest  in  him,  when  by  the 
names  of  Saul  and  Jonathan,  by  every 
fair  friendship  in  classic  legend  or 
history,  by  the  twin  towers  of  All 
Souls,  and  over  the  halves  of  a  broken 
sixpence,  we  took  a  vow  of  more  than 
brotierly  affection.  "Never  shall 
one  of  us  be  rich  and  see  the  other 


want !  "  cries  Toby.  "  Whilst  I  have 
an  orange  left,  there's  a  squeeze  in  it 
for  thee  !  "  And  as  I  began  to  grin  he 
holds  up  his  hand  very  gravely  (Par- 
son Toby  we  nicknamed  him  then)  and 
goes  on  with  his  harangue.  "  May 
the  shade  of  Julius  Csesar  dog  my 
traitorous  footsteps,"  says  he  in  his 
shrill  tones,  "if  ever  I  knowingly 
cross  thee  in  commerce  or  in  love ; " 
and  then  he  made  solemn  obeisance, 
for  his  notions  were  very  high-flown 
from  his  readings  in  the  poets,  and  he 
always  mentioned  the  "  little  god  "  in 
a  reverent  manner.  I  repeated  these 
and  other  words  after  him  as  he  bade 
me,  not  without  a  feeling  for  the 
gravity  of  the  occasion;  for  through 
all  his  ranting  talk  ran  a  fibre  of  defi- 
nite meaning  and  resolve  that  neither 
of  us,  I  think,  forgot. 

But  I  am  to  speak  now  of  that  other 
love    that    so   strangely     took     hold 
of  us   both  at  much  about  the  same 
season,  but  working,  as  it  proved,  to 
ends  so  sadly  diverse.     Toby   had   a 
sort    of   whimsical   extravagant   way 
which  I  took  for  a  sign  of  lightness  in 
him,   and   'twas   thence   he   never   so 
much  as  disclosed  to  me  the  name  of 
the  fair  one.     "  She  is  all  perfection," 
said  he ;  "  beautiful  exceedingly,  like  a 
rosebud  in  an  old  weed-grown  garden." 
"  O  poetical  Toby  !  "  cried  I,  mocking 
him.     "And    hast   thou   spoken   this 
exalted  love  of  thine  to  thy  divinity  ?  " 
"  Pooh,"    says    he,    "  words,    words ! 
Nay,  she    is   one   of   the   elect"    (he 
spoke,    as    one   may    say,   musically), 
"and    our   communications  are  of   a 
more  lofty  sort.     I  sing  to  her,  sir,  to 
her  and  for  her  alone ;  and  she  answers 
me    with    such    looks — so    subtle    a 
spiritual  sympathy  shines  in  her  angel- 
face.     Why,  she's  my  inspiration,  sir  ; 
without  her  I  were  a  mere  wandering 
voice  wanting  a  spirit.     Music  is  in- 
deed the  voice  of  love  ;  the  only  per- 
fect expression  of  the  great  passion  "- 
and  so  he  rambled  on.     Toby  was  not 
crazed,  as  some  were  apt  to  think,  but 
had  a  very  rare  and  vivid  imagination, 
fancied  objects  and  ideal  passions  often 
becoming  far  more  real  to  him  than 


368 


The  Little  Chorister. 


what  we  are  pleased  to  call  substantial 
fact ;  and  I  am  not  sure  but  this  gift 
was  the  cause  of  his  misfortunes.  It 
was  indeed  a  very  pure  ennobling  im- 
agination, and  made  him  see  his  friends 
as  children  look  upon  giants  and 
heroes  of  old  time.  They  walked  in 
more  than  mortal  stature,  gifted  with 
superhuman  virtues  ;  but  should  a  rift 
be  torn  in  this  luminous  atmosphere 
and  some  petty  meanness  in  the  man 
be  revealed — why,  this  were  an  almost 
uncomprehended  sorrow  to  Toby.  And 
I  think  that  round  the  fair  Unknown 
the  glorifying  mist  grew  and  grew 
about  her,  until  all  his  being  lay  pro- 
strate and  adoring  at  the  feet  of  so 
much  excellence.  Nay,  I  even  think 
it  possible  that  she  was  not  at  all 
aware  of  his  passion ;  and  that  high 
intelligence  he  supposed  between  them, 
that  secret  communion  in  an  unwritten 
language  of  the  soul,  that  blessed  pro- 
gress of  mutual  love  which  ripened  in 
him  a  thousand  extravagances  of 
happiness,  were  all  no  more  than  a 
fervid  poetic  dream.  Ah,  such  a 
dream  as  one  here  and  there  has 
realised  !  such  an  illusion  as  the 
breaking  up  of  it  has  not  seldom 
broken  in  silence  a  passionate  heart ! 

I  did  not  indeed  guess  so  much  as 
this  until  long  after.  From  a  little 
humorous  vengeance,  and  perhaps 
some  natural  reserve,  I  kept  my  own 
sober  romance  a  yet  closer  secret,  but 
not  without  hugging  the  thought  of 
Toby's  surprise  and  admiration  when 
he  should  be  informed  of  it. 

II. 

Now  the  lives  of  us  both  had  gone 
so  far  happily  j  no  great  heart-shakings 
beyond  that  first  sweet  rage  of  love, 
and  'twas  a  good  time  and  wholesome 
to  look  back  upon.  We  thought  it 
should  last  for  ever,  only  the  vague 
gleam  of  promise  become  a  constant 
steady  light  of  perfect  bliss.  But  a 
change  came  which  I  must  tell  you 
of,  though  it  fill  me  with  the  per- 
plexity and  almost  the  grief  these 
long-past  events  occasioned  at  the 


time.  I  think  I  said  that  during  the 
week  Toby  was  mostly  away,  making 
himself  a  name  by  his  singing  in 
almost  every  great  city  of  the  king- 
dom ;  but  each  Sunday  he  was  in  his 
place  among  the  choristers  of  the  old 
cathedral,  and  for  the  rest  of  that  day 
we  were  used  to  be  much  together. 
Lively  is  the  remembrance  of  our 
cheerful  suppers.  Truly  there  was  a 
flavour  about  such  bachelor  entertain- 
ments, modest  nodes  ambrosiance. 
We  had  a  lightness  of  heart  then  that 
surmounted  every  obstacle  to  a  care- 
less unthinking  felicity,  an  ardour  in 
talk,  a  harmless  enthusiasm  for  certain 
sweetly  compounded  liquors,  an  anti- 
quated love  for  a  rank  churchwarden- 
pipe — 'tis  all  past. 

I  come  now  to  a  Sunday,  the  day  of 
my  betrothal.  It  was  but  a  word  on 
the  road  to  church,  a  question  an- 
swered by  a  look,  a  pressure  of  the 
little  hand  that  lay  upon  my  arm,  and 
we  two  were,  I  dare  say,  the  happiest 
people  in  the  cathedral  that  day. 
Behind  our  seat  was  a  great  stone 
pillar,  so  that  we  were  hid  from  view 
that  way,  and  when  every  one  stood  up 
listening  to  the  anthem  I  took  out  the 
flower  I  had  in  my  coat,  being  a  sweet- 
briar  rose,  and  gave  it  to  her,  and  she 
took  it  with  a  shy  blush  and  laid  it 
between  the  leaves  of  her  hymn-book. 
No  one  observed  us,  except  indeed 
Toby,  who  was  gazing  upon  us  intently 
from  his  place  in  the  choir,  where  he 
stood  in  readiness  to  sing  the  solo. 
Methought,  from  our  position  and  his 
look,  Toby  had  guessed  the  whole ; 
for  I  had  never  before  had  the  privilege 
to  sit  beside  her.  Truly  that  was  the 
sweetest  voice  I  ever  heard  in  man  or 
woman,  and  there  was  a  quality  in  it 
that  day  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes. 
My  companion  too  was  not  unmoved. 
It  died  in  such  a  wail  of  piercing  sor- 
row, yet  chastened  and  infinitely  sweet, 
as  even  now  seems  to  echo  down  to 
meet  me  when  I  tread  those  lone  gray 
aisles.  Indeed  I  think  sometimes 
sounds  also  have  their  ghosts. 

In  the  evening  I  prepared  for  Toby 
a  little  more  sumptuously  than  my 


The  Little  Chorister. 


369 


wont;.  I  could  not  recall  a  Sunday 
that  he  had  not  passed  those  hours 
with  me,  and  although  the  fine  weather 
had  changed  to  a  pouring  rain  and 
wind  that  sounded  more  like  November 
than  June,  this  did  not  much  discom- 
pose me,  for  such  things  were  not  apt  to 
stand  in  his  way.  Yet  to-night  no  tap 
came  upon  the  glass  and  no  voice 
asked  mockingly  if  Master  Hodge 
were  within  ;  and  to-night,  of  all  nights 
of  the  year,  this  defection  cut  me 
strangely.  I  was  in  that  state  when 
a  m^n  has  an  uncontrolled  desire  to 
speak  all  his  thoughts  into  some 
friendly  ear,  and  found  myself  de- 
serted by  this  intended  recipient,  my 
candles  burned  down,  and  all  the  little 
festhe  preparations  chiding  me  with 
their  inadequateness  and  futility.  So 
I  went  to  bed  with  a  twinge  of  disap- 
pointment at  so  unmeaning  an  end  to 
a  memorable  day. 

It  was  not  till  the  morning,  over  my 
breakfast,  that  a  ghost  visited  me. 
It  was  so  white  and  wan  a  creature, 
with  a  voice  thick  and  difficult  in  the 
utterance  and  soaked  muddy  clothes, 
that  j.s  it  stood  there  in  the  entrance 
beforo  me,  and  a  score  of  little  streams 
drippod  from  it  upon  the  carpet,  I 
swear  that  for  a  moment's  space  I  did 
not  k  now  it  for  Toby ;  and  then  my 
first  thought  of  him  was  an  evil  one. 
I  jumped  up  and  gripped  him  by  the 
two  shoulders,  looking  seriously  down 
into  his  eyes,  that  were  indeed  dilated 
and  \  -right  but  had  no  wildness  in 
them,  only  an  extreme  mournful- 
ness,  and  a  sort  of  shrinking  from 
me  th.it  was  new,  and  seemed  to  go 
through  my  heart  as  no  words  ever 
could. 

"Where  did  you  sleep,  Toby?" 
cried  ]  hastily. 

"  Sleep  !  "  said  he,  with  that  little 
oratorical  gesture  and  emphasis  he 
was  apt  to  affect.  "  Who  speaks  of 
sleep  ?  Thou  hast  murdered  sleep  I 
Nay,"  said  he,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  aspect,  "give  me  some  breakfast, 
and  I'jl  e'en  forgive  thee."  And,  with 
a  perverse  refusal  to  strip  himself 
of  so  much  as  his  wet  coat,  he  set 

No.  419. — VOL.  LXX. 


himself  down,  but  made  a  poor  figure 
at  the  meal.  He  was  full  of  talk, 
and  that  all  of  our  schooldays  and 
boyish  friendship.  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber," cried  he,  "  how  you  challenged 
all  the  school  on  my  behoof,  burly 
Hodge?  ay,  and  the  bannocks  my 
good  worthy  aunt  used  to  send  me 
from  Edinburgh?  Little  of  them 
should  I  have  tasted  but  for  your  pro- 
tection. Oh,  there's  a  hundred  good  of- 
fices you  did  me  that  all  rise  up  before 
me  to-day,  and  'tis  to  my  shame  I 
never  gave  them  a  thought  before. 
Friendship  should  not  be  all  of  one 
side ;  but  I  will  try  and  repay  it. 
You  have  not  forgot  that  solemn 
covenant  ? "  said  he,  as  it  were  suspi- 
ciously. 

"  No,"  said  I,  in  some  wonder  ;  "  and 
I  hope  you  do  not  believe,  Toby,  that 
I  would  belie  it." 

He  caught  my  hand.  "  Never  !  " 
cried  he.  "  And  here  again  I  swear 
that  your  interests  shall  be  dearer  to 
me  than  my  own  ;  and  though  to 
stand  aside  should  cost  me  life  itself, 
never  will  I  stretch  so  much  as  a 
finger  to  bar  aught  that  concerns  your 
happiness !  " 

"  Toby,"  said  I,  "  thou  art  a  good 
fellow,"  and  laid  my  arm  about  his 
shoulder  affectionately,  as  we  used 
when  we  were  boys  together.  And 
he,  gazing  at  me  for  a  moment  in  a 
sort  of  bewildered  surprise,  turned 
aside  and  fell  into  a  storm  of  weep- 
ing. 

These  things  were  the  forerunners 
of  a  serious  illness  for  my  dear  little 
friend.  'Twas  curious,  and  to  me 
most  moving,  that  all  through  the 
ravings  of  his  sickness  he  spoke  con- 
tinually of  myself,  and,  his  mind  run- 
ning I  suppose  on  our  childish  pact, 
would  have  it  that  for  my  sake  he  had 
made  some  great  sacrifice,  but  I  was 
never  to  know  of  it.  Poor  Toby  ! 
I  doubt  not  but  he  was  capable  of  it, 
had  the  occasion  arisen.  But,  since 
my  presence  seemed  to  discompose 
him,  I  was  not  permitted  to  be  much 
with  him  then,  nor  indeed  until  he 
was  far  on  the  road  to  health.  That 

B  B 


370 


The  Little  Chorister. 


it  was  some  great  trouble  of  mind 
that  first  disordered  him,  some  down- 
fall of  high  hopes  and  bitter  disap- 
pointment, and  upon  that  a  night 
almost  of  madness  and  reckless  ex- 
posure to  rain  and  storm,  I  could 
never  doubt ;  nor  yet  that,  as  in  most 
of  our  troubles,  a  woman  was  to  blame 
for  some  treachery  or  perhaps  uncon- 
scious ill-treatment  of  him.  But  fur- 
ther he  has  never  confided  in  me,  and 
though  I  must  own  that  this,  coming 
from  him,  has  sometimes  cut  me  a 
little,  yet  there  is  that  in  his  condition 
now  he  is  recovered  that  must  needs 
redouble  all  our  love  and  tenderest 
solicitude. 

Alas  for  the  beautiful  voice  that 
had  borne  its  message  of  purity  and 
consolation  to  so  many  a  heart !  Toby 
indeed  recovered,  and,  though  after 
many  months,  resumed  much  about 
his  former  aspect,  only  older ;  but 
our  sweet  singer  is  become  a  dream  of 
the  past,  and  that  voice  was  never 
heard  again,  or  at  least  but  as  so 
faint  a  ghost  of  its  former  self  as  is 
far  more  pathetic.  Ever  as  before  he 
takes  his  place  in  the  choir,  but  there 
is  no  thrill  now  when  Toby  rises ;  no 
one  marks  him.  Even  his  past  success 
is  forgotten,  and  this  is  as  he  would 
have  it.  He  is  one  of  the  meanest 
among  the  chorus,  turning  his  eyes  to 
a  new  star,  sweet-tempered  and  whim- 
sical— the  same  Toby.  He  gains  a 
sufficient  livelihood  by  the  giving 
of  music-lessons,  for  his  career  is 
over. 

The  same,  I  said — ay,  but  to  me 
there  was  a  difference,  and  a  trouble 
between  us  that  time  hath  happily  re- 
moved wholly.  I  doubt  not  it  was 
some  lingering  disorder  from  his  late 
sickness  made  him  refuse  all  mention 
of  my  marriage,  and  even  decline  to 
see  the  lady  that  was  to  be  my  wife ; 
and  this  was  the  more  strange,  since 
she  had  long  known  him,  and  was  a 
great  admirer  of  his  talent.  But  all 
such  pettish  freaks  are  long  since  passed 
away,  and  we  have  now  no  friend  in 
the  world  more  constant  nor  more 
beloved  than  Toby. 


POSTSCRIPTUM. 

These  stray  recollections  had  been 
written,  laid  aside,  and  forgotten  years 
back,  but  coming  upon  them  lately 
when  all  have  faded  to  a  dim  perspec- 
tive I  am  moved  to  add  one  more 
to  their  number. 

I  remember  some  years  after  these 
events  a  winter's  evening  that  the 
little  Chorister  was  at  our  house.  He 
sat  at  the  piano,  and  strains  of  music 
old  and  new  seemed  to  flow  from  his 
hands,  now  mournful,  then  again  gay 
and  furious,  as  it  were  at  haphazard. 
My  little  girl  stood  beside  him  with  a 
face  of  delight. 

"  Come,  dance  !  "  cried  my  wife  as 
the  music  waxed  merrier,  and  the 
child  sprang  up  and  began  a  wild 
gipsy  step  among  the  gleams  and 
shadows  of  the  room.  It  was  one  of 
those  moments  that,  from  no  actual 
importance  in  the  action,  become 
fixed  and  remain  engraven  as  an 
ineffaceable  picture  on  the  memory. 
The  fairy  music  of  the  old  Snuff-box 
Waltz  (that  changed  after,  but  I 
scarce  knew  how,  to  the  stately  Wed- 
ding March  of  Mendelssohn),  the  warm 
air  laden  with  the  scent  of  narcissus, 
the  shaded  yellow  light,  the  faint 
odour  of  tea — any  of  these  things 
would  in  after  years  bring  back  the 
whole  scene  to  my  mind,  and  I  saw 
the  bright-eyed  child  in  her  white 
pinafore  capering  with  impish  smiles 
of  glee,  while  the  terrier-pup  yapped 
and  rushed  at  her  flying  feet,  and 
that  fair-haired  lady  laughed  over  her 
knitting  at  the  couple.  The  child 
ended  in  a  shriek  of  exhausted  mirth 
and  flung  herself  upon  the  couch,  and 
the  music  grew  softer  and  died  away, 
and  presently  changed  into  Chopin's 
Funeral  March.  "  Some  have  no  wed- 
ding-march in  their  lives,"  said  he, 
with  a  queer  look  as  he  got  up  from 
the  piano,  and  my  little  daughter 
laughed  gaily  at  his  odd  grimace. 

I  think  my  children  loved  him,  but 
always  met  his  sallies  with  laughter, 
as  indeed  all  the  world  did  that  knew 
nothing  of  the  history  of  the  little 


The  Little  Chorister. 


371 


round-faced  music-master.  But  I  ever 
felt  that  in  some  unexplained  way  his 
life  was  wrecked.  In  my  house  he 
was  always  welcome,  and  in  playing 
with  my  innocent  young  ones  I  think 
he  found  some  of  that  happy  home- 
life  he  had  so  sadly  missed. 

All  that  winter  he  had  been  some- 
what ailing,  but,  as  so  often  happens, 
it  ^vas  not  till  spring  came  that  he 
began  to  look  very  thin  and  worn. 
My  wife  persuaded  him  on  a  Sunday 
in  May,  for  the  first  time  since  that 
illness  of  his,  not  to  take  his  place  in 
the  choir.  But  he  accompanied  us  to 
church  in  the  afternoon,  and  sat  be- 
side her  in  the  pew,  joining  in  the 
chants  in  a  thin  sweet  voice.  There 
was  a  strange  oppression  in  the  air 
thaj  day,  and  the  clouds  were  so  dark 
and  heavy  that  the  cathedral  was 
lighted  as  if  for  an  evening  service, 
although  the  days  were  long  and  light. 
The  conflicting  shadows. and  wavering 
lights  gave  to  that  beautiful  place  a 
solemn  unearthly  look  neither  of  night 
nor  day,  the  dim  illumination  scarce 
seeming  to  proceed  from  either  of  its 
visible  sources.  It  was  a  pretty  co- 
incidence that  at  the  very  instant  the 
reader  came  to  the  words  "Lighten 
our  darkness "  a  flood  of  sunlight 
burst  of  a  sudden  through  the  great 
rose-window,  the  tapers  seemed  to  burn 
dim,  and  the  gloom  dissolved  like  a 
nox  ious  vapour.  My  wife  nudged  me, 
and  we  looked  at  our  companion.  His 
face  was  hid  in  his  knotted  hands, 


and  full  upon  them  and  his  bald  head 
fell  that  shifting  radiance  that  to  my 
poetic  childish  vision  had  seemed  so 
mysterious  a  symbol  of  unspeakable 
things.  His  little  bent  figure  was 
bathed  in  warm  rainbow  hues ;  its 
homeliness  was  forgotten,  and  Toby 
was  transfigured.  I  fancied  he  started 
slightly  as  the  words  of  the  anthem 
were  read,  and  when  we  all  stood  up 
he  remained  upon  his  knees. 

"  Do  you  remember  this  ?  "  whis- 
pered my  wife,  and  to  be  sure  it  was 
the  very  same  we  had  the  Sunday  of 
our  betrothal — the  last  solo  Toby 
ever  sang.  I  held  my  wife's  dear 
hand  till  those  thrilling  notes  died 
away ;  and  even  then  Toby  still  knelt 
beside  us. 

"Look,  look,  Toby  is  asleep!" 
whispered  my  little  girl,  and  at  that 
both  the  children  began  to  laugh.  1 
leaned  over  and  touched  his  shoulder 
to  arouse  him,  a  little  fearful  lest  he 
might  be  ill.  The  light  upon  him 
shone  gloriously,  touching  every  thread 
of  his  shabby  coat  to  gold.  Toby  was 
dead. 

Poor  Toby  !  Pure  soul !  His  secret 
died  with  him.  The  rainbow  light 
falls  upon  his  grave  of  sunny  after- 
noons, turning  the  white  flowers  that 
my  children  lay  upon  it  to  a  posy  of 
glowing  hues.  So  beautiful  and  trans- 
parent, methinks,  were  the  stains 
that  in  this  world  fell  upon  the 
character  of  my  dear  old  friend. 


B  B  2 


372 


OLD  PARE. 


DID  Thomas  Parr  really  live  to  the 
age  of  one  hundred  and  fifty-two  1  It 
is  an  interesting  question,  and  in  the 
answer  to  it  we  are  all  (or  we  ought 
to  be)  fully  as  much  absorbed  as  we 
are  by  the  political  and  social  problems 
of  the  day.  For,  having  settled  it 
satisfactorily  that  he  did  live  so  long, 
instant  hope  ought  to  spring  in  each 
of  us  to  do  as  old  Parr  did.  And  in 
succeeding,  like  Parr,  we  should  out- 
live most  of  those  same  political  and 
social  riddles  which  are  so  inexpress- 
ibly wearisome  to  all  wise  men. 

But,  alas  !  it  is  impossible  to  get  a 
definite  answer  to  the  question. 

...  At  his  Birth  there  was  no  Kegister. 
The  Register  was  ninety-seven  years  since 
Given  by  th'  eighth  Henry  (that  Illustrious 
Prince). 

John  Taylor,  the  Water-Poet,  who 
knew  Parr  in  London  in  1635,  ob- 
tained a  very  fair  amount  of  informa- 
tion about  the  old  man.  He  imparted 
this  to  the  world  in  a  poem,  brief, 
diverting,  and  not  wholly  incredible. 
•  Still,  there  is  always  a  suspicion  that 
he  has  moulded  his  facts  to  fit  with 
the  exigencies  of  his  rhymes.  One 
may,  however,  gather  that  he  believed 
in  his  hero's  extraordinary  age. 

Local  tradition  on  the  subject  is 
manifestly  worth  nothing  nowadays.  I 
tested  it  this  spring  in  an  old  country 
inn  between  Shrewsbury  and  Welsh- 
pool,  situated  some  two  miles  from  the 
cottage  in  which  Parr  lived.  The  low- 
browed common-room  of  the  inn,  with 
its  worm-eaten  oaken  floor  and  heavy 
oaken  tables,  held  seven  rustics 
of  the  neighbourhood,  them,  their 
pipes,  and  their  ale-mugs.  After  a 
little  prefatory  talk,  we  tossed  our 
subject  into  their  midst.  For  a 
minute  or  two  they  dandled  it  rever- 
entially. Of  course  they  had  heard 


tell  of  old  Parr  ("  his  pills,  you  know," 
suggested  a  corrugated  veteran  who 
should  have  been  better  informed), 
and  they  were  rather  proud  of  the 
sanctity  with  which  he  has  invested 
their  gorsey  hills  and  cowslipped 
meadows.  But  suddenly  outspake 
a  shaggy,  square-mouthed  ruffian,  and 
did  his  best  to  shatter  the  local  idol. 
"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  it's  a  devil 
of  an  age  to  reach  fourscore,  and  no 
one'll  make  me  believe  Parr  or  any  one 
else  lived  to  a  hundred  and  fifty.  It's 
all  a  rotten  superstition.  There's 
never  an  exception  without  a  rule  [so 
he  said,  inconsequent  as  the  remark 
may  appear].  There's  never  a  king  or 
queen  as  lived  in  seventeen  hundred 
or  thereabouts  as  they  knew  the 
birthday  of  right ;  and  you  don't  get 
me  believing  a  common  citizen  like 
Parr  was  better  off  than  them.  It 
was  more  like  to  be  this  way  with 
him.  He  was  one  of  those  chaps  that 
when  he  was  twenty  looked  forty,  and 
at  forty  looked  eighty,  and  so  on. 
It's  easy  seeing  how  the  folks  of  them 
days  would  be  deceived."  The  man  went 
on  to  instance  his  own  grandmother, 
who  at  ninety  had  been  something 
inhuman  to  behold.  We  regret  to 
say  one  of  the  others  agreed  with  him 
on  this  point.  And,  in  short,  he 
ended  by  taking  away  old  Parr's 
character  with  the  existing  company. 
His  terms  were  anything  but  accu- 
rate ;  as,  for  example,  when  he  called 
Parr  a  "common  citizen,"  seeing  the 
old  fellow  never  left  the  rural  borders 
of  Montgomeryshire  until  the  Earl  of 
Arundel  had  him  carried  up  to  town 
to  be  shown  to  the  King  in  the  last  year 
of  his  life.  But  they  satisfied  his 
auditors.  These  turned  out  at  ten 
o'clock  professedly  persuaded  that 
Parr's  lies  about  his  pills  and  about 
his  age  were  equally  gross. 


Old  Parr. 


373 


Our  landlady  subsequently  sought 
to  console  us  for  our  disappointment, 
as  she  conceived  it.  She,  at  any  rate, 
had  faith.  For  twenty  years  she  and 
her  husband  had  kept  the  inn  nearest 
of  all  to  old  Parr's  cottage.  She  had 
heard  talk  of  him  again  and  again. 
Moreover,  she  told  of  a  certain  ad- 
mirable clergyman  who  time  back  was 
wo  at  to  make  annual  pilgrimage  to 
the  place,  worshipping, .  so  to  speak, 
at  the  shrine  of  longevity,  and  never 
failing  to  carry  away  with  him  some 
triJle  as  a  memento — a  sprig  of  a  plant, 
a  bit  of  wood,  or  a  rusty  nail.  This 
worthy  man  had  since  died.  Possibly 
he  had  lived  the  longer  for  his  devo- 
tion to  Parr's  memory  ;  possibly  he 
had  not.  Apart  from  him,  there 
certainly  is  not  much  enthusiasm  on  the 
Shropshire  border  about  Thomas  Parr. 
His  name  is  not  hinted  at  on  the 
railway  stations  ;  there  are  no  con- 
veniences for  tea-drinking  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  his  cottage,  no 
facilities  for  excursions.  Nor  has  a 
Parr's  Head  hostelry  yet  arisen 
to  perpetuate  him  in  the  manner 
best  appreciated  by  a  thirsty 
nation. 

The  next  morning,  betimes,  we  set 
out  to  pay  our  respects  to  the  residence 
of  him  who  was  "  no  Antiquary,  but 
Antiquity."  There  could  not  have 
bee  a  a  lovelier  day  for  the  quest. 
The  blue  sky  was  gay  with  sunlit 
fleecy  clouds,  thrushes  sang  on  all 
sides,  and  larks  overhead;  from  the 
woodlands  the  cuckoo's  note  sounded 
like  "a  wandering  voice";  and  the 
fresh  perfume  of  old  Mother  Earth 
was  sweet  in  the  nostrils.  The  Long 
Mountain,  an  upland  ridge  which  runs 
nearly  north  and  south  for  five  miles, 
separating  Shropshire  and  Mont- 
gomeryshire, showed  its  green  and 
bro~vn  patches  to  the  south-west,  and 
the  humps  of  the  Middletown  hills 
were  good  to  see,  close  in  front.  It 
is  a  rich  grassy  country,  this  of  Parr's. 
If  ihe  old  man  did,  as  Taylor  says, 
rely  on  butter l  and  nothing  else  for 

1  Like  the  Guanches  of  Teneriffe,  a  long- 
lived  people. 


medicinal  purposes,  he  could  nowhere 
have  got  better  physic. 

A  mile  or  so  from  the  Westbury 
Half-Way  House  there  is  a  little 
cluster  of  red  buildings  to  the  north 
of  the  high  road.  Here,  nestled 
between  a  modern  shooting-box  and 
an  ancient  farmstead,  is  a  small 
chapel,  and  within  the  chapel  a 
memorial  plate  to  Parr :  "  The  old, 
old,  very  old  man  .  .  .  born  .  .  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  1483.  He  lived  in 
the  reign  of  ten  Kings  and  Queens  of 
England  .  .  .  died  the  13th.  and  was 
buryed  in  "Westminster  Abbey  on  the 
15th  of  November,  1635."  The 
inscription  (on  brass,  in  a  neat  oak 
frame)  of  course  proves  nothing, 
though  it  may  well  date  from  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Its  most  attractive  feature  is  the 
neatly  engraved  head  of  Parr,  which 
is  little  at  variance  with  that  given 
in  Taylor's  pamphlet.  It  is  hard  to 
think  this  serene-faced  person  in  the 
conical  skullcap,  the  trim  white 
collar  and  many-buttoned  coat,  was 
a  farm-labourer  all  his  life.  His 
peaked  beard  is  of  the  kind  Yandyck 
loved  to  paint,  and  his  moustache 
runs  down  into  it.  The  nose  is  long 
and  straight,  and  his  eyebrows  are 
handsomely  arched.  Whether  this 
portrait  be  a  true  or  an  ideal  one,  it 
is  famously  suggestive  of  a  man  who 
"  hath  not  been  troubled  in  mind  for 
either  the  building  or  throwing  down 
of  abbeys  and  religious  houses ;  "  who 
did  never  "  murmur  at  the  manner  of 
prayers,  let  them  be  Latin  or  English ; " 
and  who  "  held  it  safest  to  be  of  the 
religion  of  the  King  or  Queen  that 
were  (sic)  in  being."  It  is  to  be 
hoped  indeed  he  was  such  a  man. 
Else  he  could  not  have  lived  through 
a  more  tiresome  century  and  a  half  of 
English  life. 

The  sexton  of  this  Woolstaston 
chapel  (a  bent,  rheumatic  old  fellow) 
was  proud  of  this  brass  plate.  He 
viewed  the  forcible  removal  of  Parr 
to  London  as  a  very  heinous  offence, 
and  drew  my  attention  in  an  indignant 
manner  to  the  short  space  of  time 


374 


Old  Parr. 


they  kept  "the  poor  old  man"  (so 
he  called  him)  unburied  after  his 
death, 

Short  time  though  it  was,  it  sufficed 
for  the  great  Harvey  to  examine  him 
and  express  his  opinion  that,  but  for 
the  violent  change  in  his  life  due  to 
his  journey  to  town,  he  would  have 
lived  an  indefinite  time  longer.  It  is 
a  pity  the  famous  physician  did  not 
draw  a  few  important  inferences  from 
Parr's  body  for  our  profit.  He,  if 
any  one,  could  have  told  us  if  the  old 
fellow  had  been  tardy  in  development. 

It  has  been  said  that  we  ought  to 
live  five  times  as  long  as  it  takes  us 
to  fully  mature,  barring  accidents,  of 
course,  or  indiscretions.  That  would 
only  mean  postponing  Parr's  adult 
existence  to  the  age  of  thirty. 
Maupertuis  had  the  same  idea,  that 
by  retarding  development  we  could 
prolong  life.  It  does  not  sound  a 
very  alluring  programme,  and  prob- 
ably, after  all,  things  are  best  as  they 
are.  But  it  is  worth  mentioning  in 
connection  with  old  Parr,  of  whom  we 
learn  that, 

A  tedious  time  a  Bachelor  he  tarried, 
Full  eighty  years  of  age  before  he  married. 

And  this,  too,  in  a  century  when  it 
was  usual  to  take  a  wife  at  twenty  or 
so !  We  are  left  to  assume  that  until 
he  was  fourscore  he  occupied  himself 
with  boyish  sports  and  recreations. 
A  certain  fanciful  tract  tells  us  that 
"  many  were  the  quarrels  amongst  the 
maids  of  the  village  in  their  endeavour 
to  obtain  Parr,  who  was  a  universal 
favourite."  But  this  publication  can- 
not be  trusted,  as  it  was  issued  in  the 
interest  of  the  pills.  It  makes  Parr 
spend  "  much  time  in  the  study  of  the 
vegetable  world,"  the  result  whereof 
was  the  elixir  he  concocted  of  herbs 
and  to  which  he  owed  his  patriarchal 
age.  One  may  disbelieve  it  altogether  ; 
else,  depend  upon  it,  Taylor  would 
have  got  word  of  it  and  bracketed  it 
with  the  "  milk,  buttermilk  and  water, 
whey  and  whig,"  which  were  the  old 
man's  daily  drink. 

It  is  pleasanter  to  think  of  him,  a 


septuagenarian,  annually,  as  spring 
came  round,  plucking  up  more  and 
more  heart  for  his  first  matrimonial 
venture,  and  yet  all  the  while  loth  to 
turn  his  back  on  his  youthful  pas- 
times. 

His  high'st  ambition  was  a  tree  to  lop, 
Or  at  the  farthest  to  a  maypole's  top  ; 
His  recreation  and  his  mirth's  discourse 
Hath  been  the  piper  and  the  hobby-horse. 
And  in  this  simple  sort  he  hath  with  pain 
From  childhood  liv'd  to  be  a  child  again. 

But  at  eighty  (some  say  eighty-eight) 
Thomas  succumbed  to  Jane  Taylor's 
charms,  and  gave  a  mistress  to  his  little 
half-timber  house  on  the  tump  at  the 
Glyn.  Thenceforward  he  was  to  roam 
the  Middletown  hills  no  more  a  bache- 
lor with  fancy  free. 

And  now  let  us  get  to  this  famous 
little  house.  It  is  easily  accessible 
from  the  Middletown  railway  station,  if 
you  know  how  to  reach  it.  Otherwise, 
though  it  is  less  than  a  mile  away, 
you  may  wander  far,  and  perhaps 
stick  fast  despairingly  in  the  very 
tenacious  mud  of  the  lane  which 
is  the  only  highway  to  it.  From  the 
railway  can  be  seen  the  wind-blown 
poplar  which  stands  like  a  sentinel  by 
its  garden  gate,  on  the  crest  of  a  knoll 
in  the  middle  of  the  valley  between 
the  Long  Mountain  and  the  Middletown 
hills.  For  my  own  part  I  climbed  to  it 
obliquely  from  the  old  coach  road,  a 
mile  or  so  past  Westbury.  A  little 
girl  guided  me  to  the  Glyn  farm  across 
sloping  fields  ;  thence,  by  an  ascending 
track,  1  came  at  length  into  the  back 
garden  of  the  tiny  property. 

It  is  the  merest  hut,  though  a  stout 
one  still ;  with  a  body  of  timber  and 
brickwork  all  whitewashed  over,  a 
thatched  roof,  and  one  blatant,  very 
modern  chimney  of  bright-red  brick. 
Eighty  years  ago  there  appeared  a  pic- 
ture of  it  in  the  GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE, 
with  the  Rodney  column  on  the 
Briedden  Hills  conspicuously  behind 
it.  The  cottage  is  substantially  un- 
altered since  then,  though  the  column 
is  not  to  be  seen  quite  so  freely  as  the 
artist  saw  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 


Old  Parr. 


375 


theMiddletown  hills  are  a  large  obstruc- 
tion between  the  Glyn  and  the  Bried- 
dens. 

A  well-kept  little  triangular  space 
of  garden  runs  from  the  house  to  the 
east,  in  which  currants  enough  ripen 
in  the  season.  There  were  two  tenants 
of  the  garden,  a  pale-yellow  cat  and  a 
croY/ing  fowl.  These  creatures  marked 
our  intrusion  (which  was  unwarrant- 
able enough  in  all  conscience)  without 
much  dismay.  In  front  of  the  cottage 
a  yew  and  two  or  three  fruit-trees 
mace  a  little  bower  by  the  padlocked 
wicket — a  bower  devoted  to  a  grind- 
store  and  a  humble  tub  or  two  rather 
than  to  sentimental  purposes.  The 
exterior  of  the  house  betokened  a  resi- 
dent of  quiet,  self-centred  tastes.  It 
was  his  habit,  we  had  learned,  to  lock 
up  -one  place  and  roam  to  market  or 
elsewhere  in  perfect  confidence  as  to 
the  security  of  his  untenanted  cottage. 
He  was  away  on  the  day  of  our  visit ; 
but  it  mattered  little.  Nothing  re- 
mains inside  of  old  Parr's  epoch  except 
the  walls  of  the  house  and  the  roomy 
chimney  space.  Once  there  were 
divers  uncouth  articles  of  furniture 
here,  dating  more  or  less  from  Parr's 
timo  ;  but  they  have  gone  the  way  of 
other  relics.  The  present  tenant  of 
the  cottage,  a  lone  man,  must  seek  in- 
spiration for  thought  about  his  prede- 
cessor in  the  bare  walls  and  the  chimney 
correr. 

A  more  cheerful  outlook  than  this 
from  the  cottage  garden  need  not  be 
desired,  assuming  one  has  a  taste  for 
landscape.  We  saw  it  almost  at  its 
best.  The  blend  of  gold  and  jet  in 
the  larches  and  firs  on  the  steepest  of 
the  Middletown  hills  was  a  cordial  for 
the  ayes,  and  so  was  the  bright  yellow 
of  the  gorse  on  the  bleaker  humps  to 
the  north-east.  The  Long  Mountain 
star  ds  a  barrier  to  the  south-east.  A 
few  trees  are  near  the  'cottage,  though 
not  enough  to  make  it  damp.  From 
the  neighbouring  meadows  came  the 
cryiag  of  lambs  and  from  the  abound- 
ing hedgerows,  thick  with  primroses 
and  violets,  the  quick  chatter  of  finches 
and  the  clearer  notes  of  the  thrush. 


At  noon  of  a  warm  spring  day  we 
could  have  envied  Parr  such  a  home. 

It  is  a  comfort  our  centenarians 
have  not  been  consistent  mortifiers  of 
the  flesh.  There  would  be  scant 
encouragement  for  the  rest  of  us  if 
one  man's  rules  for  longevity  were  the 
only  rules  to  follow.  "  Bread  and 
water,"  says  a  certain  physician,  "  are 
an  admirable  diet  for  those  who 
would  rival  Methuselah,  and  fasting 
itself  is  an  excellent  promoter  of  their 
views."  Perhaps  so  ;  but  to  the 
majority,  we  suspect,  a  spiritual  or 
intellectual  existence  indefinitely  pro- 
longed only  by  such  sensual  privation 
would  not  seem  worth  enduring. 
There  is  more  comfort  in  knowing 
that  one  John  Weeks  could  at  one 
hundred  and  fourteen  (having  recently 
married  as  a  tenth  wife  a  girl  of 
sixteen)  enjoy  a  meal  of  pork,  bread, 
and  wine  ;  a  pint  of  the  last  and  three 
pounds  avoirdupois  of  the  first.  Not 
to  multiply  cases,  Mr.  Davis,  the 
vicar  of  Staunton-on-Wye,  may  also 
be  mentioned,  who  at  one  hundred 
and  five  "ate  of  hot  rolls  well 
buttered,  and  drank  plenty  of  tea  and 
coffee  for  breakfast;  at  dinner  con- 
sumed a  variety  of  dishes ; "  and  supped 
on  wine  and  roast  meats.  After  this, 
Tom  Parr's  simple  regimen  of  coarse 
rneslin  bread  (made  of  several  kinds 
of  flour1),  green  cheese,  preferably  with 
an  onion,  milk,  metheglin,  and  an 
occasional  cup  of  ale,  cider,  or  perry, 
sounds  very  moderate.  Our  friends 
the  quacks  would  have  us  believe  he 
added  his  elixir  to  this  diet,  and  that 
it  was  due  only  to  his  neglect  of  the 
precious  homely  medicine  distilled 
from  herbs  that  he  died  in  London  of 
high  feeding  and  the  best  wines.  But 
these  authorities  must  not  be  credited. 

We  may  take  it  for  granted,  then, 
that  Parr  lived  moderately  and  ate 
but  little  flesh,  mainly  because  it  was 
a  luxury  he  could  not  afford.  Butter 
and  garlic  are  to  be  added  to  his  list 
of  nutriments.  A  drunkard  he  could 

i  Again  suggesting  the  Guanches,  whose 
staple  food  was  the  modern  Canarian  gofio, 
a  flour  of  a  mixed  kind. 


376 


Old  Parr. 


not  well  be.  He  was  out  of  the  way 
of  those  taverns  and  inns  frequented 
by  the  "  drunken  sockets"  Elizabethan 
Stubbes  flings  stones  at  with  such 
zest  in  his  ANATOMY  OF  ABUSES.  The 
few  trivial  debauches  in  which  he  took 
part  at  his  landlord's  and  other  houses 
were,  like  as  not,  a  salutary  fillip  to 
his  blood.  There  lives  a  staid  medical 
man  of  sixty  who  may  now  and  then 
be  met  racing  up  or  down  a  lane  as  if 
he  were  after  a  patient  almost  at  the 
last  gasp.  He  does  it,  he  says,  to 
keep  off  ossification  of  the  heart.  Old 
Parr's  occasional  long  draughts  of 
Whitsun  ale  or  huff-cap  may  have 
served  a  kindred  purpose. 

.  So  slim  a  diet  would  suit  few  farm- 
labourers  of  our  time  ;  but  it  was  just 
the  thing  for  this  "  old,  old,  very  old 
man,"  if  he  could  say,  on  the  strength 
of  it, 

Nor  know  I  what  diseases  mean, 
Though  scanty  diet  keeps  me  lean. 

Of  Parr's  habits  something  has 
already  been  said.  He  was  a  rooted 
child  of  the  soil,  no  gadabout : — 

Good  wholesome  labour  was  his  exercise, 
Down  with  the  lamb,  and  with  the  lark 

would  rise  : 
In  mire  and  toiling  sweat  he  spent  the 

day, 

And  to  his  team  he  whistled  time  away  : 
The.  cock  his  night-clock,  and  till  day  was 

done, 
His  watch  and  chief  sun-dial  was  the  sun. 

This  is  not  profoundly  instructive  to 
those  of  us  whose  fate  it  is  to  live  in 
cities  where  the  lark  never  comes,  and 
where  we  see  the  lamb  only  in  quar- 
ters. It  is  said  the  old  fellow  used  to 
thresh  corn  at  a  hundred  and  thirty, 
and  he  well  may  have  done  it  if  he 
could  take  a  second  wife  at  a  hundred 
and  twenty.. 

One  thing  at  least  is  certain.  His 
native  district  is  excellently  contrived 
to  keep  the  lungs  in  good  working  order. 
From  his  cottage  he  could  go  in  no 
direction  without  a  steep  descent, 
involving  as  steep  a  climb  home  after- 
wards. His  parish  church,  that  of 
Alberbury,  was  four  or  five  miles 
distant,  up  and  down  the  whole  way. 


It  is,  however,  exceedingly  improb- 
able that  he  did  much  after  he  was  a 
hundred.  He  had  no  more  right  than 
other  men  to  believe  he  was  destined 
to  live  on  for  five  added  decades.  Be- 
sides, he  had  been  blind  for  many 
years  when  he  had  that  little  affair 
with  his  landlord  which  shows  he  was 
fairly  provided  with  wit  as  well  as 
with  bodily  vitals.  He  wanted  to  re- 
new his  lease,  and  to  get  over  the 
landlord's  natural  objections  thereto. 
"  '  Husband,'  said  his  wife,  '  our  young 
landlord  is  coming  hither.'  'Is  he 
so  ? '  said  old  Parr.  '  I  prithee,  wife, 
lay  a  pin  on  the  ground  near  my  foot, 
or  at  my  right  toe  ' ;  which  she  did  ; 
and  when  young  Master  Porter  (yet 
forty  years  old)  was  come  into  the 
house,  after  salutations  between  them, 
the  old  man  said,  '  Wife,  is  not  that  a 
pin  which  lies  at  my  foot  1 '  '  Truly, 
husband,'  quoth  she,  'it  is  a  pin  in- 
deed ' ;  so  she  took  up  the  pin,  and 
Master  Porter  was  half  in  a  maze 
that  the  old  man  had  recovered  his 
sight  again.  Master  Porter  could  do 
no  less  than  renew  the  lease,  even 
when  he  was  told  the  trick  that  had 
been  played  upon  him."  Instead  of 
exerting  himself  laboriously  during 
his  last  half-century  of  life,  it  seems 
better  to  picture  the  old  gentleman 
basking  in  the  sun  at  his  ease  in  a 
hard-bottomed  chair  in  his  porch  by 
day  and  occupying  his  chimney-corner 
in  the  evenings.  He  was  entitled  to 
such  idleness  at  such  a  time. 

Some  people  fancy  that  it  is  only 
by  constant  straining  of  the  muscles 
and  vital  organs  that  the  body  can  be 
kept  at  its  best.  This  is  surely  a 
fallacy.  The  physician  who  said, 
"Bodily  exercise  must  be  moderate, 
otherwise  it  will  tend  to  abridge 
life,"  seems  to  have  been  a  wise 
fellow.  As  things  are,  the  man 
bent  on  becoming  a  centenarian 
has  as  much  chance  of  gaining 
his  end  in  London  as  in  the 
country;  and,  so  he  does  not  alto- 
gether deprive  his  legs  of  their  pre- 
rogative, he  may  do  well  by  using 
the  convenient  cab  for  locomotive  pur- 


Old  Parr. 


377 


poses.  An  acquaintance  of  ours  at- 
tained the  age  of  ninety-six  in  a 
London  street  without  troubling  him- 
self muscularly  for  about  twenty  years 
to  do  more  than  place  a  flower  in  his 
coat  and  shuffle  from  his  bedroom  to 
the  bow- window  of  his  sitting-room, 
whence  he  could  see  the  passers-by. 
The  cyclist  who  thinks  nothing  of  two 
hundred  miles  a  day,  and  the  pedes- 
tria  i  who  is  not  contented  with  less 
than  forty,  have  no  chance  with  the 
more  sober  folks  who  husband  their 
forces.  But  in  this  matter  it  is  as 
absurd  for  one  man  to  copy  another 
as  to  think  to  look  well  in  his  coat 
without  having  it  altered.  Sir  John 
Sinclair,  many  years  ago,  in  his  naive 
book  on  HEALTH  AND  LONGEVITY, 
reminds  us  of  it.  He  mentions  a 
certain  Irish  doctor  who  would  have 
no  glass  in  his  windows,  and  attri- 
buted to  this  practice  the  fact  that 
in  fifty  years  he  did  not  -have  a  death 
in  his  family.  And,  almost  in  the 
samo  breath,  he  tells  us  of  another 
doctor  "who  lived  to  a  hundred  by 
sleeping  under  eight  blankets  and  con- 
stantly inhabiting  a  stove-room  heated 
up  to  70°  Fahrenheit."  Such  idolatrous 
regard  for  method  seems  appalling. 

As  for  Parr's  constitution,  it  must 
have  been  a  good  one  to  bring  him 
into  Westminster  Abbey.  He  is  the 
only  man  in  that  august  place  who 
gets  his  lodging  on  such  credentials. 
Tra(  ition  tells  us  next  to  nothing 
about  his  father.  He  himself  is  re- 
putel  to  have  had  the  King's  Evil  as 
a  youth,  and  of  course  to  have  cured 
himself  with  his  elixir.  In  other  ways 
he  cannot  have  had  much  to  complain 
of.  His  two  children  both  died  within 
ten  y^eeks  of  their  birth  ;  but  he  seems 
to  hr,ve  had  some  long-lived  relations, 
if  wo  may  trust  the  tale  of  Kobert 
Parr  s  death  at  Kinver  in  1757,  at  one 
hundred  and  twenty- four,  Robert's 
father  dying  at  one  hundred  and  nine, 
and  his  grandfather  at  one  hundred 
and  thirteen.  This  Robert  has  been 
called  our  old  Parr's  great-grandson; 
he  can  only  have  been  so  by  illegiti- 
mate descent. 


Taylor  says  of  Parr  that 
He  entertained  no  gout,  no  ache  lie  felt. 

This  seems  to  support  the  assumption 
that  as  a  veteran  he  kept  himself 
tethered  to  his  own  fireside.  Else,  it 
is  inconceivable  that  the  slopes  of  the 
Glyn  should  not  have  troubled  him  in 
the  small  of  the  back  and  elsewhere. 
If  good  air  is  an  important  help  to 
long  life,  Parr  owed  much  to  the 
situation  of  his  little  house  at  the 
Glyn.  I  am  wrong  in  my  estimate 
of  the  local  compass-points'if  he  was 
not  sheltered  shrewdly  from  all  bleak 
winds  and  if  his  porch  does  not 
look  to  the  south-west.  Of  sun  he 
could  have  had  no  lack.  He  could 
have  been  troubled  by  no  watery 
mists  from  a  valley.  True,  there  is 
a  brook  half  girdling  the  hillock  on 
which  he  lived  ;  but  it  is  a  poor  little 
stream,  nearly  hid  by  its  high  banks, 
and  moreover  it  flows  on  a  limestone 
bottom.  That  Parr's  own  foundations 
were  also  set  in  limestone  one  may 
soon  ascertain  by  scrutiny  of  the  mud 
on  one's  boots  after  plodding  up  the 
narrow  lane  which  ends  in  the  time- 
worn  little  cottage.  On  this  subject 
it  may  as  well  be  said  further  that 
Kinver,  where  the  other  old  Parr 
lived,  lies  in  a  sandstone  district.  So 
too  is  Alberbury,  the  village  in  which 
our  Parr  was  married  and  the  church- 
yard of  which  he  would  now,  but  for 
the  Earl  of  Arundel,  be  to  some  extent 
dignifying. 

Yet  country  air  of  the  purest  kind 
can  no  more  ensure  extreme  old  age 
than  London's  somewhat  polluted  at- 
mosphere can  deter  a  man  from  living 
to  a  hundred.  Mary  Burke,  at  one 
hundred  and  five,  found  Drury  Lane 
perfectly  suited  to  her  lungs.  Charles 
Macklin  the  actor,  who  died  in  1799 
at  one  hundred  and  six,  was  in  the 
same  case.  He  enjoyed  the  theatre 
at  that  age,  and  every  evening 
breathed  the  hot  beery  air  of  a 
tavern  in  Duke's  Court.  In  marked 
contrast  to  Parr,  Macklin  was 
neither  methodical  in  his  habits 
nor  a  lover  of  milk.  He  drank  ale, 


378 


Old  Parr. 


porter,  or  wine  thickened  with  sugar, 
ate  spoon-meats  and  fish,  and  followed 
his  own  whim  as  to  the  hours  at  which 
he  fed  and  slept.  It  appears  therefore 
tolerably  certain  that  rules  for  lon- 
gevity are  as  futile  as  the  maxims  by 
which  aspiring  youth  is  tickled  into 
the  expectation  of  becoming  a  million- 
aire. It  is  a  matter  of  speculation,  in 
which  the  Insurance  Companies  by  no 
means  always  win.  The  man  who  was 
something  of  a  weakling  in  his  early 
days  has  as  much  chance  of  touching 
his  century  as  the  man  who  at  five-and- 
twenty  was  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes  for 
his  muscular  development  and  correct 
proportions. 

No  one  interested  in  Tom  Parr 
ought  to  leave  the  district  of  the 
Breiddens  without  visiting  Alberbury 
as  well  as  the  Glyn.  It  is  an  ancient 
village,  lapped  round  with  manorial 
parks,  and  possessing  one  of  the  most 
attractive  old  churches  in  Shropshire. 
It  was  here  that  the  most  tragic  in- 
cident in  old  Parr's  life  occurred.  "We 
were  reminded  of  it  by  the  bright- 
faced  schoolmistress  of  Alberbury  as 
she  gave  us  the  key  of  the  church. 
She  mentioned  it  with  a  smile,  and 
told  of  a  picture  of  the  scene  in 
Loton  Hall,  the  park  of  which  adjoins 
one  side  of  the  churchyard.  Parr 
must  have  tickled  the  courtiers  when 
he  replied  to  the  King's  question : 
"  You  have  lived  longer  than  other 
men.  What  have  you  done  more 
than  other  men  ? "  "I  did  penance," 
said  the  venerable  prodigy,  "  when 
I  was  a  hundred  years  old."  One 
would  like  to  know  if  he  hesitated 
ere  giving  this  answer,  or  if  he  really 
felt  that  this  was  an  achievement  on 
which  he  might  pride  himself.  In  the 
latter  case,  it  is  significant  of  the  tone 
of  rural  society  on  these  borders.  But 
the  clergy  might  have  treated  Parr 
with  a  little  mercy  in  consideration  of 
his  age.  It  is  curious  to  think  of  this 
white-haired  old  fellow,  wrapped  in  a 
sheet,  standing  bareheaded  at  the 
church  door  and  publicly  proclaiming 
his  fault,  in  the  presence,  we  may  be 
sure,  of  a  crowd  drawn  thither  to  see 


so  uncommon  an  offender.  However, 
later,  he  made  even  better  reparation 
for  his  offence  by  marrying  as  his  se- 
cond wife  (at  one  hundred  and  twenty) 
the  woman  for  whose  sake  he  had  been 
thus  condemned  to  humble  himself. 

It  is  not  easy  to  forgive  Lord 
Arundel  for  removing  old  Parr  from 
the  haunts  in  which  he  had  almost 
become  rooted.  The  Water  Poet  writes 
as  if  his  lordship  did  it  out  of  kind- 
ness :  "  In  his  innated  and  Christian 
piety  he  took  him  into  his  charitable 
tuition  and  protection,  commanding  a 
litter  and  two  horses  for  the  more 
easy  carriage  of  a  man  so  enfeebled 
and  worn  with  age."  This  is  in  the 
magnanimous  vein.  With  what  argu- 
ments, one  is  inclined  to  ask,  could  the 
Earl  have  persuaded  Parr  to  under- 
take such  a  journey  ?  Is  it  possible 
that  the  old  man  had  left  in  him  the 
dregs  of  ambition,  that  he  yearned  for 
a  measure  of  metropolitan  excitement 
and  looked  forward  to  the  fame  that 
was  assuredly  promised  him  1  Hardly 
so,  one  would  suppose.  More  prob- 
ably he  placed  himself  blindly  at  the 
disposal  of  the  great  Shropshire  land- 
owner, indifferent  to  the  result.  A 
pleasing  apathy  to  fortune's  shocks 
and  caresses  is  one  of  the  character- 
istics of  men  who  have  lived  far  be- 
yond the  common  limits.  One  could 
fancy  they  become  fatalists  of  neces- 
sity. 

The  Earl  of  Arundel  thoughtfully 
provided  "  an  antique-faced  fellow, 
called  Jack,  or  John  the  Fool,"  to 
amuse  old  Parr  during  his  jaunt  to 
town.  The  sport  must  have  been 
singular  to  those  who  were  privileged 
to  share  in  it.  But  we  may  feel  pretty 
sure  the  man  who  could  vaunt  his 
lusty  old  age  to  the  King  would  not 
let  the  professional  fool  have  it  all  his 
own  way.  There  was  further  the 
bustle  and  chatter  of  the  people  in 
the  wayside  villages  and  the  towns 
through  which  they  passed — Shifnal, 
Wolverhampton,  Birmingham,  then 
known  as  Brimicham,  Coventry, 
&c.  So  great  were  the  crowds  who 
gathered  to  see  the  old  man  that  his 


Old  Parr. 


379 


escort  had  to  fight  on  his  behalf  to 
keep  him  from  being  suffocated.  The 
wonc  er  is,  in  short,  not  that  he  died 
in  London,  but  that  he  lived  to  enjoy 
even  a  few  weeks'  luxurious  feasting 
in  the  great  city. 

Sophocles  has  given  us  a  melancholy 
picture  of  the    old    man's   inevitable 
lot- 
Last  .scene  of  all,  of  all  condemned, 
Unfriended,  unaccompanied  age, 
When  strength  is  gone,  but  grief  remains, 
And  overy  evil  that  is  named, — 
Evil  on  evil,  grief  on  grief. 

Nothing,  however,  can  be  less  true 
in  its  application  to  veterans  made 
like  Thomas  Parr.  The  very  old  man 
seems  to  obtain  a  new  lease  of  life  at 
fourscore  or  so,  and  once  he  has  got 
into  the  three  figures  he  is  respected 
like  none  of  his  neighbours.  As  a 
rule,  too,  his  ailments  are  of  a  toler- 
able kind,  and  he  has  acquired  a  com- 
fortable knack  of  philosophy  which 
would  see  him  well  through  many 
worso  trials  if  they  came  to  him.  He 
has,  moreover,  strength  enough  for  his 
ambitions,  and  the  world  is  only  too 
read}  to  help  him  with  such  burdens 
as  ho  has  to  put  up  with.  While, 
lastly,  as  touching  his  loneliness  :  or- 
dinarily he  has  but  to  whisper  the 
word,  and  grandchildren  by  the  score 
will  ('flier  him  the  advantage  of  their 
sociei  y.  These  patriarchal  personages 
may,  if  they  will,  live  environed 
thick  ly  by  their  posterity.  Take,  for 
example,  the  case  of  Mr.  Honey  wood, 
who  died  in  1620  at  ninety-three, 
"having  had  sixteen  children,  a  hun- 
dred ind  fourteen  grandchildren,  two 
hund  :ed  and  twenty-eight  great-grand- 
child]-en,  and  nine  great-great-grand- 


children"; or  the  more  astonishing 
Lady  Temple  of  Stowe,  who  died  in 
1656,  and  "  lived  to  see  seven  hundred 
descendants."  So  far  from  being  un- 
accompanied and  unfriended,  Thomas 
Parr  might,  had  he  been  so  minded, 
excusably  have  said,  "  Save  me  from 
my  friends,"  or  at  least  from  such 
importunate  ones  as  the  Earl  of 
Arundel. 

But  enough ;  the  old  man  found  a 
grave  in  London,  in  the  best  of  society. 
His  simple  tombstone  lies  five  paces 
south-west  of  Thomas  Campbell's 
monument.  It  is  a  plain  white  slab, 
some  two  feet  by  ten  inches,  let  into 
the  pavement ;  and  on  it  are  enumer- 
ated the  ten  Kings  and  Queens  of 
England  who  ruled  over  him.  Not 
one  visitor  to  Westminster  Abbey  in 
a  thousand  thinks  of  the  marvel  above 
whose  dust  he  treads  on  his  way  to 
Poets'  Corner. 

Oh,  venerable  Parr,  lo,  trumpet  fame 
Again  calls  forth  thy  long  forgotten  name  ! 
Mortal  of  many  years  !  how  blest  the  plan 
Thy  mighty  secret  does  reveal  to  man. 

Oh  do  not  lightly  scan 
A  boon  so  great,  nor  wisdom's  purpose 

mar  ; 
God  gave  the  power — His  instrument  was 

Parr  ! 

This,  gentle  reader,  is  from  the  piil- 
pamphlet.  It  is  odd  to  think  that  old 
Parr's  fame  should  be  perpetuated  by 
a  quack  medicine  with  which  he  had 
no  connection,  rather  than  by  history 
or  the  Insurance  Companies.  The 
latter  ought  surely  to  club  together 
and  erect  a  column  to  him,  as  the  ideal 
client. 

CHARLES  EDWARDES. 


380 


RAVENNA  AND  HER  GHOSTS. 


MY  oldest  impression  of  Ravenna, 
before  it  became  in  my  eyes  the  abode 
of  living  friends  as  well  as  of  out- 
landish ghosts,  is  of  a  melancholy 
spring  sunset  at  Classe. 

Classe,  which  Dante  and  Boccaccio 
call  in  less  Latin  fashion  Chiassi,  is 
the  place  where  of  old  the  fleet 
(classis)  of  the  Romans  and  Ostro- 
goths rode  at  anchor  in  the  Adriatic. 
It  is  represented  in  the  mosaic  of 
Sant'  Apollinare  Nuovo,  dating  from 
the  reign  of  Theodoric,  by  a  fine  city 
wall  of  gold  tesserce  (facing  the  repre- 
sentation of  Theodoric's  town  palace 
with  the  looped-up  embroidered  cur- 
tains) and  a  strip  of  ultramarine 
sea,  with  two  rowing  boats  and  one 
white  blown-out  sail  upon  it.  Ravenna, 
which  is  now  an  inland  town,  was  at 
that  time  built  in  a  lagoon ;  and  we 
must  picture  Classe  in  much  the  same 
relation  to  it  that  Malamocco  or  the 
port  of  Lido  is  to  Yenice  ;  the  open 
sea-harbour,  where  big  ships  and 
flotillas  were  stationed,  while  smaller 
craft  wound  through  the  channels  and 
sandbanks  up  to  the  city.  But  now 
the  lagoon  has  dried  up,  the  Adriatic 
has  receded,  and  there  remains  of 
Classe  not  a  stone,  save,  in  the  midst 
of  stagnant  canals,  rice-marsh  and 
brown  bogland,  a  gaunt  and  desolate 
church,  with  a  ruinous  mildewed  house 
and  a  crevassed  round  tower  by  its 
side. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  first  time,  and 
has  ever  since  seemed,  no  Christian 
church,  but  the  temple  of  the  great 
Roman  goddess  EVver.  The  gates 
stood  open,  as  they  do  all  day  lest 
inner  damp  consume  the  building,  and 
a  beam  from  the  low  sun  slanted 
across  the  oozy  brown  nave,  and 
struck,  a  round  spot  of  glittering 
green,  on  the  mosaic  of  the  apse. 
There,  in  the  half-dome,  stood  rows 


and  rows  of  lambs,  each  with  its  little 
tree  and  lilies,  shining  out  white  from 
the  brilliant  green  grass  of  Paradise, 
great  streams  of  gold  and  blue  circling 
around  them,  and  widening  overhead 
into  lakes  of  peacock  splendour.  The 
slanting  sunbeam  which  burnished 
that  spot  of  mosaic  fell  also  across  the 
altar  steps,  brown  and  green  in  their 
wet  mildew  like  the  ceiling  above. 
The  floor  of  the  church,  sunk  below  the 
level  of  the  road,  was  as  a  piece  of 
boggy  ground,  leaving  the  feet  damp, 
and  breathing  a  clammy  horror  on  the 
air.  Outside,  the  sun  was  setting  be- 
hind a  bank  of  solid  gray  clouds, 
faintly  reddening  their  rifts  and  send- 
ing a  few  rose-coloured  streaks  into 
the  pure  yellow  evening  sky.  Against 
that  sky  stood  out  the  long  russet 
line,  the  delicate  cupola' d  silhouette 
of  the  sear  pinewood  recently  blasted 
by  frost.  On  the  other  side  the 
marsh  stretched  out  beyond  sight, 
confused  in  the  distance  with  gray 
clouds,  its  lines  of  bare  spectral  poplars 
picked  out  upon  its  green  and  the 
gray  ness  of  the  ;Sky.  All  round  the 
church  lay  brown  grass,  livid  pools, 
green  rice-fields  covered  with  clear 
water  reflecting  the  red  sunset  streaks  ; 
and  overhead,  driven  by  storm  from 
the  sea,  circled  the  white  gulls  ;  ghosts, 
you  might  think,  of  the  white-sailed 
galleys  of  Theodoric  still  haunting 
the  harbour  of  Classis. 

Since  then,  as  I  hinted,  Ravenna 
has  become  the  home  of  dear  friends, 
to  which  I  periodically  return,  in 
autumn  or  winter  or  blazing  summer, 
without  taking  thought  for  any  of  the 
ghosts.  And  the  impressions  of  Ra- 
venna are  mainly  those  of  life ;  the 
voices  of  children,  the  plans  of  farmers, 
the  squabbles  of  local  politics.  I  am 
waked  in  the  morning  by  the  noises 
of  the  market,  and,  opening  my  shut- 


Ravenna,  and  her  Ghosts. 


381 


ters,  look  down  upon  green  umbrellas, 
and  awnings  spread  over  baskets  of 
fruit  and  vegetables,  and  heaps  of 
ironware,  and  stalls  of  coloured  stuffs 
and  gaudy  kerchiefs.  The  streets  are 
by  no  means  empty.  A  steam  tram- 
car  puffs  slowly  along  the  widest  of 
them  ;  and  in  the  narrower  you  have 
perpetually  to  squeeze  against  a  house 
to  ir  ake  room  for  a  clattering  pony- 
cart,  a  jingling  carriole,  or  one  of 
those  splendid  bullock-wagons,  shaped 
like  an  old-fashioned  canon-cart  with 
spokoless  wheels  and  metal  studdings. 
Ther'3  are  no  medieval  churches  in 
Ravenna,  and  very  few  medieval 
houses.  The  older  palaces,  though 
practically  fortified,  have  a  vague  look 
of  Roman  villas ;  and  the  whole  town 
is  painted  a  delicate  rose  and  apricot 
colour,  which,  particularly  if  you  have 
come  from  the  sad-coloured  cities  of 
Tuscany,  gives  it  a  Venetian  and  (if  I 
may  >ay  so)  chintz-petticoat,  flowered- 
kercl  ief  cheerfulness.  And  the  life 
of  the  people,  when  you  come  in  con- 
tact with  it,  also  leaves  an  impression 
of  provincial,  rustic  bustle.  The  Ro- 
magras  are  full  of  crude  socialism. 
The  change  from  rice  to  wheat-grow- 
ing has  produced  agricultural  discon- 
tent ;  and  conspiracy  has  been  in  the 
blood  of  these  people  ever  since  Dante 
answored  the  Romagnolo  Guido  that 
his  country  would  never  have  peace 
in  its  heart.  The  ghosts  of  Byzantine 
emperors  and  exarchs,  of  Gothic 
kings  and  medieval  tyrants,  must  be 
laid,  one  would  think,  by  socialist 
meeti  igs  and  electioneering  squabbles  ; 
and,  jerhaps,  by  another  movement, 
as  modern  and  as  revolutionary,  which 
also  c  entres  in  this  big  historical  vil- 
lage, the  reclaiming  of  marshland, 
which  may  bring  about  changes  in 
mode  of  living  and  thinking  such  as 
socialism  can  never  succeed  in;  nay, 
for  all  one  knows,  changes  in  climate, 
in  sea  and  wind  and  clouds.  Bonifica- 
tion, reclaiming,  that  is  the  great 
word  in  Ravenna  ;  and  I  had  scarcely 
"arrived  last  autumn,  before  I  found 
myselr'  whirled  off,  among  dogcarts 
and  chars  a  banes,  to  view  reclaimed 


land  in  the  cloudless,  pale-blue,  ice- 
cold  weather.  On  we  trotted,  with  a 
great  consulting  of  maps  and  dis- 
cussing of  expenses  and  production, 
through  the  flat  green  fields  and 
meadows  marked  with  haystacks; 
jolting  along  a  deep  sandy  track,  all 
that  remains  of  the  Romea,  the  pil- 
grims' way  from  Venice  to  Rome, 
where  marsh  and  pool  begin  to  in- 
terrupt the  well-kept  pastures,  and 
the  line  of  pine-woods  to  come  nearer 
and  nearer.  Over  the  fields,  the  fre- 
quent canals,  and  hidden  ponds  cir- 
cled gulls  and  wild  fowl ;  and  at  every 
farm  there  was  a  little  crowd  of  pony- 
carts  and  of  gaitered  sportsmen  re- 
turning from  the  marshes.  A  sense 
of  reality,  of  the  present,  of  useful, 
bread-giving,  fever-curing  activity, 
came  by  sympathy,  as  I  listened  to  the 
chatter  of  my  friends  and  saw  field 
after  field,  farm  after  farm,  pointed 
out  where,  but  a  while  ago,  only 
swamp  grass  and  bushes  grew,  and 
cranes  and  wild  duck  nested.  In  ten, 
twenty,  fifty  years,  they  went  on  cal- 
culating, Ravenna  will  be  able  to 
diminish  by  so  much  the  town-rates  ; 
the  Romagnas  will  be  able  to  support 
so  many  more  thousands  of  inhabit- 
ants merely  by  employing  the  rivers 
to  deposit  arable  soil  torn  from  the 
mountain  valleys  ;  the  rivers — Po  and 
his  followers,  as  Dante  called  them — 
which  have  so  long  turned  this  country 
into  marsh ;  the  rivers  which  in  a 
thousand  years  cut  off  Ravenna  from 
her  sea. 

We  returned  home,  greedy  for  tea, 
and  mightily  in  conceit  with  progress. 
But  before  us,  at  a  turn  of  the  road, 
appeared  Ravenna,  its  towers  and 
cupolas  against  a  bank  of  clouds,  a 
piled-up  heap  of  sunset  fire  ;  its  canal, 
barred  with  flame,  leading  into  its 
black  vagueness,  a  spectre  city.  And 
there,  to  the  left,  among  the  bare 
trees,  loomed  the  great  round  tomb 
of  Theodoric.  We  jingled  on,  silent 
and  overcome  by  the  deathly  Decem- 
ber chill. 

That  is  the  odd  thing  about  Rav- 
enna. It  is,  more  than  any  of  the 


382 


Ravenna  and  her  Ghosts. 


Tuscan  towns,  more  than  most  of  the 
Lombard  ones,  modern,  full  of  rough, 
dull,  modern  life  ;  and  the  Past  which 
haunts  it  comes  from  so  far  off,  from 
a  world  with  which  we  have  no  contact. 
Those  pillared  basilicas,  which  look 
like  modern  village  churches  from  the 
street,  with  their  almost  Moorish 
arches,  their  enamelled  splendour  of 
many-coloured  mosaics,  their  lily  fields 
and  peacocks'  tails  in  mosque-like 
domes,  affect  one  as  great  stranded 
hulks  come  floating  across  Eastern 
seas  and  drifted  ashore  among  the 
marsh  and  rice- fields.  The  grapes 
and  ivy  berries,  the  pouting  pigeons, 
the  palm-trees  and  pecking  peacocks, 
all  this  early  symbolism  with  its  asso- 
ciation of  Bacchic,  Eleusinian  mys- 
teries, seems,  quite  as  much  as  the 
actual  fragments  of  Grecian  capitals, 
the  discs  and  gratings  of  porphyry 
and  alabaster,  so  much  flotsam  and 
jetsam  cast  up  from  the  shipwreck  of 
an  older  antiquity  than  Rome's  ;  rem- 
nants of  early  Hellas,  of  Ionia,  per- 
haps of  Tyre. 

I  used  to  feel  this  particularly  in 
Sant'  Apollinare  Nuovo,  or,  as  it  is 
usually  called,  Clcisse  Dentro,  the  long 
basilica  built  by  Theodoric,  outrivalled 
later  by  Justinian's  octagon  church  of 
Saint  Vitalis.  There  is  something 
extremely  Hellenic  in  feeling  (however 
,  unGrecian  in  form)  in  the  pearly  fair- 
ness of  the  delicate  silvery  white 
columns  and  capitals  ;  in  the  gleam  of 
white  on  golden  ground,  and,  reticu- 
lated with  jewels  and  embroideries, 
of  the  long  band  of  mosaic  virgins 
and  martyrs  running  above  them. 
The  virgins,  with  their  Byzantine 
names  —  Sancta  Anastasia,  Sancta 
Anatolia,  Sancta  Eulalia,  Sancta 
Euphemia — have  big  kohl'd  eyes  and 
embroidered  garments,  fantastically 
suggesting  some  Eastern  hieratic 
dancing-girl ;  but  they  follow  each 
other  in  single  file  (each  with  her 
lily  or  rose-bush  sprouting  from  the 
green  mosaic),  with  erect,  slightly 
balanced  gait,  like  the  maidens  of  the 
Panathenaic  procession,  carrying,  one 
would  say,  votive  offerings  to  the 


altar,  rather  than  crowns  of  martyr- 
dom ;  all  stately,  sedate,  as  if  drilled 
by  some  priestly  ballet-master;  all  with 
the  same  wide  eyes  and  set  smile  as 
of  early  Greek  sculpture.  There  is 
no  attempt  to  distinguish  one  from 
the  other.  There  are  no  gaping  wounds, 
tragic  attitudes,  wheels,  swords,  pin- 
cers, or  other  attributes  of  martyrdom. 
And  the  male  saints  on  the  wall  oppo- 
site are  equally  unlike  medieval  Sebas- 
tians and  Lawrences,  going,  one  behind 
the  other,  in  shining  white  togas,  to 
present  their  crowns  to  Christ  on  His 
throne.  Christ  also,  in  this  Byzan- 
tine art,  is  never  the  Saviour.  He 
sits,  an  angel  on  each  side,  on  His 
golden  seat,  clad  in  purple  and  sandalled 
with  gold,  serene,  beardless,  wide-eyed, 
like  some  distant  descendant  of  the 
Olympic  Jove. 

This  church  of  Saint  Apollinaris 
contains  a  chapel  specially  dedicated 
to  the  saint,  which  sums  up  that 
curious  impression  of  Hellenic,  pre- 
Christian  cheerfulness.  It  is  encrusted 
with  porphyry  and  giallo  antico,  framed! 
with  delicate  carved  ivy  wreaths  along 
the  sides,  and  railed  in  with  an  ex- 
quisite piece  of  alabaster  openwork  of 
vines  and  grapes,  as  on  an  antique 
altar.  And  in  a  corner  of  this  little 
temple,  which  seems  to  be  waiting  for 
some  painter  enamoured  of  Greece 
and  marble,  stands  the  episcopal  seat 
of  the  patron  saint  of  the  church, 
the  saint  who  took  his  name  from 
Apollo  ;  an  alabaster  seat,  wide-curved 
and  delicate,  in  whose  back  you  ex- 
pect to  find,  so  striking  is  the  resem- 
blance, the  relief  of  dancing  satyrs 
of  the  chair  of  the  Priest  of  Dionysus. 

As  I  was  sitting  one  morning,  as 
was   my    wont,   in    Sant'    Apollinare 
Nuovo,     which     (like     all     Ravenna . 
churches)  is  always  empty,  a  woman 
came  in,   with  a  woollen  shawl  over 
her  head,  who,  after  hunting  anxiously 
about,  asked  me  where  she  would  find  ' 
the  parish  priest.     "It  is,"  she  said, 
"  for  the  Madonna's  milk.     My  hus- 
band is  a  labourer  out  of  work ;   he  • 
has  been  ill,  and  the  worry  of  it  all 
has  made  me  unable  to  nurse  my  little  • 


Ravenna  and  her  Ghosts. 


383 


baby  I  want  the  priest,  to  ask  him 
to  get  the  Madonna  to  give  me  back 
my  milk."  I  thought,  as  I  listened 
to  the  poor  creature,  that  there  was 
but  little  hope  of  motherly  sympathy 
from  that  Byzantine  Madonna  in  her 
purp'e  and  gold  magnificence,  seated 
ceremoniously  on  her  throne  like  an 
antique  Cybele. 

Little  by  little  one  returns  to  one's 
first  impression,  and  recognises  that 
this  thriving  little  provincial  town, 
with  its  socialism  and  its  bonification, 
is  after  all  a  nest  of  ghosts,  and  little 
better  than  the  churchyard  of  cen- 
turies. 

Ne  ver,  surely,  did  a  town  contain  so 
many  coffins,  or  at  least  thrust  coffins 
more  upon  one's  notice.  The  coffins 
are  sr,one,  immense  oblong  boxes,  with 
massive  sloping  lids  horned  at  each 
corner,  or  trough-like  things  with 
delicate  sea-wave  patternings,  figures 
of  gowned  saints  arid  devices  of  palm- 
trees,  peacocks,  and  doves,  the  carving 
made  clearer  by  a  picking  out  of  bright 
green  damp.  They  stand  about  in  all 
the  churches,  not  walled  in,  but  quite 
free  in  the  aisles,  the  chapels,  and 
even  close  to  the  door.  Most  of  them 
are  doubtless  of  the  fifth  or  sixth 
century ;  others  perhaps  barbarous  or 
medi(  val  imitations  ;  but  they  all 
equally  belong  to  the  ages  in  general, 
including  our  own,  not  curiosities  or 
heirlooms,  but  serviceable  furniture, 
into  which  generations  have  been  put 
and  out  of  which  generations  have 
been  turned  to  make  room  for  later 
comers.  It  strikes  one  as  curious  at 
first  lo  see,  for  instance,  the  date  1826 
on  a  sarcophagus  probably  made  under 
Theodoric  or  the  exarchs,  but  that 
merely  means  that  a  particular  gentle- 
man of  Ravenna  began  that  year  his 
lease  of  entombment.  They  have 
passed  from  hand  to  hand  (or,  more 
properly  speaking,  from  corpse  to 
corpso),  not  merely  by  being  occa- 
sionally discovered  in  digging  founda- 
tions, but  by  inheritance,  and  fre- 
quently by  sale.  My  friends  possess 
a  stone  coffin,  and  the  receipt  from  its 
previous  owner.  The  transaction  took 


place  some  fifty  years  ago ;  a  name 
(they  are  cut  very  lightly)  changed,  a 
slab  or  coat  of  arms  placed  with  the 
sarcophagus  in  a  different  church  or 

chapel,   a   deed   before    the   notary 

that  was  all.  What  became  of  the 
previous  tenant?  Once  at  least  he 
surprised  posterity  very  much  ;  per- 
haps it  was  in  the  case  of  that  very 
purchase  for  which  my  friends  still 
keep  the  bill.  I  know  not ;  but  the 
stonemason  of  the  house  used  to  re- 
late that,  some  forty  years  ago,  he 
was  called  in  to  open  a  stone  coffin, 
when,  the  immense  horned  lid  having 
been  rolled  off,  there  was  seen,  lying 
in  the  sarcophagus,  a  man  in  complete 
armour,  his  sword  by  his  side  and 
visor  up,  who,  as  they  cried  out  in 
astonishment,  instantly  fell  to  dust. 
Was  he  an  Ostrogothic  knight,  some 
Gunther  or  Yolker  turned  Roman 
senator,  or  perhaps  a  companion  of 
Guido  da  Polenta,  a  messmate  of 
Dante,  a  playfellow  of  Francesca  ? 

Coffins  being  thus  plentiful,  their 
occupants  (like  this  unknown  warrior) 
have  played  considerable  part  in  the 
gossip  of  Ravenna.  It  is  well  known, 
for  instance,  that  Galla  Placidia, 
daughter  of  Theodosius,  sister  of  Arca- 
dius  and  Honorius,  and  wife  to  a 
Yisigothic  king,  sat  for  centuries  en- 
throned (after  a  few  years  of  the 
strangest  adventures)  erect,  inside  the 
alabaster  coffin,  formerly  plated  with 
gold,  in  the  wonderful  little  blue 
mosaic  chapel  which  bears  her  name. 
You  could  see  her  through  a  hole 
quite  plainly ;  until,  three  centuries 
ago,  some  inquisitive  boys  thrust  in  a 
candle  and  burned  Theodosius's  daugh- 
ter to  ashes.  Dante  also  is  buried 
under  a  little  cupola  at  the  corner  of 
a  certain  street,  and  there  was,  for 
many  years,  a  strange  doubt  about  his 
bones.  Had  they  been  mislaid,  stolen, 
mixed  up  with  those  of  ordinary 
mortals  ?  The  whole  thing  was 
shrouded  in  mystery.  That  street 
corner  where  Dante  lies,  a  remote 
corner  under  the  wing  of  a  church, 
resembled,  until  it  was  modernised 
and  surrounded  by  gratings,  and  filled 


384 


Ravenna  and  her  Ghosts. 


with  garlands  and  inscriptions  to 
Mazzini,  nothing  so  much  as  the  corner 
of  Dis  where  Dante  himself  found 
Farinata  and  Cavalcante.  In  it  are 
crowded  stone  coffins ;  and,  passing 
there  in  the  twilight,  one  might  ex- 
pect to  see  flames  upheaving  their  lids, 
and  the  elbows  and  shoulders  of  im- 
prisoned followers  of  Epicurus. 

Enough  of  coffins  !  There  are  live 
things  at  Ravenna  and  near  Eavenna  ; 
amongst  others,  though  few  people 
realise  its  presence,  there  is  the  sea. 

It  was  on  the  day  of  the  fish  auction 
that  I  first  went  there.  In  the  tiny 
port  by  the  pier  (for  Ravenna  has  now 
no  harbour)  they  were  making  an  in- 
credible din  over  the  emptyings  of  the 
nets;  pretty,  mottled,  metallic  fish, 
and  slimy  octopuses,  and  sepias,  and 
flounders  looking  like  pieces  of  sea- 
mud.  The  fishing-boats,  mostly  from 
the  Venetian  lagoon,  were  moored 
along  the  pier,  wide-bowed  things,  with 
eyes  in  the  prow  like  the  ships  of 
"Ulysses  ;  and  bigger  craft,  with  little 
castles  and  weather-vanes  and  saints' 
images  and  pennons  on  the  masts  like 
the  galleys  of  St.  Ursula  as  painted 
by  Carpaccio ;  but  all  with  the  splendid 
orange  sail,  patched  with  suns,  lions, 
and  coloured  stripes,  of  the  Northern 
Adriatic.  The  fishermen  from  Chiog- 
gia,  their  heads  covered  with  the  high 
scarlet  cap  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
were  yelling  at  the  fishmongers  from 
town  ;  and  all  round  lounged  artillery- 
men in  their  white  undress  and  yellow 
straps,  who  are  encamped  for  practice 
on  the  sands,  and  whose  carts  and 
guns  we  had  met  rattling  along  the 
sandy  road  through  the  marsh. 

On  the  pier  we  were  met  by  an  old 
man,  very  shabby  and  unshaven,  who 
had  been  the  priest  for  many  years, 
with  an  annual  salary  of  twelve  pounds, 
of  S.  Maria  in  Porto  Fuori,  a  little 
Gothic  church  in  the  marsh,  where  he 
had  discovered  and  rubbed  slowly  into 
existence  (it  took  him  two  months  and 
Heaven  knows  how  many  pennyworths 
of  bread  !)  some  valuable  Giottesque 
frescoes.  He  was  now  chaplain  of  the 
harbour,  and  had  turned  his  mind  to 


maritime  inventions,  designing  light- 
houses, and  shooting  dolphins  to  make 
oil  of  their  blubber.  A  kind  old  man, 
but  with  the  odd  brightness  of  a 
creature  who  has  lived  for  years  amid 
solitude  and  fever  ;  a  fit  companion 
for  the  haggard  saints  whom  he 
brought,  one  by  one,  in  robes  of  glory 
and  golden  halos,  to  life  again  in  his 
forlorn  little  church. 

While  we  were  looking  out  at  the 
sea,  where  a  little  flotilla  of  yellow 
and  cinnamon  sails  sat  on  the  blue 
sky-line  like  parrots  on  a  rail,  the 
sun  had  begun  to  set,  a  crimson  ball, 
over  the  fringe  of  pinewoods.  We 
turned  to  go.  Over  the  town,  the 
place  whence  presently  will  emerge  the 
slanting  towers  of  Ravenna,  the  sky 
had  become  a  brilliant,  melancholy 
slate  blue ;  and  apparently  oub  of  its 
depths,  in  the  early  twilight,  flowed 
the  wide  canal  between  its  dim  banks 
fringed  with  tamarisk.  No  tree,  no 
rock  or  house  was  reflected  in  the 
jade-coloured  water,  only  the  uniform 
shadow  of  the  bank  made  a  dark, 
narrow  band  alongside  its  glassiness. 
It  flows  on  towards  the  invisible  sea, 
whose  yellow  sails  overtop  the  gray 
marshland.  In  thick  smooth  strands 
of  curdled  water  it  flows,  lilac,  pale 
pink,  opalescent,  according  to  the  sky 
above,  reflecting  nothing  besides,  save 
at  long  intervals  the  spectral  spars 
and  spider-like  tissue  of  some  triangu- 
lar fishing-net ;  a  wan  and  delicate 
Lethe,  issuing,  you  would  say,  out  of 
a  far-gone  past  into  the  sands  and  the 
almost  tideless  sea. 

Other  places  become  solemn,  sad, 
or  merely  beautiful  at  sunset.  But 
Ravenna,  it  seems  to  me,  grows  actu- 
ally ghostly ;  the  Past  takes  it  back 
at  that  moment,  and  the  ghosts  re- 
turn to  the  surface. 

For  it  is,  after  all,  a  nest  of  ghosts. 
They  hang  about  all  those  silent, 
damp  churches,  invisible,  or  at  most 
tantalising  one  with  a  sudden  gleam 
which  may,  after  all,  be  only  that  of 
the  mosaics,  an  uncertain  outline 
which,  when  you  near  it,  is  after  all 
only  a  pale-gray  column.  But  one 


Ravenna  and  Tier  Ghosts. 


385 


feels  their  breathing  all  round.  They 
are  legion,  but  I  do  not  know  who 
they  are.  I  only  know  that  they  are 
white,  luminous,  with  gold  embroi- 
derios  to  their  robes,  and  wide  painted 
eyes,  and  that  they  are  silent.  The 
good  citizens  of  Eavenna,  in  the  com- 
fortable eighteenth  century,  filled  the 
churches  with  wooden  pews,  conveni- 
ent, genteel  in  line  and  colour, 
with  their  names  and  coats  of  arms  in 
full  on  the  backs.  But  the  ghosts 
took  no  notice  of  this  measure ;  and 
there  they  are,  even  among  these  pews 
themselves. 

Bishops  and  exarchs  and  jewelled 
empresses,  and  half-Oriental  autocrats, 
saints  and  bedizened  court  ladies,  and 
barbarian  guards  and  wicked  cham- 
berlains ;  1  know  not  what  they  are. 
Onl}'  one  of  the  ghosts  takes  a  shape 
I  can  distinguish,  and  a  name  I  am 
certain  of.  It  is  not  Justinian  or 
Theodora,  who  stare  goggle-eyed  from 
their  mosaic  in  Saint  Vitalis,  mere 
wretched  historic  realities  ;  they  cannot 
haunt.  The  spectre  I  speak  of  is 
Theodoric.  His  tomb  is  still  standing 
outside  the  town  in  an  orchard ;  a 
greab  round  tower,  with  a  circular 
roof  made  (Heaven  knows  how)  of  one 
huge  slab  of  Istrian  stone,  horned  at 
the  sides  like  the  sarcophagi,  or  vaguely 
like  a  Viking's  cap.  The  ashes  of  the 
great  king  have  long  been  dispersed, 
for  he  was  an  Arian  heretic.  But  the 
tomb  remains  intact,  a  thing  which 
neither  time  nor  earthquake  can  dis- 
mantle. 

In  the  town  they  show  a  piece  of 
masonry,  the  remains  of  a  doorway, 
and  a  delicate  pillared  window,  built 
on  to  a  modern  house,  which  is  identi- 
fied ( but  wrongly  I  am  told)  as  Theo- 
doric's  palace,  by  its  resemblance  to 
the  golden  palace  with  the  looped- up 
curtains  on  the  mosaic  of  the  neigh- 
bouring church.  Into  the  wall  of  this 
building  is  built  a  great  Roman  por- 
phyry bath,  with  rings  carved  on  it, 
to  which  time  has  adjusted  a  lid  of 
brilliant  green  lichen.  There  is  no 
more.  But  Theodoric  still  haunts 
Rave  ana.  I  have  always,  ever  since  I 

No.  419. — VOL.  LXX. 


have  known  the  town,  been  anxious 
to  know  more  about  Theodoric,  but 
the  accounts  are  jejune,  prosaic,  not 
at  all  answering  to  what  that  great 
king,  who  took  his  place  with  Attila 
and  Sigurd  in  the  great  Northern  epic, 
must  have  been.  Historians  repre- 
sent him  generally  as  a  sort  of  superior 
barbarian,  trying  to  assimilate  and 
save  the  civilisation  he  was  bound  to 
destroy;  an  Ostrogothic  king  trying 
to  be  a  Roman  Emperor ;  a  military 
organiser  and  bureaucrat,  exchanging 
his  birthright  of  Valhalla  for  Heaven 
knows  what  Aulic  red-tape  miseries. 
But  that  is  unsatisfactory.  The  real 
man,  the  Berserker  trying  to  tame 
himself  into  the  Caesar  of  a  fallen 
Rome,  seems  to  come  out  in  the 
legends  of  his  remorse  and  visions, 
pursued  by  the  ghosts  of  Boethius  and 
Symmachus,  the  wise  men  he  had 
slain  in  his  madness. 

He  haunts  Ravenna,  striding  along 
the  aisles  of  her  basilicas,  riding 
under  the  high  moon  along  the  dykes 
of  her  marshes,  surrounded  by  white- 
stoled  Romans,  and  Roman  ensigns  with 
eagles  and  crosses ;  but  clad,  as  the 
Gothic  brass-worker  of  Innsbruck  has 
shown  him,  in  no  Roman  lappets  and 
breastplate,  but  in  full  mail,  with 
beaked  steel  shoes  and  steel  gorget, 
his  big  sword  drawn,  his  visor  down, 
mysterious,  the  Dietrich  of  the  Nibel- 
ungenlied,  Theodoric  King  of  the 
Goths. 

These  are  the  ghosts  that  haunt 
Ravenna,  the  true  ghosts  haunting  only 
for  such  as  can  know  their  presence. 
Ravenna,  almost  alone  among  Italian 
cities,  possesses  moreover  a  complete 
ghost-story  of  the  most  perfect  type  and 
highest  antiquity,  which  has  gone 
round  the  world  and  become  known 
to  all  people.  Boccaccio  wrote  it  in 
prose ;  Dryden  rewrote  it  in  verse ; 
Botticelli  illustrated  it;  and  Byron 
summed  up  its  quality  in  one  of  his 
most  sympathetic  passages.  After 
this,  to  retell  it  were  useless,  had  I 
not  chanced  to  obtain,  in  a  manner  I 
am  not  at  liberty  to  divulge,  another 
version,  arisen  in  Ravenna  itself,  and 

c  c 


386 


Ravenna  and  Tier  Ghosts. 


written,  most  evidently,  in  fullest 
knowledge  of  the  case.  Its  language 
is  the  marvellous  Romagnol  dialect  of 
the  early  fifteenth  century,  and  it 
lacks  all  the  Tuscan  graces  of  the 
DECAMERON.  But  it  possesses  a  certain 
air  of  truthfulness,  suggesting  that  it 
was  written  by  some  one  who  had  heard 
the  facts  from  those  who  believed  in 
them,  and  who  believed  in  them  him- 
self ;  and  I  am  therefore  decided  to 
give  it,  turned  into  English. 

About  that  time  (when  Messer 
Guido  da  Pollenta  was  lord  of  Rav- 
enna) men  spoke  not  a  little  of  what 
happened  to  Messer  Nastasio  de 
Honestis,  son  of  Messer  Brunoro,  in 
the  forest  of  Classis.  Now  the  forest 
of  Classis  is  exceeding  vast,  extending 
along  the  seashore  between  Ravenna 
and  Cervia  for  the  space  of  some 
fifteen  miles,  and  has  its  beginning 
near  the  Church  of  Saint  Apollinaris 
which  is  in  the  marsh ;  and  you  reach 
it  directly  from  the  gate  of  the  same 
name,  but  also,  crossing  the  river 
Ronco  where  it  is  easier  to  ford,  by 
the  gate  called  Sisa  beyond  the  houses 
of  the  Rasponis.  And  this  forest 
aforesaid  is  made  of  many  kinds  of 
noble  and  useful  trees,  to  wit,  oaks, 
both  free  standing  and  in  bushes, 
ilexes,  elms,  poplars,  bays,  and  many 
plants  of  smaller  growth  but  great 
dignity  and  pleasantness,  as  haw- 
thorns, barberries,  blackthorn,  black- 
berry, briar-rose,  and  the  thorn  called 
marrucca,  which  bears  pods  resemb- 
ling small  hats  or  cymbals,  and  is 
excellent  for  hedging.  But  prin- 
cipally does  this  noble  forest  consist 
of  pine-trees,  exceeding  lofty  and  per- 
petually green ;  whence  indeed  the 
arms  of  this  ancient  city,  formerly 
the  seat  of  the  Emperors  of  Rome, 
are  none  other  than  a  green  pine-tree. 

And  the  forest  aforesaid  is  well 
stocked  with  animals,  both  such  as  run 
and  creep,  and  many  birds.  The 
animals  are  foxes,  badgers,  hares,  rab- 
bits, ferrets,  squirrels,  and  wild  boars, 
the  which  issue  forth  and  eat  the 
young  crops  and  grub  the  fields  with 


incredible  damage  to  all  concerned. 
Of  the  birds  it  would  be  too  long  to 
speak,  both  of  those  which  are  snared, 
shot  with  cross-bows,  or  hunted  with 
the  falcon ;  and  they  feed  off  fish  in 
the  ponds  and  streams  of  the  forest, 
and  grasses  and  berries,  and  the  pods 
of  the  white  vine  (clematis)  which 
covers  the  grass  on  all  sides.  And 
the  manner  of  Messer  Nastasio  being 
in  the  forest  was  thus,  he  being  at  the 
time  a  youth  of  twenty  years  or  there- 
abouts, of  illustrious  birth,  and  comely 
person  and  learning,  and  prowess,  and 
modest  and  discreet  bearing.  For  it 
so  happened  that,  being  enamoured 
of  the  daughter  of  Messer  Pavolo  de 
Traversariis,  the  damsel,  who  was 
lovely,  but  exceeding  coy  and  shrewish, 
would  not  consent  to  marry  him,  de- 
spite the  desire  of  her  parents,  who 
in  everything,  as  happens  with  only 
daughters  of  old  men  (for  Messer  Hos- 
tasio  was  well  stricken  in  years), 
sought  only  to  please  her.  Where- 
upon Messer  Nastasio,  fearing  lest  the 
damsel  might  despise  his  fortunes, 
wasted  his  substance  in  presents  and 
feastings  and  joustings,  but  all  to  no 
avail. 

When  it  happened  that  having  spent 
nearly  all  he  possessed,  and  ashamed 
to  show  his  poverty  and  his  unlucky 
love  before  the  eyes  of  his  townsmen, 
he  took  him  to  the  forest  of  Classis, 
it  being  autumn,  on  the  pretext  of 
snaring  birds,  but  intending  to  take 
privily  the  road  to  Rimini  and  thence 
to  Rome,  and  there  seek  his  fortunes. 
And  Nastasio  took  with  him  fowling- 
nets,  and  bird-lime,  and  tame  owls, 
and  two  horses  (one  of  which  was 
ridden  by  his  servant),  and  food  for 
some  days  ;  and  they  alighted  in  the 
midst  of  the  forest,  and  slept  in  one 
of  the  fowling-huts  of  cut  branches 
set  up  by  the  citizens  of  Ravenna  for 
their  pleasure. 

And  it  happened  that  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  second  day  (and  it  chanced 
to  be  a  Friday)  of  his  stay  in  the 
forest,  Messer  Nastasio,  being  exceed- 
ing sad  in  his  heart,  went  forth  to- 
wards the  sea  to  muse  upon  the  un- 


Ravenna  and  her  Ghosts. 


387 


kindness  of  his  beloved  and  the  hard- 
ness of  his  fortune.     Now  you  should 
know  that  near  the  sea,  where  you  can 
clearly  hear  its  roaring  even  on  wind- 
less days,  there  is  in  that  forest  a  clear 
place,  made  as  by  the  hand  of  man,  set 
rounl   with   tall    pines    even    like    a 
gardon,  but  in  the  shape  of  a  horse- 
cour.se,  free  from  bushes  and  pools,  and 
covered  with  the  finest    greensward. 
Here ,  as  Nastasio  sate  him  on  the  trunk 
of  a  pine — the  hour  was  sunset,  the 
weather    being    uncommon    clear — he 
heard  a  rushing  sound  in  the  distance, 
as  of  the  sea ;  and  there  blew  a  death- 
cold  wind,  and  then  sounds  of  crash- 
ing branches,  and  neighing  of  horses, 
and  yelping  of  hounds,  and  halloes  and 
horns.  And  Nastasio  wondered  greatly, 
for  t  hat  was  not  the  hour  for  hunting  ; 
and  lie  hid  behind  a  great  pine-trunk, 
fearing   to    be   recognised.     And   the 
sounds  came  nearer,  even    of    horns, 
and  hounds,  and  the  shouts  of  hunts- 
men ;   and    the    bushes  •  rustled    and 
crashed,  and  the  hunt  rushed  into  the 
clearing,    horsemen    and    foot,    with 
many  hounds.     And  behold,  what  they 
pursued    was   not   a   wild    boar,    but 
something  white  that  ran  erect,  and 
it  seemed  to  Messer  Nastasio  as  if  it 
greaoly  resembled  a   naked   woman  \ 
and  it  screamed  piteously. 

Now  when  the  hunt  had  swept  past, 
Messer  Nastasio  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
wondered  greatly.  But  even  as  he 
wondered  and  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  clearing,  behold,  part  of  the  hunt 
swept  back,  and  the  thing  which 
they  pursued  ran  in  a  circle  on  the 
greensward,  shrieking  piteously.  And 
behold,  it  was  a  young  damsel,  naked, 
her  hair  loose  and  full  of  brambles, 
with  only  a  tattered  cloth  round  her 
middle.  And  as  she  came  near  to 
where  Messer  Nastasio  was  standing 
(but  no  one  of  the  hunt  seemed  to 
heed  him)  the  hounds  were  upon  her, 
barking  furiously,  and  a  hunter  on  a 
black  horse,  black  even  as  night.  And 
a  cold  wind  blew  and  caused  Nastasio's 
hair  to  stand  on  end ;  and  he  tried  to 
cry  <»ut,  and  to  rush  forward,  but  his 
voicn  died  in  his  throat,  and  his  limbs 


were  heavy  and  covered  with  sweat,, 
and  refused  to  move. 

Then  the  hounds  fastening  on  the 
damsel  threw  her  down,  and  he  on 
the  black  horse  turned  swiftly,  and 
transfixed  her,  shrieking  dismally,  with 
a  boar-spear.  And  those  of  the  hunt 
galloped  up,  and  wound  their  horns; 
and  he  of  the  black  horse,  which  was 
a  stately  youth  habited  in  a  coat  of 
black  and  gold,  and  black  boots  and 
black  feathers  on  his  hat,  threw  his 
reins  to  a  groom,  and  alighted  and 
approached  the  damsel  where  she  lay, 
while  the  huntsmen  were  holding  back 
the  hounds  and  winding  their  horns. 
Then  he  drew  a  knife,  such  as  are 
used  by  huntsmen,  and  driving  its 
blade  into  the  damsel's  side  cut  out 
her  heart,  and  threw  it,  all  smoking, 
into  the  midst  of  the  hounds.  And  a 
cold  wind  rustled  through  the  bushes, 
and  all  had  disappeared,  horses  and 
huntsmen  and  hounds.  And  the  grass 
was  untrodden  as  if  no  man's  foot  or 
horse's  hoof  had  passed  there  for 
months. 

And  Messer  Nastasio  shuddered,  and 
his  limbs  loosened,  and  he  knew  that 
the  hunter  on  the  black  horse  was 
Messer  Guido  Degli  Anastagi,  and  the 
damsel  Monna  Filomena,  daughter  of 
the  Lord  of  Gambellara.  Messer 
Guido  had  loved  the  damsel  greatly, 
and  been  flouted  by  her,  and  leaving 
his  home  in  despair  had  been  killed 
on  the  way  by  robbers,  and  Madonna 
Filomena  had  died  shortly  after.  The 
tale  was  still  fresh  in  men's  memory, 
for  it  had  happened  in  the  city  of 
Ravenna  barely  five  years  before. 
And  those  whom  Nastasio  had  seen, 
both  the  hunter  and  the  lady,  and  the 
huntsmen  and  horses  and  hounds,  were 
the  spirits  of  the  dead. 

When  he  had  recovered  his  courage, 
Messer  Nastasio  sighed  and  said  unto 
himself :  "  How  like  is  my  fate  to 
that  of  Messer  Guido  !  Yet  would  I 
never,  even  when  a  spectre  without 
weight  or  substance,  made  of  wind 
and  delusion  and  arisen  from  hell, 
act  with  such  cruelty  towards  her  I 
love."  And  then  he  thought :  "  Would 
c  c  2 


388 


Ravenna  and  her  Ghosts. 


that  the  daughtei  of  Messer  Pavolo 
de  Traversariis  might  hear  of  this  ! 
For  surely  it  would  cause  her  to  re- 
lent !  "  But  he  knew  that  his  words 
would  be  vain,  and  that  none  of  the 
citizens  of  Ravenna,  and  least  of  all 
the  damsel  of  the  Traversari,  would 
believe  them,  but  rather  esteem  him 
a  madman. 

Now  it  came  about  that  when 
Friday  came  round  once  more,  Nas- 
tasio,  by  some  chance,  was  again 
walking  in  the  forest-clearing  by  the 
great  pines,  and  he  had  forgotten ; 
when  the  sea  began  to  roar,  and  a  cold 
wind  blew,  and  there  came  through 
the  forest  the  sound  of  horses  and 
hounds,  causing  Messer  Nastasio's 
hair  to  stand  up  and  his  limbs  to 
grow  weak  as  water.  And  he  on  the 
black  horse  again  pursued  the  naked 
damsel,  and  struck  her  with  his  boar- 
spear,  and  cut  out  her  heart  and 
threw  it  to  the  hounds.  And  in  this 
fashion  did  it  happen  for  three  Fri- 
days following,  the  sea  beginning  to 
moan,  the  cold  wind  to  blow,  and  the 
spirits  to  hunt  the  deceased  damsel  at 
twilight  in  the  clearing  among  the 
pine-trees. 

Now  when  Messer  Nastasio  noticed 
this  he  thanked  Cupid,  which  is  the 
lord  of  all  lovers,  and  devised  in  his 
mind  a  cunning  plan.  And  he  mounted 
his  horse  and  returned  to  Ravenna, 
and  gave  out  to  his  friends  that  he 
had  found  a  treasure  in  Rome ;  and 
that  he  was  minded  to  forget  the 
damsel  of  the  Traversari  and  seek  an- 
other wife.  But  in  reality  he  went 
to  certain  money-lenders,  and  gave 
himself  into  bondage,  even  to  be  sold 
as  a  slave  to  the  Dalmatian  pirates  if 
he  could  not  repay  his  loan.  And  he 
published  that  he  desired  to  take  to 
him  a  wife,  and  for  that  reason  would 
feast  all  his  friends  and  the  chief 
citizens  of  Ravenna,  and  regale  them 
with  a  pageant  in  the  pine-forest, 
where  certain  foreign  slaves  of  his 
should  show  wonderful  feats  for  their 
delight.  And  he  sent  forth  invita- 
tions, and  among  them  to  Messer 
Pavolo  de  Traversariis  and  his  wife 


and  daughter.  And  he  bid  them  for 
a  Friday,  which  was  also  the  eve  of 
the  Feast  of  the  Dead. 

Meanwhile  he  took  to  the  pine- 
forest  carpenters  and  masons,  and  such 
as  paint  and  gild  cunningly,  and 
wagons  of  timber,  and  cut  stone  for 
foundations,  and  furniture  of  all 
kinds  ;  and  the  wagons  were  drawn 
by  four-and-twenty  yoke  of  oxen,  gray 
oxen  of  the  Romagnol  breed.  And 
he  caused  the  artisans  to  work  day 
and  night,  making  great  fires  of  dry 
myrtle  and  pine  branches,  which  lit 
up  the  forest  all  around.  And  he 
caused  them  to  make  foundations,  and 
build  a  pavilion  of  timber  in  the 
clearing  which  is  the  shape  of  a  horse- 
course,  surrounded  by  pines.  The 
pavilion  was  oblong,  raised  by  ten 
steps  above  the  grass,  open  all  round 
and  reposing  on  arches  and  pillars  ; 
and  there  were  projecting  abachi  under 
the  arches  over  the  capitals,  after  the 
Roman  fashion ;  and  the  pillars  were 
painted  red,  and  the  capitals  red  also 
picked  out  with  gold  and  blue,  and  a 
shield  with  the  arms  of  the  Honestis 
on  each.  The  roof  was  raftered,  each 
rafter  painted  with  white  lilies  on  a 
red  ground,  and  heads  of  youths  and 
damsels ;  and  the  roof  outside  was 
made  of  wooden  tiles,  shaped  like 
shells  and  gilded.  And  on  the  top  of 
the  roof  was  a  weather-vane ;  and 
the  vane  was  a  figure  of  Cupid,  god  of 
love,  cunningly  carved  of  wood  and 
painted  like  life,  as  he  flies,  poised  in 
air,  and  shoots  his  darts  on  mortals. 
He  was  winged  and  blindfolded,  to 
show  that  love  is  inconstant  and  no 
respecter  of  persons ;  and  when  the 
wind  blew  he  turned  about,  and  the 
end  of  his  scarf,  which  was  beaten 
metal,  swung  in  the  wind.  Now 
when  the  pavilion  was  ready,  within 
six  days  of  its  beginning,  carpets  were 
spread  on  the  floor,  and  seats  placed, 
and  garlands  of  bay  and  myrtle  slung 
from  pillar  to  pillar  between  the 
arches.  And  tables  were  set,  and 
sideboards  covered  with  gold  and 
silver  dishes  and  trenchers ;  and  a 
raised  place,  covered  with  arras,  was 


Ravenna  and  her  Ghosts. 


made  for  the  players  of  fifes  and 
drums  and  lutes ;  and  tents  were  set 
behind  for  the  servants,  and  fires  pre- 
pared for  cooking  meat.  Whole  oxen 
and  sheep  were  brought  from  Ravenna 
in  wains,  and  casks  of  wine,  and  fruit 
and  white  bread,  and  many  cooks, 
and  serving-men,  and  musicians,  all 
habited  gallantly  in  the  colours  of 
the  Honestis,  which  are  vermilion 
and  white,  particoloured,  with  black 
stripes ;  and  they  wore  doublets 
laced  with  gold,  and  on  their  breasts 
the  arms  of  the  house  of  Honestis, 
which  are  a  dove  holding  a  leaf. 

Now  on  Friday,  the  eve  of  the  Feast 
of  the  Dead,  all  was  ready,  and  the 
chief  citizens  of  Ravenna  set  out  for 
the  forest  of  Classis,  with  their  wives 
and  children  and  servants,  some  on 
horseback,  and  others  in  wains  drawn 
by  oxon,  for  the  tracks  in  that  forest 
are  doep.  And  when  they  arrived, 
Messer  Nastasio  welcomed  them  and 
thanked  them  all,  and  conducted  them 
to  their  places  in  the  pavilion.  Then 
all  wondered  greatly  at  its  beauty 
and  magnificence,  and  chiefly  Messer 
Pavolo  de  Traversariis  ;  and  he  sighed, 
and  thought  within  himself,  "  Would 
that  my  daughter  were  less  shrewish, 
that  I  might  have  so  noble  a  son-in- 
law  to  prop  up  my  old  age  !  "  They 
were  seated  at  the  tables,  each  accord- 
ing to  their  dignity,  and  they  ate  and 
drank,  and  praised  the  excellence  of 
the  cheer  ;  and  flowers  were  scattered 
on  tho  tables,  and  young  maidens 
sang  songs  in  praise  of  love,  most 
sweetly.  Now  when  they  had  eaten 
their  fill,  and  the  tables  been  removed, 
and  the  sun  was  setting  between  the 
pine-trees,  Messer  Nastasio  caused 
them  nil  to  be  seated  facing  the  clear- 
ing, and  a  herald  came  forward,  in  the 
livery  of  the  Honestis,  sounding  his 
trumpot  and  declaring  in  a  loud  voice 
that  they  should  now  witness  a  page- 


ant the  which  was  called  the  Mystery 
of  Love  and  Death.  Then  the  musi- 
cians struck  up,  and  began  a  concert  of 
fifes  and  lutes,  exceeding  sweet  and 
mournful.  And  at  that  moment  the 
sea  began  to  moan,  and  a  cold  wind  to 
blow  :  a  sound  of  horsemen  and 
hounds  and  horns  and  crashing 
branches  came  through  the  wood ; 
and  the  damsel,  the  daughter  of  the 
Lord  of  Gambellara,  rushed  naked, 
her  hair  streaming  and  her  veil  torn, 
across  the  grass,  pursued  by  the 
hounds,  and  by  the  ghost  of  Messer 
Guido  on  the  black  horse,  the  nostrils 
of  which*  were  filled  with  fire.  Now 
when  the  ghost  of  Messer  Guido 
struck  that  damsel  with  the  boar- 
spear,  and  cut  out  her  heart,  and 
threw  it,  while  the  others  wound  their 
horns,  to  the  hounds,  and  all  van- 
ished, Messer  Nastasio  de  Honestis, 
seizing  the  herald's  trumpet,  blew  in 
it,  and  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "  The 
Pageant  of  Death  and  Love  !  The 
Pageant  of  Death  and  Love !  Such 
is  the  fate  of  cruel  damsels  !  "  and  the 
gilt  Cupid  on  the  roof  swung  round 
creaking  dreadfully,  and  the  daughter 
of  Messer  Pavolo  uttered  a  great 
shriek  and  fell  on  the  ground  in  a 
swoon. 

Here  the  Romagnol  manuscript 
comes  to  a  sudden  end,  the  outer 
sheet  being  torn  through  the  middle. 
But  we  know  from  the  DECAMERON 
that  the  damsel  of  the  Traversari  was 
so  impressed  by  the  spectre-hunt 
she  had  witnessed  that  she  forth- 
with relented  towards  Nastagio  degli 
Onesti,  and  married  him,  and  that  they 
lived  happily  ever  after.  But  whether 
or  not  that  part  of  the  pine-forest  of 
Classis  still  witnesses  this  ghostly 
hunt  we  do  not  know. 

VEBNON  LEE. 


390 


SOME   THOUGHTS  ON  CHATEAUBRIAND. 


WHEN  Chateaubriand  was  laid  in 
his  tomb  by  the  sea  which  he  had  loved 
so  well,  M.  Ampere,  on  behalf  of  the 
French  Academy,  delivered  one  of  those 
funeral  orations  that  have  always  an 
attraction  for  his  countrymen.  He 
ended  by  saying,  and  we  must  not  at  such 
a  time  look  for  moderation  or  serenity  : 
"This  life  of  the  great  which  now 
begins  for  M.  de  Chateaubriand, 
after  one  of  the  grandest,  one  of  the 
fullest,  one  of  the  purest  of  careers  ; 
this  life  of  glory  .  .  .  will  not  end 
until  our  planet  has  been  broken  in 
pieces,  and  the  last  footsteps  of  man 
have  been  effaced  from  the  earth." 
A  year  and  five  months  later,  on 
the  6th  of  December  1849,  the 
Due  de  Noailles  was  received  by 
the  French  Academy  in  the  place  of 
Chateaubriand,  and  delivered  a  glow- 
ing eulogy  of  his  predecessor.  "The 
name  of  Chateaubriand,"  said  the  Duke, 
'*  will  always  be  a  living  name  among 
you.  From  age  to  age  he  will  be  greeted 
in  this  place,  as  you  bow  before  the 
statues  of  those  great  men  who  seem 
in  person  to  preside  over  your  gather- 
ings ;  for,  like  them,  he  who  bore  this 
name  was  in  his  age  the  leader  of  the 
vanguard,  and  has  become  one  of  the 
imperishable  glories  of  his  country." 
This  may  of  course  be  true,  but  it  is 
rather  declamatory  ;  and,  in  any  one 
above  the  degree  of  a  Baronet,  de- 
clamation is  unbecoming.  It  expresses, 
however,  without  exaggeration,  the 
general  feeling  of  the  French  towards 
Chateaubriand  in  the  year  1849. 

But  fame,  after  all,  is  a  "  history  of 
variations,"  and  Chateaubriand  has 
not  escaped  the  fate  of  greater  and 
lesser  men.  Yesterday  he  was  idolised 
by  the  many  ;  to-day  they  have  ceased 
to  remember  him,  amid  the  excite- 
ment caused  by  the  appearance  of  a 
new  mediocrity  in  literature.  Never- 


theless, let  us  hope  that  the  man  of 
letters  has  kept  a  niche  for  the  author 
of  REN£  and  THE  MARTYRS.  He  at 
any  rate,  the  man  of  letters,  should 
maintain  something  of  that  Olympian 
calm  which  we  are  told  was  the  gift  of 
Pericles.  In  England  Chateaubriand 
has  not  been  a  favourite,  and  many 
years  ago  Matthew  Arnold  found  it 
necessary  to  defend  him  from  the 
charge  of  being  a  hollow  rhetorician. 
Englishmen  nnd  it  difficult  to  believe 
that  a  brilliant  writer  can  be  also  a 
deep  thinker  ;  it  is  this  shallow  pre- 
judice which  explains  Carlyle's  judg- 
ment upon  Burke.  We  are  English 
in  every  nerve  and  sinew,  but  we  do 
not  share  this  prejudice  with  our 
countrymen.  Indeed,  we  think  that 
the  man  who  cannot  write  with  clear- 
ness, with  simplicity  and  distinction, 
would  choose  the  wiser  part  if  he  did 
not  write  at  all.  The  glorious  gift 
of  the  past,  in  all  the  treasures  of  its 
art  and  literature,  would  not  be  the 
less  acceptable  if  all  in  it  that  is 
amorphous  could  be  quietly  dropped 
into  the  abyss  of  time. 

Frangois-Rene  de  Chateaubriand, 
the  youngest  of  a  family  of  ten 
children,  was  born  at  St.  Malo  on  the 
4th  of  September  1768.  In  the 
youth  of  his  father,  Count  Rene- 
Auguste  de  Chateaubriand,  who  was 
born  in  1711,  the  family  fortunes 
had  been  at  their  lowest  ebb.  It  was 
the  generous  dream  of  the  Count's  life 
to  repair  the  fortunes  of  his  house, 
and  .in  some  measure  he  succeeded. 
He  had  that  passion  for  the  sea  which 
was  in  the  blood  of  his  race ;  he  was  a 
shipowner,  and  a  good  man  of  business. 
As  the  years  went  on  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  buying  back  the 
domain  of  Comburg,  which  gave  him 
the  right  to  sign  himself  Comte  de 
Comburg.  At  St.  Malo,  Frangois- 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


391 


Rene  spent  his  childhood.  He  was  a 
dreamy,  melancholy  boy,  a  little 
neglected  by  his  parents,  owing  all 
the  happiness  of  these  days  to  his 
sister  Lucile,  or  to  the  care  of  a 
devoted  governess.  The  melancholy 
of  t.ie  Breton,  what  in  Chateaubriand's 
case  we  may  call  a  poetical  and 
religious  melancholy,  was  not  an 
accident  of  his  training,  but  was  part 
of  his  heritage ;  this  is  shown  by  the 
description  which  he  gives  of  his 
father.  "  His  habitual  state  of  mind," 
says  the  son,  "  was  a  profound  sadness, 
whi<;h  increased  as  he  grew  old,  and 
a  silence  which  he  broke  only  by  fits 
of  passion."  Francois-Rene  had  not 
only  this  sadness ;  he  was  also  a 
dreamer,  a  creature  of  keen  emotions, 
a  compound  of  the  sentimentalist  and 
the  sybarite. 

With  many  regrets  on  the  boy's 
part,  he  was  sent  from  home  to  the 
college  of  Dol,  where  he  learned  to 
love  Virgil  and  Horace ;  but  the 
religious  spirit  alternated  with  the 
literary,  and  Virgil  had  often  less 
charm  for  the  boy  than  F^nelon  and 
Massillon.  Then  came  a  sojourn  of 
two  years  at  the  college  of  Rennes,  to 
prepare  him  for  the  navy.  Aimless, 
not  knowing  his  own  desires  (is  this 
strange  in  a  youth  who  was  a  dreamer?), 
he  fancied  that  he  would  prefer  the 
religious  life,  and  was  taken  from 
Ren  aes  and  sent  to  Dinan  to  be  made 
a  priest.  He  does  not,  however,  appear 
to  have  been  specially  attracted  by  the 
promise  of  an  ecclesiastical  career, 
and  he  was  glad  to  leave  Dinan.  For 
the  next  two  years  he  lived  with  his 
family  at  Comburg.  It  was  at  this 
period,  he  tells  us,  that  he  became  all 
the  world  knew  him  to  be  in  later 
life.  How  may  we  describe  him  ? 
A  melancholy  dreamer,  profoundly 
religious  yet  passionately  sensuous, 
fond  of  solitude,  and  apt  to  attribute 
to  nature  qualities  which  do  not  exist 
aparo  from  the  mind  and  heart  of 
man ;  proud,  reserved,  with  great 
powers  of  fascination;  he  is  already 
that  Chateaubriand  whom  Sainte- 
Beuve  has  described  as  "  an  Epicurean 


with  the  imagination  of  a  Catholic." 
It  would  be  less  epigrammatic,  but 
would  perhaps  be  more  just,  to  describe 
him  as  a  Catholic  with  the  sensuous 
nature  of  the  artist. 

Yet  why  should  we  attempt  to  solve 
the  mystery  of  the  growth  of  genius  ? 
The  gift  of  genius,  and  the  method  of 
its  development,  will  remain  a  mystery 
after  all  we  can  possibly  say  about  it. 
Its  secret  is  incommunicable  ;  even  its 
possessor  has  not  mastered  it ;  the 
man  of  genius  not  only  constrains 
others,  he  is  himself  also  constrained. 
Millions  of  men  lived  and  were  trained 
under  much  the  same  conditions  as 
Virgil,  Chaucer,  Spenser,  yet  these 
three  men  had  genius  and  the  millions 
had  not.  M.  Taine  does  not  enable 
us  to  understand  it  by  his  theory  of 
"  environment,"  nor  does  M.  Brune- 
tiere  by  his  ''tradition."  There  is 
nothing  specially  interesting  in  the 
outward  circumstances  of  a  poet's 
life ;  it  is  the  lovely  product  of  his 
genius  which  is  truly  and  permanently 
interesting.  For  the  poet  vanishes, 
with  the  millions  who  had  not 
genius  ;  and  his  work  only  remains,  to 
form  part  of  the  enchanting  domain 
of  art,  and  to  relieve  the  gray 
monotony  of  human  life. 

To  put  an  end  to  the  dreaming  at 
Comburg,  his  brother  obtained  for 
him  a  sub-lieutenant's  commission  in 
the  army ;  but  he  had  not  been 
long  a  soldier  when  the  death  of 
his  father  recalled  him  to  Comburg. 
He  resumed  his  military  duties,  which 
(like  many  other  duties)  seem  to  have 
had  no  attraction  for  him ;  and  about 
this  time  (1787)  was  printed  the  first 
piece  of  his  writing  which  he  gave  to 
the  public.  He  had  the  honour  to  be 
presented  to  the  King,  though  not  on 
account  of  his  literary  performance — 
he  had  yet  done  nothing  of  importance 
in  that  way ;  we  mention  the  fact 
only  to  state  that  he  showed  himself 
an  indifferent  courtier.  That  un- 
bending pride,  which  in  his  maturity 
made  him  feel  himself  the  equal  of 
pope  or  king,  was  strong  already  in 
his  youth.  What  was  better  than 


392 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


bowing  to  Louis  the  Sixteenth,  he 
had  the  good  fortune  to  win  the 
friendship  of  M.  de  Malesherbes,  that 
excellent  and  cultivated  man  whom 
it  is  always  pleasant  to  meet  in  the 
byways  of  the  French  literature  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  But  in  the 
meantime  the  Revolution  had  begun, 
and  Chateaubriand,  who  little  thought 
of  the  horrors  that  were  to  follow, 
was  glad  to  carry  out  a  cherished 
plan  of  visiting  America,  on  which  he 
started  from  St.  Malo  on  the  5th  of 
April  1791.  He  began  this  voyage 
with  the  hope  of  gaining  immortality 
by  a  great  geographical  discovery  ;  he 
ended  it  by  discovering  his  own  genius, 
for  he  brought  from  America  the 
materials  for  ATALA  and  RENE.  He 
would  no  doubt  have  made  a  longer 
stay  in  the  New  World,  had  not  the 
advancing  tide  of  revolution  filled  him 
with  alarm,  and  made  him  regard  it 
as  a  duty  to  return  to  his  distracted 
country.  Out  in  the  wilds  he  had 
by  accident  seen  in  an  English  news- 
paper the  announcement  of  the  flight 
of  the  King  and  his  arrest  at  Yarennes. 
He  returned,  and  reached  Havre  in 
January  1792,  without  money,  having 
indeed  pledged  his  family's  credit  for 
the  voyage  homewards.  And  now 
came  the  extraordinary  marriage  of 
this  singular  man.  It  seems  to  have 
been  arranged  by  his  mother  and 
sisters,  and  the  proud  penniless  youth 
yielded  to  their  wishes.  He  says 
himself  about  his  marriage :  "  My 
sisters  put  their  heads  together  to 
induce  me  to  marry  Mdlle.  de  Lavigne. 
I  did  not  feel  in  myself  any  of  the 

qualifications    of    a    husband 

Lucile  loved  Mdlle.  de  Lavigne,  and 
saw  in  this  marriage  a  means  of 
securing  my  independence.  So  be  it, 
said  I.  In  my  case  it  is  the  public 
man  who  is  steadfast ;  the  private  man 
is  at  the  mercy  of  any  one  who  wishes 
to  master  him ;  and,  to  avoid  an 
hour's  bickering,  I  would  make  a  slave 
of  myself  for  a  century."  In  reading 
this  passage  one  is  tempted  to  speak 
strongly,  and  call  it  a  piece  of  childish 
sophistry.  Our  business  in  this  place, 


however,  is  not  to  write  a  homily,  but 
to  portray  Chateaubriand ;  and  the 
singular  thing  about  this  passage  is 
that  it  is  true.  The  marriage  was  not 
unhappy.  They  were  for  several 
years  content  to  live  apart ;  and  later 
in  life  Madame  de  Chateaubriand 
appears  to  have  found  all  the  needs  of 
her  life  satisfied  in  that  atmosphere 
of  devotion  and  self-sacrifice  which  is 
so  purifying  to  a  woman  of  strong 
character,  and  often  so  enervating  to 
the  woman  whose  character  is  not 
strong.  The  husband  in  any  case 
would  have  survived,  for  he  belonged 
to  the  class  of  sentimentalists  who 
are  the  better  for  having  their  hearts 
broken  once  or  twice  a  year.  It  is, 
however,  due  to  this  wayward  husband 
to  add  that,  when  poverty  overtook 
his  wife  in  1804,  he  acted  honourably 
and  affectionately  towards  her,  and 
took  her  to  share  his  home. 

The  gloomy  years  that  followed  his 
marriage  shall  not  detain  us  long. 
Many  other  men  of  Chateaubriand's 
rank,  however  greatly  his  inferiors  in 
ability,  shared  his  fate.  In  May  1793 
he  reached  London,  and  took  up  his 
residence  in  a  garret  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Holborn.  He  was 
an  exile,  wretched,  sometimes  in  want 
of  bread,  finding  solace  in  the  thought 
of  self-destruction.  A  better  kind  of 
consolation  was  found  in  literature 
and  journalism.  In  1797-8  he  wrote 
his  ESSAY,  HISTORICAL,  POLITICAL,  AND 

MORAL,   ON   ANCIENT   AND    MODERN 

REVOLUTIONS  (portentous  title  !),  for 
which  he  found  a  publisher,  and  also 
many  readers.  The  art  of  writing, 
as  Rousseau  says,  is  not  learned  at 
once ;  and  Chateaubriand,  like  many 
others,  had  to  serve  a  long  appren- 
ticeship to  this  charming  art.  The 
touch  of  the  master  was  not  shown 
until  1801,  when  ATALA  was  published, 
followed  next  year  by  THE  GENIUS  OP 
CHRISTIANITY. 

ATALA  and  RENE  were  originally 
portions  of  THE  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTI- 
ANITY ;  the  first  was  published  separ- 
ately, to  prepare  the  reading  public 
for  the  larger  work.  After  a  time 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


393 


the  author  detached  both  these  stories 
from  THE  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY, 
which  was  certainly  wise,  for  that 
work  has  still  too  much  irrelevant 
matter.  The  original  title,  by  the 
way,  was  long,  and  long  titles  are 
always  lumbering.  It  was  as  follows  : 
POETICAL  AND  MORAL  BEAUTIES  OF 
THE  CHRISTIAN  RELIGION,  AND  ITS  SU- 
PERIORITY OVER  ALL  OTHER  FORMS  OF 
WORSHIP.  Let  us  be  thankful  that 
he  had  found  the  shorter  title  before 
the  work  was  published  in  1802. 

THE  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY,  with 
the  two  wonderful  stories  which  it 
contained,  made  a  great  commotion 
in  the  world  of  letters.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  a  new  era  in  literature. 
Not  only  in  France  but  throughout 
Europe  spread  the  fame  of  Chateau- 
briand, who  was  greeted  as  a  writer 
destined  to  rank  with  the  greatest 
masters  in  French  literature.  Let  us 
say  at  once  that  the  prediction  was 
not  verified.  A  man  of  letters  of  the 
rank  of  Yoltaire,  Chateaubriand  cer- 
tainly was  not.  Yet  he  was  a  great 
writer,  and  a  great  power  in  litera- 
ture. 

In  the  meantime  Chateaubriand 
had  returned  to  France,  after  an 
absence  of  eight  years,  during  which 
period  his  country  had  suffered  so 
terribly.  His  own  family  had  known 
misfortune ;  for  they  were  noble,  and 
that  was  the  first  of  crimes  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Revolutionary  leaders. 
But  even  at  the  worst,  so  long  as 
courage  and  hope  remain,  life  is  never 
all  misery ;  and  Chateaubriand,  de- 
spite his  incurable  melancholy,  wrote 
much,  and  found  relief  in  writing. 
He  was  by  temperament  a  true  man 
of  leoters.  He*  found  happiness  also  in 
the  salon  of  Madame  de  Beaumont,  for 
there  Jie  was  soon  the  centre  of  an 
admiring  circle  of  friends,  one  of 
whot-e  objects  in  life  was  to  increase 
his  fame.  There  he  met  constantly 
the  best  and  wisest  of  his  friends, 
Joubert  and  Fontanes,  and  many 
delightful  women  whom  one  is  sorry 
not  to  have  known.  M.  de  Lescure, 
in  his  pleasant  little  book  on  Chateau- 


briand, thus  describes  our  writer's 
introduction:  "Into  this  salon — quiet, 
free,  with  its  air  of  mystery — badly 
lighted  by  a  single  lamp,  where  the 
two  old  waiters  from  the  splendid 
Montmorin  mansion  offered  to  visitors 
by  way  of  hospitality  nothing  but  a 
glass  of  orangeade  or  eau  sucree  ;  it 
was  into  this  salon  that  Chateau- 
briand, unknown  to  all  except  the 
few  friends  who  had  helped  to  bring 
him  back  into  France,  first  made  his 
appearance  one  evening  in  the  spring 
of  1800,  introduced  by  M.  de  Fon- 
tanes. He  brought  with  him  passion 
and  genius  and  glory,  attracting 
everybody,  and  at  once  carrying 
everything  before  him.  He  was  then 
thirty-two  years  old,  and  in  the  flower 
of  his  manhood.  He  was  of  middle 
height,  a  little  high-shouldered ;  all 
his  vitality  and  masculine  beauty 
seemed  to  be  centred  in  the  head, 
which  was  superb  and  full  of  fascina- 
tion. He  had  a  large  forehead,  with 
black  curling  hair,  and  eyes  that  had 
a  profound  expression,  like  the  sea 
whose  colour  they  had  ;  and  when  lie 
wished  to  please,  he  had  a  smile  at 
once  captivating  and  irresistible,  such 
as  Count  Mole  said  he  had  seen  only 
in  Bonaparte  and  Chateaubriand." 

THE  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY  had 
much  to  do  with  the  revival  of  Catho- 
licism in  France  ;  that  revival  which 
was  so  refreshing  to  every  human 
soul  after  the  buffooneries  of  the 
Revolutionists.  The  friends  of  Chateau- 
briand, and  Chateaubriand  himself 
also,  looked  to  Bonaparte  for  high 
place,  as  a  reward  due  to  the  author 
of  this  romantic  work  on  Christianity. 
It  had  certainly  done  much  to  further 
the  designs  of  the  First  Consul  as  to  the 
re-establishment  of  public  worship.  The 
reward  came  in  1803,  and  was  rather 
meagre  ;  Chateaubriand  was  appointed 
Secretary  to  the  French  Embassy  in 
Rome,  whither  he  went  in  May  of 
that  year.  He  was  received  most 
kindly  by  the  Pope,  and  no  doubt  the 
religious  as  well  as  the  poetical  side 
of  his  nature  drew  food  from  this  stay 
in  Rome  ;  but  in  other  respects  it  was 


394 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


not  happy.  He  could  nob  work 
smoothly  with  his  official  superior ; 
perhaps  he  could  not  have  worked 
smoothly  with  anybody  in  a  position 
of  authority  over  him,  for  he  was 
proud,  sensitive,  and  quick  to  take 
offence.  The  ambassador,  Cardinal 
Fesch,  a  relative  of  the  First  Consul, 
was  greatly  the  inferior  of  Chateau- 
briand ;  yet  the  secretary  could  not 
justly  expect  from  the  ambassador 
the  forbearance  which  he  received  at 
the  hands  of  Madame  de  Beaumont  or 
Madame  de  Recamier.  There  was  a 
private  sorrow  too,  which  for  a  time 
cast  its  shadow  over  him.  Poor 
Madame  de  Beaumont,  who  loved 
him  with  a  consuming  passion,  came 
to  see  him  in  Rome,  and  died  there 
in  his  arms.  Beautiful  spirit !  Well 
said  Sainte-Beuve  of  her,  "  She  was 
one  of  those  pathetic  beings  who 
glide  through  life,  and  leave  along 
their  course  a  track  of  light."  Cha- 
teaubriand's regard  for  her  was  not  a 
passion  ;  yet  the  tenderness  which  he 
showed  her  in  those  last  days  must 
have  made  it  more  easy  (or  perhaps 
more  difficult)  for  her  to  die.  What- 
ever were  the  faults  of  Chateaubriand, 
there  was  no  instinct  of  chivalry,  of 
generosity,  or  high  breeding  to  which 
he  was  a  stranger. 

He  returned  to  France  in  January 
1804,  having,  through  the  influence 
of  Fontanes,  been  appointed  French 
Minister  in  Yalais.  He  was  about  to 
start  for  the  scene  of  his  new  duties, 
when  the  execution  of  the  Due 
d'Enghien  caused  him  to  break  off 
relations  with  Bonaparte ;  and  hence- 
forth the  author  never  ceased  to 
hate  the  conqueror.  In  the  sphere 
of  ideas  as  distinct  from  the  sphere 
of  action,  it  may  well  be  said  that 
Napoleon  had  never  so  formidable  an 
opponent  as  Chateaubriand.  Most  of 
the  literary  enemies  of  Napoleon, 
like  that  Gottingen  professor  whose 
*'  terrible  end "  Heine  has  made  im- 
mortal, could  hurl  only  the  toy 
thunderbolts  which  are  always  ready 
to  the  hand  of  the  blatant  partisan ; 
it  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  a  man  of 


genius  that  he  may  draw  his  bolts 
from  the  armoury  of  Jove.  We  do 
not  attempt  to  judge  Napoleon  in  this 
case,  as  we  have  not  made  of  it  a 
special  study,  and  have  no  stock  of 
ready-made  judgments ;  but  whether 
the  execution  were  a  crime  or  not,  it  was 
certainly  a  blunder.  That  Chateau- 
briand was  sincere  in  believing  the  act 
to  be  a  crime  was  proved  by  his  subse- 
quent conduct ;  and  it  is  certain  he 
would  never  again  have  consented  to 
be  the  servant  of  Napoleon.  So,  while 
the  Man  of  Destiny  governed  France, 
Chateaubriand  was  content  to  devote 
himself  quietly  to  literature,  with  the 
result  that  in  1809  THE  MARTYRS  was 
published,  and  in  1811  the  ITINERARY 
FROM  PARIS  TO  JERUSALEM.  In  Feb- 
ruary 1811  he  was  chosen  to  fill  a 
seat  in  the  French  Academy,  which 
was  a  compliment  to  a  man  of  forty- 
two.  Is  not  sixty  the  age  at  which 
the  distinguished  French  man  of 
letters  usually  receives  this  prize? 
Whether  at  forty-two  or  sixty,  it  is 
always  welcome.  There  are  French 
writers  (it  is  said)  who  do  not  wish  to 
be  Academicians,  just  as  there  are 
Englishmen  who  do  not  admire  Shake- 
speare— superhumanly  clever  persons, 
no  doubt,  but  a  little  out  of  the 
natural  order. 

Napoleon,  who  at  this  time  was 
perhaps  not  unkindly  disposed  towards 
Chateaubriand,  was  anxious  to  see 
what  the  new  Academician  would  say 
on  his  reception,  and  ordered  the  manu- 
script to  be  submitted  to  him.  It  con- 
tained things  of  which  the  Emperor  dis- 
approved, and  he  returned  it  with  many 
alterations  and  erasures.  There  was  of 
course  an  imperial  explosion  of  anger, 
one  of  those  vulgar  displays  which 
made  Talleyrand  deplore  that  so  great 
a  man  should  have  been  so  very  ill- 
bred.  But  Chateaubriand  was  firm, 
and  would  not  sanction  the  alteration 
of  a  word,  in  consequence  of  which 
his  public  reception  by  the  Academy 
was  delayed  until  Napoleon  had  ceased 
to  control  the  destinies  of  France. 
Chateaubriand's  envenomed  pamphlet 
on  BONAPARTE  AND  THE  BOURBONS  was 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


395 


published  in  1814,  and  did  more  than 
any  other  piece  of  writing  to  bring 
about  a  change  of  rulers.  The  sig- 
nificance of  this  deadly  blow  was  clear 
enough  to  the  Emperor  himself,  who 
read  the  pamphlet  at  Fontainebleau. 
Indeed,  Louis  the  Eighteenth,  on  his 
ace  ession,  admitted  that  Chateaubriand 
was  the  real  king-maker  in  this  affair  ; 
and  such  an  admission  may  be  held 
to  absolve  a  king  from  the  simple  duty 
•of  gratitude. 

Chateaubriand,  however,  was  too 
considerable  a  man  to  be  left  entirely 
aside  ;  so,  according  to  the  old  political 
method  of  dealing  with  an  original 
.and  dangerous  man,  he  received  a 
small  appointment  out  of  the  country. 
Louis  the  Eighteenth  would  have  been 
wise  to  conciliate  him,  but  the  two 
men  had  antagonistic  temperaments ; 
•Chateaubriand  said  it  was  a  case  of  the 
dislike  of  the  classic  for  the  romantic. 

We  shall  not  say  mtich  about  the 
rest  of  Chateaubriand's  public  life, 
for  our  interest  is  in  the  writer  rather 
than  the  politician.  He  never  took 
up  his  new  appointment ;  circumstances 
were  stronger  than  Louis  the  Eight- 
eenth, and  Chateaubriand  was  kept 
at  home.  He  was  made  a  minister 
and  a  peer  of  France  (Vicomte  de 
'Chateaubriand),  and,  if  he  had  been 
less  quixotic,  might  have  become  a 
powerful  statesman  in  spite  of  the 
King.  He  was  vain  enough  to  resent 
neglect,  yet  too  proud  to  seek  office ; 
and,  himself  a  straightforward  poli- 
tician, he  hated  the  set  of  intriguers, 
'Talleyrand  and  the  rest,  who  controlled 
the  policy  of  France.  He  was  not 
the  man  to  smother  his  hatreds,  so  he 
made  many  enemies,  who  soon  con- 
trived to  bring  about  his  fall.  He 
•wrote  a  great  deal  about  this  time  for 
the  Press,  with  which  he  was  closely 
•connected;  and  his  journalistic  work, 
though  it  often  bore  the  stamp  of 
genius,  had  as  often  the  stain  of 
furious  partisanship.  If  you  are  an 
active  politician,  you  must  belong  to 
a  ]  >arty  ;  and  you  cannot  serve  your 
party  at  all  if  you  pose  as  a  model 
of  disinterestedness,  and  insist  upon 


seeing  the  good  on  both  sides.  Let 
us  say,  then,  that  Chateaubriand 
merely  accepted  the  rules  of  the 
game.  Whether  the  class  of  men 
known  as  philosophers  would  accept 
these  rules  we  cannot  say,  having 
had  no  opportunity  of  observing  their 
ways. 

In  1820  he  was  appointed  French 
Minister  at  Berlin.  There  he  remained 
only  until  the  next  year,  when  he  re- 
signed, from  a  feeling  of  loyalty  to 
his  party.  He  looked  for  the  position 
of  Foreign  Minister  in  the  new  Cab- 
inet, but  received  instead  an  appoint- 
ment peculiarly  interesting  to  English- 
men who  love  letters :  he  was  sent  as 
ambassador  to  London.  At  the  Con- 
gress of  Yerona  in  1822  he  was  one 
of  the  representatives  of  France,  after 
which  his  ambition  was  gratified,  for 
he  was  made  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs  ;  and  during  his  tenure  of  this 
office  he  made  himself  responsible  for 
the  war  with  Spain  (1823).  He  had 
at  this  time  a  great  popularity,  and 
received  many  decorations  from  the 
sovereigns  of  Europe.  But  his  power 
and  popularity  were  not  to  last. 
Want  of  sympathy  between  King  and 
Minister,  and  the  intrigues  of  rivals 
and  enemies,  brought  about  his  fall  in 
June  1824. 

He  was  in  1827  made  ambassador 
at  Rome,  but  remained  there  only  two 
years,  giving  up  office  from  scruples 
that  did  honour  to  his  courage  and 
character.  A  lover  of  liberty  and  con- 
stitutional government,  he  believed 
that  his  country  was  in  peril.  A  later 
act  was  equally  creditable  to  him. 
After  the  Revolution  of  1830,  he  at 
once  resigned  both  peerage  and  pension, 
and  thus  ended  his  career  as  states- 
man and  diplomatist.  Any  later  ex- 
cursions which  he  made  into  the 
region  of  politics  were  those  of  a 
private  citizen. 

He  lived  eighteen  years  after  the 
Revolution  of  1830,  and  continued  to 
write  on  historical  and  political  sub- 
jects, adding  much  also  to  his  auto- 
biography, MEMORIES  FROM  BEYOND 
THE  GRAVE,  and  translating  PARADISE 


396 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


LOST  into  French.  His  greatest  hap- 
piness in  these  years  probably  came 
through  the  friendship  of  Madame  de 
Recainier,  a  woman  who  would  be 
remembered  for  her  rare  beauty  alone, 
if  it  were  possible  to  forget  her  graces. 
Towards  the  end  he  was  paralysed, 
and  grew  silent  and  a  little  moody ; 
but  there  remained  to  the  last  the  old 
courage  and  pride,  and  something  of 
the  old  fire  of  genius.  Nor  did  he 
lack  those  lofty  consolations  which  he 
had  so  often,  in  his  writings  on  reli- 
gion, offered  to  others.  His  wife 
died  in  1847  ;  he  lived  only  until  the 
following  year,  dying  on  the  4th  of 
July  1848,  at  the  age  of  eighty. 

We  confess  that  we  feel  little  grati- 
fication in  reviewing  his  public  life ; 
for  when  we  have  admitted  that  it  is 
the  career  of  a  chivalrous,  high-minded 
man,  usually  disinterested  and  always 
superior  to  the  love  of  gain,  we  still 
feel  that  vanity  has  too  large  a  place 
in  it.  There  is  also  a  want  of  unity 
about  it,  which  cannot  be  altogether 
explained  by  the  growth  of  the  demo- 
cratic idea  in  the  second  half  of  his 
life.  Yet  it  must  be  confessed  that 
he  was  a  powerful  writer  on  political 
questions,  showing  sometimes  a  wis- 
dom and  a  prescience  that  make  us 
think  of  Burke.  And  he  had  this 
also  in  common  with  Burke,  that, 
while  it  is  delightful  to  read  him,  it 
must  have  been  anything  but  delight- 
ful to  work  with  him. 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  give 
many  instances  of  his  political  fore- 
sight, which  is  all  the  more  remark- 
able if  we  consider  his  origin.  Sixty 
years  ago  he  clearly  foresaw  that  the 
steam-engine  and  the  telegraph  would 
create  greater  revolutions  than  that 
of  1789,  and  he  foresaw  too  the  crea- 
tion of  that  new  power  called  Public 
Opinion  which  science  first  made  pos- 
sible. "  Social  conditions,"  he  said  in 
1834,  "have  been  changed  by  the 
discovery  of  printing.  The  press,  a 
machine  which  cannot  be  broken,  will 
continue  to  destroy  the  old  world 
until  out  of  the  old  it  has  fashioned 
a  new  one.  It  is  a  voice  which  will 


reach  the  masses."  Again,  in  1836, 
speaking  of  the  future,  he  says : 
"  Society,  such  as  it  is  to-day,  will 
not  exist;  the  more  the  masses  are 
educated,  the  more  they  will  discover 
the  secret  wound  which  from  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world  has  gnawed  into 
the  very  heart  of  social  order,  that 
wound  which  is  the  cause  of  all  popular 
grievances  and  agitations.  The  too 
great  inequality  of  conditions  and  for- 
tunes has  been  maintained  because  it 
has  been  hidden  from  the  one  side  by 
ignorance,  from  the  other  by  the 
factitious  organisation  of  the  city ; 
but  as  soon  as  this  inequality  is 
generally  perceived,  a  mortal  blow 
will  have  been  struck  at  the  system." 
He  who  wrote  this  was  an  aristocrat 
by  birth  and  temperament ;  indeed, 
we  may  say  that  by  his  tastes  and 
manners  he  belonged  entirely  to  the 
old  order ;  it  was  by  pure  force  of  in- 
tellect that  he  foretold  the  new  time. 
We  know  that  he  read  himself  some- 
what differently :  "I  am,"  he  said  in 
1831,  "by  honour  a  Bourbonite,  a 
Royalist  by  reason  and  conviction,  by 
taste  and  character  a  Republican."  It 
is  not  a  correct  piece  of  self-por- 
traiture. His  democratic  leanings 
were  purely  intellectual. 

Of  course  the  question  has  been 
asked,  with  regard  to  Chateaubriand 
as  with  regard  to  other  men  of  genius, 
was  he  wise  to  take  an  active 
part  in  politics?  Ought  he  not  to 
have  been  content  to  write  books, 
leaving  politics  and  public  speeches 
to  the  men  who  are  born  for  such 
things  ?  In  the  same  way  we  are  told 
that  Thackeray  should  not  have  de- 
livered lectures,  and  that  Dickens 
should  not  have  given  public  readings 
from  his  works.  It  is  one  of  those 
questions  which  are  full  of  interest  to 
the  members  of  literary  societies,  and 
it  might  well  be  left  for  their  patient, 
consideration.  The  man  of  genius 
must  accept  the  ordinary  conditions 
of  life,  and  he  may  surely  claim  the 
right  which  smaller  men  enjoy,  to  use 
his  powers  in  his  own  way.  The 
critic  may  rightly  ask  whether  an 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


ignoble  use  has  been  made  of  these 
powers ;  but  he  will  not  (unless  he  is 
a  parochial  critic)  say  that  it  is 
necessarily  ignoble  to  lecture  or  make 
a  speech.  Many  of  the  writers  of 
our  century  would  have  been  the 
better  for  a  spell  of  public  life  ;  their 
chief  fault  is  that  they  have  known 
too  much  of  books,  and  too  little  of 
life. 

Of  his  personal  character  we  have 
not  much  more  to  say.  He  was 
princely  in  his  ideas  about  money, 
and  often  embarrassed  for  the  want 
of  it.  How  could  a  man  escape  em- 
barrassment who,  without  estate,  had 
the  munificence  of  the  grand  seig- 
neur ?  The  sense  of  honour  and  the 
love  of  glory  were  strong  in  Chateau- 
briand— a  little  too  strong,  we  think  ; 
carried  to  such  a  point,  they  have  a 
theatrical  air,  and  are  an  offence 
against  simplicity  and  delicacy.  Yet 
in  spite  of  this,  in  spite  too  of  that 
excessive  sensibility  and  self-con- 
sciousness which  are  a  badge  of  the 
sentimental  school,  he  was  humane 
and  warm-hearted,  at  times  capable 
of  rancour,  but  never  incapable  of 
generosity.  It  is  not  our  right  to 
demand  the  rigid  self -discipline  of  a 
St.  Bruno.  We  find  much  to  like  in 
Chateaubriand  as  he  is ;  and  even  if 
we  were  compelled  to  give,  so  far  as 
they  are  known,  a  full  account  of  his 
faults,  that  would  not  in  any  way 
lessen  our  liking. 

In  what  we  have  now  to  say  about 
the  literary  artist,  we  shall  put  aside 
the  work  of  the  historian  and  poli- 
tician, as  well  as  that  of  the  autobiogra- 
pher,  confining  ourselves  to  those  more 
purely  creative  works  by  virtue  of 
which  he  has  been  such  a  power  in  the 
sphere  of  humane  letters;  to  ATALA 
and  RENF;,  THE  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTI- 
ANITY and  THE  MARTYKS.  THE  GENIUS 
OF  CHRISTIANITY  was  published  at  a 
time  when  the  soul  of  France,  after 
so  much  revolutionary  bombast,  was 
ready  to  listen  to  a  human  voice  that 
had  reverence  in  its  accents.  After 
the  mockery  of  Voltaire  and  the  grim 
burlesque  of  Robespierre,  how  beau- 


397 


tiful,  how  healing  were  the  words  of 
Chateaubriand!  This  we  must  re- 
member if  we  would  give  to  THE 
GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY  its  true 
place  in  the  history  of  religion ;  it 
may  also  be  said  to  have  had  a  con- 
siderable political  significance,  since 
it  furthered  so  much  the  designs  of 
the  First  Consul.  In  the  preface 
which  Chateaubriand  wrote  for  the 
edition  of  1828,  he  says  :  "  Bonaparte, 
who  at  that  time  wished  to  establish 
his  power  on  the  first  basis  of  society 
[the  religious  basis],  and  who  had  just 
come  to  an  arrangement  with  the 
Court  of  Rome,  put  no  obstacle  in  the 
way  of  publishing  a  work  likely  to 
assist  him  in  his  own  projects.  He 
was  surrounded  by  the  enemies  of 
religion,  who  were  opposed  to  all 
concession,  and  in  fighting  these  men 
he  was  glad  to  be  defended  by  the 
expression  of  public  opinion  in  favour 
of  the  work.  Later  on  he  was  sorry 
for  his  mistake ;  and  at  the  moment 
of  his  fall  he  confessed  that  the  work 
which  had  been  most  fatal  to  his  rule 
was  THE  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY." 
We  may  justly  ascribe  to  the  work  all 
the  political  importance  which  the 
author  claims  for  it. 

Would  it  be  equally  important  to 
a  literary  critic  who,  in  disregard  of 
the  historical  method,  should  apply  an 
absolute  standard  to  such  things  ? 
Neither  by  the  manner  of  its  evolution 
nor  by  its  style  (we  by  no  means  say 
this  distinction  is  ever  absolute)  can 
it  be  said  to  merit  a  place  among 
things  eternal.  There  is  in  the  book 
too  much  of  the  poetry  of  nature  and 
art,  and  too  little  of  the  poetry  of  the 
human  soul.  It  is  with  a  precon- 
ceived idea  that  he  describes  nature 
and  man.  He  sets  out  with  the  purpose 
of  discovering  the  mark  of  Providence 
in  the  world,  and  he  sees  it  wherever 
he  wishes  to  see  it.  In  the  care  of 
the  tigress  for  her  young  he  detects 
the  sign  of  a  special  Providence,  and 
in  the  roar  of  the  lion  he  hears  a  song 
of  praise.  Would  a  severe  thinker 
like  Spinoza  have  done  thus  ?  Would 
Chateaubriand  himself  have  done  it, 


398 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


if  he  had  not  been  so  deficient  in  hum- 
our ?  The  beauties  of  nature  make  a 
moral  appeal  to  him ;  the  quiet  land- 
scape has  its  voice  of  thanksgiving, 
and  when  the  cedar  of  Lebanon  waves 
in  the  night  air  it  is  uttering  a  psalm. 
The  correct  thinker  has  to  make  him- 
self see  that  man  has  an  aesthetic  side 
which  must  not  be  confounded  with  his 
moral  nature ;  it  is  to  this  aesthetic 
side  that  all  beautiful  things,  whether 
in  nature  or  art,  make  their  appeal. 
There  is  in  nature  no  food  for  the 
religious  sense ;  it  exists  only  in  the 
heart  and  conscience  of  humanity,  and 
there  alone  can  it  find  its  proper 
nourishment.  Pascal  saw  this ;  but 
Chateaubriand  did  not  see  it,  because 
he  was  not  an  accurate  thinker.  Yet 
one  great  truth  he  did  see  with  clear- 
ness, which  some  thinkers  more  power- 
ful than  Chateaubriand  have  failed  to 
grasp.  He  saw  that  the  moralist  has 
no  secure  ground  apart  from  a  religious 
idea,  that  indeed  the  moral  idea  with- 
out God  is  delusive  and  illogical.  The 
theologian  may  be  a  logician  :  even 
the  poor  hedonist  in  his  way  may  be  a 
logician ;  but  the  moralist  who  builds 
up  his  scheme  within  the  limits  of  con- 
sciousness, and  without  reference  to 
anything  beyond  it,  is  a  blundering 
reasoner.  For  if  we  are  here  but  for 
a  day,  and  if  with  the  day  we  are  to 
end,  then  was  Kenan's  famous  saying 
not  unwise,  since  the  "gay  people" 
after  all  "  may  be  in  the  right." 

It  is  Chateaubriand's  thesis  to  prove 
that  the  Christian  religion  is  superior 
to  all  other  forms  of  religion.  To  this 
end  he  is  not  content  to  confine  himself 
to  its  doctrines  and  ritual ;  he  endeav- 
ours also  to  show  the  superiority  of 
Christian  literature  and  art.  In  this 
of  course  he  gives  away  his  case,  for 
in  literature  and  in  art  the  Greeks, 
after  all  these  centuries,  are  still 
supreme.  Religion  satisfies  an  inner 
need,  and  gives  completeness  to  man's 
life.  It  is  no  more  compelled  to  ex- 
plain itself  than  the  maternal  instinct 
or  the  instinct  of  admiration  ;  for,  if  it 
cannot  fully  explain  itself,  it  can  give 
as  certain  proof  of  its  existence  as  any 


fact  vouched  for  by  science.  Every 
European  who  loves  order  and  chastity 
is  more  or  less  a  Christian,  for  no  man- 
can  escape  utterly  from  the  spiritual 
cycle  into  which  he  was  born.  We 
think  Chateaubriand  would  have  been 
wise  if  he  had  been  content  to  develope 
such  simple  ideas  as  these.  We  do 
not,  however,  agree  with  Madame  de 
Stae'l,  who,  on  the  first  publication  of 
THE  GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY,  said  that 
it  contained  neither  Christianity  nor 
genius.  Chateaubriand  had  been  harsh 
towards  this  brilliant  woman,  and  the 
title  of  the  book  was  tempting.  It 
contains  a  great  deal  of  genius ;  and 
much  Christianity  also,  though  it  is 
the  sensuous  side  of  it  rather  than  the 
spiritual.  It  is  too  much  on  one  level ; 
it  is  too  highly  coloured,  and  lacks 
repose  and  unity.  But,  with  these  and 
other  drawbacks,  it  is  the  work  of  a 
great  writer. 

Probably  De  Quincey  had  THE 
GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY  in  mind  when 
he  said  that  Chateaubriand  had  written 
"  the  most  florid  prose  the  modern 
taste  will  bear."  Our  respect  for  De 
Quincey  cannot  alter  the  fact  that  his 
judgments  on  French  literature  are 
usually  unsound.  We  quote  this  par- 
ticular saying,  not  to  quarrel  with  De 
Quincey,  but  because  it  is  the  general 
English  opinion  with  regard  to 
Chateaubriand.  Now  it  is  singular  so 
clever  a  man  as  De  Quincey  should 
not  have  seen  that  his  friend  Christo- 
pher North  wrote  prose  more  florid 
than  Chateaubriand's,  prose  without 
measure  or  restraint,  which  is  con- 
stantly losing  the  rhythm  of  prose  and 
straining  after  that  of  poetry.  Could  the 
prose-writer  offend  in  any  worse  man- 
ner? Is  it  not  as  offensive  as  the  worst 
form  of  preciosity?  Chateaubriand's 
greatest  fault  of  style  is  his  super- 
eloquence  ;  yet  his  prose  by  its  con- 
struction is  classical,  while  it  is  perhaps 
the  most  rhythmical  prose  of  modern 
times.  Rousseau's  harmony  of  sentence 
speaks  rather  of  the  musician  than  the 
poet.  Chateaubriand  is  a  poet  who, 
working  in  the  medium  of  prose,  is 
true  to  his  medium. 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateatdriand. 


399 


RKN£  is  the  story,  in  autobio- 
graphic form,  of  a  young  Frenchman 
of  that  name  who,  a  hundred  and 
seventy  years  ago,  weary  of  civilisation 
and  tortured  in  conscience,  threw  up 
his  I  irthright  as  a  European,  and  went 
to  live  among  the  American  Indians. 
He  was  most  kindly  received  by  the 
Natchez,  and  adopted  by  Chactas, 
"the  Patriarch  of  the  Deserts,"  as 
Chateaubriand  calls  him.  This  blind 
old  man  had  been  in  his  youth  the 
lover  of  Atala.  Rene  is  a  brooding 
man.  with  no  power  of  will,  who  yet 
aspires  and  finds  that  all  is  vanity. 
He  nas  a  conscience  which  he  never 
obeys,  so  that  it  is  always  a  torture  to 
him,  and  never  a  guide.  The  sins  of  his 
youtu  haunt  him,  and  he  weeps  as  he 
thinks  of  them,  but  it  is  a  mere  luxury 
of  emotion,  for  he  is  incapable  of  a 
manly  penitence.  He  is,  in  short,  one  of 
those  men  who  find  no  solace  in  a  life 
of  action,  to  whom  the  fruits  of  the 
earth  are  bitter,  and  Nature  herself 
but  a  step-mother.  Would  it  not  be 
well  if  such  men  in  their  youth  could 
be  handed  over  to  the  Carthusians  1 
Rene  in  the  intellectual  world  has 
been  the  father  of  a  large  and  strange 
fami]y,  whose  descendants  to-day  talk 
about  the  soul- sickness  of  the  age, 
decadence,  and  the  rest  of  it ;  with 
respect  to  all  of  whom  our  good  friends 
the  Carthusians  should  be  invested 
with  plenary  powers.  It  is  not  a 
new  disease,  as  Rene  and  the  children 
of  Rene  have  declared  ;  thousands  of 
men  who  had  known  it,  of  every  clime 
and  ora,  are  sleeping  in  the  bosom  of 
the  kindly  earth.  In  the  Greek  writ- 
ings it  did  not  find  expression,  because 
of  the  impersonal  character  of  Greek 
literary  art;  but  the  Hebrew  genius  was 
strongly  leavened  with  it.  RENE  bears 
the  impress  of  genius  as  strongly  as 
any  production  of  the  modern  world ; 
it  has  indeed  the  accent  of  the  great 
masters.  It  is  easy  to  urge  against  it 
that  in  the  "  borderland  dim  'twixt 
vice  and  virtue "  the  author  is  dis- 
posed to  play  a  conjurer's  part ;  equally 
easy  is  it  to  say,  and  in  accordance 
with  the  experience  of  ages,  that  the 


artist  who  does  this  is  sure  to  lose  his 
balance.  It  is  not  the  less  true  that 
RENE  is  one  of  the  works  of  our 
century  likely  to  interest  the  centuries 
to  come. 

ATALA  is  the  love-story  of  Chactas. 
In  his  youth  he  was  a  prisoner  in  the 
hands  of  a  hostile  tribe  of  Indians, 
and  was  condemned  to  be  burned, 
with  the  usual  tortures,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  tribe ;  but  on  the 
eve  of  this  terrible  ceremony  he  was 
released  by  a  chief's  daughter,  Atala, 
who  secretly  loved  him  ;  and  together 
they  flew  to  the  desert.  She  was  a 
Christian,  as  was  also  her  mother,  and 
by  the  wish  of  the  mother  she  had 
taken  a  solemn  vow  of  chastity.  The 
tragedy  of  the  story  lies  in  the  struggle 
between  love  and  duty ;  and,  although 
duty  is  victorious,  the  struggle  brings 
death  to  the  poor  maiden.  It  is  in 
striking  contrast  with  the  story  of 
Yelleda  the  Druidess,  in  THE 
MARTYRS.  Chateaubriand  no  doubt 
meant  the  story  of  the  Christian 
virgin  to  reflect  the  higher  character 
of  Christianity.  It  is  good  morals 
but  bad  art,  for  Velleda  is  the  more 
human,  the  more  pathetic  figure. 
ATALA  is  one  of  those  stories  which 
have  a  great  charm  for  us  at  twenty- 
five;  "good  taste  in  literature,"  as 
Joubert  says,  "  is  a  faculty  of  slow 
growth,"  and  the  years  lessen  the 
charm  a  little.  When  one  is  older, 
the  graces  which  are  chaste  and 
mellow  become  more  and  more  at- 
tractive; and  thus  at  length  the  de- 
scriptions of  nature  and  of  human 
passion  in  ATALA  seem  too  luxuriant. 
We  should  not  care  to  read  it  as  often 
as  we  have  read  THE  LAST  ABENCERAGE, 
a  little  story  by  Chateaubriand  which 
we  never  weary  of  ;  yet  ATALA  is  still 
pleasant  to  read,  for,  though  its  charm 
has  lessened,  it  has  by  no  means 
vanished. 

The  thesis  which  Chateaubriand 
had  expounded  at  such  length  in  THE 
GENIUS  OF  CHRISTIANITY  he  was  bold 
enough  to  apply  in  THE  MARTYRS. 
Here  we  have  men  and  women  whose 
lives  shall  prove  the  hollowness  of 


400 


Some  Thoughts  on  Chateaubriand. 


Paganism,  the  satisfying  beauty  and 
inward  peace  of  Christianity.  The 
thesis  is  good  ;  the  application  is  open 
to  question.  A  strong  piece  of  pole- 
mics THE  MARTYRS  is  not,  but  it  is  a 
noble  piece  of  literature.  It  is  the 
fate  of  the  writers  of  stories  dealing 
with  the  early  Christian  times  either 
to  paint  the  Pagans  too  black  or  to 
make  them  more  interesting  than  the 
Christians.  The  events  in  THE 
MARTYRS  are  fixed  chiefly  in  the  reign 
of  Galerius,  and  the  central  interest 
of  the  work  is  in  the  story  of  Eudorus, 
a  Christian,  a  friend  of  Jerome  and 
Constantine.  Eudorus,  like  Augustine, 
had  known  the  world,  and  had  tasted 
its  pleasures  before  he  saw  the  vanity 
of  earthly  things.  He  loves  Cymo- 
docea,  the  daughter  of  Demodocus,  a 
priest  of  Homer,  and  the  last  de- 
scendant of  the  Homeridse ;  and 
through  the  influence  of  the  lover 
Cymodocea  becomes  a  Christian.  A 
miracle  of  grace  and  loveliness,  she  has 
inspired  Hierocles,  the  pro-consul  of 
Achaia,  with  a  passion  that  fills  his 
life.  He  is  the  villain  of  the  piece, 
this  oppressive  Hierocles,  and  fails  to 
interest  you,  because  he  is  an  im- 
possible mixture  of  the  wild  beast  and 
the  old-fashioned  ruffian  of  the  stage. 
In  the  end  Eudorus  and  Cymodocea 
are  torn  to  pieces  by  a  tiger  in  the 
amphitheatre. 

^Chateaubriand  calls  THE  MARTYRS 


an  epic  poem,  and  quotes  Aristotle 
and  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus  to 
show  that  such  a  poem  may  be 
written  in  prose  as  well  as  verse.  We 
might  have  been  glad  to  agree  with 
these  accomplished  critics,  if  Chateau- 
briand by  his  own  example  had  not 
proved  that  the  feat  is  at  least  ex- 
tremely difficult.  An  epic  poem,  says 
Chateaubriand,  requires  some  kind  of 
supernatural  machinery,  so  he  gives 
us  angels  and  demons  after  the 
Miltonic  fashion.  A  demon  who 
talks  in  stately  verse  may  be  suffer- 
able ;  one  who  talks  in  prose  is 
always  wearisome.  Chateaubriand's 
angels  and  demons,  like  their  author, 
are  lacking  in  humour.  The  work 
has  other  defects,  which  the  reader 
may  easily  discover.  Yet  it  is  the 
great  work  of  a  great  writer ;  its 
diction  is  in  many  places  perfect,  by 
its  fitness  to  the  subject,  by  its  rhythm, 
its  classical  construction  and  refine- 
ment. We  are  acquainted  with  no 
writing  which  gives  so  vivid  a  picture 
of  civilised  and  uncivilised  Europe  in 
the  early  Christian  ages.  There  is  in 
the  work  enough  genius  to  fit  out  a 
colony  of  literary  men. 

Chateaubriand's  limitations  are 
easily  seen,  and  we  have  certainly  not 
closed  our  eyes  to  them.  We  trust, 
however,  we  have  not  failed  to  convey 
the  idea  that  in  spite  of  these  limita- 
tions he  is  a  great  enchanter. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


OCTOBER,    1894. 


CROMWELL'S  VIEWS  ON  SPORT. 


THE  popular  conception  of  the 
Puritan  leaders  represents  them  as 
much  more  puritanical  than  they 
really  were.  Fanatical  though  they 
might  be  in  some  of  their  ideas,  there 
was  often  very  little  of  the  fanatic  in 
their  exteriors.  In  manners,  in  dress, 
and  e?en  in  some  of  their  amusements 
they  were  like  other  country  gentle- 
men or  other  lawyers  of  their  time. 
The  difference  was  that  in  their  bear- 
ing and  in  their  behaviour  there  was 
always  visible  a  certain  sobriety  and 
self-rt  straint,  which  sprang  naturally 
from  more  serious  views  of  life  and 
higher  ideals  of  conduct.  Scott's 
portraits  of  Colonel  Everard  and 
Henry  Morton  are  true  pictures  of 
the  average  Puritan  gentleman. 

Cromwell,  like  his  brothers  in  arms, 
is  often  described  as  a  morose  and 
gloomy  fanatic.  A  candidate  in  a 
recent  examination  summed  up  this 
popular  view  of  his  character  in  the 
following  words:  "Cromwell  was  a 
man  o :'  intense  religious  fervour.  In 
the  dijs  of  his  youth  we  find  him 
grown,  g  up  a  rigid  Puritan.  He 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  any 
sensua.  enjoyment.  He  was  always 
able  t*.  be  foremost  at  sports,  yet  to 
enjoy  limself  was  the  very  greatest 
sin.  We  hear  of  him  going  through 
days  oc  sorrow  because  he  had  par- 
taken in  some  innocent  enjoyment. 
He  always  had  a  great  fear  of  the 
Evil  One."  The  real  Cromwell,  how- 
ever, was  by  no  means  afraid  to 

No.   120. — VOL.  LXX. 


enjoy    himself   or   averse    to    amuse- 
ments.    "  Oliver,"  as  one  of  his  offi- 
cers   observes,     "  loved    an   innocent 
jest,"  and  especially  a  practical  jest. 
Under    the    cuirass    of    the    General 
or   the    royal    robe  of    the  Protector 
he   was   always   an   athletic   country 
gentleman   of    sporting   tastes.     His 
Royalist  biographers  make  his  early 
taste  for  athletics  one  of  their  charges 
against  him.    He  learnt  little  at  Cam- 
bridge, says  "  Carrion  "  Heath,  "  and 
was    more    famous  for  his    exercises 
in   the  fields  than  the  schools,  being 
one   of  the  chief   match-makers   and 
players  of   foot- ball,  cudgels,   or  any 
other    boisterous     sport     or     game." 
He  "  was  soon  cloyed  with  studies," 
adds     Bates,     "delighting     more     in 
horses,  and  in  pastimes  abroad  in  the 
fields."     Thus   much   we   may  safely 
believe ;  but  Heath  is  probably  invent- 
ing when   he   informs  us   that  after 
Mr.  Cromwell  returned  to  his  home 
at  Huntingdon  "  his  chief  weapon  in 
which  he  delighted,  and  at  which  he 
fought   several    times   with    tinkers, 
pedlars,  and  the  like,  was  a  quarter- 
staff,  at  which  he  was  so  skilful  that 
seldom  did  any  overmatch  him." 

The  love  of  horses  which  Bates 
mentions  is  proved  by  the  concurrent 
testimony  of  all  contemporary  writers, 
and  by  instances  drawn  from  every 
part  of  Cromwell's  life.  It  was  as  a 
leader  of  cavalry  that  he  originally 
gained  his  fame,  and  it  cannot  be 
doubted  that  the  superior  efficiency  of 

D  D 


402 


Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport. 


his  regiment  was  due  not  only  to  the 
care  with  which  he  selected  his  men, 
but  to  the  attention  which  he  devoted 
to  their  mounts.  "The  men,"  says 
Bates,  "  became  in  time  most  excellent 
soldiers ;  for  Cromwell  used  them 
daily  to  look  after,  feed,  and  dress 
their  horses,  and,  when  it  was  needful, 
to  lie  together  on  the  ground ;  and 
besides  taught  them  to  clean  and  keep 
their  arms  bright,  and  have  them 
ready  for  service."  Contemporary 
pamphlets  mention  two  examples  of 
Cromwell's  solicitude  for  the  horses 
of  his  troopers.  In  October  1643, 
just  before  Winceby  fight  in  Lincoln- 
shire, when  the  Earl  of  Manchester 
ordered  his  officers  to  prepare  to  give 
battle,  Cromwell  alone  among  them 
opposed  his  resolution .  * '  Colonel  Crom  • 
well  was  in  no  way  satisfied  that  we 
should  fight,  our  horse  being  already 
wearied  with  hard  duty  two  or  three 
days  together."  1  Again,  in  November 
1644,  after  the  second  battle  of 
Newbury,  when  Charles  returned  to 
fetch  away  his  guns  from  Donnington 
Castle,  the  Earl  of  Manchester,  who 
had  allowed  the  King's  army  to  escape 
and  refused  to  advance  when  the  op- 
portunity had  offered,  ordered  Crom- 
well and  the  cavalry  to  check  the 
King's  march.  Cromwell,  eager  to 
advance  three  days  earlier,  now  held 
it  impossible  to  carry  out  the  plan. 
Manchester's  chaplain  heard  Cromwell 
earnestly  dissuading  his  General.  "  My 
Lord,"  he  said,  "your  horse  are  so 
spent,  so  harassed  out  by  hard  duty, 
that  they  will  fall  down  under  their 
riders,  if  you  thus  command  them  ;  you 
may  have  their  skins,  but  you  can  have 
no  service."  2 

As  Cromwell  rose  in  power  and 
rank  his  love  of  horses  began  to  be 
more  conspicuous,  and  his  position 
enabled  him  to  indulge  it  to  the  full. 
When  he  started  from  London  in 
1649  to  reconquer  Ireland,  "he  went 
forth  in  that  state  and  equipage  as 

1  Vicars,  GOD'S  ARK,  p.  45. 

2  Simeon  Ash,  A  TRUE  KELATION  OF  THE 

MOST  CHIEF   OCCURRENCES  AT  AND  SINCE   THE 

LATE  BATTLE  AT  NEWBURY,  1644,  p.  6. 


the  like  hath  hardly  been  seen  ;  him- 
self in  a  coach  with  six  gallant  Fland- 
ers mares,  reddish-grey."3  In  1655, 
when  the  Spanish  Ambassador  took 
his  leave  of  the  Lord  Protector,  Crom- 
well sent  him  "  his  own  coach  of  six 
white  horses  "  to  convey  him  to  and 
from  Whitehall.  "  Certain  it  is," 
adds  the  narrator,  "  that  none  of  the 
English  kings  had  ever  any  such." 4 
During  the  Protectorate  the  diploma- 
tic agents  of  England  in  foreign  parts 
were  often  employed  to  procure  horses 
for  the  Protector.  Longland,  the  agent 
at  Leghorn,  wrote  on  June  18th,  1655, 
reporting  his  progress  :  "  I  now  have 
advice  from  my  friend  at  Naples 
that  his  Highness'  commission  for  the 
two  horses  and  four  mares  is  com- 
plete, I  hope  to  his  Highness'  full 
content ;  my  next  may  bring  you  an 
invoice  of  their  cost  and  charges  ;  as 
also  a  description  of  each  ;  their  race, 
or  pedigree,  colour,  age,  height,  quality, 
and  condition.  Although  my  said 
friend  be  a  merchant,  yet  he  professes 
some  skill  in  horsemanship,  besides 
which  he  has  had  the  best  advice  in 
Naples.  I  hope  they  will  prove  every 
way  answerable  to  his  Highness'  ex- 
pectation. I  gave  order  to  the  man  I 
sent  over  for  Tripoli  to  redeem  the 
English  captives  to  bring  a  mare 
thence,  which  he  did ;  but  't  was  so 
small  a  thing,  genteel  (gentile)  and 
thin,  the  legs  little  better  than  a 
hind's,  that  I  thought  it  not  worth 
your  acceptance ;  for  a  good  mare  to 
breed  should  be  as  well  tall  and  large, 
as  clean-limbed  and  handsome.  I 
know  not  yet  whether  I  shall  speed 
in  the  commission  I  gave  to  Aleppo 
for  a  horse  ;  but  if  I  do,  I  am  con- 
fident the  world  has  not  better  horses 
than  that  place  affords."5  His  pur- 
chase from  Naples  cost  the  Protector 
two  thousand  three  hundred  and 
eighty-two  dollars.  In  1657  the  Le- 
vant Company  in  England  wrote  to 
Sir  Thomas  Bendish,  the  Ambassador 
at  Constantinople,  that  his  Highness 

3  Blencowe,  SYDNEY  PAPERS. 

4  Thurloe,  STATE  PAPERS,  iii.  549. 

5  Thurloe,  iii.  526. 


Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport. 


403 


wanted  some  good  Arabian  horses  to 
furnish  England  with  a  breed  of  that 
kind,  and  desired  him  to  procure  ten 
of  the  best  blood  and  send  them  home. 
Henry  Biley,  their  agent  at  Aleppo, 
was  ordered  at  the  same  time  to  ob- 
tain two  more.1  Some  of  these 
attempted  purchases  were  certainly 
effected,  for  Ludlow  records  with 
great  anger  that  one  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary deputations  sent  to  argue 
Cromwell  into  accepting  the  crown  was 
kept  waiting  by  the  Protector  for  two 
hour^  while  he  went  to  inspect  a  Bar- 
bary  horse  in  the  garden  at  Whitehall. 

In  1654  the  Count  of  Oldenburg 
sent  Cromwell  a  present  of  six  horses, 
and  the  Protector's  anxiety  to  make 
trial  of  their  quality  led  to  his  well- 
known  adventure  in  Hyde  Park.  On 
Friday,  September  29th,  he  went  with 
Secretary  Thurloe  and  some  of  his 
gentlomen  to  take  the  air  in  the 
Park,  ordered  the  six  horses  to  be 
harnessed  to  his  coach,  put  Thurloe 
inside  it,  and  undertook  to  drive  him- 
self. "His  Highness,"  says  a  letter 
from  the  Dutch  ambassadors,  "  drove 
pretty  handsomely  for  some  time; 
but  ab  last  provoking  those  horses  too 
much  with  the  whip,  they  grew  un- 
ruly, and  ran  so  fast  that  the  postil- 
lion could  not  hold  them  in  ;  whereby 
his  Highness  was  flung  out  of  the 
coach  box  upon  the  pole,  upon  which 
he  lay  with  his  body,  and  afterwards 
fell  upon  the  ground.  His  foot  get- 
ting hold  in  the  tackling,  he  was 
carried  away  a  good  while  in  that 
posture,  during  which  a  pistol  went 
off  in  his  pocket ;  but  at  last  he  got 
his  foot  clear,  and  so  came  to  escape, 
the  coach  passing  away  without  hurt- 
ing him.  He  was  presently  brought 
home,  and  let  blood,  and  after  some 
rest  taken  is  now  well  again.  The 
secretary,  being  hurt  on  his  ankle  with 
leaping  out  of  the  coach,  hath  been 
forced  to  keep  his  chamber  hitherto, 
and  been  unfit  for  any  business ;  so 
that  we  have  not  been  able  to  further 
or  expedite  any  business  this  week." 

1  GAL.  STATE  PAPERS,  DOMESTIC,  1657-8, 
p.  96. 


Poets  of  every  sort  seized  the  op- 
portunity to  celebrate  an  incident  so 
alarming  to  supporters  of  the  Protect- 
orate, and  so  amusing  to  its  enemies. 
George  Wither  produced  some  six- 
teen pages  of  doggrel  which  he  called 
"  Vaticiniiim  Casuale,  a  rapture  occa- 
sioned by  the  late  miraculous  deli- 
verance of  his  Highness  the  Lord  Pro- 
tector from  a  desperate  danger." 
Andrew  Marvell,  in  his  poem  on  the 
first  anniversary  of  the  Protector's 
government,  represented  universal 
nature  as  lamenting  the  Protector's 
fall,  "  not  a  stupid  tree  nor  rock  so 
savage  but  it  groaned  for  thee."  Even 
the  horses,  continued  the  courtly  poet, 
were  overcome  with  penitence  when 
they  realised  what  they  had  done. 

The    poor    beasts,   wanting    their    noble 

guide, 
(What  could  they  more  ?)  shrunk  guiltily 

aside  : 
First    winged    fear  transports  them    far 

away, 
And  leaden  sorrow  then  their  flight  did 

stay. 
See  how  they  each  their  towering  crests 

abate, 
And  the  green  grass  and    their  known 

mangers  hate, 
Nor  through  wide  nostrils  snuff  the  wanton 

air, 
Nor  their  round  hoofs  or  curled  manes 

compare  : 
With  wandering  eyes  and    restless  ears 

they  stood, 
And  with  shrill  neighings  asked  him  of 

the  wood.2 

Royalist  poets  treated  the  incident 
in  a  less  reverential  spirit.  "  Master 
Scroggs,  counsellor,"  afterwards  fam- 
ous as  Chief  Justice  Sir  William 
Scroggs,  composed  a  ballad  ending 
with  the  expression  of  a  hope  that 
the  Protector's  next  fall  would  be  not 
from  a  coach  but  from  a  cart,  thus 
hinting  at  the  gallows,  and  wishing 
him,  as  a  modern  might  say,  a  longer 
drop  next  time.  Their  favourite  jest 
was  that  Parliament  had  given  the 
Protector  the  control  of  the  sword, 
but  not  the  control  of  the  whip. 

2  Thurloe,  ii.  652  ;  Guizot,  CROMWELL  AND 
THE  ENGLISH  COMMONWEALTH,  ii.  472. 

D   D    2 


404 


Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport. 


The  moral  which  most  men  drew 
from  the  accident  is  expressed  in  a 
news-letter  of  the  time.  "  He  had 
better  have  sat  in  his  chair  in  the 
Painted  Chamber  to  govern  the  Par- 
liament, which  is  more  pliable  to  his 
pleasure,  than  in  the  coach-box  to 
govern  his  coach-horses,  which  have 
more  courage  to  put  him  out  of  the 
box  than  the  three  hundred  members 
of  Parliament  have  to  put  him  out  of 
his  chair."  The  contrast  was  height- 
ened by  the  fact  that  only  a  fortnight 
earlier  the  Protector  had  extorted 
from  the  members  an  engagement 
pledging  them  to  recognise  his  au- 
thority. An  unknown  poet,  ironically 
addressing  Cromwell  himself,  urged 
him  for  the  future  to  remember  the 
difference  between  unruly  beasts  and 
servile  members  of  Parliament. 

0  life  of  three  great  realms,  whose  brains 

did  hatch 
Successful  plots  which  no  past  age  could 

match, 
Whose  army  braves  the  land,  whose  fleet 

the  main, 

And  only  beasts  did  think  unfit  to  reign — 
How  near  to  fatal  was  your  error  when 
You    thought   outlandish  horses  English 

men  ! 

Had  the  mild  Britons  dreamed  your  High- 
ness meant 

To  pass  through  all   degrees  of  govern- 
ment, 

The  all-subscribing  Parliament  that  sate 
Would  have  prevented  this  sad  turn  of 

state  : 
They  would  themselves  have  drawn  the 

coach,  and  borne 
The  awful  lash,  which  those  proud  beasts 

did  scorn. 
'T  would  doubtless  be  to  men  free  from 

affright 

A  most  magnificent  and  moving  sight, 
To   fee  the   brother  both    of   Spain  and 

France 
Sit  on  the  coach  box,  and  the  members 

prance 

To  hear  Northumberland  and  Kent  contest 
Which  of  their  representatives  drew  best. 
Make  the  slaves  pay  and  bleed  :  let  the 

asses  bear  : 
The  measure  of  thy  power  is  their  base 

fear.1 

1  Heath,  CHRONICLES,  p.  672  ;  Thuiioe,  ii. 
674  ;  Wilkins,  POLITICAL  BALLADS,  i.  121  ; 
REPORT  ON  THE  PORTLAND  MSS.,  i.  678. 


The  other  pastimes  in  which  the  Pro- 
tector from  time  to  time  contrived  to 
indulge  were  not  marked  by  any  such 
startling  adventures,  We  hear  occa- 
sionally of  his  hunting  at  Hampton 
Court  or  elsewhere,  but  nothing  be- 
yond the  bare  fact  is  recorded.  Mar- 
vell  has  a  brief  allusion  to  the  sub- 
ject iu  his  elegy  on  Cromwell's  death, 
where  he  writes  : 

All,  all  is  gone  of  ours  or  his  delight 

In  horses  fierce,  wild  deer,  or  armour  bright. 

Queen  Christina  of  Sweden  collected 
a  small  herd  of  reindeer  which  she 
meant  to  -  present  to  Cromwell,  but 
some  were  eaten  by  wolves,  and  the 
rest  died  before  they  could  be  trans- 
ported to  England. 

A  form  of  sport  to  which  Cromwell 
was  greatly  addicted  was  hawking. 
As  he  journeyed  towards  London  after 
the  "  crowning  mercy  "  of  Worcester, 
he  was  met  by  four  members  whom 
the  Parliament  had  sent  to  congratu- 
late him.  "  The  General,"  records 
one  of  the  deputation,  "  received  them 
with  all  kindness  and  respect,  and 
after  salutations  and  ceremonies  past, 
he  rode  with  them  across  the  fields, 
where  Mr.  Win  wood's  hawks  met  us, 
and  the  General  and  many  of  the 
officers  went  a  little  out  of  the  way 
a-hawking."  During  Whitelocke's  ab- 
sence on  his  Swedish  embassy,  his 
servant  Abel  "  was  much  courted  by 
his  Highness  to  be  his  falconer-in- 
chief,"  but  refused  to  accept  without 
Whitelocke's  leave,  and  stipulated 
that  if  he  took  the  place  he  might 
have  leave  to  wait  upon  his  old 
master  with  a  cast  of  hawks  at  the 
beginning  of  every  September.2  Sir 
James  Long,  an  old  Cavalier  whom 
Cromwell  had  defeated  and  taken 
prisoner  in  1645,  gained  the  Protec- 
tor's favour  by  his  skill  in  this  kind 
of  sport.  "  Oliver  Protector  hawking 
'  at  Hounslow  Heath  and  discoursing 
with  him,  fell  in  love  with  his  com- 
pany, and  commanded  him  to  wear 

2  Whitelocke,  MEMORIALS,  iii. 351 ;  JOURNAL 
OF  WHITELOCKE'S  EMBASSY  TO  SWEDEN,  ii. 
234. 


Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport. 


405 


his  .sword,  and  to  meet  him  a-hawking, 
which  made  the  strict  cavaliers  look 
upon  him  with  an  evil  eye."  l 

As  to  Cromwell's  views  on  the 
burning  question  of  horse-racing,  it  is 
more  difficult  to  arrive  at  a  positive 
conclusion.  It  is  plain  from  the 
numerous  instances  given  that  he  felt 
no  vestige  of  shame  in  possessing  a 
good  horse.  On  the  contrary  his  con- 
stant aim  was  to  possess  as  many  good 
horses  as  he  could  afford.  Whether 
either  in  his  regenerate  or  unregener- 
ate  days  he  entered  his  horses  for 
race.s,  or  had  the  satisfaction  of  owning 
a  winner,  history  does  not  say.  If  he 
left  Cambridge  without  a  degree,  it  was 
owirg  to  the  sudden  death  of  his 
father,  and  not  to  any  difference  with 
the  dons  of  Sidney  Sussex  about  the 
limits  of  individual  liberty.  Some 
day  perhaps  antiquarian  research  may 
unearth  the  records  of  a  race-meeting 
at  Huntingdon,  dated  about  1630, 
and  find  duly  entered  amongst  the 
starters,  "Mr.  Oliver  Crom  well's  horse 
Independency  (by  Schism  out  of 
Church-of-England)."  But  till  some- 
thing of  this  kind  is  discovered  Crom- 
well's views  on  the  morality  of  racing 
must  be  gathered  from  his  public 
policy  as  Protector,  or  from  his  atti- 
tude as  a  father.  A  modern  biographer, 
Mr.  Waylen,  boldly  asserts  that 
"  rac  es  continued  in  Hyde  Park  during 
the  Protectorate  ;  and  Dick  Pace,  the 
ownc-r  of  divers  horses  who  live  in  rac- 
ing chronicles,  was  the  Protector's  stud- 
groom."  2  But  he  gives  no  authority 
for  these  statements,  and  neither  of 
then:  is  confirmed  by  contemporary 
evidt  nee. 

Towards  public  amusements  in 
general  Cromwell  was  (in  theory,  at 
all  events)  more  liberal  than  is  usually 
supposed.  In  one  of  his  arguments 
with  the  Scottish  clergy  he  based  his 
demti  nd  for  toleration  upon  a  principle 
which  applied  to  social  as  well  as 
religious  questions,  and  supported  it 
by  a  a  instance  which  seemed  more 

1  Aabrey,  LETTERS  FROM  THE  BODLEIAN, 
ii.  43;;. 

2  TiiE  HOUSE  or  CROMWELL,  1830,  p.  322. 


convincing  to  the  Puritans  of  the 
seventeenth  century  than  it  does  to 
their  modern  descendants.  "  Your 
pretended  fear  lest  error  should  step 
in,"  he  told  the  ministers,  "  is  like  the 
man  who  would  keep  all  the  wine  out 
of  the  country  lest  men  should  be 
drunk.  It  will  be  found  an  unjust 
and  unwise  jealousy  to  deprive  a  man 
of  his  natural  liberty  upon  a  suppo- 
sition he  may  abuse  it.  When  he 
doth  abuse  it,  judge."  3 

When  Cromwell  became  Protector, 
it  was  much  upon  this  principle  that 
he  regulated  his  policy  towards  forms 
of  amusement  which  many  of  his  fol- 
lowers would  have  suppressed  alto- 
gether. If  he  put  down  certain  popu- 
lar sports,  it  was  not  because  he  re- 
garded them  as  unlawful  in  themselves, 
but  because  they  seemed  to  him  likely 
in  certain  circumstances  to  lead  to 
acts  which  were  unlawful.  By  an  or- 
dinance dated  July  4th,  1654,  he  pro- 
hibited horse-races  for  six  months,  on 
the  ground  that  the  Royalists  made  use 
of  such  gatherings  to  concert  their 
plots.  "  The  enemies  of  the  peace  and 
welfare  of  this  Commonwealth,"  said 
the  ordinance,  "  are  ready  to  lay  hold 
of  all  opportunities  for  instilling  sucli 
their  purposes  into  the  minds  of  others 
who  are  peaceably  affected,  and  to  take 
advantage  of  public  meetings  and 
concourse  of  people  at  horse-races  and 
other  sports,  to  carry  on  such  their 
pernicious  designs."  Accordingly  for 
the  next  six  months  all  persons  who 
should  appoint  any  horse-race,  "or 
shall  assemble  and  meet  together, 
upon  or  by  colour  of  any  appoint- 
ment of  an  horse-race,  shall  forfeit 
and  lose  all  and  every  the  horse  and 
horses  which  they  shall  bring  with 
them,  or  send  unto  such  place  or  meet- 
ing." That  the  reason  alleged  for  the 
suppression  of  race-meetings  was  no 
mere  pretext  is  conclusively  shown  by 
an  examination  into  the  history  of  the 
Royalist  plots  against  the  Protector  s 
government. 

Cock-fighting  shared  the  same  fate, 

s  Carlyle,  CROMWELL'S  LETTERS  AND 
SPEECHES  ;  Letter  cxlviii. 


406 


Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport. 


but  rather  upon  moral  than  political 
grounds.  ''Whereas,"  begins  the 
ordinance  of  March  31st,  1654,  "the 
public  meetings  and  assemblies  of 
people  together  .  .  .  under  pretence 
of  matches  for  cock-fighting  are  by  ex- 
perience found  to  tend  many  times  to 
the  disturbance  of  the  public  peace, 
and  are  commonly  accompanied  with 
gaming,  drinking,  swearing,  quarrel- 
ling, and  other  dissolute  practices  to 
the  dishonour  of  God,  and  do  often 
produce  the  ruin  of  persons  and  their 
families,"  such  matches  are  henceforth 
to  be  suppressed  as  unlawful  assem- 
blies. In  1655  the  Majors-General 
established  by  Cromwell  to  secure  the 
peace  of  the  nation  were  instructed 
"  to  permit  no  horse-races,  cock-fight- 
ings, bear-baitings,  stage- plays,  or  any 
unlawful  assemblies  within  their  re- 
spective provinces ;  forasmuch  as 
treason  and  rebellion  is  usually  hatched 
and  contrived  against  the  State  upon 
such  occasions,  and  much  evil  and 
wickedness  committed."  But  while 
the  ordinance  against  cock-fighting 
was  confirmed  and  made  a  permanent 
act  by  the  Parliament  of  1656,  the 
prohibition  of  horse-races  was  never 
more  than  a  temporary  police  measure. 
They  were  again  prohibited  for  six 
months  on  February  24th,  1655,  were 
suppressed  by  the  Majors- General 
during  1656,  and  their  prohibition  was 
recommended  by  the  council  in  April 
1658. 

Besides  this  act  against  cock-fight- 
ing, the  Parliament  of  1656  passed 
another  for  the  punishment  of  vagrants 
and  wandering,  idle,  dissolute  persons, 
which  concluded  by  enacting  that  "  if 
any  persons  commonly  called  fiddlers 
or  minstrels  shall  after  the  first  day 
of  July  be  taken  playing,  fiddling,  and 
making  music  in  any  inn,  alehouse, 
or  tavern,  or  shall  be  taken  proffering 
themselves,  or  desiring,  or  entreating 
any  person  or  persons  to  hear  them 
play  or  make  music  in  the  places 
aforesaid,"  they  should  be  adjudged 
rogues  and  vagabonds.  The  bigots  of 
that  iron  time  went  on  to  pass  an 
act  for  the  abolition  of  betting-men 


in  general,  under  the  title  of  "an 
Act  for  punishing  of  such  persons  as 
live  at  high  rates,  and  have  no  visible 
estates,  profession,  or  calling  answer- 
able thereunto."  After  August  1st, 
1657,  any  person  who  "  by  playing  at 
cards,  dice,  tables,  tennis,  bowls  or 
shovel-board,  cock-fighting  or  horse- 
races, or  any  game  or  games,  or  by 
bearing  any  part  in  the  adventure 
or  by  betting  on  the  hands  or  sides 
of  such  as  do  or  shall  play  as  afore- 
said," should  win  any  sum  of  money 
or  "any  other  thing  valuable  what- 
soever," was  to  forfeit  twice  the  value 
of  his  winnings."1  When  this  bill  was 
under  discussion,  one  member  thought 
it  forbade  bowls  altogether.  "  Many 
honest  men  use  the  game,"  he  pro- 
tested. "  My  Lord  Protector  himself 
uses  it.  I  would  have  some  gentlemen 
added  to  the  Committee  that  are  more 
favourers  of  lawful  recreations."  ' 

Among  the  last  amusements  to 
be  suppressed  was  bear-baiting.  A 
newspaper  named  PERFECT  PRO- 
CEEDINGS IN  PARLIAMENT,  dated 
September  27,  1655,  tells  the  follow- 
ing story,  and  blames  the  slackness 
of  the  Government.  "  A  child,  a 
boy  between  four  and  five  years  of 
age,  at  the  Bankside  was  at  the  Bear- 
garden, where  some  coming  to  see 
the  bears,  the  child  also  went  in  ; 
and  when  the  rest  came  out  and 
shut  the  door,  he  that  had  the  keys 
of  the  bears  locked  in  the  child,  who 
had  eaten  some  apples  and  strok- 
ing the  bear  was  by  the  bear  taken 
hold  of,  and  pulled  under  him,  and 
his  mouth  with  almost  all  his  face 
pulled  out  by  the  bear.  The  bear- 
ward  came  in  at  last,  and  got  away 
that  of  his  body  which  was  left,  and 
the  bear  for  killing  the  child  fell  to 
the  lord  of  the  soil,  and  was  by  the 
bear- ward  redeemed  for  fifty  shillings  ; 
and  the  bear-wards  told  the  mother 
of  the  child  they  could  not  help  it 
(though  some  think  it  to  be  a  design 
of  that  wicked  house  to  get  money) ; 

1  SCOBELL'S  COLLECTION    OF  ACTS,  1658, 
pp.  476,  500. 

2  Burton's  DIAEY,  ii.  229. 


Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport. 


407 


and  they  told  the  mother  that  the 
bear  should  be  baited  to  death,  and 
she  should  have  half  the  money ;  and 
accordingly  there  were  bills  stuck  up 
and  down  the  city  of  it,  and  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  gathered  to 
see  the  bear  baited  to  death,  some  say 
above  sixty  pounds ;  and  now  all  is 
done  they  offer  the  woman  three 
pounds  not  to  prosecute  them.  Some 
others  have  been  lately  hurt  at  the 
Bear-garden,  which  is  a  sinful  '  de- 
boy  st  '  profane  meeting." 

Six  months  later  a  news-letter  of 
February  26th,  1656,  briefly  records 
that,  "The  bears  in  the  Bear-garden 
were  by  order  of  Major-General 
Barkstead  killed,  and  the  heads  of 
the  game-cocks  in  the  several  pits 
wrung  off  by  a  company  of  soldiers." 
"  There  went  to  the  pot  sixty  cocks  of 
the  game,"  adds  a  Royalist,  "  all  this 
being  done  to  prevent  any  great 
meoting  of  the  people."  Colonel 
Pride,  more  famous  through  Pride's 
Purge,  was  the  officer  who  superin- 
tended this  execution,  and  became  in 
consequence  the  butt  of  the  ballad 
writers.1  In  the  same  fashion  as  this 
Cromwell's  soldiers,  so  far  back  as 
1643,  had  put  a  stop  to  bear-baiting 
in  the  eastern  counties. 

Last  of  all  came  the  suppressing  of 
wrt-stling  and  other  athletic  sports, 
though  the  prohibition  of  them  seems 
only  to  have  extended  to  London 
itself.  The  warrant  of  the  Majors- 
General  for  their  suppression  was 
addressed  to  the  High  Constable  of 
the  hundred  of  Ossulstone,  Middlesex, 
and  alleged  the  following  motives: 
"  The  late  public  meetings  and  assem- 
blies of  people  together,  in  the  upper 
Moor-Fields  and  other  places  in  your 
huiidred,  under  pretence  of  wrestling, 
casiing  the  stone,  pitching  the  bar, 
and  the  like,  are  by  experience  found 
to  tend  many  times,  by  the  access 
and  concourse  of  people  from  several 
pares,  to  the  disturbance  of  the  public 
peaoe,  and  are  commonly  attended 
with  swearing,  quarrelling,  picking 

1  Caste,  ORIGINAL  LETTERS,  ii.  83 ;  CLARKE 
MSS. ;  RUMP  SONGS,  i.  299. 


pockets,  and  other  dissolute  practices, 
there  being  an  opportunity  given  by 
such  assemblies  to  highwaymen,  rob- 
bers, burglars,  and  common  thieves  in 
the  evenings  to  meet,  and  from  thence 
to  move  together  to  commit  all  man- 
ner of  felonies  "  ;  such  meetings  were 
therefore  to  be  dispersed,  and  their 
frequenters  treated  as  vagrants  and 
disorderly  persons.2 

Taking  these  instances  together,  the 
policy  of  Cromwell  and  his  government 
becomes  perfectly  clear.  Certain 
amusements  are  suppressed,  not  as 
sinful  or  inherently  unlawful,  but  be- 
cause under  existing  conditions  they 
are  dangerous  to  the  public  peace  or 
the  public  morals.  This  is  the  line 
taken  by  Cromwell  in  defending  his 
policy  to  his  Parliament.  He  complains 
of  the  "  folly  "  of  the  nation  which 
could  not  endure  to  be  deprived  of  its 
amusements  even  for  a  moment.  "  A 
great  deal  of  grudging  in  the  nation 
that  we  cannot  have  our  horse-racings, 
cock-fightings,  and  the  like.  I  do  not 
think  these  unlawful,  but  to  make 
them  recreations  that  they  will  not 
endure  to  be  abridged  of  them."  The 
sentence  is  unfinished,  and  the  words 
"  is  folly  "  or  "  is  unlawful  "  must  be 
supplied.  But  though  the  Protector's 
language,  or  the  reporter's  version  of 
it,  is  confused,  his  meaning  is  plain. 
Carlyle,  who  rather  misunderstood 
Cromwell's  position  on  the  subject, 
altered  the  text  of  the  speech,  and 
printed,  "I  do  not  think  these  are 
lawful,  except  to  make  them  recrea- 
tions." 3  In  this  passage  Cromwell 
is  probably  referring  to  the  necessity 
of  temporarily  suppressing  their 
amusements  for  the  sake  of  the  public 
peace.  In  other  parts  of  the  same 
speech  he  dwells  rather  on  the  neces- 
sity of  suppressing  them  for  the  sake 
of  public  morals,  or  for  the  reforma- 
tion of  manners.  "I  am  confident 
our  liberty  and  prosperity  depend  upon 
reformation.  Make  it  a  shame  to  see 

2  MERCURIUS  POLITICUS,  June  12-19,  1656. 

s  Carlyle's  CROMWELL,  Speech  v.  The 
original  speech  is  printed  in  Burton  s  PAR- 
LIAMENTARY DIARY,  i.  clxxvin. 


408 


Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport. 


men  bold  in  sin  and  profaneness,  and 
God  will  bless  you.  Truly  these  things 
do  respect  the  souls  of  men,  and  the 
spirits, — which  are  the  men.  The  mind 
is  the  man.  If  that  be  kept  pure,  a 
man  signifies  somewhat ;  if  not,  I  would 
very  fain  see  what  difference  there  is 
betwixt  him  and  a  beast.  He  hath 
only  some  activity  to  do  some  more 
mischief."  In  a  later  speech  the  Pro- 
tector points  out  that  the  chief 
offenders  were  certain  dissolute,  loose 
persons,  who  go  up  and  down  from 
house  to  house, — gentlemen's  sons  who 
have  nothing  to  live  upon,  or  even 
noblemen's  sons.  "  Let  them  be  who 
they  may  be  that  are  debauched,  it  is 
for  the  glory  of  God  that  nothing  of 
outward  consideration  should  save 
them  in  their  debauchery  from  a  just 
punishment  and  reformation."  l 

Cromwell's  own  sons  shared  his 
sporting  tastes,  and  in  the  judgment 
of  some  of  the  severer  Puritans  were 
little  better  than  the  wicked.  Mrs. 
Hutchinson  says  :  "  Claypole,  who 
married  his  daughter,  and  his  son 
Henry  were  two  debauched,  ungodly 
cavaliers."  In  Claypole's  case,  at  all 
events,  there  was  probably  some  real 
foundation  for  this  charge.  In  his  old 
age  he  tried  to  disinherit  his  daughter 
for  the  sake  of  a  mistress.  He  had  in 
his  service  during  the  Protectorate  a 
.famous  running  footman  called  Crow, 
and  doubtless  occasionally  backed  him 
to  run  against  the  footmen  of  his 
neighbours.  On  the  10th  of  August 
1660,  Pepys  saw  a  race  three  times 
round  Hyde  Park  between  Crow  and 
an  Irishman,  Crow  winning  by  above 
two  miles.  Colonel  Harry  Verney  in 
one  of  his  letters  describes  a  battle 
between  a  dog  and  a  buck  which  lasted 
above  half  an  hour,  at  which  Claypole 
was  so  pleased  that  he  begged  the  dog, 
which  Verney  could  not  deny.  These 
things  explain  the  reputation  for 
ungodliness  which  the  Protector's 
Master  of  the  Horse  obtained. 

With  respect  to  Henry  Cromwell, how- 
ever, there  was  no  such  basis  for  Mrs. 

1  "  Deboist."   Carlyle's  CKOMWELL,  Speech 
xiii. 


Hutchinson's  aspersions.  Mr.  Espi- 
nasse,  in  his  LITERARY  RECOLLECTIONS, 
describes  a  dispute  between  Macaulay 
and  Carlyle  on  the  question,  in  which 
Carlyle  attempted  to  vindicate  Henry 
Cromwell,  but  was  overborne  by 
Macaulay's  greater  fluency.  Henry 
was  in  fact  an  exceptionally  able  and 
hardworking  officer,  who  devoted  him- 
self to  the  business  of  governing 
Ireland,  and  found  it  left  him  very 
little  time  for  his  pleasures.  When  he 
could  snatch  a  day  from  his  duties 
he  hunted.  In  November,  1655,  his 
father-in-law,  Sir  Francis  Russell,  and 
his  brother,  Richard  Cromwell,  sent 
him  a  stock  of  dogs.  "  A  little 
divertisement,"  wrote  Richard,  "is 
like  a  whet  to  the  workman's  tool,  and 
give  me  leave  to  let  this  tell  you  that 
there  hath  been  great  care  in  Sir 
Francis  Russell  to  furnish  you  with 
some  cattle  for  field  recreation,  most 
proper  for  such  as  are  wearied  in  the 
service  of  their  country,  and  that  that 
work  might  nob  be  delayed  and  the 
whole  of  it  stopped  for  want  of  some 
spokes,  having  a  parcel  that  I  had 
gathered  up  amongst  my  friends,  I 
could  not  do  less  (when  I  came  to  know 
what  Sir  Francis  was  doing)  than  to 
make  some  expression  of  a  brother 
(though  poor),  it  being  in  dogs,  com- 
panions they  have  been  for  friends. 
I  did  with  great  cheerfulness  lay  hold 
of  the  opportunity  to  present  to  the 
kennels,  now  I  suppose  upon  their 
march  to  you,  eight  couples  of  beagles,, 
the  whole  stock  of  the  kind  I  had.  .  . 
Now  I  can  assure  you  I  have  not  any 
but  my  buck  hounds,  which  are 
abroad,  but  your  pleasure  and  delight 
I  shall  exceedingly  content  myself 
with."  2 

Of  all  Cromwell's  family,  Richard, 
whom  Mrs.  Hutchinson  expressly  ex- 
empts from  her  condemnation  and 
terms  "  virtuous,"  was  the  most  ad- 
dicted to  sport.  His  skill  in  horse- 
racing  is  satirically  mentioned  in  a 
letter  of  Lord  Colepeper's,  written  in 
1658,  and  a  republican  pamphlet  de- 
scribes him  as  a  person  "  well  skilled 

*    JjANSDOWXE  MSS. 


Cromwell's  Views  on  Sport. 


409 


in  hawking,  bunting,  horse  racing,  with 
other  sports  and  pastimes."  "  After 
he  became  Protector,"  writes  Heath, 
"  Richard  still  followed  his  old  game 
of  hawking,  and  being  one  day  with 
his  horse-guard  engaged  in  a  flight 
the  eagerness  of  the  sport  carried 
him  out  of  their  sight,  and  his  horse 
floundering  or  leaping  short,  threw 
him  into  a  ditch,  where  by  the  help 
of  a  countryman  he  was  taken  out 
and  preserved.  He  had  carried  him- 
self very  quietly  hitherto  to  all  about 
him,  this  disaster  and  accident  made 
him  angry,  and  to  charge  them 
roughly  with  this  neglect,  telling 
then  he  expected  more  service  and 
respect,  and  would  have  it."  l 

Richard's  devotion  to  sport  gave 
his  father  some  trouble.  He  warned 
him  to  take  heed  of  an  "unactive 
vain  spirit,"  and  urged  him  to  study 
mathematics  and  history,  which  would 
fit  him  for  the  public  service,  and  to 
look  after  the  management  of  his 
estate  himself.  But  these  hints  were 
unheeded,  and  in  the  summer  of  1651 
Cromwell  heard  that  his  son  had  ex- 
ceeded his  allowance  and  was  in  debt 
through  his  own  carelessness  and  ex- 
travagance. "  I  desire  to  be  under- 
stood," was  Cromwell's  answer,  "  that 
I  grudge  him  not  laudable  recrea- 
tions, nor  an  honourable  carriage  of 
himself  in  them ;  nor  is  any  matter 
of  charge  like  to  fall  to  my  share  a 
stick  with  me.  Truly  I  can  find  in 

1  Heath,  CHRONICLE,  1663,  p.  740. 


my  heart  to  allow  him  not  only  a 
sufficiency  but  more,  for  his  good. 
But  if  pleasure  and  self-satisfaction  be 
made  the  business  of  a  man's  life,  and 
so  much  cost  laid  out  upon  it,  so  much 
time  spent  on  it,  as  rather  answers 
appetite  than  the  will  of  God,  or  is 
comely  before  his  saints, — I  scruple  to 
feed  this  humour ;  and  God  forbid 
that  his  being  my  son  should  be  his 
allowance  to  live  not  pleasingly  to  our 
heavenly  Father,  who  hath  raised  me 
out  of  the  dust  to  be  what  I  am." 
Richard's  father-in-law,  to  whom  the 
letter  is  addressed,  had  evidently 
asked  for  an  increase  in  the  allowance 
of  the  young  couple,  and  this  Cromwell 
refused  to  make,  though  willing,  it 
appears,  to  help  them  out  of  their 
difficulties.  "They  shall  not  want 
comfort  or  encouragement  from  me,  so 
far  as  I  may  afford  it.  But  indeed  I 
cannot  think  I  do  well  to  feed  a 
voluptuous  humour  in  my  son,  if  he 
should  make  pleasures  the  business  of 
his  life." 

Cromwell's  attitude,  in  short,  towards 
the  private  amusements  of  his  son  was 
the  same  as  his  attitude  towards  the 
public  amusements  of  the  people.  He 
had  no  puritanical  objection  to  enjoy- 
ment ;  he  did  not  disapprove  of  the 
recreations  in  themselves ;  all  he  de- 
manded was  that  they  should  be  kept 
subordinate  to  more  important  ends, 
and  not  be  permitted  to  hinder  the 
higher  life  of  the  individual  or  the 
nation. 

C.  H.  FIRTH. 


410 


THE  HISTORICAL  NOVEL. 


III. — THE    SUCCESSORS. 


IT  was  evidently  impossible  that 
such  a  combination  of  luck  and  genius 
as  the  Historical  Novel,  when  at  last 
it  appeared  from  Scott's  hands,  should 
lack  immediate  and  unlimited  imita- 
tion. As  has  been  said,  some  con- 
siderable number  of  years  passed  before 
the  greatest  of  Sir  Walter's  succes- 
sors, the  only  successor  who  can  be 
said  to  have  made  distinct  additions 
to  the  style,  turned  his  attention  to 
novel-writing.  But  as  the  popularity 
of  Scott,  not  only  in  his  own  country 
but  elsewhere,  was  instantaneous,  so 
was  the  following  of  him.  The  earliest 
and  nearly  the  most  remarkable  imita- 
tion of  all  was,  as  was  fitting,  in  the 
English  language,  though  it  was  not 
the  work  of  an  Englishman,  and  was 
destined  to  be  followed  by  a  series  of 
strictly  American  novels  on  the  Scotch 
plan.  James  Fenimore  Cooper  had 
begun  writing  novels  as  early  as  1819, 
the  year  of  IVANHOE  ;  but  his  first 
essay,  PRECAUTION,  was  in  the  older 
style.  THE  SPY,  however,  which  ap- 
peared in  1821,  was  a  real  historical 
novel,  distinctly  in  Scott's  manner,  and 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Cooper 
never  wrote  anything  better.  Not  a 
few  others  of  his  best  books,  including 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  MOHICANS  itself, 
take  rank  in  the  kind,  LIONEL  LIN- 
COLN being  perhaps  also  worthy  of 
special  remembrance.  In  his  own 
country  Cooper  is  sometimes  thought, 
and  oftener  called,  the  equal,  though 
even  there  he  is  acknowledged  to  be 
the  follower  of  Scott.  This  will  hardly 
be  accepted  by  other  than  parochial 
judgments.  His  plots  are  even  less 
artistic  than  Scott's  own,  while  dis- 
tinct as  his  Indians,  his  sailors,  and 
his  Yankees  are,  they  have  not  the 
superior  humanity, — the  Shakesperian- 


ism,  to  use  the  word  once  more — of 
Scott.  But  he  was  a  novelist  of  very 
great  power,  and  he  ranks  absolutely 
first  in  time,  and  not  far  from  second 
in  ability,  among  the  most  successful 
pupils  of  his  master. 

But  it  was  by  no  means  only 
among  English-writing  novelists  that 
the  contagion  spread.  The  peace 
after  Waterloo  assisted  this  popularity 
in  the  odd  way  in  which  political  and 
historical  coincidences  often  do  influ- 
ence the  fortunes  of  literature ;  and 
almost  the  whole  of  Europe  began  not 
merely  to  read  Scott,  not  merely  to 
translate  him,  but  to  write  in  his 
style.  It  may  even  be  doubted 
whether  the  subsequent  or  simultaneous 
vogue  abroad  of  his  poetical  supplanter 
Byron  did  not  assist  the  popularity  of 
his  novels  ;  for  different  as  the  two 
men  and  the  two  styles  intrinsically 
are,  they  have  no  small  superficial 
resemblance  of  appeal.  In  France  the 
Royalism  and  the  Romanticism  of  the 
Restoration  fastened  with  equal  eager- 
ness on  the  style,  and  Victor  Hugo  was 
only  the  greatest,  if  the  most  imma- 
ture, of  scores  of  writers  who  hastened 
to  produce  the  historical,  especially 
the  chivalrous  and  medieval,  romance. 
Germany  did  likewise,  and  set  on  foot 
as  well  a  trade  of  "  Scotch  novels 
made  in  Germany,"  of  which  I  believe 
the  famous  WALLADMOR  (to  which 
Scott  himself  refers,  and  the  history  of 
which  De  Quincey  has  told  at  charac- 
teristic length,)  was  by  no  means  the 
only  example.  WALLADMOR  itself  ap- 
peared in  1823.  G.  P.  R.  James'  RICHE- 
LIEU, the  first  English  example  of  con- 
siderable note  by  an  author  who  gave 
his  name,  came  in  1 825  ;  while  Hugo 
had  begun  writing  novels  (obviously 
on  Scott's  suggestion,  however  little 


The  Historical  Novel. 


411 


they  might  be  like  Scott,)  with  HAN 
D'JSLANDE  in  the  same  year  as  WAL- 
LA DMOR,  and  Germany,  though  cling- 
ing still  to  her  famous  and  to  some 
extent  indigenous  romance  of  fantasy, 
produced  numerous  early  imitators  of 
Scott  of  a  less  piratical  character  than 
the  Leipsic  forgery.  Italy  with  Manzoni 
and  I  PROMESSI  SPOSI  in  1827  was  a 
little,  but  only  a  little  later  ;  so  that 
long  before  the  darkness  came  on  him, 
and  to  some  extent  before  even  his 
worldly  fortunes  were  eclipsed,  Scott 
could  already  see,  as  no  author  before 
him  or  since  has  ever  seen,  the  whole 
of  Europe  not  merely  taking  its  refresh- 
ment under  the  boughs  of  the  tree  he 
had  planted,  but  nursing  seeds  and 
shoots  of  it  in  foreign  ground.  In 
comparison  with  this  the  greatest 
litorary  dictatorships  of  the  past  were 
mere  titular  royalties.  Voltaire,  whose 
influence  came  nearest  to  it  in  inten- 
sity and  diffusion,  was  merely  the 
cleverest,  most  versatile,  and  most 
piquant  writer  of  an  age  whose  writers 
were  generally  of  the  second  class. 
He  had  invented  no  kind,  for  even  the 
satirical  fantasy- tale  was  but  borrowed 
from  Hamilton  and  others.  As  a 
provider  of  patterns  and  models  he 
was  inferior  both  to  Montesquieu  and 
to  Rousseau.  But  Scott  enjoyed  in 
this  respect  such  a  royalty  in  both 
senses,  the  sense  of  pre-eminence  and 
the  sense  of  patent  rights,  as  had 
ne^er  been  known  before.  When  he 
rescued  the  beginning  of  WAVERLEY 
from  among  the  fishing-tackle  in  the 
old  cabinet,  no  one  knew  how  to 
write  a  historical  novel,  because  no 
one  had  in  the  proper  sense  written 
such  a  thing,  though  many  had  tried. 
In  a  few  years  the  whole  of  Europe 
was  greedily  reading  historical  novels, 
and  a  very  considerable  part  of  the 
literary  population  of  Europe  was 
busily  writing  them.  Indeed  Scott 
was  still  in  possession  of  all  his  facul- 
ties when  there  appeared  a  book  of 
far  greater  merit  than  anything 
before  Dumas,  except  Cooper's  work. 
I  do  not  mean  NOTRE  DAME  DE 
PAEIS,  for  though  this  is  historical 


after  a  kind,  the  history  is  the  least 
part  of  it,  and  Hugo  with  all  his 
Titanic  power  never  succeeded  in  writ- 
ing a  good  novel  of  any  sort.  The 
book  to  which  I  refer,  and  which  ap- 
peared in  1829  a  good  deal  before 
NOTRE  DAME  DE  PARIS,  is  Merimee's 
CHRONIQUE  DE  CHARLES  IX.  This 
book  has  been  very  variously  judged, 
and  Merimee's  most  recent  and  best 
critical  biographer,  M.  Augustin  Filon, 
does  not,  I  think,  put  it  quite  as  high 
as  I  do.  It  has  of  course  obvious 
faults.  Merimee,  who  had  already 
followed  Scott  in  LA  JACQUERIE,  though 
for  some  reason  or  other  he  chose  in 
that  case  to  give  a  quasi-dramatic 
form  to  the  work,  had  all  his  life 
the  peculiarity  (which  may  be  set 
down  either  to  some  excess  of  the 
critical  or  to  some  flaw  of  the  creative 
part  in  him)  of  taking  a  style,  doing 
something  that  was  almost  or  quite  a 
masterpiece  in  it,  and  then  dropping  it 
altogether.  He  did  so  in  this^instance, 
and  the  CHRONIQUE  had  no  successor 
from  his  hand.  But  it  showed  the 
way  to  all  Frenchmen  who  followed, 
including  Dumas  himself,  the  way  of 
transporting  the  Scottish  pattern  into 
France,  and  blending  with  it  the  at- 
tractions necessary  to  acclimatise  it. 

It  cannot  however  be  denied  that  in 
this  immense  and  unprecedented  dis- 
semination the  old  proverb  of  the 
fiddle  and  the  rosin  was  plentifully 
illustrated  and  justified.  It  was  only 
Scott's  good-nature  which  led  him  to 
concede  that  his  English  imitators 
might  perhaps  "do  it  with  a  better 
grace;"  while  there  is  no  doubt  at 
all  that  he  was  far  within  the  mark 
in  saying  that  he  himself  "  did  it  more 
natural."  The  curses  which  have 
been  already  mentioned,  and  others, 
rested  on  the  best  of  them  ;  even  upon 
James,  even  upon  Ainsworth,  even 
upon  Bulwer.  I  used  to  be  as  fond 
of  HENRY  MASTERTON  and  OLD  ST. 
PAUL'S,  and  those  about  them,  as  every 
decently  constructed  boy  ought  to  be  ; 
and  I  can  read  a  good  many  of  the 
works  of  both  authors  now  with  a 
great  deal  of  resignation  and  with  a 


412 


The  Historical  Novel. 


very  hearty  preference  as  compared 
with  most  novels  of  the  present  day. 
I  am  afraid  I  cannot  say  quite  so  much 
of  the  first  Lord  Lytton,  who  never 
seems  to  me  to  have  found  his  proper 
sphere  in  novel-writing  till  just  before 
his  death.  But  still  no  competent 
critic,  I  suppose,  would  deny  that  THE 
LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII  is  one  of  the 
very  best  attempts  to  do  what  has 
never  yet  been  thoroughly  done,  or 
that  HAROLD  and  THE  LAST  OF  THE 
BARONS  are  very  fine  chronicle 
novels.  So  too  I  remember  read- 
ing BRAMBLETYE  HOUSE  itself  with 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure  not  so 
very  many  years  ago.  But  in  the 
handling  of  all  of  these,  and  of  their 
immediate  contemporaries  and  succes- 
sors before  the  middle  of  the  century, 
there  is  what  Mr.  William  Morris's 
melancholy  lover  found  in  running 
over  that  list  of  his  loves  as  he  rode 
unwitting  to  the  Hill  of  Yenus, 
"some  lack,  some  coldness."  One 
could  forgive  the  Two  Horsemen 
readily  enough,  as  well  as  other  tricks 
of  James's,  if  he  were  not  at  once 
too  conventional  and  too  historical. 
To  read  MARY  OF  BURGUNDY,  and  before 
or  after  that  exercise  to  read  QUENTIN 
DURWARD,  so  near  to  it  in  time  and 
subject,  is  to  move  in  two  different 
worlds.  In  QUENTIN  DURWARD  you 
may  pick  holes  enough  if  you  choose, 
as  even  Bishop  Heber,  a  contemporary, 
a  friend,  I  think,  of  Scott,  a  good 
man,  and  a  good  man  of  letters,  does 
in  his  Indian  Journal.  It  takes  some 
uncommon  liberties  with  historical 
accuracy,  and  it  would  not  entirely  es- 
cape as  a  novel  from  a  charge  of  lese- 
probabilite.  But  it  is  all  perfectly 
alive  and  of  a  piece ;  the  story, 
whether  historical  or  fictitious,1  moves 
uniformly  and  takes  the  reader  along 
with  it ;  the  characters  (though  I  will 
give  up  Hayraddin  to  the  sainted 
shade  of  the  Bishop)  are  real  people 
who  do  real  things  and  talk  real 
words.  When  the  excellent  Mr. 
Senior,  meaning  to  be  complimentary, 
calls  Louis  and  Charles  "perfectly 
faithful  copies,"  he  uses  a  perfectly 


inadequate  expression.  He  might  as 
well  call  Moroni's  Tailor  in  the 
National  Gallery,  or  Yelasquez'  Philip 
a  perfectly  faithful  copy.  They  are  no 
copies  ;  they  are  re-creations,  agreeing 
with  all  we  know  of  what,  for  want 
of  a  better  word,  we  call  the  originals, 
but  endowed  with  independent  life. 
But  in  MARY  OF  BURGUNDY,  which 
is  generally  taken  to  be  one  of  the 
best  of  its  author's,  as  in  all  that 
author's  books  more  or  less,  this 
wholeness  and  symmetry  are  too  often 
wanting.  The  history,  where  it  is 
history,  is  too  often  tediously  lugged  in  : 
the  fictitious  characters  lack  at  once 
power  and  keeping ;  and  there  is  a 
fatal  convention  of  language,  manners, 
and  general  tone  which  is  the  greatest 
fault  of  all.  Instead  of  the  only  less 
than  Shakespearian  universality  of 
Scott's  humanity  which  does  equally  for 
characters  of  the  eleventh,  the  fifteenth, 
or  the  eighteenth  century,  simply  be- 
cause it  is  always  human,  James  gives 
us  a  sort  of  paint-and-pasteboard  sub- 
stitute for  flesh  and  blood  which  cannot 
be  said  to  be  definitely  out  of  character 
with  any  particular  time,  simply  be- 
cause it  never  could  have  been  vividly 
appropriate  to  any  time  at  all.  In 
fact  such  caricatures  as  BARBAZURE 
were  more  than  justified  by  the  his- 
torical-romantic novels  of  sixty 
years  ago,  which  might  have  gone 
far,  and  indeed  did  go  some  way,  to 
inspire  a  fear  that  the  kind  would 
become  as  much  a  nuisance,  and  would 
fall  as  far  short  of  its  own  highest 
possibilities,  as  the  romance  of  terror 
which  had  preceded  it.  James  was  by 
no  means  an  ignorant  man,  or  a  man 
of  little  literary  power.  But  he  had 
not  that  gift  of  character  which  is  the 
greatest  of  all  the  gifts  of  a  novelist 
of  whatever  kind,  and  as  a  historical 
novelist  he  was  not  sufficiently  satu- 
rated with  the  spirit  of  any  period. 
Far  less  had  he  that  extension  of  the 
historical  faculty  which  enabled  Scott, 
though  he  might  make  small  blunders 
easy  to  be  detected  by  any  schoolmaster 
if  not  by  any  schoolboy,  to  grasp  at 
once  the  spirit  of  almost  any  period 


The  Historical  Novel. 


413 


of  which  he  had  read  something,  or  of 
any  person  with  whom  he  was  in 
sympathy. 

Harrison  Ainsworth  had  I  think 
more  "  fire  in  his  belly  "  than  James 
evor  had  ;  but  he  burned  it  out  too 
soon,  and  unluckily  for  him  he  lived 
an  I  wrote  for  a  very  long  time  after 
the  flame  had  changed  to  smoke. 
Few  people  perhaps  now  know  that 
most  successful  of  Father  Front's 
serious  or  quasi-serious  poems,  the 
pi€  ce  in  which  a  moral  is  drawn  from 
tho  misfortune  of  the  bird  in 

— the  current  old 
Of  the  deep  Garonne, 

foi  the  warning  of  the  then  youthful 
novelist.  But  it  was  certainly  needed. 
I  i  m  glad  to  believe,  arid  indeed  partly 
to  know  that  Ainsworth  has  not  lost 
his  hold  of  the  younger  generation 
to-day  as  some  other  novelists  have. 
His  latest  books  never,,  I  think,  came 
into  any  cheap  form,  and  therefore 
arcs  not  likely  to  have  come  in  many 
boys'  way  ;  but  sixpenny  editions  of 
THE  TOWER  OF  LONDON  and  WINDSOR 
CASTLE  are  seen  often  enough  in  the 
ha  ads  of  youth,  which  certainly  they 
do  not  misbecome.  Not  many  how- 
evor,  I  should  fancy,  either  now  read 
or  ever  have  read  Ainsworth  much 
wh  en  once  out  of  their  nonage.  He  has, 
as  indeed  I  have  said,  more  fire,  more 
spirit  than  James.  He  either  found 
out  for  himself,  or  took  the  hint  early 
from  Dumas,  that  abundant  dialogue 
will  make  a  story  go  more  trippingly 
off:  than  abundant  description.  But 
his  chariots,  though  they  move,  drive 
her  vily  :  he  writes  anything  but  good 
En  glish  ;  and  his  dialogue  is  uncom- 
rnoaly  poor  stuff  for  any  eye  or  ear 
which  is  naturally,  or  by  study  has 
become  attentive  to  "  keeping." 
may,  I  think,  be  laid  down  without 
much  rashness  that,  though  the  attrac- 
tions which  will  suffice  to  lure  a 
reader  through  one  reading,  and  in 
soDie  cases  even  enable  him  to  enjoy  or 
end  ure  a  second,  are  very  numerous  and 
vai  ious,  there  must  almost  always  be 
either  style  or  character  to  make  him 


return  again  and  again  to  any  novel 
Now  Ainsworth  certainly  had  neither  of 
these  in  any  considerable  degree :  he  had 
not  nearly  so  much  of  either  as' James. 
Most  of  the  schoolboys  who  read  him 
could  with  a  little  practice  write  as 
well  as  he  does  ;  and  though  his  pup- 
pets box  it  about  in  a  sufficiently  busi- 
nesslike manner,  they  are  puppets  of 
the  most  candid  and  unmistakable 
kind.  So  far  as  I  can  remember, 
Crichton  and  Esclairmonde  used  to 
affect  me  with  more  interest  than 
most  of  them  ;  and  I  am  by  no  means 
certain  that  this  was  not  as  much  due 
to  the  lady's  name  as  to  anything  else. 
Generally  speaking,  one  does  not,  even 
as  a  boy,  feel  them  to  be  alive  at  all 
when  the  story  is  ended.  They  have 
rattled  their  mimic  quarterstaves 
bravely  and  gone  back  to  their  box. 
After  a  time  the  novelist  lost  the 
faculty  even  of  making  them  rattle 
their  quarterstaves ;  and  then  the 
wreck  was  indeed  total. 

The  third  member  of  the  trio,  who 
provided  England  with  historical 
novels  during  the  second  quarter  of 
the  century,  had  of  course  far  more 
purely  literary  talent  than  either 
James  or  Ainsworth.  I  have  never 
been  able  to  rate  Bulwer  so  highly  as 
many  people  have  done  ;  but  no  one 
can  possibly  deny  him  a  literary  talent 
not  often  surpassed  in  volume,  in 
variety,  or  in  certain  kinds  of  vigour. 
Why  he  never  did  anything  better  in 
any  one  kind  than  he  at  least  seems 
to  me  to  have  done  is  a  question  over 
which  I  have  often  puzzled  myself. 
Perhaps  it  was  lack  of  critical  faculty  ; 
it  was  certainly,  to  say  the  least,  un- 
fortunate for  a  man  in  the  spring  of 
his  literary  career  to  try  to  laugh 
down  Mr.  Alfred  Tennyson,  and  in 
the  winter  thereof  to  try  the  same 
operation  upon  Mr.  William  Morris. 
Ferhaps  it  was  the  diffusion  and  dis- 
persion of  his  aims  and  energies  be- 
tween politics,  literature,  and  society, 
between  prose,  verse,  and  drama. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  unlucky  senti- 
mentality of  thought,  and  the  still 
more  unlucky  tawdriness  of  language 


414 


The  Historical  Novel. 


which  so  long  defrayed  the  exercises 
of  satirists.  At  any  rate,  he  never 
seems  to  me  to  have  done  anything 
great  or  small  that  can  be  called  a 
masterpiece,  except  THE  HAUNTED  AND 
THE  HAUNTERS,  which  is  all  but  per- 
fect. Still  he  did  many  things  sur- 
prisingly well,  and  I  do  not  know  that 
his  historical  novels  were  not  among 
the  best  of  them.  That  Lord  Tenny- 
son, who  admired  few  things  at  all 
and  fewer  if  any  bad  ones,  should  have 
admired  HAROLD  is  almost  decisive  in 
its  favour,  though  I  own  to  liking  THE 
LAST  OF  THE  BARONS  better  myself. 
THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  though  it 
has  a  double  share  of  the  two  faults 
mentioned  above,  is,  as  has  been  said, 
easily  first  in  its  class,  or  first  except 
HYPATIA,  of  which  more  presently. 
No  doubt  the  playwright's  faculty, 
which  enabled  Lord  Lytton  to  write 
more  than  one  of  the  few  very  good 
acting  English  plays  of  the  century, 
stood  him  in  stead  here  as  it  stood 
Dumas.  Perhaps  this  very  faculty 
prevented  him,  more  than  it  prevented 
Dumas,  from  writing  a  supremely  good 
novel.  For  the  narrative  and  the 
dramatic  faculties  are  after  all  not  the 
same  thing,  and  the  one  is  never  a 
perfect  substitute  for  the  other. 

No  reasonable  space  would  suffice 
for  a  detailed  criticism,  and  a  mere 
catalogue  would  be  very  unamusing, 
of  the  imitators  of  these  men,  or  of 
Scott  directly,  who  practised  the  histo- 
rical novel  from  seventy  to  forty  years 
ago  with  the  sisters  Jane  and  Anna 
Maria  Porter  at  their  head.  The  best 
of  them  (so  far  as  I  can  remember)  was 
an  anonymous  writer,  whose  name  I 
think  was  Emma  Robinson,  and  whose 
three  chief  works  were  WHITEHALL, 
WHITEFRIARS,  and  OWEN  TUDOR.  These 
books  held  a  station  about  midway 
between  James  and  Ainsworth,  and 
they  seem  to  me  to  have  been  as 
superior  to  the  latter  in  interest  as 
they  were  to  the  former  in  bustle  and 
movement.  But  I  think  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  influence  of  Dumas, 
who  had  by  their  time  written  much, 
was  great  and  direct  on  them.  More 


than  once  have  I  attempted  in  my 
graver  years  to  read  again  that  well- 
loved  friend  of  my  boyhood,  James 
Grant;  but  each  time  my  discom- 
fiture has  been  grievous.  The  ex- 
cellent Chaplain-General  Gleig  was  a 
James  of  less  fertility  and  liveliness, 
indeed  I  fear  he  must  be  pronounced 
to  have  deserved  the  same  description 
as  Mr.  Jingle's  packing-cases.  In 
some  others,  such  as  G.  W.  M.  Rey- 
nolds, I  confess  that  my  study  has  been 
but  little.  But  in  such  things  of  Rey- 
nolds as  I  have  read,  though  it  would 
be  absurd  to  say  that  there  is  no 
ability,  I  never  found  it  devoted  to 
anything  but  a  very  inferior  class  of 
bookmaking. 

Marryat,  close  as  he  came  to  the 
historical  kind,  seems  to  have  felt  an 
instinctive  dislike  or  disqualification 
for  it ;  and  it  will  be  noticed  that  his 
more  purely  historical  scenes  and 
passages, — the  account  of  the  Mutiny 
at  the  Nore  in  THE  KING'S  OWN  and 
that  of  the  battle  of  Cape  St.  Yincent 
in  PETER  SIMPLE,  and  so  forth — are 
as  a  rule  episodes  and  scarcely  even 
episodes.  And  though  Lever  wrought 
the  historical  part  of  his  stories  more 
closely  and  intimately  into  their  sub- 
stance, yet  I  should  class  him  only 
with  the  irregulars  of  the  Historical 
Brigade.  He  is  of  course  most  like  a 
regular  in  CHARLES  O'MALLEY.  Yet 
even  there  one  sees  the  difference. 
The  true  historical  novelist,  as  has 
been  pointed  out  more  than  once, 
employs  the  reader's  presumed  in- 
terest in  historical  scene  and  charac- 
ter as  an  instrument  to  make  his  own 
work  attractive.  Lever  does  nothing 
of  the  kind.  His  head  was  full  of 
the  stories  he  had  heard  at  Brussels 
from  the  veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 
of  Waterloo,  and  even  of  the  Grande 
Armee.  But  it  was  at  least  equally 
full  (as  he  showed  long  after  when  he 
had  got  rid  of  the  borrowed  stories) 
of  quaint  inventions  and  shrewd  ob- 
servations of  his  own.  And  even  as 
a  historical  novelist  the  original  part 
got  the  better  of  him.  Wellington 
and  Stewart  and  Crawford  are  little 


The  Historical  Novel. 


415 


more  than  names  to  us  ;  they  are  not 
one-tenth  part  as  real  or  one-hun- 
dredth part  as  interesting  as  Major 
Monsoon.  Nor  is  it  the  actual  fate 
of  war  at  Ciudad  Rodrigo,  or  on  the 
Coa,  that  engrosses  us  so  much  as  the 
pell-mell  fighting,  the  feats  of  horse- 
manship, the  devilled  kidneys,  and  all 
the  helter-skelter  liberties  with  pro- 
bability and  chronology  and  every- 
thing else  which  cram  that  wonderful 
ar  d  to  some  people  never  wearisome 
medley. 

So  too  we  need  not  trouble  our- 
selves much  with  Dickens's  efforts  in 
the  kind  for  a  not  dissimilar  reason. 
BARNABY  RUDGE  and  A  TALE  OF 
Two  CITIES  work  in  a  great  deal 
of  historical  fact  and  some  his- 
torical character,  and  both  fact  and 
character  are  studied  with  a  good  deal 
of  care.  But  the  historical  characters 
are  almost  entirely  unimportant ; 
while  the  whole  thing  in  each  case 
is  pure  Dickens  in  its  faults  as  in  its 
merits.  We  are  never  really  in  the 
Gordon  Riots  of  1780  or  in  the  Terror 
of  thirteen  years  later.  We  are  in 
the  author's  No  Man's  Land  of  time 
and  space  where  manners  and  ethics 
and  language  and  everything  else  are 
marked  with  "  Charles  Dickens"  and 
the  well-known  flourish  after  it. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the 
century,  I  think,  or  a  little  earlier, 
that  the  vogue  which  had  sped  the 
Historical  Novel  for  more  than  a 
technical  generation  began  to  fail  it, 
at  least  in  England  with  which  we  are 
chiefly  concerned.  The  Dumas  fur- 
naces were  still  working  full  blast 
abroad,  and  of  course  there  was  no 
actual  cessation  of  production  at  home. 
But  the  public  taste,  either  out  of 
satiety  or  out  of  mere  caprice,  or 
tempted  by  attractive  novelties,  began 
to  go  in  quite  other  directions. 
Charlotte  Bronte  had  already  begun, 
and  George  Eliot  was  about  to  begin 
styles  of  novels  entirely  different  from 
the  simple  and  rather  conventional 
romance  which  writers,  unable  to  keep 
at  the  level  of  Scott,  had  taken  to 
turning  out.  The  general  run  of 


Dickens's  performance  had  been  in  a 
quite  different  direction.  So  was 
Thackeray's,  which  in  its  perfection 
was  just  beginning,  though  he  was  to 
produce  not  a  little,  and  at  least  one 
unsurpassable  thing,  in  the  historic 
kind.  Many  minor  kinds  typified  by 
work  as  different  as  THE  HEIR  OF 
REDCLYFFE  and  GUY  LIVINGSTONE,  as 
UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN  and  THE  WARDEN, 
were  springing  up  or  to  spring.  And 
so  the  Historical  Novel,  though  never 
exactly  abandoned  (for  George  Eliot 
herself  and  most  of  the  writers  already 
named  or  alluded  to,  as  well  as  others 
like  Whyte  Melville,  tried  it  now  and 
then),  dropped,  so  to  speak,  into  the 
ruck,  and  for  a  good  many  years  was 
rather  despiteously  spoken  of  by  critics 
until  the  popularity  of  Mr.  Blackmore's 
LORNA  DOONE  came  to  give  it  a  new- 
lease. 

Yet  in  the  first  decade  of  this  its 
disfavour,  and  while  most  writers'  and 
readers'  attention  was  devoted  to  other 
things,  it  could  boast  of  the  two  best 
books  that  had  been  written  in  it  since 
the  death  of  Scott ;  one  an  imperish- 
able masterpiece,  the  other  a  book 
which,  popular  as  it  has  been,  has 
never  had  its  due  yet, — ESMOND  and 
WESTWARD  Ho  ! 

That  when  anybody  is  perpetually 
laughing  at  another  body  or  at  some- 
thing, this  facetiousness  really  means 
that  the  laugher  is  secretly  enamoured 
of  the  object  of  ridicule,  is  a  great 
though  not  a  universal  truth  which 
has  been  recognised  and  illustrated 
by  authorities  of  the  most  diverse 
age  and  excellence  from  the  author 
of  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  down- 
wards. It  was  well  seen  of  Thackeray 
in  the  matter  of  the  Historical  Novel. 
He  had  been  jesting  at  it  for  the 
best  part  of  twenty  years, — that  is  to 
say  for  the  whole  of  his  literary 
career.  He  had  made  free  with  it  a 
thousand  times  in  a  hundred  different 
ways,  from  light  touches  and  gibes 
in  his  miscellaneous  articles  to  the 
admirable  set  of  burlesques,  to  the 
longer  parodies,  if  parodies  they  can 
properly  be  called,  of  REBECCA  AND 


416 


The  Historical  Novel. 


ROWENA  (one  of  his  best  things)  and 
THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE,  and  on 
the  biggest  scale  of  all  to  that 
strange,  unpleasant,  masterly  failure 
CATHERINE.  It  is  to  be  presumed, 
though  it  is  not  certain,  that  when 
he  thus  made  fun  of  historical  novels, 
he  did  not  think  he  should  live  to  be 
a  historical  novelist.  Notwithstanding 
which,  as  every  one  knows,  he  lived  to 
write  not  one,  but  two,  and  the  begin- 
ning of  a  third.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  say  much  here  about  DENIS  DUVAL, 
or  to  attempt  to  decide  between  the 
opinions  of  those  who  say  that  it  would 
have  been  the  author's  masterpiece, 
and  of  those  who  think  that  it  could 
at  best  have  stood  to  THE  VIRGINIANS 
as  THE  VIRGINIANS  stands  to  ESMOND. 
It  is  however  worth  noting  that 
I)ENIS  DUVAL  displays  that  extremely 
careful  and  methodical  scaffolding  and 
marshalling  of  historical  materials 
which  Thackeray  himself  had  been 
almost  the  first  to  practise,  and  in 
which  he  has  never  been  surpassed. 
Scott  had  set  the  example,  not  too 
well  followed,  of  acquiring  a  pretty 
thorough  familiarity  with  the  history 
and  no  small  one  with  the  literature 
of  the  time  of  his  story ;  and  he  had 
accidentally  or  purposely  brought  in 
a  good  deal  of  local  and  other  know- 
ledge. But  he  had  not  made  the  dis- 
play of  this  latter  by  any  means  a 
rule,  and  he  had  sometimes  notoriously 
neglected  it.  Nor  did  anybody  till 
Thackeray  himself  make  it  a  point  of 
honour  to  search  the  localities,  to  ac- 
quire all  manner  of  small  details  from 
guide-books  and  county  histories  and 
the  like,  to  work  in  scraps  of  colour 
and  keeping  from  newspapers  and 
novels  and  pamphlets.  Dickens,  it  is 
true,  had  already  done  something  of 
the  kind  in  reference  to  his  own  style 
of  fiction  ;  but  Dickens  as  has  been 
said  was  only  a  historical  novelist  by 
accident,  and  he  was  at  no  time  a 
bookish  man.  The  new,  or  at  least 
the  improved  practice  was  of  course 
open  to  the  same  danger  as  that  which 
wrecked  the  labours  of  the  ingenious 
Mr.  Strutt ;  and  it  was  doubtless  for 


this  reason  that  Scott  in  the  prefatory 
discussion  to  THE  BETROTHED  made 
"  the  Preses  "  sit  upon  the  expostula- 
tions of  Dr.  Dryasdust  and  his  desire 
that  "Lhuyd  had  been  consulted." 
Too  great  attention  to  veracity  and 
propriety  of  detail  is  very  apt  to  stifle 
the  story  by  overlaying  it.  Still  the 
practice  when  in  strong  and  cunning 
hands  no  doubt  adds  much  to  the  at- 
traction of  the  novel ;  and  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  say  more  than  that  all 
the  better  historical  novelists  for 
the  last  forty  years  have  followed 
Thackeray,  and  that  Thackeray  him- 
self by  no  means  improbably  took  a 
hint  from  Macaulay's  practice  in  his- 
tory itself. 

Another  innovation  of  Thackeray's, 
or  at  least  an  alteration  so  great  as 
almost  to  be  an  invention,  was  that 
adjustment  of  the  whole  narrative  and 
style  to  the  period  of  the  story  of 
which  ESMOND  is  the  capital  and 
hitherto  unapproached  example.  Scott, 
as  we  have  seen,  had,  by  force  rather 
of  creative  genius  than  of  elaborate 
study,  devised  a  narrative  style  which, 
with  very  slight  alterations  in  the 
dialogue,  would  do  for  any  age.  But 
he  had  not  tried  much  to  model  the 
vehicle  of  any  particular  story  strictly 
on  the  language  and  temper  of  that 
story's  time.  Dumas  had  followed 
him  with  a  still  greater  tendency  to 
general  modernisation.  Scott's  English 
followers  had  very  rarely  escaped  the 
bastard  and  intolerable  jargon  of  the 
stage.  But  Thackeray  in  ESMOND  did 
really  clothe  the  thought  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  (for  the  thought  is 
after  all  of  the  nineteenth  century)  in 
the  language  of  the  eighteenth  with 
such  success  as  had  never  been  seen 
before,  and  such  as  I  doubt  will  never 
be  seen  again.  It  must  be  admitted 
that  the  result,  though  generally,  is 
not  universally  approved.  It  has 
been  urged  by  persons  whose 
opinions  are  not  to  be  lightly  dis- 
credited, that  the  book  is  after  all 
something  of  a  tour  deforce,  that  there 
is  an  irksome  constraint  and  an  un- 
natural air  about  it,  and  that  effective 


The  Historical  Novel. 


417 


as  a  falsetto  may  be  it  never  can  be  so 
rea  ly  satisfactory  as  a  native  note. 
We  need  not  argue  this  out.  It  is 
per  laps  best,  though  there  be  a  little 
confession  and  avoidance  in  the  evasion, 
to  adopt  or  extend  the  old  joke  of 
Cor  de  or  Charles  the  Second,  and  wish 
heartily  that  those  who  find  fault  with 
ESMOND  as  falsetto  would,  in  falsetto 
or  out  of  it,  give  us  anything  one 
twentieth  part  as  good. 

For  the  merits  of  that  wonderful 
book,  though  they  may  be  set  off  and 
picked  out  by  its  manner  and  style, 
are  in  the  main  independent  thereof. 
The  incomparable  character  of  Beatrix 
Esmond,  the  one  complete  woman  of 
English  prose  fiction,  would  more  than 
suffce  to  make  any  book  a  master- 
piece. And  it  would  not  be  difficult 
to  show  that  the  Historical  Novel  no 
less  than  the  novel  generally  may 
claim  her.  But  the  points  of  the  book 
whioh,  if  not  historical  in  the  sense  of 
having  actually  happened,  are  historic- 
fictitious, — the  entry  of  Thomas  Lord 
Castle  wood  and  his  injured  Viscountess 
on  their  ancestral  home,  the  duel  of 
Frank  Esmond  and  Mohun,  the  pre- 
sentation of  the  Gazette  by  General 
We  )b  to  his  Commander-in-Chief  at 
poir  t  of  sword,  and  the  immortal  scene 
in  the  turret  chamber  with  James  the 
Third, — are  all  of  the  very  finest  stamp 
possible,  as  good  as  the  best  of  Scott 
and  better  than  the  best  of  Dumas. 
In  a  certain  way  ESMOND  is  the  crown 
and  flower  of  the  Historical  Novel  ; 
"  th-)  flaming  limits  of  the  world  "  of 
fiction  have  been  reached  in  it  with 
safe  y  to  the  bold  adventurer,  but  with 
an  impossibility  of  progress  further  to 
him  or  to  any  other. 

One  scene  in  the  unequal  and,  I 
thin  j,  rather  unfairly  abused  sequel, 
— the  scene  where  Harry  fails  to  re- 
cognise Beatrix's  youthful  portrait — 
is  the  equal  of  any  in  ESMOND,  but 
this  is  not  of  the  strictly  or  specially 
hist(  rical  kind.  And  indeed  the  whole 
of  THE  VIRGINIANS,  though  there  is 
plen r,y  of  local  colour  and  no  lack  of 
histc  rical  personages,  is  distinctly  less 
histc  rical  than  its  forerunner.  It  is 
No.  420. — VOL.  LXX. 


true  that  both  time  and  event  so  far  as 
history  goes,  are  much  less  interest- 
ing ;  and  I  have  never  been  able  to 
help  thinking  that  the  author  was 
consciously  or  unconsciously  hampered 
by  a  desire  to  please  both  Englishmen 
and  Americans.  But  whatever  the 
case  may  be  it  is  certain  that  the  his- 
torical element  is  far  less  strong  in 
THE  VIRGINIANS  than  in  ESMOND,  and 
that  such  interest  as  it  has  is  the 
interest  of  the  domestic  novel,  the 
novel  of  manners,  the  novel  of  char- 
acter, rather  than  of  the  novel  of 
history. 

ESMOND  was  published  in  1852. 
Before  the  next  twelve  months  were 
out  HYPATIA  appeared,  and  it  was 
followed  within  two  years  more  by 
WESTWARD  Ho  !  In  one  respect  and 
perhaps  in  more  than  one,  these  two 
brilliant  books  could  not  challenge 
comparison  with  even  weaker  work  of 
Thackeray's  than  ESMOND.  Neither 
in  knowledge  of  human  nature,  nor 
in  power  of  projecting  the  results  of 
that  knowledge  in  the  creation  of 
character,  and  in  the  adjustment  to 
sequence  of  the  minor  and  major 
events  of  life,  was  Kingsley  the  equal 
of  his  great  contemporary.  But  as 
has  been  sufficiently  pointed  out,  the 
most  consummate  command  of  charac- 
ter in  its  interior  working  is  not 
necessary  to  the  historical  novelist. 
And  in  the  gifts  which  are  neces- 
sary to  that  novelist,  Kingsley 
was  very  strong  indeed,— not  least  so 
in  that  gift  of  adapting  the  novel  of 
the  past  to  the  form  and  pressure  of 
the  present,  which  if  not  a  necessary, 
and  indeed  sometimes  rather  a 
treacherous  and  questionable  advan- 
tage, is  undoubtedly  an  advantage  in 
its  way.  He  availed  himself  of  this 
last  to  an  unwise  extent  perhaps  in 
drawing  the  Raphael  of  HYPATIA,  just 
as  in  WESTWARD  Ho  !  he  gave  vent  to 
some  of  the  anti-Papal  feelings  of  his 
day  to  an  extent  sufficient  to  make 
him  in  more  recent  days  furiously  un- 
popular with  Roman  Catholic  critics 
who  have  not  always  honestly  avowed 
the  secret  of  their  depreciation.  But 

E    E 


418 


The  Historical  Novel. 


the  solid  as  well  as  original  merits  of 
these  two  books  are  such  as  cannot 
possibly  be  denied  by  any  fair  criticism 
which  takes  them  as  novels  and  not  as 
something  else.  The  flame  which  had 
not  yet  cleared  itself  of  smoke  in  the 
earlier  efforts  of  YEAST  and  ALTON 
LOCKE,  which  was  to  flicker  and  alter- 
nate bright  with  dimmer  intervals  in 
Two  YEAES  AGO  and  HEREWARD  THE 
WAKE,  blazed  with  astonishing 
brilliancy  in  both.  I  think  I  have 
read  WESTWARD  Ho  !  the  oftener ;  but 
I  hardly  know  which  I  like  the  better. 
No  doubt  if  Kingsley  has  escaped  the 
curious  curse  which  seems  to  rest  on 
the  classical  historical-novel,  he  has 
done  it  by  something  not  unlike  one  of 
those  tricks  whereby  Our  Lady  and  the 
Saints  outwit  Satan  in  legend.  Not 
only  is  there  much  more  of  the  thought 
and  sentiment  of  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century  than  of  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fifth,  but  the  very 
antiquities  and  local  colour  of  the 
time  itself  are  a  good  deal  advanced 
and  made  to  receive  much  of  the 
medieval  touch  (which,  as  has  been 
observed,  is  in  possible  keeping  with 
the  modern)  rather  than  of  that  elder 
spirit  from  which  we  are  so  helplessly 
divided.  But  this  is  a  perfectly 
legitimate  stratagem,  and  the  success 
of  it  is  wonderful.  If  no  figure 
(except  perhaps  the  slightly  sketched 
one  of  Pelagia)  is  of  the  first  order 
for  actual  life,  not  one  falls  below  the 
second,  which,  let  it  be  observed,  is  a 
very  high  class  for  the  creations  of 
fiction.  The  action  never  fails  or 
makes  a  fault ;  the  dialogue,  if  a  little 
mannered  and  literary  now  and  then, 
is  always  crisp  and  full  of  pulse.  But 
the  splendid  tableaux  of  which  the 
book  is  full,  tableaux  artfully  and 
even  learnedly  composed  but  thorough- 
ly alive,  are  the  great  charm  and  the 
great  merit  of  it  as  a  historical  novel. 
The  voyage  down  the  Nile  ;  the  night- 
riots  and  the  harrying  of  the  Jews  ; 
the  panorama  (I  know  no  other  word 
for  it,  but  the  thing  is  one  of  the  finest 
in  fiction,)  of  the  defeat  of  Heraclian  ; 
the  scene  in  the  theatre  at  Alexandria ; 


the  murder  of  Hypatia  and  the  ven- 
geance of  the  Goths  ; — all  of  these  are 
not  only  bad  to  beat,  but  in  their  own 
way,  like  all  thoroughly  good  things, 
they  cannot  be  beaten. 

The  attractions  of  WESTWARD  Ho  ! 
are  less  pictorial  than  those  of  its 
forerunner,  which  exceeds  almost  any 
novel  that  I  know  in  this  respect ; 
but  they  are  even  more  strictly  his- 
torical and  more  closely  connected 
with  historical  action.  In  minute  accu- 
racy Kingsley  '&  strength  did  not  lie ; 
and  here,  though  rather  less  than 
elsewhere,  he  laid  himself  open  to 
the  cavils  of  the  enemy.  But  on  the 
whole,  if  not  in  detail,  he  had  acquired 
a  more  than  competent  knowledge  of 
Elizabethan  thought  and  sentiment, 
and  had  grasped  the  action  and  passion 
of  the  time  with  thorough  and  appre- 
ciative sympathy.  He  had  moreover 
thoroughly  imbued  himself  with  the 
spirit  of  the  regions  over  sea  which 
he  was  to  describe,  and  he  had  a 
mighty  action  or  series  of  actions, 
real  or  feigned,  for  his  theme.  The 
result  was  again  what  may  fairly  be 
called  a  masterpiece.  There  is  again 
perhaps  only  one  character,  Salvation 
Yeo,  who  is  distinctly  of  the  first  class 
as  a  character,  for  Amyas  is  a  little 
too  typical,  a  little  too  much  of  the 
Happy  Warrior  who  has  one  tempta- 
tion and  overcomes  it ;  but  the  rest 
play  their  respective  parts  quite  satis- 
factorily, and  are  surely  as  good  as 
any  reasonable  person  can  desire. 
The  separate  acts  and  scenes  hurry  the 
reader  along  in  the  most  admirable 
fashion.  From  the  day  when  Amyas 
finds  the  horn  to  the  day  when  he 
flings  away  the  sword,  the  chronicle 
goes  on  with  step  as  light  as  it  is 
steady,  with  interest  as  well  main- 
tained as  it  is  intense.  And  through- 
out it  all,  from  first  to  last,  after  a 
fashion  which  cannot  easily  be  matched 
elsewhere,  Kingsley  has  contrived  to 
create  an  atmosphere  of  chivalrous 
enthusiasm,  a  scheme  of  high  action 
and  passion,  wonderfully  contagious 
and  intoxicating.  The  thing  is  not  a 
mere  boyish  stimulant  :  its  power 


The  Historical  Novel. 


419 


stands  the  test  of  thirty  years'  read- 
ing ;  and  the  way  in  which  it  "  nothing 
common  does  nor  mean  "  deserves  no 
r  hrase  so  well  as  the  eroici  furori  of 
]>runo,  who  shared  the  friendship  and 
caught  the  tone  of  the  very  society 
that  Kingsley  celebrates. 

It  may  seem  odd  that  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  three  such  books  in  little 
more  than  three  years  the  style  which 
they  represented  should  have  lost 
popularity.  But  such  was  the  fact 
for  reasons  partly  assigned  already, 
and  similar  phenomena  are  by  no 
means  uncommon  in  literary  history. 
For  the  best  part  of  twenty  years  the 
Historical  Novel  was  a  little  out  of 
fashion.  How  it  revived  with  Mr. 
Blackmore's  masterpiece,  and  how  it 


has  since  been  taken  up  with  ever 
increasing  zest,  everybody  knows. 
But  the  efforts  of  our  present  bene- 
factors are  in  all  cases  unfinished  and 
in  some  we  may  hope  will  long  remain 
so.  Those  who  make  them  are  happily 
alive,  and  "  stone  dead  hath  no  fellow  " 
for  critical  purposes  as  for  others. 

So  what  success  these  efforts  met 
The  critic  will  not  weigh,— as  yet. 

But  the  mere  fact  of  their  existence 
and  of  their  nourishing  makes  it  all  the 
more  interesting  to  survey  the  history 
of  what  is  still  among  the  youngest, — 
though  it  has  been  trying  to  be  born 
ever  since  a  time  which  would  have 
made  it  quite  the  eldest— of  the  kinds 
of  Prose  Fiction. 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY. 


420 


THE  NEW  JAPANESE  CONSTITUTION. 


UNTIL  quite  recently  the  Japanese 
were  best  known  to  the  majority  of 
Englishmen  as  the  makers  of  artistic 
bric-a-brac.  They  excited  a  sort  of 
sentimental  interest,  as  a  quaint 
people  who  in  a  way  of  their  own 
painted  fire-screens  and  fans,  grew 
chrysanthemums  and  lilies,  and  dwelt 
in  a  land  of  surpassing  loveliness.  In 
a  word,  Japan  was  regarded  very 
much  as  the  Fortunate  Islands  of  the 
modern  world.  When  the  war  with 
China  broke  out,  this  fond  vision  of 
the  fancy  was  rudely  dispelled.  It 
was  seen  that  the  Japanese  could  draw 
the  sword  as  well  as  draw  designs, 
and  that  they  had  something  still  in 
them  of  the  old  Oriental  Adam.  But 
quite  apart  from  the  question  of  their 
merits  as  artists  and  of  the  interest 
excited  by  the  war  in  Corea,  the 
Japanese  may  challenge  our  attention 
on  other  grounds. 

They  have  lately  entered  on  a  great 
experiment.  The  proposition  that  the 
majority  of  mankind  have  no  desire 
for  change  was  one  of  those  brilliant 
generalisations  for  which  Sir  Henry 
Maine  was  famous,  and  upon  its 
universal  truth  the  Japanese  have 
made  a  serious  inroad.  M.  Kenan 
once  compared  nations  to  the  Seven 
Sleepers  of  Ephesus.  Ordinarily,  he 
said,  they  sleep  from  generation  to 
generation ;  but  now  and  again  they 
turn  from  one  side  to  the  other,  and 
then  occur  the  great  changes  of  man- 
kind. At  the  times,  for  instance,  of 
the  Reformation  and  the  French 
Revolution  the  nations  of  Northern 
Europe  and  of  France  awoke  for  a 
moment  from  their  slumbers,  and  at 
their  uneasy  turnings  the  whole  world 
shook.  And  so  it  has  been  in  a 
measure  with  the  Japanese.  They 
too  of  recent  years  have  been  turning 
in  their  beds.  Until  then,  what 


Tennyson  said  of  China,  that  "  fifty 
years  of  Europe"  were  better  than 
"  a  cycle  of  Cathay,"  was  probably 
quite  as  true  of  Japan.  But  all  that 
is  now  changed,  and  the  Japanese 
have  adopted  a  large  measure  of  that 
system  of  social  organisation  which  for 
want  of  a  better  term  is  vaguely 
styled  Western  civilisation.  An 
Oriental  nation  has  made  a  sudden 
forward  spring  and  that  is  a  very  re- 
markable event.  In  India,  and  per- 
haps in  other  portions  of  the  East,  that 
civilisation  has  made  very  slow  way, 
and  has  tinged  to  a  hardly  apprecia- 
ble extent  the  different  sections  of 
society.  The  gulf  between  East  and 
West  yawns  too  wide  to  be  easily,  if 
ever,  abridged,  and  it  would  probably 
be  true  to  say  that  no  Englishman 
can  fully  understand  the  mental 
standpoint  of  the  average  Chinaman 
or  Hindoo.  But  it  has  not  been  so  in 
Japan.  Within  the  lifetime  of  the 
present  generation  she  has  torn  off  the 
swaddling-clothes  of  custom  and 
tradition,  and  arrayed  herself  in  the 
newest  fashions  of  the  West.  If 
imitation  be  the  sincerest  form  of 
flattery,  then  indeed  Europe  has 
reason  to  be  pleased.  This  transfor- 
mation has  extended  to  things  both 
great  and  small,  as  well  to  social 
usages  and  manners,  as  to  the  arts  and 
manufactures,  and  the  very  frame- 
work of  government  itself.  Within  a 
decade  that  government  has  under- 
gone not  merely  a  reform  but  a 
revolution.  From  a  purely  Oriental 
despotism  it  has  suddenly  blossomed 
forth  into  a  constitutional  monarchy 
of  the  most  approved  type.  It  is  an 
event  which  is  quite  without  prece- 
dent, and  is  an  important  episode  in 
the  history  of  human  institutions. 
No  other  Oriental  nation  has  ever  yet 
shown  itself  capable  of  working  parlia- 


The  New  Japanese  Constitution. 


mentary  institutions  ;  much  less  has 
ifc  actually  adopted  them.  But  that  is 
what  the  Japanese  did  in  1889,  a  year 
which  by  a  curious  coincidence  marks 
the  centenary  of  the  creation  of  the 
American  Constitution.  In  1789  the 
citizens  of  the  United  States  founded 
the  first  of  the  great  modern  Constitu- 
tions ;  a  hundred  years  later  the 
Japanese  have  come  forward  with  the 
last. 

The  making  of  the  American  Con- 
stitution was  a  very  remarkable  event, 
but  that  of  the  Constitution  of  Japan 
is  in  some  respects  more  remarkable 
still.  It  is  true  indeed  that  the 
architects  of  the  former  had  very 
great  difficulties  to  contend  with,  and 
that  they  builded  better  than  they 
knew.  The  obstacles  were  so  great 
that,  probably  nothing  short  of 
necessity  would  have  succeeded  in 
producing  the  Constitution  at  all. 
Its  builders  had  no 'model  to  seize 
upon  and  copy  ;  they  could  only  look 
round  the  world  and  snatch  such 
materials  as  they  could  from  this 
quarter  or  from  that.  The  cut-and- 
diled  written  Constitution  was  then 
unknown  ;  the  governments  of  Europe 
were  anomalous  growths,  accretions  of 
illogical  ideas,  and  often  the  resulting 
products  of  wars,  oppressions,  and 
irrational  superstitions.  There  was 
little  about  them  to  excite  the  emula- 
tion of  the  set  tiers  of  the  New  World, 
and  the  architects  of  America  found 
few  precedents,  except  in  the  mother 
country,  which  could  be  of  any  value. 
They  could  see  much  to  be  avoided, 
and  they  could  study  the  writings  of 
such  political  philosophers  as  Locke 
and  Montesquieu.  That  they  did  to 
such  purpose  that  they  built  a  Con- 
stitution which  has  stood  a  century  of 
stress  and  storm  severe  enough  to 
wreck  any  but  the  strongest.  The 
child  of  necessity,  born  almost  in  the 
throes  of  war,  it  yet  must  not  be  for- 
gotten that  the  American  Constitution 
was  the  work  of  men  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race,  who  had  inherited  the 
most  glorious  of  traditions,  in  whose 
bone  was  liberty,  and  in  whose  blood 


was  independence.  The  task  upon 
which  they  had  entered  was  congenial 
to  their  nature.  To  all  this  the 
Japanese  :were  strangers,  and  from 
Western  modes  of  thought  they  were 
poles  asunder.  Moreover,  while  the 
American  colonists  were  a  thinly 
scattered  race,  the  Japanese  formed  a 
compact  nation  of  hardly  less  than 
forty  millions ;  so  that  it  may  be  said 
without  exaggeration  that  so  violent 
a  disruption  of  the  past  by  so 
numerous  a  people  has  probably  never 
been  witnessed  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  On  the  other  hand  fortune 
has  been  kind  to  the  builders  of 
Japan.  They  worked  in  peaceful 
times,  and  so  far  from  not  having  any 
models  with  which  to  guide  their 
handiwork,  they  have  rather  suffered 
from  an  embarrassment  of  riches. 
Almost  all  the  States  of  Europe  had 
by  this  time  their  written  Constitu- 
tions, which  had  either  been  wrested 
by  force  or  conceded  from  fear,  and 
Japan  had  the  governments  of  the 
civilised  world  to  choose  from.  Such 
work  was  comparatively  easy. 

This  eminently  eclectic  Constitution 
is  of  the  written  or  rigid  type,  and  is 
the  work  mainly  of  that  distinguished 
statesman,  Count  Ito  Hirobumi.  It 
is  prefaced  by  the  Imperial  oath 
which  was  taken,  and  the  Imperial 
speech  which  was  delivered  on  its 
promulgation.  Both  oath  and  speech 
apparently  attempt  to  conceal  the 
reality  of  change  with  a  nebulous 
grandiloquence  of  phrase,  and  a  pro- 
fession of  sturdy  conservative  princi- 
ples. As  though  frightened  at  the 
magnitude  of  their  own  creation  the 
Japanese  seem  to  try  to  hide  its 
importance  from  themselves.  There 
is  something  peculiarly  naive  about 
the  character  of  the  oath.  A  more 
radical  revolution  than  the  granting 
of  the  Japanese  Constitution  it  would 
be  difficult  to  imagine ;  yet  it  is 
gravely  maintained  by  the  words  of 
the  oath  to  be  mildly  conservative. 
The  Emperor  swears  that  "in  pur- 
suance of  a  great  policy  co-extensive 
with  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  we 


422 


The  New  Japanese  Constitution. 


shall  maintain  and  secure  from  decline 
the  ancient  form  of  government ;  "  and 
the  Constitution  is  declared  to  be  "  only 
an  exposition  of  the  grand  precepts  for 
the  conduct  of  the  government 
bequeathed  by  the  Imperial  Founder 
of  our  House,  and  by  our  Imperial 
ancestors."  The  Imperial  speech, 
and  the  preamble  to  the  Consti- 
tution are  quite  in  keeping  with 
the  oath.  The  Emperor  displays  a 
full  sense  of  the  dignity  of  his 
position  ;  for  not  only  does  he  declare 
his  policy  to  be  "coextensive  with  the 
heavens  and  the  earth,"  but  that  his 
Empire  has  its  foundation  "  upon  a 
basis  which  is  to  last  for  ever."  More- 
over he  speaks  of  the  Constitution  as 
"the  present  immutable  fundamental 
law,"  and  as  exhibiting  "  the  principles 
to  which  our  descendants  and  our 
subjects  and  their  descendants  are  for 
ever  to  conform."  But  by  a  singular 
inconsistency  almost  in  the  same 
breath  provisions  are  made  for  the 
amendment  of  that  which  is  declared 
to  be  immutable ;  and  the  initiative 
right  of  amendment  is  thereupon 
reserved  to  the  Emperor  and  his  suc- 
cessors, who  are  bound  to  submit  their 
proposals  to  the  Imperial  Diet. 

After  this  somewhat  bombastic 
beginning,  which  is  probably  nothing 
more  than  a  harmless  ebullition  of 
pardonable  pride,  the  Constitution 
may  be  said  to  settle  down  to  business. 
It  opens  with  an  exposition  of  the 
status  of  the  Emperor,  who  is  properly 
styled  "Kotei"  and  not  "Mikado," 
a  word  which  means  literally 
"Honourable  Gate."  Though  his 
person  is  declared  to  be  sacred  and 
inviolable,  it  is  evident  at  once  that 
he  is  intended  to  be  a  strictly  con- 
stitutional monarch.  He  is  bound  to 
exercise  the  rights  of  sovereignty  in 
accordance  with  the  provisions  of  the 
Constitution.  As  is  the  case  with 
the  British  Crown,  he  forms  a  part  of 
Parliament,  for  he  can  only  exercise 
his  legislative  powers  with  the  consent 
of  the  Imperial  Diet.  He  is  too,  the 
head  of  the  Executive,  and  convokes, 
opens,  closes,  prorogues,  and  dissolves 


the  Diet.  He  has  the  supreme  com- 
mand of  the  army  and  navy,  deter- 
mines their  organisation  and  strength, 
declares  war,  makes  peace,  and  con- 
cludes treaties.  He  is  the  fountain  of 
honour,  and  confers  titles  of  nobility, 
rank,  orders,  and  other  marks  of  dis- 
tinction. He  has  the  privilege  of 
mercy,  and  the  right  to  order  amnesty, 
pardon,  commutation  of  punishment, 
and  rehabilitation.  So  that  he  prac- 
tically possesses  all  the  powers  which 
belong  to  any  constitutional  monarch 
or  Republican  president.  But  these 
very  ample  prerogatives  do  not  form 
the  whole  of  his  authority.  He  has 
the  right  to  make  ordinances  as 
distinguished  from  laws,  or  in  other 
words  to  issue  decrees  on  extraor- 
dinary occasions  without  the  concur- 
rence of  the  Diet.  Necessity  will 
sometimes  override  legality,  and 
emergencies  may  arise  when  the 
spirit  of  the  law  is  best  observed  by 
ignoring  its  letter.  The  maxim  salus 
publica  suprema  lex  holds  good  in 
Japan  as  it  does  all  the  world  over,  and 
it  is  doubtless  due  to  a  perception  of 
its  truth  that  these  extraordinary 
powers  have  been  conferred  on  the 
Emperor.  That  they  are  liable  to 
abuse,  and  should  only  be  exercised 
in  accordance  with  what  are  con- 
veniently termed  constitutional  con- 
ventions, is  apparent  at  a  glance.  It 
is  impossible  to  frame  a  Constitution 
so  as  entirely  to  prevent  any  breach 
of  its  provisions.  No  talisman  can 
be  devised  against  chicanery  and  force. 
Forbearance  and  good  faith  are,  so  to 
speak,  the  lubricating  oils  which  alone 
make  a  Constitution  a  possible  engine 
of  government ;  and  this  should  not 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  have  passed 
an  unfavourable  judgment  upon  a 
provision  of  this  Constitution  which 
they  believe  to  be  specially  liable  to 
abuse. 

The  rights  and  duties  of  subjects 
are  next  provided  for,  and  it  may  be 
said  generally  that  their  liberties  are, 
on  the  face  of  it  ab  least,  as  fully 
guaranteed  as  in  any  Western  nation. 
For  instance,  every  Japanese  subject 


The  New  Japanese  Constitution. 


is  entitled  to  have  "  liberty  of  abode 
and  of  changing  the  same  within  the 
limits  of  the  law " ;  while  no  one 
may  be  arrested,  detained,  tried,  or 
punished  unless  according  to  law,  nor 
be  deprived  of  his  right  of  being  tried 
by  the  judges  appointed  by  law. 
Noi  may  his  home  be  entered  or 
searched  without  his  consent,  except 
in  the  cases  specially  provided.  It 
is  moreover  a  notable  provision  that, 
save  in  particular  circumstances,  the 
secracy  of  letters  in  the  post  is  to 
remain  inviolable.  Any  one  who  re- 
calls the  revelations  which  about  fifty 
years  ago  were  made  with  regard  to 
the  opening  of  Mazzini's  letters  by  the 
English  postal  authorities  will  be 
ready  to  admit  that  in  this  matter  at 
lease,  England  has  not  been  so  far  in 
advance  of  Japan.  It  is  probable 
indeed  that  France  and  other  Con- 
tinental States  are  actually  behind 
her.  At  least  the  C.abinet  Noir, 
whose  special  function  it  was  to 
examine  correspondence  in  the  post, 
was  active  during  the  Second  Empire, 
and  is  said  to  still  linger  in  fact  if  not 
in  name.  Freedom  of  religious  belief 
is  guaranteed,  and  so  are  the  rightly 
cherished  liberties  of  the  Platform 
and  the  Press.  These  rights,  it 
should  be  said,  may  only  be  exercised 
"within  the  limits  of  the  law,"  and  it 
must,  freely  be  admitted  that  beneath 
a  rigorous  administration  these  limits 
might  be  reduced  to  very  narrow 
bounds.  In  Germany,  for  instance, 
where  the  freedom  of  the  Press  is 
nominally  granted,  editors  are  con- 
stantly subjected  to  fine  and  imprison- 
ment, and  freedom  in  Japan  may  not 
be  so  real  as  the  words  of  the  Con- 
stitution would  lead  one  to  suppose. 

The  Legislative  body  is  the  Im- 
perial Diet,  and  it  consists  of  two 
Houses,  the  House  of  Peers  and  the 
House  of  Representatives.  No  law 
can  be  made  without  their  consent, 
and  ( ither  House  can  initiate  legisla- 
tion. The  Diet  must  be  convoked 
every  year,  but  it  is  worthy  of 
note  that  the  session  can  only  last 
three  months,  except  indeed  in  cases 


of  urgent  necessity,  when  it  may  be 
prolonged  by  Imperial  order.  The 
Japanese,  as  is  the  case  also  with  the 
citizens  of  some  of  the  States  of  the 
American  Union,  must  have  some 
sense  of  the  inconveniences  attending 
an  excessive  legislative  ardour.  At 
all  events,  unless  the  Diet  gets  through 
its  business  much  quicker  than  the 
British  House  of  Commons,  legisla- 
tion in  Japan  cannot  be  very  brisk. 
It  is  certain  that  a  three  months' 
session  at  St.  Stephen's  would  com- 
pletely strangle  a  Newcastle  pro- 
gramme. When  the  House  of 
Representatives  has  been  dissolved, 
a  new  one  must  be  convoked 
within  five  months.  No  debate 
can  be  opened  and  no  vote  can 
be  taken  in  either  House,  unless  a 
quorum  of  not  less  than  one-third 
of  the  whole  number  of  Members  is 
present ;  the  deliberations  of  both 
Houses  are  held  in  public  ;  no  Member 
of  either  House  can  be  held  responsi- 
ble outside  for  an  opinion  uttered  or 
for  any  vote  given  in  the  Houses ; 
and  Members  of  both  Houses  are 
during  the  session  free  from  arrest 
unless  with  the  consent  of  the  House 
to  which  they  belong,  except  in  the 
cases  of  flagrant  crimes,  or  of  offences 
connected  with  a  state  of  internal 
commotion  or  foreign  trouble.  From 
a  constitutional  point  of  view  a  most 
interesting  and  important  provision 
is  that  which  declares  that  Ministers 
of  State  or  Delegates  of  the  Govern- 
ment may  at  any  time  take  seats  and 
speak  in  either  House.  It  is  a 
provision  which  indelibly  stamps  the 
Japanese  Constitution  as  belonging 
to  the  type  of  parliamentary  govern- 
ment of  which  the  British  is  the  most 
eminent  example.  The  government 
of  the  United  States  is  perhaps  the 
best  example  of  the  non-parliamentary 
type,  for  there  a  Minister  may  not  sit 
or  speak  in  either  House.  The  dis- 
tinction involved  in  these  differences 
of  type  is  one  which  cuts  very  deep 
and  may  produce  momentous  conse- 
quences ;  it  is  therefore  of  interest  to 
note  that  Japan  follows  the  British 


424 


The  New  Japanese  Constitution. 


and  not  the  American  example. 
There  is  no  law  in  England  which 
compels  a  Minister  to  take  a  seat  in 
either  House ;  but  there  is  a  custom 
that  he  should  do  so  which  has 
almost  the  force  of  law,  and  which 
except  in  very  unusual  cases  it  would 
be  most  inexpedient  to  violate.  And 
so  in  Japan,  though  the  C  institution 
allows  a  Minister  the  option  of  taking 
a  seat  in  either  House,  it  would  be 
contrary  to  all  experience  to  suppose 
that  this  option  will  not  in  practice 
be  reduced  to  a  nullity.  It  may  be 
taken  almost  as  a  foregone  conclusion 
that  the  Japanese  Minister,  like  the 
British,  will  feel  that  he  has  really 
very  little  choice  in  the  matter.  It 
is,  moreover,  expressly  provided  that 
all  laws,  Imperial  ordinances,  and 
Imperial  rescripts  of  whatever  kind 
that  relate  to  affairs  of  State  require 
the  counter-signature  of  a  Minister  of 
State,  and  the  respective  Ministers  of 
State  are  to  give  their  advice  to  the 
Emperor  and  to  be  responsible  for  it ; 
another  particular  in  which  the  prac- 
tice of  Japan  approximates  to  eur 
own. 

Of  the  judicial  system  there  is  not 
much  to  be  said.  It  is  however 
satisfactory  to  observe  that  no  judge 
can  be  removed  unless  by  way  of 
criminal  sentence  or  disciplinary 
punishment,  and  that  trials  are  con- 
ducted in  public.  But  there  is  one 
particular  in  which  the  practice  of 
Japan  diverges  from  our  own  and 
resembles  the  French  judicial  system. 
Actions  to  which  the  Executive  au- 
thorities are  parties  do  not  lie 
within  the  jurisdiction  of  the  ordinary 
law  courts,  but  within  that  of  the 
Courts  of  Administrative  Litigation. 
This  seems  to  exactly  correspond  to 
the  French  system  of  Loi  Adminis- 
tratif. 

After  the  lively  feelings  stirred  by 
the  passing  of  the  recent  Budget, 
Englishmen  will  probably  care  to 
hear  how  they  do  these  things  in 
Japan.  As  might  have  been  expected, 
it  is  provided  that  the  expenditure 
and  revenue  of  the  State  require  the 


consent  of  the  Imperial  Diet  by 
means  of  an  annual  Budget.  It  is 
more  important  to  note  that,  though 
the  voting  of  the  Budget  does  not 
fall  within  the  peculiar  province  of 
the  Representative  House,  yet  it  is 
provided  that  it  must  be  first  laid 
before  that  House.  Students  of 
political  philosophy  will  keenly  watch 
to  see  whether  in  course  of  time 
the  rights  of  the  House  of  Peers  to 
introduce  amendments  in  the  Bud- 
get will  remain  a  living  force,  or 
whether  they  will  be  practically 
reduced  to  a  shadow,  as  has  been 
the  case  with  the  British  House  of 
Lords. 

For  the  regulations  which  direct 
the  practice  of  the  Diet,  the  Presi- 
dents and  the  Yice-Presidents  of 
both  Houses  are  nominated  by  the 
Emperor,  in  the  case  of  the  Upper 
House  out  of  all  the  Members,  and  in 
that  of  the  Lower  House  out  of  three 
Members  respectively  elected  by  their 
colleagues  for  each  of  those  offices. 
The  Presidents  of  both  Houses  receive 
an  annual  salary  of  four  thousand 
yen,  and  the  Yice-Presidents  of  two 
thousand  yen.  So  that  if  the  value 
of  the  yen  be  taken  at  three  shillings 
and  fourpence,  it  will  be  seen  that 
these  salaries  are  exceedingly  modest. 
Not  a  little  interesting  too,  in  view  of 
the  demands  which  are  now  being 
persistently  pressed  by  our  English 
Radicals,  are  the  provisions  relating 
to  the  payment  of  Members.  Elected 
and  nominated  Members  of  the  Upper 
House  (of  which  something  will  here- 
after be  said)  and  Members  of  the 
House  of  Representatives  receive  an 
annual  allowance  of  eight  hundred 
yen  and  their  travelling  expenses; 
and  though  they  may  not  decline  their 
allowances,  they  are  not  entitled  to 
receive  them  unless  they  comply  with 
the  summons  of  convocation.  Members 
holding  government  appointments  may 
not  receive  the  annual  allowance ; 
but  those  who  are  on  committees  are 
entitled  to  additional  pay  when  the 
committee  continues  to  sit  during  a 
recess.  It  must  be  admitted  that  in 


The  New  Japanese  Constitution. 


the  matter  of  payment  of  its  legis- 
lators, Japan  is'  but  following  the 
alirost  universal  practice  of  the 
civilised  world.  Almost  everywhere 
now  Members  are  either  paid  or  at 
leae;t  allowed  their  travelling  expenses. 
The  salaries  of  the  Japanese  legis- 
lators are  however  on  a  very  modest 
scale.  They  are  so  certainly  in  com- 
parison with  those  of  the  United 
States,  and  approximate  rather  to 
the  almost  penurious  allowances  of 
Switzerland ;  a  fact  which  will  go 
son  e  way  to  rid  Japan  of  that  baneful 
creature  the  professional  politician. 
The  Japanese  Diet  is  evidently  no 
place  for  idle  dilettantes.  In  the  strict- 
ness  of  its  rules  it  goes  beyond  even 
the  Swiss  Legislative  Chambers.  In 
Switzerland  a  Member  who  does  not 
attond  the  sittings  of  the  House 
merely  loses  his  salary  ;  but  in  Japan 
Members  of  both  Houses  must  obtain 
leave  of  absence  from  their  respective 
Presidents,  and  such  leave  must  not 
exceed  a  week.  Moreover  no  Member 
is  allowed  to  absent  himself  from  the 
sittings  of  the  House  or  of  a 
committee,  without  having  forwarded 
to  the  President  a  notice  setting  forth 
proper  reasons  for  his  absence.  Nor 
does  the  matter  end  here.  If  a 
Member  without  substantial  reason 
fails  to  answer  within  a  week  to  the 
summons  of  convocation,  or  absents 
himself  from  the  sittings  of  the  House 
or  u  committee,  or  exceeds  his  leave 
of  absence,  and  after  having  received 
froia  the  President  a  summons  to 
attend,  still  without  good  reason  fails 
to  comply  with  it,  he  is  on  the 
expiration  of  a  week,  if  a  Member 
of  the  House  of  Peers,  suspended 
from  his  seat,  if  a  Represent- 
ativa,  expelled  from  the  House. 
These  rules  strike  an  Englishman  as 
beir.g  exceedingly  drastic,  and  would 
render  parliamentary  life  an  intoler- 
able burden.  The  pressure  exerted 
by  Party  Whips  and  vigilant  con- 
stituents is  probably  as  much  as  most 
Members  can  endure;  and  there  is 
probably  nothing  in  the  Japanese 
Constitution  more  forcibly  illustrating 


the  immense  difference  between  the 
political  atmosphere  of  Japan  and  of 
the  Western  world  than  these  singular 
provisions  which  almost  reduce  the 
regimen  of  the  Diet  to  that  of  a 
school.  They  may  be  a  wholesome 
discipline  in  a  country  where  parlia- 
mentary institutions  are  new  and 
alien  to  the  traditions  of  the  people ; 
but  if  Japan  has  borrowed  the  forms, 
she  has  not  yet  accepted  the  spirit  of 
the  West. 

There  is  a  regular  system  of  com- 
mittees, as  in  our  Parliament.  These 
committees  are  of  three  kinds,  Stand- 
ing and  Special  Committees  and  a 
Committee  of  the  whole  House.  The 
method  of  selecting  the  Standing 
Committees  is  peculiar.  In  each 
House  the  Members  are  divided  into 
several  sections  by  lot,  and  then  each 
section  elects  from  the  Members  of 
the  House  an  equal  number  to  the 
Standing  Committees. 

The  British  private  Member  will  be 
curious  to  see  whether  his  fellows 
in  Japan  receive  any  better  treatment 
than  himself.  He  will  perhaps  be 
gratified  to  find  that  he  has  not  much 
cause  for  envy,  for  in  Japan,  as  in 
England,  the  Government  of  the  day 
has  a  superior  claim  over  the  private 
Member  upon  the  time  of  the  House. 
Bills  brought  in  by  the  Government 
have  precedence,  except  when  the 
concurrence  of  the  Government  is 
obtained  to  a  contrary  course,  in  cases 
of  urgent  necessity.  All  Bills  must 
pass  three  readings,  but  these  steps 
may  be  omitted  when  the  Govern- 
ment, or  not  less  than  ten  Members, 
demand  it,  and  a  majority  of  not  less 
than  two-thirds  of  the  Members 
present  concur.  And  though  Bills 
brought  in  by  the  Government  must 
first  be  submitted  to  the  examination 
of  a  committee,  this  process  may  be 
dispensed  with  when  the  Government 
demand  it  on  grounds  of  urgent 
necessity.  Moreover  if  a  private 
Member  moves  to  introduce  a  Bill  or 
to  make  an  amendment  to  a  Bill,  such 
motion  may  not  be  made  the  subject 
of  debate,  unless  it  is  supported  by  not 


426 


The  New  Japanese  Constitution. 


less  than  twenty  Members ;  nor  may 
any  Member  put  a  question  to  a 
Minister  unless  he  is  supported  by  at 
least  thirty  Members.  So  that  it  is 
evident  that  it  is  not  in  the  British 
House  of  Commons  alone  that  there 
are  considerable  restraints  upon  in- 
dividual zeal.  Parliamentary  govern- 
ment tends  everywhere  to  reduce 
private  initiative  in  legislation  to  a 
minimum,  and  Japan  appears  to  be  no 
exception  to  the  rule. 

That  portion  of  the  Constitution 
which  deals  with  the  law  of  election 
will  commend  itself  to  those  who 
took  an  interest  in  the  recent  Regis- 
tration Bill  of  the  present  Govern- 
ment. The  subject  is  too  large  to  be 
more  than  merely  touched  upon.  It 
will  be  found  however  in  Japan  that 
there  is  nothing  of  that  censurable 
laxity  which  is  common  in  the  United 
States,  where  it  is  actually  possible 
for  a  perfect  stranger  just  landed  from 
abroad  to  "  go  right  in  and  vote."  In 
order  to  possess  the  franchise  a  Jap- 
anese must  be  not  less  than  twenty- 
five  years  of  age,  must  have  fixed  his 
permanent  residence,  and  have  actu- 
ally resided  in  certain  electoral  dis- 
tricts for  not  less  than  a  year  previous 
to  the  date  of  the  electoral  list,  and 
must  still  be  residing  there.  He 
must  also  within  the  same  limitation  of 
time  have  been  paying  in  his  district 
Imperial  taxes  to  the  amount  of  not 
less  than  fifteen  yen,  and  must  be 
still  paying  them ;  in  the  case  of  the 
income-tax,  he  must  have  been  paying 
it  for  not  less  than  full  three  years 
previous  to  the  same  date  and  must 
still  be  paying  it.  A  candidate  for 
election  must  be  not  less  than  thirty 
years  old ;  obviously  there  will  be  no 
Japanese  Pitt  to  be  Premier  at  the 
age  of  twenty-three.  The  "  New 
Woman"  has  not  advanced  so  far  in 
Japan  as  she  has  done  in  New  Zea- 
land, for  as  yet  there  is  no  female 
suffrage.  For  the  rest,  it  may  be 
noted  that  the  expenses  of  elections 
are  defrayed  out  of  local  taxes ;  that 
priests  of  religion  of  all  kinds  are  in- 
eligible, and  (a  fact  of  special  interest 


to  the  Anti-Gambling  League)  that 
among  the  persons  disqualified  both 
as  electors  and  candidates  are  those 
who  have  been  punished  for  gambling 
within  three  years  of  the  date  of  the 
completion  of  their  sentence  ;  that  the 
heads  of  noble  families  are  ineligible  ; 
that  the  register  in  each  district  is 
made  out  yearly;  that  elections  are 
all  held  on  one  day ;  that  the  term  of 
membership  is  four  years ;  that  elec- 
tion disputes  are  decided  in  the  law 
courts ;  and  that  bribery  and  cor- 
ruption are  punishable  by  fine. 

The  composition  of  the  House  of 
Peers  is  certainly  curious.  It  com- 
bines the  principles  of  heredity,  of 
life-peerages,  of  nomination  and  elec- 
tion, and  there  are  probably  few  of 
the  suggested  schemes  for  the  reform 
of  the  House  of  Lords  which  it  does 
not  anticipate  in  some  particulars  at 
least.  It  is  made  up  of  five  classes : 
members  of  the  Imperial  Family, 
Princes  and  Marquises ;  Counts,  Vis- 
counts, and  Barons  elected  by  their 
own  orders  as  representatives ;  per- 
sons nominated  by  the  Emperor  on 
account  of  meritorious  services  to  the 
State  or  for  their  learning ;  and  lastly, 
persons  chosen  by  and  from  among  a 
selected  class  of  the  people  at  large. 
The  position  is  hereditary  with  the 
persons  of  the  first  two  classes,  while 
those  of  the  third  class  are  life-mem- 
bers, and  those  of  the  two  remaining 
classes  serve  for  a  period  of  seven 
years.  Members  of  the  second  class 
must  have  attained  the  age  of  twenty- 
five  years,  and  those  of  the  fourth  and 
fifth  classes  the  age  of  thirty  years 
respectively.  It  is  a  scheme  which 
appears  upon  the  face  of  it  to  be  an 
ingenious  attempt  to  solve  the  diffi- 
cult problem  of  creating  a  really 
effective  second  Chamber  which  at 
the  same  time  shall  not  excite  envy 
and  suspicion,  and  it  well  deserves 
the  serious  consideration  of  those 
English  Radicals  who  are  not  content 
to  let  the  House  of  Lords  remain  as 
it  is. 

There  is  not  space  here  to  do  more 
than  touch  upon  the  salient  points  of 


The  New  Japanese  Constitution. 


427 


this  most  interesting  Constitution. 
It  is  t-a  very  clever  bit  of  eclecticism, 
if  it  is  nothing  else ;  but  its  practical 
success  depends  entirely  upon  the 
spirit  in  which  it  is  received,  and  the 
natural  aptitude  of  the  people  to  ac- 
cept i-i.  If  they  are  as  yet  unfitted 
to  adopt  such  a  form  of  government 
as  I  have  attempted  to  describe,  the  ex- 
perime  nt  is  foredoomed  to  ignominious 
failure .  If  the  Constitution  is  simply 
a  piece  of  clever  mimicry,  then  these 
borrowed  institutions  can  strike  no 
root  into  the  soil,  and  the  civilisation 
of  Japan  will  be  no  more  than  a 
veneer,  which  will  be  sure  to  wear 
very  thin.  Let  us  then  see  how,  so 
far  as  it  has  yet  gone,  the  Constitution 
has  actually  worked. 

It  was  promulgated  in  the  year 
1889.  The  first  election  took  place 
in  the  following  year,  and  the  large 
amount  of  interest  taken  in  the 
matter  is  shown  by  the  fact,  that  there 
were  no  less  than  six  hundred  and 
forty-cine  candidates  for  two  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  seats.  It  is  said  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  bribery,  and 
that  one  successful  candidate  was 
assassinated,  a  thing  which  will  per- 
haps r,ot  seem  very  surprising  in 
Japan  when  one  considers  the  bribery 
and  rowdyism  which  used  to  be  the  in- 
separaole  accompaniments  of  election 
contests  in  England.  The  next 
election  took  place  in  February,  1892, 
the  chief  feature  of  which  appears  to 
have  been  a  considerable  defeat  of  the 
Liberal  Party  lead  by  Count  Okuma. 
It  was  in  that  Diet  that  difficulties 
arose  last  year.  The  Government 
proposed  to  increase  the  navy,  and  in 
order  no  raise  the  necessary  money, 
they  a1  the  same  time  proposed  to  in- 
crease the  taxes  on  tobacco  and 
native  wines.  The  House  of  Repre- 
sentati/es  refused  to  sanction  this 
portion  of  the  Budget,  and  the 
Government  justified  its  determina- 
tion to  persist  upon  constitutional 
grounds.  Both  sides  were  unwilling 
to  give  way,  and  things  were  simply 
reduced  to  a  dead-lock.  Obstruction 
was  persistent,  and  the  Government 


was  unable  to  carry  any  of  its 
legislative  measures,  except  by  giving 
promises  of  large  concessions.  The 
excitement  in  the  country  became  very 
great ;  the  attacks  of  the  "  Soshi  "  (a 
set  of  turbulent  busybodies)  upon 
prominent  individuals  increased  daily, 
and  it  became  necessary  to  restrain 
the  outspoken  freedom  of  the  Press. 
One  journal  went  so  far  as  to  call  the 
Members  of  the  Diet  "Honenukidojo," 
or  boneless  fish.  Its  editor  and  pub- 
lisher were  prosecuted  by  the  Presi- 
dent, and  were  sentenced  to  a  fine  of 
fifty  yen  and  a  year's  imprisonment. 
So  disorderly  too  were  the  sittings  of 
the  Diet  that  the  Government  tried 
the  experiment  of  proroguing  it  from 
time  to  time  for  the  statutory  period 
of  fifteen  days,  but  without  bringing 
the  matter  any  nearer  to  a  solution. 
The  end,  however,  came  at  last  in  a 
manner  which  can  only  be  described 
as  thoroughly  Japanese.  The  House 
.of  Representatives  presented  an  ad- 
dress to  the  Emperor  asking  for 
advice,  and  his  reply  was  singularly 
naive.  He  advocated  harmony, 
ordered  three  hundred  thousand  yen 
from  his  income  to  be  devoted  for  six 
years  to  naval  construction,  and  ten  per 
cent,  to  be  deducted  from  the  salaries 
of  government  officials  for  the  same 
purpose.  The  singular  character  of 
Japanese  politics  can  best  be  realised 
by  considering  what  would  be  thought 
of  any  European  Government  which 
proposed  to  meet  an  increase  of  Naval 
Estimates  by  deductions  from  the 
salaries  of  its  Civil  Servants.  Yet  in 
Japan  the  proposal  seems  to  have  ex- 
cited no  opposition.  But  this  was  only 
the  beginning  of  woes,  for  one  trouble 
was  quickly  followed  by  another.  The 
President  of  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives brought  such  odium  on  himself 
that  he  was  requested  to  resign,  and 
on  his  refusal  to  do  so  was  by  a  vote  of 
the  House  suspended  from  his  func- 
tions for  a  week.  Such  turbulence 
marked  the  sittings  of  the  House  that 
the  Emperor  was  at  last  compelled  to 
resort  to  a  dissolution.  The  Western 
imagination  almost  refuses  to  conceive 


428 


The  New  Japanese  Constitution. 


the  suspension  of  the  Speaker  of  the 
English  House  of  Commons,  and  of 
Her  Majesty  dissolving  the  latter  for 
disorder. 

From  what  has  taken  place  it  is 
clear  that,  though  the  Japanese  may 
have  all  the  forms  of  parliamentary 
institutions,  they  have  as  yet  no  pro- 
per conception  of  their  spirit.  Had 
such  been  the  case,  the  Government 
would  not  have  persisted  in  forcing 
through  its  Budget  in  the  teeth  of  a 
hostile  majority  in  the  Lower  House ; 
nor  would  that  House  have  entered 
upon  an  unseemly  wrangle  with  its 
President.  Even  the  warmest  admirers 
of  Japan  must  admit  that  the  results 
are  not  as  yet  encouraging,  and  it  may 
well  be  doubted  whether  the  Constitu- 
tion can  be  otherwise  regarded  than  as 
a  cleverly  constructed  toy,  which  will 
be  unable  to  resist  the  wear  and  tear 
of  practice.  The  conduct  of  the 
politicians  of  Japan  has  on  some 
occasions  resembled  rather  the 
grotesque  gambols  of  a  mimic  than 
the  acts  of  serious  statesmen.  Bor- 
rowed political  institutions,  like 


clothes,  are  frequently  misfits,  and 
an  Oriental  State  which  parades  in 
the  newest  fashions  of  the  West  runs 
some  risk  at  least  of  ridicule.  The 
Japanese  have  imported  so  many 
foreign  habits  that  they  have  begun 
to  wear  an  air  which  is  entirely  arti- 
ficial, and  which  reminds  one  of  the 
description  of  Talleyrand  as  a  man 
who  contrived  to  build  a  sort  of  natural 
character  for  himself  out  of  a  mass  of 
deliberate  affectations.  In  this  there  is 
obviously  danger.  It  is  already  said  by 
some  that  the  Diet  has  fallen  a  victim 
to  that  system  of  "  groups,"  that 
species  of  political  phylloxera,  so  to 
speak,  which  withers  the  vitality  of 
the  Representative  Houses  of  the  West. 
Nay  more,  it  has  been  said  that  the 
war  in  Corea  was  provoked  in  order 
to  divert  attention  from  an  intoler- 
able domestic  situation.  But  what- 
ever be  the  facts,  the  Japanese  experi-  , 
ment  will  continue  to  be  watched  with 
deep  interest ;  and  should  it  succeed  its 
success  cannot  fail  to  profoundly 
modify,  if  not  to  transform,  the 
Eastern  world. 

C.  B.  KOYLANCE-KENT. 


429 


CHAPTERS    FROM   SOME   UNWRITTEN  MEMOIRS. 


XT.    IN    ITALY. 


AFTER  his  return  from  America  my 
father  took  an  apartment  in  Paris  for 
the  autumn  months,  and  it  was  then 
that  h<3  told  us  he  had  made  a  plan  for 
wintering  in  Rome.  It  almost  seems  to 
me  now  that  the  rest  of  my  life  dates 
in  some  measure  from  those  old  Roman 
days,  which  were  all  the  more  vivid 
because  my  sister  and  I  were  still 
spectators  and  not  yet  actors  in  the 
play.  E  was  just  fifteen  ;  my  sister  was 
still  a  little  girl,  but  I  thought  myself 
a  young  woman.  I  have  written  else- 
where of  Mrs.  Kemble  and  Mrs.  Sar- 
toris  and  the  Brownings,  who  were  all 
living  at  Rome  that  winter,  with  a 
number  of  interesting  people,  all  drink- 
ing, as  we  were  about  to  do,  of  the 
waters  of  Trevi.  How  few  of  us 
returned  to  the  fountain  !  But  the 
proverb,  I  think,  must  apply  to 
one's  spiritual  return.  For,  though 
one  may  drink  and  drink  and  go 
back  again  and  again,  it  is  ever  a 
different  person  that  stands  by  the 
fountain ;  whereas  the  shadowy  self 
by  the  stone  basin,  bending  over  the 
rushing  water,  is  the  same  and  does 
not  change. 

We  started  early  in  December, 
my  father,  my  sister,  and  I.  He 
had  h  s  servant  with  him,  for  al- 
ready his  health  had  begun  to  fail 
him.  We  reached  Marseilles  in 
bitter  weather  late  one  night.  We 
laid  our  travelling  plaids  upon  our 
beds  io  keep  ourselves  warm,  but 
though  we  shivered  our  spirits  rose  to 
wildest  pitch  next  morning  in  the  ex- 
citement of  the  golden  moment.  The 
wonderful  sights  in  the  streets  are 
before  me  still,— the  Jews,  Turks, 
dwellers  in  Mesopotamia,  chattering 
in  gorgeous  colours  and  strange  lan- 
guages the  quays,  the  crowded  ship- 
ping, the  amethyst  water.  I  can  still 


see  in  a  sort  of  mental  picture  a 
barge  piled  with  great  golden  onions 
floating  along  one  of  the  quays,  guided 
by  a  lonely  woman  in  blue  rags 
with  a  coloured  kerchief  on  her  head. 
"  There  goes  the  Lady  of  Shalot," 
said  my  father ;  and  when  we  looked 
at  him  rather  puzzled,  for  we  knew 
nothing  of  onions  and  very  little 
of  Tennyson  in  those  days,  he  ex- 
plained that  a  shalot  was  a  species 
of  onion,  and  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection we  took  in  his  little  joke,  feel- 
ing that  nobody  ever  thought  of  such 
droll  things  as  he  did.  Then  we 
reached  our  hotel  again,  where  there 
were  Turks  still  drinking  coffee  under 
striped  awnings,  and  a  black  man  in 
a  fez,  and  a  lank  British  diplomatist, 
with  a  very  worn  face,  who  knew  my 
father,  arriving  from  some  outlandish 
place  with  piles  of  luggage  ;  and  we 
caught  sight  of  the  master  of  the  hotel 
and  his  family  gathered  round  a  soup 
tureen  in  a  sort  of  glass  conservatory, 
and  so  went  upstairs  to  rest  and  re- 
fresh ourselves  before  our  start  that 
evening.  All  this  splendour  and 
novelty  and  lux  mundi  had  turned 
our  heads,  for  we  forgot  our  warm 
wraps  and  half  our  possessions  at  the 
hotel,  and  did  not  discover,  till  long 
after  the  steamer  had  started  with  all 
of  us  on  board,  how  many  essentials 
we  had  left  behind. 

The  sun  was  setting  as  we  steamed 
out  of  Marseilles,  and  the  rocky 
island  of  Iff  stood  out  dark  and  crisp 
against  the  rush  of  bright  wavelets; 
across  which  we  strained  our  eyes  to  see 
Monte  Cristo  in  his  sack  splashing  into 
the  water  of  the  bay.  Then  we  got 
out  to  sea,  and  the  land  disappeared 
by  degrees.  How  the  stars  shone 
that  night  on  board  the  big  ship! 
The  passengers  were  all  on  deck  talk- 


430 


Chapters  from  some   Unwritten  Memoirs. 


ing  in  a  pleasant  murmur  of  voices, 
broken  by  laughs  and  exclamations. 
Among  them  were  some  people  who 
specially  attracted  us,  a  very  striking 
and  beautiful  quartet  from  the  north. 
There  was  a  lovely  mother,  oldish, 
widowed,  but  very  beautiful  still  ;  the 
two  charming  daughters,  one  tall  and 
fair,  the  other  a  piquante  brunette; 
there  was  the  son,  one  of  the  hand- 
somest young  men  I  have  ever  seen. 
They  were  going  to  Rome,  they  told 
us,  for  the  winter.  Christina,  the 
eldest  girl,  was  dressed  in  white.  She 
seemed  to  me  some  fair  Urania,  con- 
trolling the  stars  in  their  wondrous 
maze  as  she  and  I  and  my  sister  paced 
the  deck  till  it  was  very  late,  and 
some  bell  sounded,  and  my  father 
came  up  and  sent  us  down  to  our 
cabin.  Then  the  night  turned  bitter 
cold,  and,  as  we  had  left  our  shawls 
on  the  shores  of  France,  we  made 
haste  to  get  to  bed  and  to  be  warm. 
Though  it  was  cold  we  liked  fresh  air, 
and  were  glad  to  find  that  our  port- 
holes had  been  left  open  by  the 
steward ;  we  scrambled  into  our 
berths,  and  fell  asleep.  I  lay  at  the 
top,  and  my  sister  in  the  berth  below. 
How  well  I  remember  waking  sud- 
denly in  a  slop  of  salt-water  !  The  ship 
was  sinking,  we  were  all  going  to  be 
drowned,  and  with  a  wild  shriek  call- 
ing to  my  sister  I  sprang  from  the 
cabin  and  rushed  up  the  companion- 
steps  on  deck.  I  thought  she  called 
me  back,  but  I  paid  no  heed,  as  I 
reached  the  top  of  the  companion- 
ladder,  dripping  and  almost  in  tears, 
with  my  fatal  announcement.  There 
T  encountered  the  steward,  who  began 
to  laugh,  as  he  led  me  back  crest- 
fallen to  our  cabin,  at  the  door  of  which 
my  sister  was  standing.  The  water 
was  dancing  in,  in  a  stream,  and  the 
steward  scolded  us  well  as  he  screwed 
up  the  port -holes  and  got  us  some  dry 
bedding.  Next  morning,  to  my  inex- 
pressible mortification,  I  heard  some 
people  telling  the  story.  "  She  rushed 
on  deck,  and  declared  the  ship  was 
sinking,"  said  one  voice  to  another. 
I  didn't  wait  to  hear  any  more,  but 
fled. 


The  wind  went  down  again,  but  it  was 
still  bitter  cold,  and  we  shivered  with- 
out our  wraps,  as  we  steamed  up  to 
Genoa  along  the  spreading  quays  with 
their  background  of  gorgeous  palaces 
and  cloud-capped  towers.  There  were 
convicts  in  their  chains  at  work  upon 
the  great  steps  of  the  quay,  who  stared 
at  us  as  we  landed.  And  the  very  first 
thing  which  happened  to  us  when  we 
found  ourselves  in  Italy  at  last — the; 
land  where  citrons  bloom,  where 
orange  flowers  scent  the  air — was  that 
we  drove  straight  away  to  a  narrow 
back  street,  where  we  were  told  we 
should  find  a  shop  for  English  goods, 
and  then  and  there  my  father  bought 
us  each  a  warm  gray  wrap,  with 
stripes  of  black,  nothing  in  the  least 
Italian  or  romantic,  but  the  best 
that  we  could  get.  And  then,  as  we 
had  now  a  whole  day  to  spend  on 
shore,  and  shawls  to  keep  us  warm, 
we  drove  about  the  town,  and  after 
visiting  a  palace  or  two  took  the  rail- 
way, which  had  been  quite  lately 
opened  to  Pisa.  The  weather  must 
have  changed  as  the  day  went  on,  for 
it  was  sunshine,  not  Shetland  wool, 
that  warmed  us  at  last ;  but  the 
wind  was  blowing  still,  and  what  I 
specially  remember  in  the  open  Piazza 
at  Pisa  is  the  figure  of  a  stately  monk, 
whose  voluminous  robes  were  flutter- 
ing and  beating  as  he  passed  us,  I 
wrapped  in  darkness,  mystical, 
majestic,  with  all  the  light  beyond 
his  stateliness,  and  the  cathedral  in  its 
glory  and  the  Leaning  Tower  aslant 
in  the  sunlight  for  a  background. 

Our  adventures  for  the  day  were  not 
yet  over.  At  the  station  we  found  two 
more  of  the  ship's  passengers,  young 
men  with  whom  we  had  made  acquaint- 
ance, and  we  all  returned  to  Genoa 
together.  The  train  was  late,  and 
we  had  to  be  on  board  at  a  certain 
time,  so  that  we  engaged  a  carriage, 
and  drove  quickly  to  the  quay,  where  the 
convicts  clanking  in  their  chains  were 
still  at  work.  A  boat  was  found,  rowed 
by  some  sailors  who  certainly  did  not 
wear  chains,  but  who  were  otherwise 
not  very  unlike  those  industrious  con- 
victs in  appearance.  The  bargain  was 


Chapters  from  some   Unwritten  Memoirs. 


made,  we  all  five  entered  the  boat,  and 
as  we  were  getting  in  we  could  see 
our  £:reat  ship  in  the  twilight  looking 
bigger  than  ever,  and  one  rocket  and 
then  another  going  off  towards  the 
dawrdng  stars.  "  They  are  signalling 
for  us,"  said  one  of  our  companions  ; 
"  we  shall  soon  be  on  board." 

We  had  pulled  some  twenty  strokes 
from  the  shore  by  this  time,  when 
suddenly  the  boatmen  left  off  rowing. 
They  put  down  their  oars,  and  one  of 
them  began  talking  volubly,  though  I 
could  not  understand  what  he  said. 
"What's  to  be  done?  "  said  one  of  the 
young  men  to  my  father.  "They  say 
they  won't  go  on  unless  we  give  them 
fifty  francs  more,"  and  he  began  shak- 
ing liis  head  and  remonstrating  in 
brokon  Italian.  The  boatmen  paid  no 
attention,  shrugging  their  shoulders 
and  waiting  as  if  they  were  determined 
nevej-  to  row  another  stroke.  Then 
the  soeamer  sent  up  two  more  rockets, 
which  rose  through  the  twilight,  bid- 
ding us  hurry  ;  and  then  suddenly  my 
father  rose  up  in  the  stern  of  the 
boat  where  he  was  sitting,  and,  stand- 
ing -;all  and  erect  and  in  an  anger 
such  as  I  had  never  seen  him  in  before 
or  af  oer  in  all  my  life,  he  shouted  out 
in  loud  and  indignant  English,  "  D  — n 
you,  go  on !  "  a  simple  malediction 
which  carried  more  force  than  all  the 
Italian  polysyllables  and  expostula- 
tions of  our  companions.  To  our 
surprise  and  great  relief,  the  men 
seem  ^d  frightened  ;  they  took  to  their 
oars  again  and  began  to  row,  grum- 
bling and  muttering.  When  we  got 
on  b(  >ard  the  ship  they  told  us  it  was 
a  well-known  trick  the  Genoese  boat- 
men were  in  the  habit  of  playing  upon 
travellers,  and  that  they  would  have 
sent  ,i  boat  for  us  if  we  had  delayed 
any  longer. 

W  3  reached  our  journey's  end  next 
morrj  ing,  and  landed  at  Civita  Yecchia 
abou  midday.  This  landing  was  no 
less  wonderful  than  everything  else, 
we  t  nought,  as  we  looked  in  awe  at 
the  glorious  blaze  of  colour,  at  the 
squaie  Campanile  with  its  flat  tiled 
roof,  and  at  all  that  we  were  going 
to  se  3,  which  was  coming  to  meet  us 


on  the  very  shore.  To  begin  with, 
there  was  the  chorus  from  the  Opera 
waiting  in  readiness,  men  with 
pointed  hats  and  Italian  legs,  women 
in  fancy  dress,  with  fancy  dress  babies, 
all  laughing,  talking  in  Italian,  and  at 
home  in  Italy.  We  had  some  trouble 
in  getting  our  luggage  through  the 
dogana.  Most  of  the  other  travellers 
started  before  we  did,  and  we  were 
among  the  last  to  leave  for  Rome.  My 
father  was  anxious  to  get  on,  for  there 
were  unpleasant  rumours  about  bri- 
gands on  the  road.  Another  family, 
Russians,  with  a  courier  and  a  great 
deal  of  luggage,  was  to  follow  us,  and 
some  one  suggested  we  should  wait  for 
their  escort ;  but  on  the  whole  my 
father  decided  to  start.  The  afternoon 
shadows  were  beginning  to  lengthen 
when  at  length  we  were  packed  and 
ready.  We  had  a  mouldy  postchaise, 
with  a  gray  ragged  lining,  and  our 
luggage  on  the  top.  We  hoped  to  get 
to  Rome  before  dark.  I  remember 
thrilling  as  my  father  buttoned  his 
overcoat  and  told  us  he  had  put  his 
hundred  louis  for  safety  into  an  inner 
pocket. 

The  country  is  not  very  beautiful 
between  Civita  Yecchia  and  Rome  ;  at 
least  I  do  not  remember  anything  to 
distract  our  attention  from  our  alarms. 
We  were  just  frightened  enough  to  be 
stimulated  and  amused  as  we  jolted 
past  the  wide  fields  where  the  men 
were  at  work.  We  sat  all  three 
abreast  in  the  jolting  old  carriage ; 
my  father's  servant  was  on  the  box. 
We  were  reading  our  Tauchnitz  books, 
being  tired  of  watching  the  flat  hori- 
zons, when  suddenly  the  carriage 
stopped,  and  Charles  Pearman  with  a 
pale  face  of  alarm  came  to  the  window 
and  said  that  one  of  the  traces  had 
broken,  and  that  there  were  a  number 
of  people  all  coming  round  the  car- 
riage. We  were  surrounded  by  people 
as  if  by  magic,— satyrs,  shepherds, 
strange  bearded  creatures  with  conical 
hats  and  with  pitchforks  in  their 
hands.  The  sun  was  just  setting,  and 
dazzling  into  our  faces  all  the  time. 
For  some  five  minutes  we  waited, 
looking  at  each  other  in  silence  and 


432 


Chapters  from  some   Unwritten  Memoirs. 


wondering  what  was  going  to  come 
next.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  and  after 
a  good  deal  of  conversation  with  the  pos- 
tillions, the  satyrs  and  fauns  went  their 
way  with  their  pitchforks,  leaving  us,  to 
our  inexpressible  relief,  to  continue  our 
journey.  Then  came  the  dusk  at  last, 
and  the  road  seemed  longer  and  longer. 
I  think  I  had  fallen  asleep  in  my  cor- 
ner, when  my  father  put  his  hand  on 
my  shoulder.  "  Look  !  "  he  said,  and  I 
looked,  and,  lo  !  there  rose  the  dusky 
dome  of  St.  Peter's  gray  upon  the 
dark-blue  sky. 

Very  soon  afterwards  some  one  with 
a  lantern  opened  the  gates  of  Rome, 
and  examined  our  passport,  and  let  us 
in.  We  drove  to  our  hotel  in  the  Yia 
Condotti,  and  when  we  awoke  next 
day  it  was  to  the  sound  of  count- 
less church  bells  in  the  morning 
light. 

When  we  leant  from  the  window  of 
our  entresol  sitting  room,  with  its  odd 
yellow  walls,  we  could  almost  touch 
the  heads  of  the  passers  by.  It  was 
Sunday  morning  ;  all  the  bells  were 
flinging  and  ringing,  and  they  seemed 
to  be  striking  and  vibrating  against 
that  wonderful  blue  sky  overhead. 
How  well  I  remember  my  first  Roman 
contadina,  as  she  walked  majestically 
along  the  street  below ;  black-haired, 
white  -  capped,  white  -  sleeved,  and 
covered  with  ornaments,  on  her  way 
to  mass. 

The  Piazza  d'Espagna,  at  the  end  of 
our  street,  was  one  flood  of  sunshine, 
in  which  other  contadinas  and  bam- 
binos  and  romantic  shepherds  were 
floating  when  we  came  out  to  look  and 
to  wonder.  •  Wonderful  as  it  all  was, 
it  seemed  also  almost  disappointing. 
We  had  expected,  we  didn't  know 
what ;  and  this  was  something  ;  some- 
thing tangible,  appreciable,  and  so  far 
less  than  we  expected.  "Wait  a 
bit,"  said  my  father ;  "  people  are 
always  a  little  disappointed  when  they 
first  come  to  Rome." 

I  remember  long  after  hearing  Mr. 
Apple  ton  say  :  "  People  expect  to  taste 
the  result  of  two  thousand  years  of 
civilisation  in  a  morning;  it  takes 
more  than  a  morning  to  receive  so 


much  into  one's  mind  ...  a  life- 
time is  not  too  long."  Mr.  Appleton 
was  right  when  he  said  it  takes  a 
lifetime  to  realise  some  ideas.  But 
now  and  then  one  certainly  lives  a 
lifetime  almost  in  a  comparatively 
flying  minute  ;  and  those  two  months 
at  Rome,  short  as  they  were,  have 
lasted  my  lifetime.  The  people, 
the  sights,  the  sounds,  have  never 
quite  ceased  for  me  yet.  They  have 
become  an  habitual  association,  and 
have  helped  to  make  that  mental 
standard  by  which  one  habitually 
measures  the  events  as  they  follow 
one  another. 

That  first  evening  in  Rome,  as  we 
sat  at  dinner  at  the  table  d'hote  in 
the  dark  vaulted  dining  room,  all  the 
people,  I  remember,  were  talking  con- 
fusedly of  an  attack  by  brigands  upon 
some  Russians  on  the  road  from  Civita 
Yecchia  ;  the  very  vagueness  of  the 
rumour  made  it  the  more  impressive 
to  us. 

There  is  a  letter  from  my  father 
to  his  mother  which  he  must  have 
written  the  very  next  day ;  it  is 
dated  Hotel  Franz,  Yia  Condotti, 
December  6.  "  We  have  very  comfort- 
able quarters  at  the  hotel  where  I 
lived  before,"  he  writes,  "  except  for 
some  animal  that  bit  me  furiously 
when  I  was  asleep  yesterday  on  the 
sofa.  It  can't  be  a  bug,  of  course — the 
chambermaid  declares  she  has  never 
seen  such  a  thing,  nor  so  much  as 
a  flea,  so  it  must  be  a  scorpion, 
I  suppose,"  and  he  goes  on  to  com- 
pare St.  Peter's  to  Pisa.  "  We  agreed 
Pisa  is  the  best,"  he  says.  "The 
other  is  a  huge  heathen  parade.  The 
founder  of  the  religion  utterly  disap- 
pears under  the  enormous  pile  of 
fiction  and  ceremony  that  has  been 
built  round  him.  I'm  not  quite  sure 
that  I  think  St.  Peter's  handsome. 
The  front  is  positively  ugly,  that  is 
certain,  but  nevertheless  the  city  is 
glorious.  We  had  a  famous  walk  on 
the  Pincio,  and  the  sun  set  for  us  with 
a  splendour  quite  imperial.  I  wasn't 
sorry  when  the  journey  from  Civita 
Yecchia  was  over.  Having  eighty  or 
ninety  lonis  in  my  pocket,  I  should 


Chapters  from  some  Unwritten  Memoirs. 


have  been  good  meat  for  the  brigands 
had  they  chosen  to  come." 

Very  soon  our  friends  began  to 
appaar — Mr.  Browning,  Mr.  Sartoris, 
Mr.  ^Eneas  Macbean.  Mr.  Macbean 
was  the  English  banker.  He  was  the 
kindest  of  bankers,  and  he  used  to  send 
us  great  piles  of  the  most  delightful 
books  to  read.  Lockhart's  Scott 
and  Bulwer's  heroes  and  D'Israeli's 
saint-like  politicians  all  came  to  in- 
habit our  palazzo  when  we  were  esta- 
blished there.  Zanoni  and  that  cat-like 
spirit  of  the  threshold  are  as  vivid  to 
me  as  any  of  the  actual  people  who 
usec  to  come  and  see  us,  or  our  late 
f elk  w- travellers  (who  now  also  seemed 
like  old  friends)  as  we  passed  them 
hurrying  about  in  search  of  lodgings. 
All  that  day  we  came  and  went ; 
we  i-tood  under  the  great  dome  of  St. 
Peter's,  we  saw  the  Tiber  rushing 
undor  its  bridges;  then  no  doubt  in  con- 
sequence of  the  scorpions,  we  also  went 
about  to  look  for  lodgings,  and  it  was 
Mr.  Browning  who  told  us  where  to  go. 
One  can  hardly  imagine  a  more  ideal 
spot  for  little  girls  to  live  in  than 
that  to  which  he  directed  us, — to  a 
great  apartment  just  over  the  pastry- 
cook's in  the  Palazzo  Poniatowski,  in 
the  Via  Delia  Croce.  We  climbed  a 
broad  stone  staircase  with  a  hand- 
some !  wrought-iron  banister ;  we 
clanged  at  an  echoing  bell,  and  a 
little  old  lady  in  a  camisole,  rejoicing 
in  the  imposing  name  of  Signora 
Erccle,  opened  the  door,  and  showed 
us  ii  to  a  dark  outer  hall.  Then  she 
led  the  way  from  room  to  room,  until 
we  finally  reached  a  drawing-room 
with  seven  windows,  at  which  we  ex- 
claimed in  preliminary  admiration. 
Amcng  the  other  items  of  our  instal- 
lation, were  a  Chinese  museum,  a 
library,  a  dining-room  with  a  brazen 
chart  ',oal-burner  in  the  centre  ;  and 
besides  all  these  we  were  to  have  a 
bedroom,  a  dressing-room,  and  a  cup- 
board for  my  father's  servant.  My 
fath(  r  took  the  dressing-room  for  him- 
self. He  put  me  and  my  sister  into 
the  tig  bedroom  to  the  front,  and  the 
man  retired  to  the  cupboard  in  the 
hall.  Signora  Ercole,  our  landlady, 

No.  420.— VOL.  LXX. 


433 

also  hospitably  offered  us  the  run  of 
her  own  magnificent  sitting-rooms, 
>esides  the  four  or  five  we  had  en- 
gaged. I  have  a  vague  impression 
ot  her  family  of  daughters,  also  in 
camisoles,  huddled  away  into  some 
humbler  apartment,  but  we  saw 
little  of  them.  We  established  our- 
selves comfortably  in  one  corner 
of  the  great  drawing-room,  clearing 
an  inlaid  table  of  its  lamps  and 
statuettes,  its  wax  flowers,  and  other 
adornments.  Then  we  felt  at  home. 
A  stonemason  suspended  at  his  work 
began  to  sing  in  mid -air  just  outside 
one  of  the  windows ;  there  came  to  us 
the  sound  of  the  pfifferari  from  the 
piazza  down  below,  and  the  flutter  of 
the  white  doves'  wings  and  their  flying 
shadows  upon  the  floor,  together  with 
a  scent  of  flowers  and  sense  of  foun- 
tains, and  the  fusty  fascinating  smell 
from  the  old  hangings  and  bric-a-brac. 
I  think  the  Ercoles  must  have  done 
some  business  as  brocanteurs,  for  the 
furniture  was  more  like  that  of  a 
museum  than  a  human  living-house  ; 
all  over  the  walls  they  had  rows  of 
paintings  in  magnificent  gildings,  of 
which  the  frames  were  the  most  im- 
portant parts.  All  the  same,  the  whole 
effect  was  imposing  and  delightful, 
and  we  felt  like  enchanted  princesses 
in  a  palace,  and  flew  from  room  to 
room. 

About  luncheon-time  my  father 
sent  us  down  to  the  pastrycook's 
shop,  where  we  revelled  among  cream 
tarts  and  petite  fours,  and  then  we 
ordered  our  dinner,  as  people  did 
then,  from  a  trattoria  near  at  hand. 
Then  we  went  out  again,  still  in  our 
raptures,  and  when  dinner-time  came, 
just  about  sunset,  excitement  had 
given  us  good  appetites,  notwithstand- 
ing the  tarts. 

We  were  ready,  but  dinner  delayed. 
We  waited  more  and  more  im- 
patiently as  the  evening  advanced, 
but  still  no  dinner  appeared.  Then 
the  English  servant,  Charles,  was 
called,  and  despatched  to  the  cook- 
shop  to  make  inquiry.  He  came  back 
much  agitated,  saying  the  dinner  had 
been  sent — that  they  assured  him  it 

F   P 


434 


Chapters  from  some   Unwritten  Memoirs. 


had  been  sent  !  It  had  apparently 
vanished  on  its  way  up  the  old  palace 
stairs.  "  Go  back,"  said  my  father, 
"  and  tell  them  there  is  some  mistake, 
and  that  we  are  very  hungry,  and 
waiting  still."  The  man  left  the  room, 
then  returned  again  with  a  doubtful 
look.  There  was  a  sort  of  box  came 
an  hour  ago,  he  said  :  "  I  have  not 
opened  it,  sir."  With  a  rush  my  sister 
and  I  flew  into  the  hall,  and  there 
sure  enough  stood  a  square  solid  iron 
box  with  a  hinged  top.  It  certainly 
looked  very  unlike  dinner,  but  we 
raised  it  with  some  faint  hopes  which 
were  not  disappointed.  Inside,  and 
smoking  still  upon  the  hot  plates,  was 
spread  a  meal  like  something  in  a 
fairy  tale — roast  birds  and  dressed 
meat,  a  loaf  of  brown  bread  and 
comp6tes  of  fruit,  and  a  salad  and  a 
bottle  of  wine,  to  which  good  fare  we 
immediately  sat  down  in  cheerful 
excitement — our  first  Roman  family 
meal  together. 

When  people  write  of  the  past, 
those  among  us  who  have  reached 
a  certain  age  are  sometimes  apt 
to  forget  that  it  is  because  so 
much  of  it  still  exists  in  our  lives 
that  it  is  so  dear  to  us.  And,  as  I 
have  said  before,  there  is  often  a 
great  deal  more  of  the  past  in  the 
future  than  there  was  in  the  past  it- 
self at  the  time.  We  go  back  to  meet 
our  old  selves,  more  tolerant,  forgiving 
our  own  mistakes,  understanding  it  all 
better,  appreciating  its  simple  joys  and 
realities.  There  are  compensations 
for  the  loss  of  youth  and  fresh  im- 
pressions; and  one  learns  little  by 
little  that  a  thing  is  not  over  because 
it  is  not  happening  with  noise  and 
shape  or  outward  sign ;  its  roots  are  in 
our  hearts,  and  every  now  and  then 
they  send  forth  a  shoot  which  blos- 
soms and  bears  fruit  stilL 

Early  life  is  like  a  chapter  out  of 
Dickens,  I  think.  One  sees  people 
then  ;  their  tricks  of  expression,  their 
vivid  sayings,  and  their  quaint  hum- 
ours and  oddities  do  not  surprise 
one ;  one  accepts  everything  as  a 
matter  of  course,  no  matter  how 


unusual  it  may  be.  Later  in  life  one 
grows  more  fastidious,  more  ambi- 
tious, more  paradoxical ;  one  begins 
to  judge,  or  to  make  excuses,  or  to 
think  about  one's  companions  in- 
stead of  merely  staring  at  them.  All 
these  people  we  now  saw  for  the  first 
time,  vivid  but  mysterious  appari- 
tions;  we  didn't  know  what  they 
were  feeling  and  thinking  about,  only 
we  saw  them,  and  very  delightful  they 
all  were  to  look  at. 

Meanwhile  our  education  was  not 
neglected.  We  had  a  poetess  to  teach 
us  a  little  Italian,  a  signora  with  a  mag- 
nificent husband  in  plaid  trousers,  to 
whom  I  am  sure  she  must  have  written 
many  poems.  Once  she  asked  us  to 
spend  an  evening  in  her  apartment.  It 
was  high  up  in  a  house  in  a  narrow 
street,  bare  and  swept,  and  we  found  a 
company  whose  conversation  (notwith- 
standing all  Madame  Eleonora  Torti's 
instructions)  was  quite  unintelligible 
to  us.  We  all  sat  in  a  circle  round 
the  great  brass  brazier  in  the  centre  of 
the  bare  room.  Every  now  and  then 
the  host  took  up  an  iron  bar  and 
stirred  the  caldron  round,  and  the 
fumes  arose.  Two  or  three  of  the 
elder  people  sat  in  a  corner  playing 
cards  ;  but  here  also  we  were  at  fault. 
The  cards  represented  baskets  of 
flowers,  coins,  nuts,  unknown  and 
mysterious  devices  ;  among  which  the 
familiar  ace  of  diamonds  was  the  only 
sign  we  could  recognise. 

After  these  social  evenings  our  man 
used  to  come  to  fetch  us  home  through 
moonlight  streets,  past  little  shrines 
with  burning  lamps,  by  fountains 
plashing  in  the  darkness.  We  used 
to  reach  our  great  staircase,  hurry  up 
half  frightened  of  ghosts  and  echoes, 
but  too  much  alive  ourselves  to  go 
quickly  to  sleep.  Long  after  my 
father  had  come  home  and  shut  his 
door,  we  would  sit  up  with  Mr.  Mac- 
bean's  heroes  and  heroines  and  read 
by  the  light  of  our  flaring  candles  till 
the  bell  of  the  Frate  in  the  convent 
close  by  began  to  toll. 

ANNE  RITCHIE. 


435 


THE    LITTLE    CLAY    GOD. 

(A   LEGEND   OF   YUCATAN.) 


"  PEDRILLO,  must  you  go  then?" 

"Ay,  wife,  must  I.  The  Seiior 
starts  from  Progreso  to-night,  and  he 
has  riy  promise."  The  Half-breed  put 
his  hand  under  his  wife's  chin  and 
stooped  to  kiss  her  ;  whereat  Dolores' 
dark  eyes  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
startled  expression,  for  caresses  are 
rare  among  the  people  of  Yucatan. 

"Ay  de  mi!"  she  sighed  as  she 
gave  him  back  his  kiss.  "  I  shall  be 
lonelv,  Pedrillo." 

"  Well,  but  what  help  1  We  shall 
need  the  dollars  of  the  .Seiior  when 
the  \\  inter  comes.  How  long  shall  I 
be  away?  Heart,  how  can  I  tell? 
The  Seiior  desires  to  hunt;  and  he 
desire -s  to  see  the  workers  in  the 
Doctor  mine ;  and  also  he  desires  to 
find  a  buried  treasure.  I  can  promise 
him  the  hunting." 

"  Ay,  but  not  the  treasure  !  " 

Pedrillo  laughed.  "  Nay,  my  heart, 
not  the  treasure.  And  if  thou  art  too 
afraid  to  dwell  alone  till  I  return, 
there  are  thy  kinsfolk  in  the  Indian 
villag  3  over  the  river.  Or  there  is  thy 
sister  Agata,  who  is  tired  of  service 
and  loves  not  Merida  city.  The  Padre 
Franc  isque  shall  write  her  a  letter 
biddiig  her  come  to  thee.  Shall  he 
write  .it  once  ? " 

"  Ay,  I  am  afraid  to  be  alone  here, 
my  leart,"  Dolores  said  eagerly. 
"  For  there  is  the  Laughing  Woman  in 
the  f crest,  and  the  Shrieking  Woman 
by  the  river-side ;  and  bolts  will  not 
keep  t  lem  out." 

"  H  >ly  Virgin,  no  !  "  Pedrillo  said, 
crossing  himself  hurriedly.  "  But  the 
cross  hangs  there  by  the  door,  my 
heart;  and  neither  She  who  laughs, 
nor  She  who  shrieks  dare  enter  where 
the  cross  is.  Only  take  heed  to  bar 


the  door  all  the  same,  heart's  dearest, 
for  the  sun  is  down,  and  after  sunset 
the  little  Clay  Gods  go  abroad." 

Dolores  nodded,  shivering.  "  Ay  so  ! 
I  have  heard  of  them  many  times. 
What  was  that  whistle,  Pedrillo  ? " 

<4  The  horned  owl  only  ;  and  I  swore 
to  the  Seiior  by  San  Jose  that  I  would 
start  when  the  owl  hooted  first.  Now, 
heart,  make  fast  the  door  behind  thee, 
and  San  Jose  and  San  Juan  keep  thee 
safe  till  I  come  to  thee  again." 

The  Half-breed  took  up  his  rifle  and 
went  out  into  the  warm  twilight, 
while  his  young  wife  bolted  and 
barred  the  heavy  door,  and  went 
back  sighing  to  the  table  where  lay 
the  scattered  fragments  of  Campeachy 
wood  which  she  was  carving  into  the 
likenesses  of  birds  and  beasts  and 
fishes.  Presently,  because  the  silence 
was  growing  a  terror  to  her  supersti- 
tious soul,  she  began  to  sing  an  Indian 
song  she  had  learned  from  her  mother, 
a  Half-breed  like  herself. 

From  the  Old  Ked  Rock  we  came. 

We  came  and  our  hearts  were  light. 
Our  feet  are  weary  and  lame, 

Our  hearts  are  heavy  to-night. 
The  wind  from  the  North  blows  cold, 

The  clouds  from  the  North  come  gray. 
Ay  de  mi,  we  are  old,  we  are  old, 

And  how  shall  we  find  the  way  ? 

Was  that  a  knock  at  the  door  ? 
Surely  yes,  and  a  voice  calling  her  by 
her  name.  Dolores  went  to  the  door, 
knife  in  hand.  "It  is  the  Padre," 
she  said  to  herself,  as  she  slipped  back 
the  heavy  bolts.  "  Enter,  Padre 
Francisque." 

"  Peace  to  you,  my  daughter,"  the 

priest   said,    entering   hurriedly,   and 

speaking    in    a    voice    so   faint    and 

changed    that   Dolores   was   startled. 

F  F  2 


436 


The  Little  Clay  God. 


"Peace,  Padre,"  she  said.  Then 
quickly,  "  You  are  not  alone  !  " 

"An  Indian  child  showed  me  the 
way  when  I  lost  the  trail,"  Padre 
Francisque  said  hurriedly.  "  Give 
me  to  drink,  daughter." 

Dolores  brought  him  a  cupful  of 
sparkling  spring  water,  and  took 
his  broad-brimmed  hat  and  staff  from 
him.  Then  she  turned  to  her  un- 
invited guest,  who  sat  cross-legged  on 
the  ground,  watching  the  priest  with 
grave  black  eyes.  "Are  you  of 
Indian  blood  ?  "  Dolores  asked  doubt- 
fully. 

The  boy  nodded.  "  Ay,"  he  said  in 
a  far  purer  tongue  than  the  mongrel 
speech  Dolores  used.  "The  black 
priest  there  is  afraid  since  he  met  the 
Laughing  Woman." 

"  Ave  Maria,  be  between  us  and 
harm  !  "  Dolores  cried  out.  "  Dost 
thou  laugh,  child1?  Then  hast  thou 
never  seen  the  Laughing  Woman." 

"I  have  spoken  with  her,"  the 
Indian  boy  said  calmly.  "  And  with 
the  Crying  Woman  I  have  also  spoken. 
Hark ! "  as  a  hysterical  laugh  broke 
from  the  good  father's  lips  ;  "  she  has 
infected  him.  Cannot  his  gods  help 
him?  Or  else  he  will  surely  laugh 
himself  to  death.  Speak  to  him,  thou 
Sorrow." 

«'  Padre  Francisque, — ah  !  "  as  the 
priest  broke  into  a  fit  of  wild  laughter. 
"  Maria  help  him,  and  San  Jose  !  " 

"  San  Jose  is  busy  with  the  white 
men,"  the  Indian  boy  said  quietly. 
"  Yonder  black  priest  hath  our  blood 
in  his  veins.  Why  callest  thou  not 
on  the  gods  of  Yucatan  ?  Perhaps 
they  will  hear." 

Dolores  bent  her  head  and  muttered 
a  hasty  prayer  which  it  was  as  well  the 
Padre  did  not  hear;  but  still  the 
spasmodic  laughter  continued,  until 
at  last  the  Indian  stood  up,  a  faint 
flush  glowing  in  his  small  dusky 
face.  "  In  my  village,"  he  said,  "  we 
know  a  charm  to  stop  the  laughing 
sickness.  Shall  I  work  it,  thou 
Sorrow,  and  wilt  thou  pay  me  for  it?" 

"  What  pay  dost  thou  desire,  oh 
little  child  ?  " 


"That  thou  wilt  let  the  child 
sleep  on  thy  bosom  for  an  hour, — no 
more." 

"  Cure  the  Padre,"  Dolores  said 
hurriedly.  The  boy  bent  down  and 
laid  one  brown  finger  softly  on  the 
Padre's  lips,  then  on  his  breast. 
Then  he  raised  himself,  and  gave 
Dolores  a  vague  triumphant  smile, 
for  the  Padre  lay  back  in  his  seat, 
sleeping  quietly,  clothed  and  in  his 
right  mind.  Then  the  boy  crossed 
over  the  narrow  room,  and  knelt 
down  beside  the  bench  where  Dolores 
sat.  "  Sleep  has  blown  my  eyelids 
down,"  he  whispered.  "  Take  my 
head  upon  thy  bosom,  sister  of  mine, 
and  let  me  sleep." 

Dolores  obeyed  mutely,  and  for  a 
little  while  there  was  silence  in  the 
room,  broken  only  by  the  deep 
breathing  of  the  two  sleepers.  Pres- 
ently the  child  began  to  mutter  in 
his  sleep,  and  Dolores  started,  for 
though  she  did  not  understand  his 
words  she  knew  they  were  of  that 
dead  tongue  which  was  a  memory 
only  when  the  last  Montezuma  saw 
Cortes  riding  through  the  streets  to 
Chapoltepec.  She  drew  a  long  breath 
and  looked  down  at  the  dusky  head 
lying  on  her  bosom  with  eyes  that 
gradually  changed  from  perplexity  to 
terror.  For  though  the  face  was 
childish  still,  at  the  same  time  it  was 
immemorially  old,  and  from  the  soft 
dusky  hair  came  a  faint  sweet  scent 
like  that  which  comes  from  an  un- 
rolled mummy-case.  Then  her  face 
changed  and  lost  all  its  look  of  terror, 
and  she  bent  down  her  head  and 
whispered  into  the  ear  of  the  sleeping 
child,  "Thou  art  one  of  the  Hlox," 
she  said.  "Thou  art  one  of  those 
clay  shapes  of  gods  thai;  we  find  in 
graves  and  sell  to  the  Sefiors  ;  and  at 
night  ye  take  shapes  of  children  and 
cry  at  the  doors  of  lonely  folk.  And 
the  breast  that  nurses  thee  never 
nurses  living  child."  Then  she  stooped 
lower  yet,  and  drew  the  dark  head 
closer  to  her.  "But  sleep,  Hlox;  for 
thou  art  a  child  as  well  as  a  god,  and 
to-morrow  shalt  thou  be  clay  again. 


The  Little  Clay  God. 


437 


Sleep,  and  sleep  well  for  once;  for 
other  mothers  shall  bear  the  children 
I  might  have  borne,  and  other  mothers 
might  not  hold  thee  to  them  as  I  do 
now.  Sleep ! " 

Presently  the  owl  cried  again  in  the 
darkness  outside,  and  the  child  on 
Dolores'  bosom  started  and  woke. 
"It  is  time  for  me  to  go,"  he  said, 
standing  still  with  Dolores'  arms 
abort  him.  " Loose  me,  thou  Sorrow, 
and  let  me  go,  for  I  am  called.  But 
hearken !  One  day  shalt  thou  be 
called  not  Sorrow  but  Gladness,  which 
is  named  Kalla  in  the  tongue  ye  have 
forgotten.  And  worship  thou  thy 
new  saints,  and  put  my  name  with 
theirs,  for  in  eternity  there  is  room 
for  San  Jose  and  for  the  Hlox.  And 


give  no  tears  to  the  babes  thou  shalt 
not  bear,  for  other  women  shall  bear 
them ;  but  thou  shalt  bear  me  on  thy 
bosom  once  again,  when  death  brings 
thee  to  my  village.  Give  the  black 
priest  to  drink ;  he  wakes  and  is 
athirst,  my  mother." 

But  Dolores  took  no  heed  for  once 
of  the  good  Padre  and  his  require- 
ments; they  could  be  satisfied  anon, 
but  the  Hlox  had  already  undone  the 
door. 

"Wait!"  she  cried  wildly.  "Oh, 
child,  come  back,  come  back !  Let 
not  my  arms  be  empty  of  you  till  I 
die.  Come  back  !  " 

But  Dolores  called  in  vain,  for  the 
little  Clay  God  had  already  gone 
back  to  the  darkness  whence  he  came. 


'138 


A   NEW    PIPE-PLOT. 


Is  the  British  ^Empire  to  have  its 
novels   in  three  volumes  or  in  one  ? 
That  is  the  question  which  has  been 
agitating  the  country.     And  perhaps 
no  more  solemn  question  has  arisen  to 
divide  a  nation  since  Knickerbocker's 
New  Netherlander  were  rent  by  the 
famous  feud  of  the  Long  Pipes  and  the 
Short  Pipes.     In  the  New  Netherland 
the  trouble    began  with  an  edict  of 
William  the  Testy  forbidding  the  use 
of  tobacco.     That  too  eager  reformer 
railed   at  it  as  a    noxious  weed,   de- 
nouncing   smoking   as    a    heavy    tax 
upon  the  public  pocket,   a  vast  con- 
sumer of  time,  a  great  encourager  of 
idleness,  and  a    deadly    bane   to    the 
prosperity  and  morals  of  the  people, 
— charges  the  like  of  which  popular 
fiction  has  had  to  endure  in  its  day. 
Now  the  pipe  was  the  constant  com- 
panion and  solace  of  the  New  Nether- 
lander.    Was  he  gay,  says  Knicker- 
bocker,  he  smoked ;  was    he  sad,  he 
smoked.     Take  away  his  pipe  ?     You 
might   as   well  take  away  his  nose  ! 
Therefore  the  people  rose  as  one  man 
.to  resist  the  edict,  and  sitting  down 
before   the   Governor's    house   armed 
with  pipes  and  tobacco  boxes,  relent- 
lessly smoked  the  reformer  into  sub- 
mission.     William    gave   in   sulkily, 
and,  beaten     in     his     main     object, 
persisted  in  prohibiting  the  fair  long 
pipes  used  in  the  days  of  Wouter  Van 
Twiller,    denoting    ease,  tranquillity, 
and     sobriety     of     deportment,    and 
endeavoured  in  place  thereof  to  sub- 
stitute   little    captious    short    pipes. 
Thence  the  fatal  schism  that  rent  the 
land   asunder.      The    rich    and    self- 
important   burghers,   who   had   made 
their  fortunes  and  could  afford  to  be 
lazy,  adhering  to  the  ancient  fashion, 
formed  a  kind  of  aristocracy  known 
as  the  Long  Pipes  ;  while  the  lower 
orders,  adopting  the  new  fashion  as 


more  convenient  in  the  business  of 
life,  were  branded  with  the  plebeian 
name  of  Short  Pipes. 

No  reformer  nowadays,  for  all  the 
grumbling    over    the    proportion    of 
fiction  to  other  literature  read  at  our 
free  libraries,  would  be  bold  enough  to 
deprive  us  altogether  of  our  novels. 
The  question  of  the  moment  is  only 
whether    they   are    to    be    in    three 
volumes   or  in  one ;  whether  in  fact 
we  are  to  be  allowed  to  smoke  our 
enchanted  tobacco    in    the  fair,  long 
pipes  of   the  golden  age   of  Wouter 
Van  Twiller,  or  whether  we  are  to  be 
restricted  to  the  short,  captious  pipes 
of    William    the   Testy.     Threatened 
men,  it  is  said,  live  long.     The  three- 
volumed  novel  has  been  much  threat- 
ened, and  it  has  lived  long.     Can  it 
be   that  at  last  the  end  has  come  ? 
Certainly  there  are  signs  not  altogether 
to    be   disregarded.      THE   MANXMAN, 
Mr.     Hall    Caine's    latest    and   most 
portentous    birth,    has    been    packed 
into    a    single   volume.     Mr.    Black- 
more' s   PERLYCROSS,   after    delighting 
the  readers  of  this  magazine  for  the 
past  twelve    months,   makes  its  new 
appearance  in  one  volume   simultane- 
ously   with    an    edition    (presumably 
somewhat   smaller)    in   the  orthodox 
three    volumes.     Other    houses    have 
issued  other  signs.     If  indeed  this  is 
the  end,  and  our  good  old  companion 
is  to  go,  there  will  have  been  (will 
there    not  ?)    something     paradoxical 
about  the  way  its  fate  befell  it.     For 
the  blow  from  which  it  is  staggering 
was  dealt  from  an  unexpected  quarter, 
from  its  old  ally,  namely,  the  circulat- 
ing library.    Any  prophet  might  have 
prophesied  that  the  circulating  library 
and    the    three- volumed    novel    must 
stand  or  fall    together.     Throughout 
their  history  in  sentiment  and   busi- 
ness, their  fortunes  have  been  bound 


A  New  Pipe- Plot. 


439 


up  the  one  with  the  other.     They  were 
in  many  volumes,  you  may  be  sure 
(perhaps    Mr.   Austin   Dobson   could 
tell   us  in  precisely  how  many),  those 
novels  for  which  Lydia  Languish's  maid 
searched  all  the  circulating  libraries 
in  Bath,  THE  FATAL  CONNEXION  and 
Tn:3    DELICATE    DISTRESS    and    THE 
MISTAKES  OF  THE  HEART,  which  Mr. 
Bu  1  had  given  to  Miss  Sukey  Saunter 
a    Jioment    before    Miss    Languish's 
messenger     arrived.       The     copy    of 
PEREGRINE   PICKLE   which    she    took 
was    no    doubt    in   the   familiar  four 
duodecimo   volumes   that  might  well 
be  slipped  into  Mistress   Lucy's  pock- 
ets ;  and  of  THE  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY 
she  only  had  the  second  volume.     Yet 
if  THE  TEARS  OF  SENSIBILITY  and  THE 
MEMOIRS  OF  A  LADY  OF  QUALITY,  and 
the    rest,  were  all  in  many  volumes, 
they  would  require  a  capacious  cloak 
to  conceal  them,  and  it  was  no  wonder 
that  Sir  Anthony  caught  sight  of  the 
inciiminating  calf-bound  volumes  with 
marble   covers.     Was   THE  INNOCENT 
ADULTERY  in  one  volume,  we  wonder, 
that  it  was  so  easily  popped  into  THE 
WHOLE   DUTY  OF  MAN,  the  moment 
Mrs.    Malaprop   appeared  ?     For    the 
eighteenth  century,  be  it  remembered, 
a    ohree-volumed   novel    would   mean 
brevity ;  readers  of  romance  had  been 
accustomed  to  their  six  and  eight  and 
ten  volumes,  and  still  grudged  every 
page  as  it  passed.     But  by  the  begin- 
ning   of    this   century  the  three  vol- 
umas  were  established,  and  from  then 
till  now  have  been  the  staple  of  the 
libraries.      When    Mr.    Arthur   Pen- 
der  nis  was  putting  WALTER  LORRAINE 
int)    shape    for   Bungay   (or   was    it 
Bacon?),  the  only  choice  of  form  open 
to   [rim  was  three  volumes  or  twenty 
shi  ling  numbers.     It  was  an  intoxi- 
cat.ng    succession   of    three   volumes 
fron    the    Clavering    library    which 
male    Madame   Fribsby  so   absurdly 
sentimental  that  in  her  eyes  life  be- 
came nothing  but  an  immense  love- 
ma  :ch.     And  it  was  in  three  volumes 
that  poor  little  Fanny  Bolton  got  her 
romances  from  Miss  Minifers,  who,  it 
wil.  be  remembered,  kept  a  circulating 


library  as  well  as  a  school  and  small 
brandy-ball  and  millinery  business, — 
those  darling  greasy  volumes  which 
prepared  Fanny's  little  foolish  flutter- 
ing heart  for  the  coming  of  Prince 
Pen.  A  whole  sovereign  had  Mr-. 
Bolton  to  pay  ransom  to  the  "  libery  " 
to  secure  WALTER  LORRAINE  for  Fanny. 
This  community  of  sentiment  and 
tradition  is  naturally  to  be  accounted 
for  by  a  community  of  material  inter- 
ests. Except  the  libraries,  there  are 
no  purchasers  at  firsthand  for  the 
three  volumes ;  and  it  is  the  prohibi- 
tive price  of  the  three  volumes  which 
secures  for  the  libraries  a  monopoly  of 
the  new  novels. 

That  it  should  have  been  a  move  of 
the  libraries  (with  however  different 
an  end  designed)  that  should  thus 
come  to  threaten  the  existence  of 
their  old  ally  was  surely  then  a 
paradoxical  mischance.  Nor  do  the 
humours  of  the  situation  end  there. 
For  who  should  next  turn  to  rend  the 
luckless  three  volumes  but  the  Incor- 
porated Society  of  Authors  1  Now  if 
there  was  a  class  besides  the  libraries 
in  whose  favour  the  system  of  three 
volumes  was  supposed  to  operate,  it 
was  the  general  run  of  novelists,  and 
particularly  the  beginner.  And  it  is 
precisely  the  ordinary  run  of  novelists, 
and  particularly  the  beginner,  whose 
interests  the  Society  of  Authors  has 
been  supposed  to  have  most  nearly  at 
heart.  That  the  young  novelist  has 
in  fact  a  better  chance  under  the 
library  and  three-volume  system  is 
expressly  admitted,  and  indeed  demon- 
strated by  figures  in  THE  AUTHOR, 
the  accredited  organ  of  the  Society. 
Yet  the  Society  passes  a  resolution 
condemning  the  system,  solemnly  pro- 
nouncing that,  "  Its  disadvantages  to 
the  authors  and  to  the  public  far 
outweigh  its  advantages,  and  that 
for  the  convenience  of  the  public  i 
well  as  for  the  widest  circulation  of 
a  novel  it  is  desirable  that  the  artificia 
form  of  edition  produced  for  a  small 
body  of  readers  only  be  now  aban- 
doned, and  that  the  whole  of 

^   public   should    be    placed   m 


440 


A  New  Pipe-Plot. 


possession  of  the  work  at  a  moderate 
price."  Does  the  reader  remember 
how  Mr.  Sim  Tappertit's  Prentice 
Knights  felt  a  call  to  assert  them- 
selves, and  changed  their  name  to  The 
United  Bulldogs  1 

This  resolution,  it  was  affirmed,  had 
been  dictated  by  all  the  novelists  in 
the  Society  with  only  a  single  excep- 
tion. When  the  late  Mr.  Carlyle 
heard  of  young  Honourables  and 
Lords  voting  in  favour  of  the  Reform 
Bill,  it  reminded  him,  he  said,  of  the 
Irish  carpenter  astride  of  a  plank 
stuck  out  of  a  sixth-floor  window,  and 
merrily  sawing  it  through  for  a 
wager.  If  indeed  the  whole  of  the 
reading  public  could  really  be  "  placed 
in  possession  "  of  a  new  novel  even  at 
a  moderate  price,  well  were  the  author 
and  happy  might  he  be.  The  idea  of 
these  resolving  novelists  perhaps  is 
that  only  the  prohibitive  price  of  the 
three  volumes  stands  between  their 
pockets  and  the  purses  of  the  millions 
of  novel-readers  in  England,  America, 
and  the  Colonies.  It  is  greatly  to  be 
feared  that  there  is  another  obstacle ; 
and  that  is,  the  obstinate  disinclin- 
ation of  the  average  man  to  spend 
money  on  books.  If  he  cannot  beg 
or  borrow  a  book,  your  ordinary 
Briton  will  go  without  it ;  he  had 
liefer  steal  it  than  buy  it.  But  even 
assuming  that  this  disinclination  can 
be  overcome,  that  the  public  has  been 
spoiled  by  the  libraries  but  could  be 
educated  into  buying  books,  for  how 
many  novels  of  how  many  of  our 
multitude  of  novelists  could  even  the 
most  generous  buyer  afford  to  find 
room  on  his  shelves?  At  the  pre- 
sent time,  and  by  the  present  sys- 
tem, the  rate  at  which  novels  are 
published  is  for  England  alone  three 
novels  per  day  all  the  year  round, 
and  four  on  Sundays  !  Of  these,  by 
means  of  the  libraries,  the  most  inde- 
fatigable reader  can  for  a  guinea  or 
two  a  year  read  as  many  as  he  wants, 
and  in  addition  peruse  the  current 
books  of  biography,  anecdote,  and 
travel,  and  decorate  his  drawing-room 
table  with  an  occasional  volume  of 


verse.  And  while  doing  so  he  is 
enabled  by  the  libraries  (and  this  is 
perhaps  their  chief  blessing)  to  keep 
his  shelves  tolerably  free  from 
ephemeral  matter.  If  he  could  not 
borrow,  how  many  of  the  new  books 
would  he  be  likely  to  be  willing  to 
buy,  and  how  far  would  his  library 
subscription  go  in  buying1?  As  to 
the  morality,  in  these  highly  moral 
days,  of  getting  a  multitude  of 
geniuses  to  minister  to  your  enter- 
tainment for  a  paltry  guinea  or  two 
a  year  we  say  nothing.  We  are  con- 
sidering only  the  probabilities  of  the 
effect  of  the  proposed  change  on  the 
pockets  of  the  promoters.  Take  the 
example  of  France.  The  French 
novelist  addresses  the  cultivated  read- 
ers, it  may  almost  be  said,  of  the 
whole  civilised  world ;  and  his  new 
novel  is  procurable  at  once  for  about 
half  a  crown.  It  no  doubt  makes  the 
mouths  of  our  own  novelists  water  to 
read  sixtieth  thousand  on  Monsieur 
Zola's  covers  only  a  week  after  pub- 
lication. Yet  by  a  recent  French 
estimate  ifc  was  calculated  that  there 
are  not  half  a  dozen  French  novelists 
who  can  count  on  getting  .£400  for  a 
novel. 

Mr.  Rider  Haggard,  it  is  true,  has 
written  to  THE  TIMES  strongly  advocat- 
ing the  single  volume.  Mr.  Haggard's 
personal  view  it  is  not  difficult  to 
understand  ;  he  has  made  trial  himself 
of  the  single  volume,  and  succeeded 
with  it.  So,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
has  Mr.  Stevenson,  and  other  popular 
story-tellers.  When  these  cases  are 
taken  into  consideration,  it  is  really 
rather  hard  to  see  on  whose  behalf 
the  pother  about  the  tyranny  of  the 
three  volumes  is  made.  For  the  only 
novelists  who  can  be  hindered  by  the 
libraries  from  a  large  immediate  sale 
are  the  men  who  have  made  their  mark, 
or  the  new  men  capable  of  catching 
or  creating  immediate  popular  favour. 
But  these  able  and  fortunate  gentle- 
men already  have  it  in  their  power  to 
appear  in  what  form  they  will.  The 
tyranny  of  the  three  volumes  comes  to 
this,  that  in  the  case  of  some  novelists, 


A  New  Pipe-Plot. 


441 


whether  because  they  are  unknown  or 
eon  mand  only  a  moderate  popularity, 
the  publishers,  who  are  as  a  rule  better 
men  of  business  than  the  authors,  be- 
lieve that  their  books  can  be  most 
adv  mtageously  produced  in  the  first 
instance  for  the  libraries.  The  general 
abolition  of  the  present  system,  then, 
world  appear  to  offer  no  new  advan- 
tage to  the  men  who  have  already 
mac  e  their  mark,  or  are  reasonably 
likely  to  make  an  immediate  one, 
white  it  must  necessarily  injure  the 
less  fortunate.  George  Eliot  used  to 
call  prophecy  the  most  gratuitous  form 
of  e  -ror,  and  it  is  always  hard  to  pre- 
dict the  actual  results  of  a  reform. 
But  what  would  seem  likely  to  be  the 
result  of  the  change  is  a  rapid  elimina- 
tion of  a  large  proportion  of  working 
novelists  by  a  process  of  the  survival 
of  the  fittest. 

And  no  bad  result  either,  many  will 
be  disposed  to  exclaim,  Was  this 
after  all  the  secret  purpose  of  the 
Society  of  Authors  1  Has  the  world 
again  misjudged  this  excellent  Society 
in  assuming  that  its  concern  is  com- 
mercial, when  all  the  time  this  famous 
resolution  was  its  Self-denying  Ordin- 
ance 1  The  novelists  of  the  Society,  it 
may  be,  conscious  of  each  other's  short- 
comings, or  in  a  sudden  visiting  of 
conscience,  have  perceived  that  the 
libraries  did  but  bolster  up  mediocrity, 
that  of  every  hundred  works  that  ap- 
pear ninety  and  nine  might  perish 
befoi  e  coming  to  the  birth,  and  litera- 
ture be  never  a  ha'porth  the  worse. 
And  so  they  determined  that  for  the 
f utui  e  only  the  strong  should  survive, 
though  the  resolution  cost  them  their 
literary  profession. 

Fcr  so  heroic  an  attitude  there  can 
be  nc  feeling  but  respect.  Yet,  as  an 
insignificant  atom  of  that  public  about 
whoso  interests  the  Society  of  Authors 
is  so  solicitous,  one  is  inclined  to  put  in 
a  pie;,,  before  those  stern  judges  even 
for  the  mere  mediocre  three-volumed 
novel  of  the  circulating  libraries  in 
this  hour  of  its  mortal  peril.  Why, 
by  tie  by,  "three-volumed"  should 
have  come  to  be  an  epithet  of  dis- 


paragement it  is  not  quite  easy  to 
understand,  seeing  that  nearly  all 
the  great  novels  of  the  century, 
from  Scott's  downwards,  have  been 
in  three  volumes.  Nay,  the  mightiest 
and  most  serious  of  those  modern 
novels  which  have  wrestled  with  the 
superstitions  of  Christianity  and  pro- 
pounded the  Pure  Woman  have  been 
in  three  volumes,  and  long  volumes 
too.  But  somehow  the  poor  three- 
volumed  novel  seems  to  have  in- 
herited all  the  obloquy,  which  once 
was  the  portion  of  fiction  at  large. 
Time  was  when  critics  and  censors 
railed  at  the  novel,  as  William  the 
Testy  railed  at  tobacco.  It  was  a  vast 
consumer  of  time,  a  great  encourager 
of  idleness,  and  a  bane  to  the  morals 
of  its  readers.  Sir  Anthony  Absolute 
was  too  much  of  a  martinet  for  his 
opinion  to  be  taken  for  typical;  but 
we  may  judge  of  the  general  disdain 
and  disapprobation  of  novels  by  Jane 
Austen's  indignant  defence  of  them 
in  NORTHANGER  ABBEY.  Although  the 
productions  of  novelists  had  afforded 
more  extensive  and  unaffected  pleasure 
than  those  of  any  other  literary  cor- 
poration in  the  world,  no  species  of 
composition,  she  said,  had  been  so 
decried.  From  pride,  ignorance,  or 
fashion  their  foes  were  almost  as  many 
as  their  readers  ;  and  while  the  abili- 
ties of  the  nine-hundredth  abridger  of 
the  History  of  England,  or  of  the  man 
who  collected  and  published  in  a 
volume  some  dozen  lines  of  Milton, 
Pope,  and  Prior  with  a  paper  from 
THE  SPECTATOR  and  a  chapter  from 
Sterne,  were  eulogised  by  a  thousand 
pens,  there  seemed  almost  a  general 
wish  to  decry  the  capacity  and  under- 
value the  labour  of  the  novelist,  and 
to  slight  the  performances  which  had 
only  genius,  wit,  and  taste  to  recom- 
mend them.  "  I  am  no  novel-reader  ; 
I  seldom  look  into  novels;  do  not 
imagine  that  /  often  read  novels  ;  it  is 
really  very  well  for  a  novel."  Such 
was  the  common  cant.  When  Zachary 
Macaulay  was  editor  of  THE  CHRISTIAN 
OBSERVER  he  received  an  anonymous 
contribution  defending  works  of  fiction 


442 


A  New  Pipe-Plot. 


and  eulogising  Fielding  and  Smollett. 
One  of  the  straitest  of  the  Clapham 
sect,  he  did  not  himself  approve  of 
novel-reading,  but,  unaware  that  the 
author  of  this  contribution  was  his 
own  son  Tom,  he  was  so  rash  as  to 
print  it.  Never  was  such  commo- 
tion among  subscribers.  Violent  ob- 
jurgations poured  in  upon  the  impious 
editor.  One  gentleman  informed  the  pub- 
lic that  he  had  committed  the  obnoxious 
number  to  the  flames  and  should  cease 
to  take  in  the  magazine.  This  was  the 
young  Macaulay's  first  work  in  print ; 
but  it  was  not  by  any  means  the  last 
time  that  he  felt  compelled  to  under- 
take with  his  pen  the  defence  of  fiction. 
Zachary  Macaulay,  notwithstanding 
his  private  scruples,  lived,  says  Sir 
George  Trevelyan,  to  see  himself  the 
head  of  a  family  in  which  novels  were 
more  read  and  better  remembered 
than  in  any  household  in  the  United 
Kingdom.  And  many  and  many  a 
time  had  the  essayist  and  historian  to 
take  up  his  cudgels  for  his  beloved 
novelists,  from  the  day  that  he  had  to 
defend  himself  to  his  father  against 
the  charge  of  being  called  at  Cambridge 
the  "  novel-reading  Macaulay,"  until 
he  accomplished  his  expressed  wish  to 
make  history  as  interesting  as  fiction. 
Such  days  of  her  minority  Fiction 
has  handsomely  outgrown.  The  sheaves 
of  all  her  literary  brothers  and  sisters 
have  bowed  down  before  her  sheaf. 
New  novels  nowadays  get  puffed  by 
prime-ministers  on  post-cards.  Fic- 
tion is  our  Lady  Paramount  of  litera- 
ture, not  without  imperial  longings  to 
annex  the  domains  of  her  more  vener- 
able sisters.  But  with  so  many 
fish  to  fry,  with  religion  to  set 
right,  and  society  to  reorganise,  and 
morals  to  establish  on  a  new  basis, 
her  High  Mightiness  is  apt  in  these 
later  days  to  something  too  much 
disdain  the  part  she  came  into  the 
world  to  perform,  of  interesting  and 
pleasing.  Carlyle,  no  doubt,  had 
reproached  her  with  the  unworthiness 
of  merely  pleasing,  the  prophet  hav- 
ing himself  no  great  gift  that  way. 
The  Waverley  Novels  themselves  he 


condemned  out  of  hand  as  having 
only  the  poor  aim  of  harmlessly  amus- 
ing indolent,  languid  men.  "  Not 
profitable,"  he  cried,  "  not  profitable 
for  doctrine,  for  reproof,  or  for  edifi- 
cation ! ;'  But,  alas!  we  cannot  all 
be  prophets  with  fires  in  our  bellies ; 
nor  indeed  are  these  same  prophets 
very  comfortable  folk  to  have  about 
in  the  house  with  one.  To  our  novels 
we  look  for  entertainment  and  com- 
panionship ;  and  to  say  nothing  of  an 
ancient  prejudice  we  have  for  going 
for  our  philosophy  and  science  to 
some  one  who  knows  something  about 
it,  we  are  not  always  in  the  humour  to 
look  to  our  novelists  for  doctrine,  for 
reproof,  or  for  edification.  And  so 
we  fall  back  on  the  old  three  volumes 
from  the  circulating  library,  all  about 
"  the  agonies  of  Louisa  on  parting 
with  the  Captain,  or  the  atrocious  be- 
haviour of  the  wicked  Marquis  to  the 
Lady  Emily."  And  the  comfort  of 
knowing  that  when  they  have  served 
their  turn  they  will  depart  whence 
they  came  and  we  shall  see  them  no 
more  !  They  at  least  will  never  stand 
upon  our  shelves  to  reproach.  Our  laugh 
or  our  cry  over,  we  owe  them  no 
further  thought  nor  care.  THE  Au- 
THOE  itself  opines,  we  note,  that  the 
three-volumed  novel  will  not  suddenly 
disappear.  "  There  will  still  be  a  de- 
mand," we  read,  u  especially  among 
sick  people,  for  that  form  of  reading 
which  demands  no  thought  and  not 
too  much  attention ;  which  diverts  the 
mind  without  fatigue ;  which  trans- 
ports the  reader  to  another  and  more 
pleasant  atmosphere  with  a  book  easy 
to  hold,  light,  and  in  large  print.  It 
is  not  a  highly  dignified  function  to 
amuse  the  weakened  in  mind  and 
body  by  illness,  but  it  is  at  all  events 
useful."  Ah  well,  there  are  more 
highly  dignified  functions  that  could 
be  better  spared.  How  many  of  us 
can  say  of  ourselves  that  our  pre- 
sence would  certainly  bring  cheerful- 
ness into  a  sick-chamber  ?  Those  who 
can  may  go  to  their  account  with  an 
easy  conscience.  When  Thackeray 
was  prostrated  for  a  day  every  now 


A  Ntw  Pipe-Plot. 


443 


and  again  with  an  ague  that  troubled 
hiri,  he  read  novels,  he  says,  with 
the  most  fearful  contentment  of  mind. 
Once,  on  the  Mississippi,  it  was  his 
de£  rly  beloved  JACOB  FAITHFUL;  once, 
at  Frankfort-on-Main,  the  delightful 
YINGT  ANS  APRES  of  Monsieur  Dumas ; 
once,  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  the  thrill- 
ing WOMAN  IN  WHITE.  "And  these 
boc  ks  gave  me  amusement  from  morn- 
ing till  sunset.  I  remember  those 
agi  e-fits  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure 
anc  gratitude.  Think  of  a  whole  day 
in  bed  and  a  good  novel  for  a  corn- 
par  ion  !  No  cares,  no  remorse  about 
idle  ness,  no  visitors,  and  the  WOMAN 
IN  WHITE  or  the  CHEVALIER  D'ARTAG- 
NAy  to  tell  me  stories  from  morning 
till  night.  '  Please,  ma'am,  my  mas- 
ter's compliments,  and  can  he  have 
the  third  volume  ? ' '  Nay,  when 
Theckeray  came  on  a  friend  in  the 
club  asleep  over  one  of  his  own  novels, 
he  claimed  his  gratitude.  When  a 
wricer  gave  you  a  sweet,  soothing, 
harcnless  sleep,  had  he  not  done 
you  a  kindness  ?  he  asked ;  and  the 
author  who  excited  and  interested  you 
deserved  your  benedictions. 

One  of  our  wonderful  new  critics 
of  our  wonderful  new  fiction  has  pro- 
nounced its  mission  to  be  the  awaken- 
ing of  "  a  divine  discontent  of  things 
as  uhey  are."  Well,  however  that 
maj  be,  it  is  at  least  no  ignoble  ser- 
vice, to  the  workers  and  the  weary, 
to  help  them  sometimes  to  forget  the 
things  that  are  in  a  divine  content 
witL  things  as  they  are  not.  To 
cheer  the  sick,  to  find  an  anodyne 
for  i  he  suffering,  to  refresh  the  weary, 
to  procure  the  forge tfulness  of  care 
and :  -ecreation  for  exhaustion , — whether 
it  b<  or  be  not  a  "  dignified  function" 
—  is  assuredly  a  most  beneficent  one. 
But  who  in  fact  are  the  great  de- 
vouiers  of  your  three- volumed  novel? 
Not  the  feeble  in  body  and  mind,  nor 
the  Madame  Fribsbys  and  Fanny 
Bolt  >ns ;  no,  but  the  keen  politician, 
the  shrewd  lawyer,  the  self-sacrificing 
phys.cian,  the  hard-working  man  of 
business.  It  is  in  novels  that  such 
men  are  able  to  forget  for  an  hour 


their  clients  and  their  patients,  their 
bad  debts,  or  their  worse  bills.  Young 
again  by  the  spell  of  romance,  they 
go  a  love-making  with  the  lasses,  or 
treasure-hunting  with  the  most  fas- 
cinating pirates.  Thackeray  himself 
once  complained,  as  many  lesser  men 
and  women  have  done  after  him,  that 
since  the  author  of  TOM  JONES  was 
buried  no  writer  of  fiction  among  us  had 
been  permitted  to  depict  to  his  utmost 
power  a  man.  Well,  they  are  none 
so  anxious,  these  busy  men  who  do 
the  work  of  the  world  and  have  no- 
thing to  be  taught  of  its  wickedness 
of  the  world,  to  have  all  the  decent 
veiling  of  romance  stripped  from  that 
same  poor  forked  radish,  man.  Nor, 
when  the  new  lady  novelist  permits 
herself  to  depict  to  her  utmost  power 
a  woman,  are  they  at  all  grateful  to 
find  in  place  of  the  old-fashioned 
heroine  a  little  higher  than  the  angels, 
the  female  animal  rather  lower  than 
the  beasts.  Sentimental, — you  think  ? 
No  ;  these  are  not  the  men  who  are 
sentimental.  And  if  Madame  Fribsby 
and  Fanny  Bolton  did  get  somewhat 
sentimental  over  their  three  volumes, 
perhaps  there  was  no  great  harm  done. 
Flirting  was  in  little  Miss  Fanny's 
marrow,  as  Master  Sam  Huxter  learned 
to  his  distraction.  Eire  soul  au 
monde  est  bien  ouneeyong,  as  Madame 
Fribsby  used  to  say ;  and  without  her 
beloved  three  volumes  her  life  and 
Fanny's  would  have  been  drearier 
than  they  were.  When  the  French 
cook  was  persecuted  by  the  urchins  of 
the  village,  Madame  Fribsby  was  his 
good  Samaritan;  and  Fanny  Bolton 
gave  her  savings  to  the  Chevalier 
Strong  in  his  hour  of  need.  These 
are  no  bad  fruits  of  the  romantic 
disposition. 

One  word  perhaps  is  due  to  the 
gentlemen  who  cant  about  art.  The 
three- volumed  novel,  it  is  said,  is  bad 
for  art,  because  novelists  are  compelled 
to  put  in  "  padding "  to  fill  full  the 
measure  of  them.  Well,  you  may 
take  it  for  certain  that  the  novelist 
who  pads,  or  whose  padding  you  would 
wish  away,  is  a  nincompoop.  For  one 


444 


A  New  Pipe-Plot. 


thing,  the  three  volumes  are  no  hard 
and  fixed  measure  of  capacity.  What 
with  the  elasticity  of  type,  margin, 
and  paging,  you  will  find  one  three- 
volumed  novel  only  a  third  as  long  as 
another.  Moreover,  the  artist  is  pre- 
cisely the  man  who  makes  his  condition 
subserve  his  art.  Michael  Angelo 
took  his  block  as  he  found  it  to  carve 
his  David.  Raphael  did  not  complain 
that  the  stanze  were  too  large  for  his 
subjects.  Dickens  and  Thackeray  did 
their  work  the  length  that  was  wanted, 
and  did  not  whine  about  art.  What 
has  been  good  enough  for  the  great 
novelists  of  the  past  is,  with  all  due 
deference  to  their  worships,  good 
enough  for  the  novelists  of  the  present. 
You  do  not  hear  this  balderdash  about 
art  from  great  artists ;  it  is  the  sign 
of  the  dilettante  and  the  amateur. 


The  second  volume,  no  doubt,  is  too 
often  very  heavy  going,  but  that,  you 
may  be  sure,  is  not  because  the  author 
is  an  artist,  even  an  artist  on  the 
rack. 

The  public,  we  imagine,  will  allow 
with  tolerable  equanimity  the  authors, 
the  libraries,  and  the  publishers  to 
fight  this  matter  out  for  themselves. 
It  will  not  readily  forego  its  circulat- 
ing library,  and  it  would  undoubtedly 
miss  its  old  three-volumed  friend. 
But  somehow  it  has  a  sanguine  faith 
that  good  things  linger  and  last  or 
reappear.  "Thus  ended,"  wrote 
Knickerbocker,  "  this  alarming  in- 
surrection, which  was  long  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Pipe-Plot,  and  which, 
it  had  been  somewhat  quaintly  ob- 
served, did  end  like  most  plots  and 
seditions,  in  mere  smoke." 


445 


SENTIMENTAL    TRAVELLING. 

"  The  only  tune  that  he  could  play 
Was,  '  Over  the  hills  and  far  away.' " 


I  MET  iny  companion  at  the  corner 
of  the  lane  in  the  first  freshness 
of  a  June  morning.  Sandy  Scott 
was  his  name,  and  he  sat  com- 
placently on  a  bank,  smoking 
and  contemplating  the  world.  His 
clothes  were  a  monument  of  tatters, 
"looped  and  windowed  raggedness," 
once  gray,  but  now  bearing  coloured 
rerr  embrances  of  the  soils  of  three 
counties.  His  hair  was  ignorant  of 
the  brush,  and  hung  in  picturesque 
disorder  over  a  battered  face.  His 
list  ess,  inimitable  attitude,  as  he 
reclined  (1  will  not  say  sprawled) 
below  the  hawthorns,  seemed  to  me 
the  perfection  of  ease ;  and  the  thin 
smc  ke  from  his  pipe  in  the  morning  air 
was  pleasing  to  all  right-minded  people. 
So  far  as  mere  externals  were  con- 
cerned, I  was  not  far  behind  him.  I  had 
rak  3d  from  some  forgotten  corner  the 
cast-off  garments  of  a  shepherd.  To 
these  were  added  a  decayed  wideawake 
with  a  scanty  brim,  a  plaid  with  a 
neu.'s,  and  a  pair  of  mighty  hob- 
nailed boots  to  which  my  feet  were 
wofully  strange.  Further,  I  had  a 
fresh  interest  in  all  things  and  all 
mer ,  and  a  relish  even  for  misfortunes. 
My  comrade  was  an  old  voyager  on 
the  seas  of  life ;  he  had  measured  its 
deeps  and  shallows,  whereas  I  was 
but  embarking.  A  more  oddly 
mat:hed  pair  never  set  out  to  take 
the  world  together  on  a  morning  in 
sum  mer. 

And  now,  as  the  writers  of  epics 
would  moralise,  over  all  the  world 
men  would  be  going  forth  to  their 
labc  ur ;  statesmen  to  their  politics, 
lawyers  to  their  courts,  merchants 
to  their  ships.  To-day  treaties  would 
be  made,  laws  passed;  ships  would 
four  der  or  enter  port ;  men  would  die, 


and  the  unruly  planet  would  go  on 
its  way.  Meanwhile,  in  a  corner  of 
God's  universe  two  irresponsible  idlers 
were  setting  forth  on  their  senti- 
mental journey,  without  a  thought 
of  the  complexity  of  life,  for  they 
were  not  writers  of  epics. 

The  way  wound  pleasantly  in  a 
cool  shade  between  limes  and  firs.  A 
dry-stone  dyke  overgrown  with  moss 
and  lady-ferns  bounded  the  road. 
On  one  side  the  hill  rose  steep,  gray 
with  brackens  and  splendid  in  morn- 
ing sunshine ;  while  on  the  other  level 
water-meadows,  from  which  the  scent 
of  meadowsweet  and  mint  was  carried, 
stretched  away  toward  Tweed.  Cur- 
lews were  crying  on  the  hill,  and  a 
few  belated  grouse ;  in  the  fields  the 
singing  of  the  lark  was  varied  by  the 
loud,  twanging  calls  of  snipe.  The 
most  charming  scent  in  the  world 
was  all  abroad, — thyme  and  meadow- 
grass,  fir  and  lime-blossom,  and  the 
indefinable  fragrance  of  morning. 
Sometimes  a  rabbit  darted  across,  or  a 
great  ewe  stared  mildly  at  us  as  we 
passed.  Stonechats  flitted  about ; 
meadow-pipits  (moss-cheepers  in  the 
picturesque  Scots)  made  a  continuous 
piping  over  the  bent ;  and  in  the 
short  tufts  below  the  pines  grass- 
hoppers were  chirping  as  merrily  as 
on  that  morning  long  ago  when 
Theocritus  and  his  friends  went  on 
their  way  to  Pyxus.  Between  the 
straight  fir-stems  one  could  catch 
glimpses  of  bright  water  from  the 
pools  which  Tweed  had  left  in  the 
haugh.  In  winter  these  are  not  to 
be  distinguished  from  the  river  itself 
when  swollen  high  with  rains ;  but  in 
summer,  when  the  stream  has  shrunk 
to  a  silver  trickle,  they  lie  fringed 
with  flags  and  green  rushes,  the 


446 


Sentimental  Travelling. 


haunt  of  gorgeous  beetles  and  in- 
numerable wild-duck.  The  white 
ribbon  of  road  twined  across  the 
breast  of  a  hill  which  seemed  to 
block  the  glen. 

Onward  we  trudged,  one  stolidly, 
the  other  with  many  occasional  halt- 
ings  and  turnings-aside.  I  had  not 
yet  learned  the  secret  of  that  swinging 
walk  with  firmly  grasped  stick  and 
body  slightly  bent  forward,  which 
enables  shepherds  to  tramp  their 
thirty  miles  with  ease  over  the  rough- 
est country.  On  the  contrary,  I 
limped  and  dragged,  now  walking 
with  great  strides,  and  now  loitering 
at  a  snail's  pace  behind.  We  met 
few  people  :  a  farmer's  wife  driving 
to  the  distant  railway  station,  who 
honoured  us  with  a  suspicious  stare ; 
a  group  of  boys  and  girls  going  to 
school ;  a  collier  from  a  far-away 
parish  who  had  been  out  at  the  night- 
fishing,  and  who,  I  am  happy  to  say, 
had  a  light  basket,  for  these  gentry 
seldom  fish  with  the  orthodox  fly,  but 
with  nets  and  drags,  and  all  kinds  of 
heterodox  contrivances. 

We  passed  Stanhope  Bridge,  which 
more  than  once  in  the  memory  of  living 
men  has  been  whirled  down  to  the 
lowlands  by  a  stormy  river.  Thence 
the  road  took  a  long  swing  up  the 
side  of  a  hill.  No  fence  divided  it  from 
the  moor  which  sloped  steeply  down  to 
the  water, — an  ugly  place  for  a  horse 
to  go  over  on  a  dark  night.  The  curious- 
ly marked  hills  of  Stanhope  stood  out 
across  the  valley,  shadowing  the  long 
gloomy  cleft  through  which  the  burn 
finds  its  way  to  Tweed.  A  faint  haze 
was  trailing  on  the  hill-tops,  but 
around  us  the  air  was  filled  with  a 
lucent  warmth.  As  we  walked,  Sandy 
treated  me  to  some  of  his  experi- 
ences among  the  hills.  On  one  farm 
he  had  been  a  shepherd,  and  he 
was  full  of  tales  of  snowstorms  and 
terrible  losses  among  sheep.  He 
had  poached  on  nearly  every  hill, 
and  we  rarely  passed  a  pool  in  the 
river  of  which  he  had  not  some  fish- 
ing adventure  to  tell.  It  was  the 
most  entertaining  talk  I  had  ever 


heard,  and  to  a  young  scapegrace  who 
should  have  been  after  more  serious 
things  it  had  a  most  appetising  taste 
of  forbidden  fruit.  Yet  ever  and 
anon  he  would  pause  to  give  utterance 
to  some  highly  moral  reflection, — a 
salve,  as  it  were,  to  his  not  over-sen- 
sitive conscience. 

The  sun  had  now  climbed  well  up 
in  the  sky,  and,  like  Christiana  when 
she  came  to  the  arbour  on  the  Hill 
Difficulty,  we  were  in  a  "  pelting 
heat."  We  both  longed  for  water, 
and,  as  there  were  no  springs  at  hand, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  ask  at 
the  nearest  cottage.  It  was  ordained 
that  I  should  be  spokesman,  because, 
as  my  companion  was  pleased  to  say, 
"  I  was  mair  genteel-like  aboot  the 
face."  Now  I  was  sadly  disinclined 
for  the  work,  for  though  I  was  in  no 
way  ashamed  of  the  profession  I  had 
chosen,  I  felt  utterly  incapable  of  act- 
ing my  part.  Yet  I  made  an  effort 
which  was  rewarded  with  success,  and 
water  was  given  us  in  a  great  tin  jug. 
The  following  conversation  took  place 
between  the  mistress  of  the  house  and 
the  present  writer. 

"  Ye'll  no  belong  to  thae  pairts  1  " 
"No." 

"  Ye'll  be  a  toon's  body  1  " 
"  Well,  I've  lived  in  towns." 
"  Ye'll   be  no    muckle  guid  at  the 
trampin'  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  not." 
"  Ye'll    be   a    kind    o'    play-actin' 
cratur,  I've  nae  doot  1 " 

I  earnestly  disclaimed  the  connec- 
tion, but  I  am  sure  that  in  that 
honest  woman's  memory  I  live  as  a 
strolling  member  of  the  fraternity. 
We  thanked  her  effusively  for  the 
water  ;  but  I,  for  one,  repented  when 
she  assured  us  that  she  "  keepit  the 
tinnie  for  tramps,  for  nae  decent  body 
could  drink  oot  o'  the  same  dish." 

We  crossed  the  burn  of  Kingle- 
doors,  which  flows  down  from  its  black 
hills  through  a  green  and  pleasant 
glen.  There  is  a  grim  old  story  about 
the  place.  On  a  November  day  in  the 
year  1524  Lord  Fleming,  the  Cham- 
berlain of  Scotland,  rode  out  from  his 


Sentimental  Travelling. 


447 


castle  at  Biggar,  to  hawk  among  the 
moors.  At  the  head  of  this  burn  he 
was  met  by  one  of  the  Tweedies  of 
Drummelzier,  an  evil,  raiding  clan 
who  held  Upper  Tweeddale  in  terror 
for  many  a  year.  A  dispute  fell  out, 
as  most  disputes  do,  about  a  girl ; 
and  young  Tweedie  ran  his  opponent 
through  the  body,  robbed  the  ser- 
vant s,  and  carried  off  the  young  Lord 
Fleming  to  his  stronghold.  The  mur- 
derers paid  some  small  fine,  and  there 
was  no  more  of  the  matter.  Such 
was  the  easy  way  of  settling  differ- 
ences in  those  delectable  times. 

The  road  kept  straight  and  rigid 
between  the  river  and  the  hills.  One 
was  reminded  of  the  "  Person  of 
Quality  "who  visited  these  parts  early 
in  list  century,  and  on  his  return 
described  them  as  "  a  hill,  a  road,  and 
a  water."  Yet  there  is  nothing  mono- 
tono  as  in  this  sameness ;  a  gray, 
soothing  landscape  it  is,  with  great 
clouc  -shadows  on  the  breast  of  the 
hills  passing  and  repassing  through 
the  long  days. 

So:>n  we  draw  near  to  the  famous 
Croo \  Inn,  renowned  in  coaching  days 
and  still  holding  a  shadowy  place  of 
hono  ar  as  the  only  hostel  of  any  preten- 
sions from  Peebles  to  the  head  of  Tweed. 
Here  I  was  greatly  afraid  for  Sandy, 
for  to  him,  as  to  Odin,  wine  was  both 
meat  and  drink.  Yet  to  my  astonish- 
ment he  passed  manfully  by.  A  cynic 
migh:  say  it  was  because  he  lacked 
mone  y ;  1  chose  to  think  that  it  was 
owin<(  to  the  responsibility  of  my  corn- 
panic  nship.  Thence  our  road  ran  uphill 
to  TV  eedsmuir,  a  little  village  set  amid 
lonel;r  uplands.  Some  flocks  of  sheep 
passe  I  with  their  shy,  sunburnt  mas- 
ters I  ound  for  a  remote  market.  The 
drovers  spend  their  days  on  the  road, 
and  ;heir  nights  in  barns  or  farm- 
houses until  their  destination  is 
reach- >d.  I  well  remember  one  boy 
who  vith  a  longing  eye  watched  those 
browi  faced  men  passing  through  the 
street  *,  and  longed  to  follow  them  to 
their  :ar-away  moorland  homes. 

Twiiedsmuir  is  one  of  the  bleakest 
and  IQOS'}  solitary  of  places.  The 


gaunt  vale  of  the  Talk  converges  on 
the  Tweed,  and  the  village  straggles 
around  the  foot  of  the  twin  glens. 
The  church  tower  is  a  landmark  for 
miles.  There  is  an  ineffectual  water- 
fall below  the  bridge,  where  good 
trout  are  sometimes  caught,  called  in 
a  fine  romantic  spirit  the  Curlew  Linn. 
Naked  flanks  of  hills  rise  on  all  sides 
to  block  the  horizon. 

A  mile  beyond  th<?  place  we  halted 
in  a  green  dell  beside  a  stream  to  eat 
our  midday  meal.  The  air  had  the 
warm  quiescence  of  noon,  and  the 
calm  moorland  sounds  were  grateful 
to  the  ear.  I  out  with  a  battered 
copy  of  Theocritus  which  had  accom- 
panied me  in  many  wanderings,  and 
read  to  Sandy  that  marvellous  mid- 
summer tale  in  the  seventh  idyll 
when  "All  things  were  odorous  of 
the  rich  summer,  of  the  fruit-time." 
The  contrast  was  pleasing  between  the 
luxury  of  nature  in  the  Coan  orchard 
and  the  sober  grayness  of  our  neigh- 
bouring hills.  The  mellifluous  Greek 
was  so  much  Icelandic  to  my  com- 
panion, but  the  riot  of  rich  sound 
pleased  him.  He  smoked  and  caressed 
his  ragged  beard  in  a  state  of  inane 
tranquillity. 

By  and  by  we  became  restless,  as  is 
the  nature  of  humankind  to  whom 
inaction  is  unnatural,  and  with  one 
consent  we  got  up  and  went  onward. 
The  day  was  just  waning  into  a 
mellow  afternoon.  On  our  right  lay 
the  uniform  hills  which  form  the 
barrier  between  Tweed  and  Clyde. 
To  the  left  a  succession  of  tributary 
streams  had  made  for  themselves 
lonely  glens, — Menzion,  Fruid,  and 
the  distant  Cor — there  is  solitude  in 
their  very  sounds. 

We  were  within  some  half-dozen 
miles,  I  think,  of  the  head  of  the  glen, 
when  Sandy  bethought  himself  of  fish- 
ing. I  laughed  him  to  scorn,  for,  what 
with  the  bright  day  and  the  clear 
shallow  water,  I  thought  that  no 
fish  would  rise  to  the  fly.  But  I  little 
knew  the  resources  of  my  friend.  He 
declined  the  offer  of  my  fly-book,  and 
produced  from  the  mysterious  depths 


448 


Sentimental  Travelling. 


of  his  pocket  some  lengths  of  gut  and 
a  few  hooks  of  differing  sizes,  wrapped 
up  in  a  dirty  cloth.  From  a  willow 
bush  he  cut  a  long  ten-foot  wand, 
thin  and  pliable  at  the  top  but  solid 
at  the  butt.  To  the  end  he  tied  a 
piece  of  line,  a  yard  or  so  of  gut,  and 
a  finely  dressed  hook.  He  searched 
below  stones  and  tufts  of  grass 
until  he  found  a  number  of  small 
white  worms.  Then  he  baited  his 
hook,  scrambled  cautiously  down  to 
the  river-side,  and  began.  Keeping 
well  in  the  shade  of  the  bank,  he  cast 
far  up  stream  in  a  stretch  of  swift 
shallow  water.  I  have  seen  many 
fishers,  but  never  one  so  keen  as 
Sandy.  With  his  head  bent,  and  his 
fragment  of  a  hat  all  awry,  and 
the  water  rippling  over  his  boots, 
he  watched  his  line  as  it  floated  down- 
ward. He  twitched  it  gently  when- 
ever it  seemed  to  halt,  but  he  must 
have  made  a  dozen  casts  before  he 
hooked  a  fish.  Then  began  a  battle 
royal.  Up  stream  and  down  stream 
he  went,  for  there  was  no  reel  on  his 
home-made  rod ;  and  when  at  last  he 
landed  it,  a  trout  of  nearly  a  pound's 
weight,  on  a  patch  of  gravel  on  the 
other  side,  he  was  dripping  with  water 
and  furiously  warm, — a  strange  spec- 
tacle for  gods  and  men. 

For  some  time  we  kept  the  stream 
side,  which,  as  a  path,  was  more 
varied  and  natural  than  the  highway. 
Four  other  fish  were  caught,  comely 
brown  trout,  with  the  exception  of 
one  great  black  fellow  which  Sandy 
had  out  of  a  deep  pool.  We  strung 
them  on  twisted  rushes  for  ease  in 
carrying.  The  tussocks  of  rough 
grass  were  diversified  with  crisp 
green  stretches  of  turf  which  had  all 
the  elastic  buoyancy  peculiar  to 
the  hills.  Sandpipers  were  busy  by 
the  water,  and  their  plaintive  twitter- 
ing cries  mingled  with  the  music  of 
the  running  stream.  All  around  us 
we  heard  an  assiduous  murmuring  of 
bees, — not  the  humble  brown  bee  of 
the  lowlands,  but  a  dashing  cavalier 
fellow,  splendidly  habited  in  orange- 
tawny.  Now  and  then  a  saffron 


butterfly  or  a  gaudy  blue  moth 
fluttered  past.  There  was  something 
of  a  dearth  of  flowers,  for  we  saw 
little  else  than  thyme  and  half-opened 
heathbells ;  but  we  knew  that  in  a 
month  the  glen  would  be  one  flaming 
expanse  of  blossoming  heather. 

The  afternoon  was  now  all  but 
spent,  and  the  air  was  beginning  to 
grow  cool  and  hill-like.  The  sounds 
which  had  been  dulled  by  the  midday 
heat  became  clearer, — the  bleat  of 
sheep,  the  rumble  of  distant  wheels, 
the  chatter  of  the  stream.  Long 
ridges  of  moorland  rose  from  the 
riverside  and  passed  away  into  the 
infinite  distance.  Those  interminable 
green  hills  are  so  retired  and  have 
such  a  subtle  charm  of  their  own  that 
they  who  spend  much  of  their  time 
among  them  have  little  liking  for 
ragged  peaks  and  horrid  ravines, 
feeling  a  proprietary  interest  in  places 
so  removed  from  men.  The  belt  of 
upland  from  the  Cheviots  to  Galloway 
is  still  to  all  intents  undisturbed. 
"  Little  knows  King  Henry  the  skirts 
of  Cairntable,"  was  a  proud  saying  of 
the  Douglases.  Ay,  and  little  does 
any  other  man,  unless  it  be  the 
shepherds  and  a  few  sentimental 
wanderers.  For  there  are  no  popu- 
lar places  of  interest ;  only  round 
shoulders  of  hills,  silent  valleys,  and 
old-world  tales. 

The  road  wound  at  a  gentle  slope, 
crossing  little  brown  burns  tumbling 
down  from  the  heights.  We  met  one 
solitary  baker's  van  trundling  sleepily 
along,  and  bought  from  the  unkempt 
driver  some  biscuits  and  scones.  If 
the  occupations  of  life  were  left  to 
ourselves  instead  of  being  created  for 
us  by  meddling  circumstances,  who 
would  not  choose  to  drive  such  a 
van?  There  are  some  elements  of 
greatness  about  the  course,  to  dispense 
the  staff  of  life  to  dwellers  in  outlying 
villages,  and  to  spend  one's  days  in  a 
placid,  bountiful  land.  It  is  so  in- 
finitely to  be  preferred  to  the  vexations 
of  business  and  politics  that  it  seems 
strange  that  the  profession  of  van- 
driver  is  not  desperately  overcrowded. 


Sentimental  Travelling. 


449 


The  sound  of  the  wheels  died  slowly 
away  in  the  distance,  and  we  tramped 
on  tarough  the  purple,  limitless  dusk. 
We  were  hungry  and  tired,  and  not 
even  the  glories  of  a  June  sunset  had 
charms  to  soothe  us.  We  saw  in  front 
the  .small  light  which  marked  a  shep- 
herd's cottage,  the  outpost  of  civilisa- 
tion in  the  glen.  Now  we  were  in  no 
hopes  of  getting  shelter  for  the  night, 
for  A 7e  were  utterly  disreputable  and 
correspondingly  resigned ;  so  when  we 
camo  near  to  the  place  we  hardly 
cared  to  try  the  hospitality  of  its 
inmg.tes.  Yet  we  ventured,  and  with 
the  happiest  result.  I  asked  first,  but 
the  Doric  did  not  come  natural  to  my 
tongue.  The  comely,  square-faced 
shepherd's  wife  made  no  response. 
But  when  Sandy  with  his  beggar's 
flattery  and  irresistible  mock-pathos 
mado  the  same  request,  it  was  gra- 
ciously conceded.  "  We  micht  bide  a' 
nichi  i'  the  shed,  for  we  couldna  dae  ony 
hairm."  We  gratefully  thanked  her, 
and  oook  up  our  quarters  in  a  rickety 
lean-fco  half  full  of  brackens.  The 
place  smelt  of  tar  and  sheep-dip,  but 
we  cared  not  a  whit  for  that,  and  ate 
our  supper  with  thankfulness  of 
heart;.  Then  we  stretched  ourselves 
on  the  brackens  and  slept  in  Homeric 
fashion  as  soundly  as  ever  did  the 
Greek  warriors  "hard  by  their  chariots, 
waiting  for  the  dawn." 

II. 

The  morning  came  blue  and  cloud- 
less, and  we,  who  had  been  tired  and 
dispirited  on  the  previous  night,  rose 
in  a  hopeful  frame  of  mind  and  re- 
garded the  world  with  serene  equani- 
mity. We  were  stirring  with  the  first 
light,  leaving  two  fish  as  payment  for 
our  quarters,  and  walked  a  mile 
farther,  where  we  found  a  hollow  by 
the  roadside  and  lit  a  fire.  We  made 
tea  and  boiled  our  trout  in  the  red 
ashes.  It  was  good  to  be  alive  on 
such  a  morning.  One  felt  the  adven- 
turous joy  which  comes  from  the 
outside  world,  and  ceased  to  wonder 
at  tho  lightheartedness  of  wild  crea- 

No   420. — VOL.  LXX. 


tures,  for  the  fresh  air  is  intoxicating 
in  its  strength.  It  is  some  fugitive 
remembrance  of  this  which  makes 
hard- working  artisans  and  clerks  in 
their  scant  holidays  traverse  the 
country  on  bicycles,  or  betake  them- 
selves to  a  crowded  sea-coast.  Lack- 
adaisical folk  groan  over  the  aes- 
thetic loss,  but  I  care  not  a  fig  for 
aesthetics.  Better  that  one  of  God's 
creatures  be  gratified  than  the  whims 
of  such  foolish  people.  Our  goodwill 
goes  with  every  wanderer;  for  after 
all  we  are  a  gipsy  race,  and  our  true 
national  singer  is  the  redoubtable 
Piper's  Son,  who  had  one  song  only, 
but  a  choice  good  one. 

Two  tramps  passed  us,  early  risers 
like  ourselves.  They  exchanged  some 
strange,  confidential  words  with  Sandy 
which  I  could  not  follow.  There  is  a 
bond  of  brotherhood  on  the  road  among 
all  wayfarers,  a  gleam  of  decency  in 
their  lives.  The  tramp  is  an  interest- 
ing study,  and  those  who  do  not  know 
him  will  hardly  believe  what  a  various- 
ness  there  is  in  the  clan.  I  have  ob- 
served in  the  course  of  a  short  ex- 
perience three  divisions, — the  aesthetic, 
the  religious,  and  the  worldly.  The 
aesthetic  tramp,  I  fear,  is  a  bit  of  a 
humbug.  He  will  meet  you  and  praise 
the  weather  and  the  landscape,  moral- 
ise over  the  beauties  of  the  universe, 
and  then  ask  alms.  Still  he  is  gene- 
rally a  ready  fellow  with  a  good  share 
of  native  humour.  I  have  known 
but  one  religious  tramp,  and  he  is  a 
fragrant  memory.  He  was  a  man  of 
a  ghastly  complexion, — "  Pale  Death  " 
the  village  called  him — and  he  held 
meetings  in  my  grandfather's  barn. 
Once  I  was  present  at  one  of  them  in 
the  great  dusty  place,  lighted  by  a 
single  candle.  The  discourse  still  re- 
mains in  my  recollection ;  it  began,  I 
think,  with  the  cardinal  points  of  the 
faith,  and  ended  with  an  admonition 
against  "  cruwality  to  animals."  He 
was  a  worthy  man,  and  it  was  re- 
marked of  him  that  he  always  cleaned 
the  farm-byre  or  stable  before  he  left 
as  a  mark  of  his  gratitude.  The  great 
majority  of  tramps  belong  to  the  last 

G  c 


450 


Sentimental  Travelling. 


class,  and  have  few  thoughts  above 
their  daily  provender.  Sandy  was  a 
compound  of  the  aesthetic  and  the 
worldly,  He  had  a  love  for  fine 
natural  sights,  and  an  equal  liking 
for  creature  comforts.  For  him  the 
beauty  of  nature  from  long  experience 
had  become  a  common  thing,  while  a 
good  dinner  and  a  warm  fire  had  be- 
come idealised  from  the  rarity  of  their 
advent.  He  had  so  rioted  in  the  ex- 
quisite that  the  substantial  was  more 
to  his  liking. 

Before  we  reached  the  highest 
ground  on  the  road  we  passed  a  white 
desolate  house,  the  farm  of  Tvveed- 
shaws,  and  looking  down  to  the 
meadow  below  saw  a  little  well  with 
an  upright  stake  beside  it,  which  we 
knew  for  the  source  of  Tweed.  A 
few  hundred  yards  more  and  we  were 
on  the  summit,  facing  a  brisk  wind 
from  the  Solway.  The  green,  rolling 
lands  of  Annandale  stretched  away  to 
the  English  Border.  Hartfell  and  his 
brother  giants,  the  high,  masterful 
guardians  of  Moffatdale,  lay  clothed 
with  sunshine,  and  far  to  the  right 
rose  the  moorlands  and  pleasant  slopes 
which  cradle  the  young  Clyde.  A 
gracious,  urbane  landscape,  with  just 
the  necessary  suggestion  of  something 
more  rugged  in  the  remote  hills. 

At  our  feet  in  the  deep  glen  rose 
the  little  river  Annan.  The  preci- 
pitous hollow,  its  source,  is  popularly 
called  the  Devil's  Beef-Tub ;  some- 
times, too,  the  Marquis  of  Annandale's 
Beef-Tub,  for  it  was  the  place  of 
safety  to  which  the  Johnstones  drove 
their  ill-gotten  herds.  It  gave  a  man 
a  vast  idea  of  space  to  look  down  and 
see  the  white  dots  on  the  turf  which 
he  knew  to  be  sheep  and  the  gray  lines 
which  might  be  a  sheepfold.  Here  it 
was  that  the  Laird  of  Summertrees, 
popularly  called  Pate-in-Peril,  escaped, 
when  on  his  way  to  trial  at  Carlisle  ; 
and  he  has  left  the  most  concise  and 
picturesque  description  of  the  place  to 
be  had.  "  A  d — d  deep,  black,  black- 
guard-looking abyss  of  a  hole  it  is, 
and  goes  straight  down  from  the  road- 
side, as  perpendicular  as  it  can  do,  to 


be  a  heathery  brae.  At  the  bottom 
there  is  a  small  bit  of  a  brook,  that 
you  would  think  could  hardly  find  its 
way  out  from  the  hills  that  are  so 
closely  jammed  round  it."  A  finer 
story  hangs  about  the  place.  In  the 
old  coaching  days  a  great  snowstorm 
once  delayed  the  Edinburgh  coach  at 
Moffat.  The  mails  were  important, 
so  the  guard  and  driver  set  out  on 
horseback  with  them  to  reach  Tweed- 
dale  and  thence  to  the  city.  A  few 
miles  and  the  horses  failed  them,  so 
they  turned  them  back  and  struggled 
on  foot  through  the  drifts.  Here,  at 
Erickstanehead,  they  perished,  but 
before  death  they  hung  the  mailbags 
on  a  post,  and  a  shepherd  going  out  in 
the  early  morning  saw  the  gleam  of 
the  brass  buckles  and  learned  the  story 
of  two  brave  men.  After  this  a  house 
of  shelter  was  built,  but  the  wind  blew 
it  down  ;  then  another,  which  was  also 
unroofed  ;  and  to-day  you  may  see  the 
ruins  on  the  steep  above  the  Tub. 

When  we  passed  the  great  hollow 
was  full  of  mist,  like  steam  from  some 
mighty  caldron.  A  desolate  curlew 
sent  a  quavering  cry  out  of  the  void, 
which  died  almost  instantly  in  the 
silence.  The  place  was  as  still  and 
placid  as  a  roofless  temple. 

In  half  a  mile  we  were  round  the 
bend  of  the  hill  and  in  lower  latitudes. 
A  kestrel  flew  in  rings  around  a  fir- 
wood  by  the  roadside.  The  banks  of 
mountain-grass  were  fragrant  with 
half-opened  thyme,  and  soberly  gay 
with  milkwort  and  eyebright.  A 
stone  bridge,  crusted  with  spleenwort 
fern,  spanned  a  little  burn  which  fell 
in  the  most  reckless  manner  down  the 
face  of  the  hill.  A  few  birch-trees 
shaded  it,  and  some  wild  roses  threw 
pink  blossoms  across  it.  We  turned 
into  the  place,  and,  lying  in  the 
shadow,  enjoyed  the  summer ;  and, 
what  with  the  heat  and  the  tumbling 
water,  I  think  I  must  have  gone  to 
sleep.  About  midday  we  both  got  up 
and  looked  around.  A  cloud  had  come 
over  the  sun.  The  world  had  not 
such  a  pleasing  look  as  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  road  was  dustier,  the  trees 


Sentimental  Travelling. 


451 


less  green,  the  hills  more  unapproach- 
able. By  and  by  the  sun  came  out 
from  his  cloud,  but  somehow  or  other 
the  charm  had  gone  from  the  face  of 
the  world, — for  me,  but  not  for  my 
companion ;  he  was  unmovable  and 
inured  to  all  things. 

Our  way  grew  more  and  more  low- 
land as  we  went  onward.  A  few  cot- 
tag€  s  appeared,  covered  with  creepers 
and  with  trim  garden  plots  in  front, 
which  told  us  that  certainly  we  had 
left  the  moorlands  behind.  Then  a 
miller's  cart,  laden  with  flour-bags, 
completed  the  transformation.  Never 
before  had  leisurely  quiet  seemed  so 
attractive  as  it  did  to  us,  two  tired 
wayfarers,  on  that  summer  afternoon. 
The  blessing  of  movement  is  to  ac- 
centuate the  pleasure  of  rest ;  so  also 
it  is  from  the  peacefulness  of  nature 
that  motion  acquires  half  its  charm. 
If  we  could  behold  the  cyclic  progress 
of  tiie  earth,  I  think  that  we  should 
be  quit  of  gipsy  longings  once  and 
for  ever. 

Seme  ungainly  buildings  rose  among 
orderly  trees,  and  we  felt  the  aroma 
of  civilisation.  The  sounds  of  men  at 
work  came  to  our  ears,  a  woodcutter 
was  busy  in  a  small  firwood ;  the 
steady  click  of  the  mower  was  loud  in 
the  hayfields.  We  passed  a  church- 


yard and  a  golf-course,  and,  crossing 
the  Annan,  found  ourselves  in  the 
notable  town  of  Moffat. 

Now   here   it   falls    to   my   lot   to 
chronicle  my  sad  defection.    Through- 
out the  journey  I  had  worn   a   pair 
of  great  hobnailed  boots  which  were 
clearly  meant  by  Providence  for  peat- 
bogs,  but  not  for  the  highway.     So 
by   this   time   of   day   my  feet  were 
more  than  a  little  sore.     Also  I  had 
lost  the   fresh  interest  in  travelling 
with  which  I  had  started ;  therefore, 
in   a   lamentable  and  un-Spartanlike 
spirit,  I  bethought  myself  of  a  friend's 
house,  where  I  could  get  books  and 
decent  food,  respectable  clothes,  and 
the  other  luxuries  of  life.     I  called  a 
halt,  and  came  to  terms  with  Sandy. 
He    made    no    objection,    hinted   no 
word  of  ingratitude  ;   but  I  thought 
that   I    discerned   somewhere   in   his 
grave    demeanour     surprise    at     my 
traitorous    conduct.      We   bade   each 
other  good-day,  and  I  turned  aside, 
while  my  former   comrade,  with   his 
stick   flourished   in   the   air,  and   re- 
proach   in    his    retreating    footsteps, 
went   stolidly   on   his  way.     Then  I 
learned  something  of  the  feelings  of 
Orpah  when  she  chose  to  return  alone 

to  Moab. 

J.  B. 


452 


THE    .REFORMER'S    WIFE. 

(A    SKETCH    FROM    LIFE.) 


HE  was  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  with 
the  look  in  his  large  dark  eyes  which 
Botticelli  put  into  the  eyes  of  his 
Moses ;  that  Moses  in  doublet  and 
hose  whose  figure,  isolated  from  its 
surroundings,  reminds  one  irresistibly 
of  Christopher  Columbus,  or  Yasco  da 
Gama,  of  those,  in  fact,  who  dream  of 
a  Promised  Land.  And  this  man 
dreamed  as  wild  a  dream  as  any ;  he 
hoped,  before  he  died,  to  change  the 
social  customs  of  India. 

He  used  to  sit  in  my  drawing-room 
talking  to  me- by  the  hour  of  the 
Prophet  and  his  blessed  Fatma  (for 
he  was  a  Mahommedan),  and  bewail- 
ing the  sad  degeneracy  of  these  present 
days  when  caste  had  crept  into  and 
defiled  the  Faith.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  face  of  martyred  enthusiasm 
with  which  he  received  my  first  in- 
vitation to  dinner.  He  accepted  it, 
as  he  would  have  accepted  the  stake, 
with  fervour,  and  indeed  to  his 
ignorance  the  ordeal  was  supreme. 
However,  he  appeared  punctual  to 
the  moment  on  the  appointed  day, 
and  greatly  relieved  my  mind  by  eat- 
ing twice  of  plum-pudding,  which  he 
declared  to  be  a  surpassingly  cool  and 
most  digestible  form  of  nourishment 
calculated  to  soothe  both  body  and 
mind.  Though  this  is  hardly  the 
character  usually  assigned  to  it,  I  did 
not  contradict  him,  for  not  even  his 
eager  self-sacrifice  had  sufficed  for  the 
soup,  the  fish,  or  the  joint,  and  he 
might  otherwise  have  left  the  table 
in  a  starving  condition.  As  it  was, 
he  firmly  set  aside  my  invitation  to 
drink  water  after  the  meal  was  over, 
with  the  modest  remark  that  he  had 
not  eaten  enough  to  warrant  the 
indulgence. 

The  event  caused  quite  a  stir  in  that 
far-away  little  town  set  out  among  the 


ruins  of  a  great  city  on  the  high  bank 
of  one  of  the  Punjab  rivers  ;  for  the 
scene  of  this  sketch  lay  out  of  the 
beaten  track,  beyond  the  reach  of 
baboos  and  barristers,  patent-leather 
shoes  and  progress.  Beyond  the  pale 
of  civilisation  altogether  it  lay,  among 
a  quaint  little  colony  of  stalwart 
Pathans  who  still  pointed  with  pride 
at  an  old  gate  or  two  which  had  with- 
stood siege  after  siege  in  those  fighting 
days  when  the  river  had  flowed 
beneath  the  walls  of  the  city.  Since 
then  the  water  had  ebbed  seven  miles 
to  the  south-east,  taking  with  it  the 
prestige  of  the  stronghold,  which 
only  remained  a  picturesque  survival ; 
a  cluster  of  four-storied  purple  brick 
houses  surrounded  by  an  intermittent 
purple  brick  wall,  bastioned  and  loop- 
holed.  A  formidable  defence  it  might 
have  been  while  it  lasted  ;  but  it  had 
a  trick  of  dissolving  meekly  into  a 
sort  of  mud  hedge,  in  order  to  gain 
the  next  stately  fragment,  or,  maybe, 
to  effect  an  alliance  with  one  of  the 
frowning  gateways  which  had  defied 
assault.  This  condition  of  things  was 
a  source  of  sincere  delight  to  my 
reformer  Futtehdeen( Victory  of  Faith) 
who  revelled  in  similes.  It  was  typical 
of  the  irrational,  illogical  position  of 
the  inhabitants  in  regard  to  a  thousand 
religious  and  social  questions  ;  and 
just  as  one  brave  man  could  break 
through  these  flimsy  fortifications,  so 
one  resolute  example  would  suffice  to 
capture  the  citadel  of  prejudice,  and 
plant  the  banner  of  abstract  truth  on 
its  topmost  pinnacle. 

In  the  matter  of  dining  out,  indeed, 
it  seemed  as  if  he  was  right.  For 
within  a  week  of  his  desperate  plunge 
I  received  an  invitation  to  break  bread 
with  the  Municipal  Committee  in  the 
upper  story  of  the  vice-president's 


The  Reformer's   Wife. 


house.  The  request,  which  was  em- 
blazoned in  gold,  engrossed  on  silk 
paper  in  red  and  black,  and  enclosed 
in  a  brocade  envelope,  was  signed  by 
the  eleven  members  and  the  Reformer, 
— who,  by  the  way,  edited  a  ridiculous 
little  magazine  to  which  the  Committee 
subscribed  a  few  rupees  a  month, 
solely  for  the  purpose  of  being  able 
to  send  copies  to  their  friends  at 
court,  and  show  that  they  were  in  the 
var  of  Progress.  For  a  man  must 
surely  be  that  who  is  patron  of  a 
"Society  for  the  General  Good  of  all 
Men  in  all  Countries." 

The  entertainment,  given  on  the 
roof  amid  star-shine  and  catherine- 
whoels,  was  magnificently  successful, 
its  great  feature  being  an  enormous 
plun-pudding  which  I  was  gravely 
told  had  been  prepared  by  my  own 
cook;  at  what  cost,  I  shudder  to 
think,  but  the  rascal's  grinning  face 
as  he  placed  it  on  the  table  convinced 
me  that  he  had  seized  the  opportunity 
for  some  almost  inconceivable  extor- 
tion. Still  there  was  no  regret  in 
those  twelve  grave  bearded  faces  as 
one  by  one  they  tasted  and  approved. 
All  this  happened  long  before  a 
miserable,  exotic  imitation  of  an 
English  vestry  had  replaced  the  old 
patrician  committees,  and  these  men 
were  representatives  of  the  bluest 
blood  in  the  neighbourhood,  many  of 
them  descendants  of  those  who  in 
pasi  times  had  held  high  office  of 
Stale  and  had  transmitted  courtly 
marners  to  their  children.  So  the 
epithets  bestowed  on  the  plum-pudding 
wero  many-syllabled;  but  the  con- 
sensus of  opinion  was  indubitably 
toward  its  coolness,  its  digestibility, 
and  its  evident  property  of  soothing 
the  oody  and  the  mind.  Again  I  did 
not  deny  it ;  how  could  I,  out  on  the 
roof  under  the  eternal  stars,  with  those 
twelve  foreign  faces  showing,  for  once, 
a  common  bond  of  union  with  the 
Feriighee?  I  should  have  felt  like 
Judas  Iscariot  if  I  had  struck  the 
thirt  eenth  chord  of  denial. 

The  Reformer  made  a  speech  after- 
wards, I  remember,  in  which,  being 


wonderfully  well  read,  he  alluded  to 
love-feasts  and  sacraments  and  the 
coming  millennium,  when  all  nations  of 
the  world  should  meet  at  one  table 
and — well !  not  exactly  eat  plum- 
pudding  together,  but  something  very 
like  it.  Then  we  all  shook  hands, 
and  a  native  musician  played  a  tune 
on  the  seringhi  which  they  informed 
me  was  "  God  save  the  Queen."  It 
may  have  been;  I  only  know  that 
the  Reformer's  thin  face  beamed  with 
almost  pitiful  delight  as  he  told  me 
triumphantly  that  this  was  only  the 
beginning. 

He  was  right.  From  that  time 
forth  the  plum-pudding  feast  became 
a  recognised  function.  Not  a  week 
passed  without  one,  generally  (for  my 
gorge  rose  at  the  idea  of  my  cook's 
extortion)  in  the  summer-house  in  my 
garden,  where  I  could  have  an  excuse 
for  providing  the  delicacy  at  my  own 
expense.  And  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  this  increased  intimacy  bore 
other  fruit  than  that  contained  in  the 
pudding.  For  the  matter  of  that  it 
has  continued  to  bear  fruit,  since  I 
can  truthfully  date  the  beginning  of 
my  friendship  for  the  people  of  India 
from  the  days  when  we  ate  plum- 
pudding  together  under  the  stars. 

The  Reformer  was  radiant.  He 
formed  himself  and  his  eleven  into 
committees  and  sub-committees  for 
every  philanthropical  object  under  the 
sun ;  and  many  an  afternoon  have  I 
spent  with  my  work  under  the  trees 
watching  one  deputation  after  another 
retire  behind  the  oleander  hedge  in 
order  to  permutate  itself  by  deft  re- 
arrangement of  members,  secretaries, 
and  vice-presidents,  into  some  fresh 
body  bent  on  the  regeneration  of  man- 
kind. For  life  was  leisurely,  lingering 
and  lagging  along  in  the  little  town 
where  there  was  neither  doctor  nor 
parson,  policeman  nor  canal-officer ; 
nor,  in  fact,  any  white  face  save  my 
own  and  my  husband's.  Still  we  went 
far  and  fast  in  a  cheerful,  unreal  sort 
of  way.  We  founded  schools  and  de- 
bating-societies, public  libraries  and 
technical  art-classes.  Finally  we  met 


454 


The  Reformer's    Wife. 


enthusiastically  over  an  extra-sized 
plum-pudding,  and  solemnly  pledged 
ourselves  to  reduce  the  marriage  ex- 
penditure of  our  daughters. 

The  Reformer   grew   more   radiant 
than  ever,  and  began  (in  the  drawing- 
room,   where    it   appeared    to   me    he 
hatched  all  his  most  daring  schemes) 
to  talk  proudly  about  infant  marriage, 
enforced  widowhood,  and  the  seclusion 
of  women.     The  latter  I  considered  to 
be  the  key  to  the  whole  position,  and 
therefore  I  felt  surprised  at  the  evident 
reluctance  with  which  he  met  my  sug- 
gestion that  he  should  begin  the  strug- 
gle by  bringing  his  wife  to  visit  me. 
He  had   but   one,  although    she  was 
childless.     This  was  partly,  no  doubt, 
in  deference  to  his  advanced  theories, 
but  also,  at  least  so  I  judged  from  his 
conversation,  because  of  his  unbounded 
admiration   for   one   who   by  his   de- 
scription was  a  pearl  among  women. 
In  fact  this  unseen  partner  had  from 
the  first  been  held  up  to  me  as  a  re- 
futation of  all  my  strictures  on  the 
degradation  of  seclusion.     So,  to  tell 
truth,  I  was  quite  anxious  to  see  this 
paragon,  and    vexed  at   the  constant 
ailments  and  absences  which  prevented 
our  becoming  acquainted.     The  more 
so  because  this  shadow  of  hidden  vir- 
tue   fettered    me    in    argument,    for 
Futtehdeen  was  an  eager  patriot  full 
of    enthusiasms    for    India    and    the 
Indians.     Once    the    flimsy   fortifica- 
tions were  scaled,  he  assured  me  that 
Hindoostan,  and  above  all  its  women, 
would  come  to  the  front  and  put  the 
universe  to  shame.  Yet  despite  his  suc- 
cesses he  looked  haggard  and  anxious  ; 
at  the  time  I  thought  it  was  too  much 
progress  and  plum-pudding  combined, 
but  afterwards  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  his  conscience  was  ill  at  ease 
even  then. 

So  the  heat  grew  apace.  The  fly- 
catchers came  to  dart  among  the  sirus 
flowers  and  skim  round  the  massive 
dome  of  the  old  tomb  in  which  we 
lived.  The  melons  began  to  ripen, 
first  by  one  and  two,  then  in  thousands, 
gold  and  green  and  russet.  The 
corners  of  the  streets  were  piled  with 


them,  and  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  carried  a  crescent  moon  of  melon 
at  which  they  munched  contentedly  all 
day  long.  Now,  even  with  the  future 
good  of  humanity  in  view,  I  could  not 
believe  in  the  safety  of  a  mixed  diet 
of  melon  and  plum-pudding,  especially 
when  cholera  was  in  the  air.  There- 
fore on  the  next  committee-day  I  had 
a  light  and  wholesome  refection  of 
sponge-cakes  and  jelly  prepared  for 
the  philanthropists.  They  tasted  it 
courteously,  but  sparingly.  It  was, 
they  said,  super-excellent,  but  of  too 
heating  and  stimulating  a  nature  to 
be  consumed  in  quantities.  In  vain  I 
assured  them  that  it  could  be  digested 
by  the  most  delicate  stomach,  that  it 
was,  in  short,  a  recognised  food  for 
convalescents.  This  only  confirmed 
them  in  their  view,  for,  according  to 
the  Yunani  system,  an  invalid  diet 
must  be  heating,  strengthening, 
stimulating.  Somehow  in  the  middle 
of  their  arguments  I  caught  myself 
looking  pitifully  at  the  Reformer,  and 
wondering  at  his  temerity  in  tilting  at 
the  great  mysterious  mass  of  Eastern 
wisdom. 

And  that  day,  in  deference  to  my 
western  zeal,  he  was  to  tilt  wildly  at 
the  zenana  system.  His  address  fell 
flat,  and  for  the  first  time  I  noticed  a 
decidedly  personal  flavour  in  the  dis- 
cussion. Hitherto  we  had  resolved 
and  recorded  gaily  as  if  we  ourselves 
were  disinterested  spectators.  How- 
ever, the  vice-president  apologised  for 
the  general  tone,  with  a  side  slash  at 
exciting  causes  in  the  jelly  and  sponge- 
cake, whereat  the  other  ten  wagged 
their  heads  sagely,  remarking  that  it 
was  marvellous,  stupendous,  to  feel  the 
blood  running  riot  in  their  veins  after 
those  few  mouthfuls.  Yerily  such 
food  partook  of  magic.  Only  the 
Reformer  dissented,  and  ate  a  whole 
sponge-cake  defiantly.  Even  so  the 
final  resolution  ran  thus  :  "  That  this 
Committee  views  with  alarm  any 
attempt  to  force  the  natural  growth 
of  female  freedom,  which  it  holds  to  be 
strictly  a  matter  for  the  individual 
wishes  of  the  man."  Indeed  it  was 


The  Reformer's   Wife. 


with  difficulty  that  I,  as  secretary, 
avoided  the  disgrace  of  having  to  re- 
cord the  spiteful  rider,  "  and  that  if 
any  member  wanted  to  unveil  the 
ladies,  he  could  begin  on  his  own 
wife.." 

I  was  young  then  in  knowledge  of 
Eastern  ways,  and  consequently  indig- 
nant. The  Reformer,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  strangely  humble,  and  tried 
afterwards  to  evade  the  major  point  by 
eating  another  sponge-cake  and  mak- 
ing a  facetious  remark  about  experi- 
ments and  vile  bodies ;  for  he  was  a 
mine  of  quotations,  especially  from 
the  Bible,  which  he  used  to  wield 
to  my  great  discomfiture.  But  on 
the  point  at  issue  I  knew  he  could 
scaicely  go  against  his  own  convic- 
tiocs,  so  I  pressed  home  his  duty  of 
taking  the  initiative.  He  agreed, 
gendy  ;  by  and  by,  perhaps,  when  his 
wife  was  more  fit  for  the  ordeal.  And 
it  was  natural,  even  the  mem-sahiba 
must  allow,  for  unaccustomed  modesty 
to  shrink.  She  was  to  the  full  as  de- 
voted as  he  to  the  good  cause,  but  at 
the  same  time Finally  the  mem- 
sahiba  must  remember  that  women 
wero  women  all  over  the  world,  even 
though  occasionally  one.  was  to  be 
found  like  the  mem-sahiba  capable  of 
acting  as  secretary  to  innumerable 
committees  without  a  blush.  There 
was  something  so  wistful  in  his  eager 
blending  of  flattery  and  excuse,  that  I 
yielded  for  the  time,  though  deter- 
mined in  the  end  to  carry  my  point. 
And  finally  I  succeeded  in  getting 
half  the  members  to  consent  to  send- 
ing •  heir  wives  to  meet  in  my  drawing- 
rooEi  after  dark,  provided  always  that 
Meer  Futtehdeen,  the  Reformer,  would 
set  j,  good  example.  He  looked  trou- 
bled when  I  told  him,  and  pointed  out 
that  the  responsibility  for  success  or 
faih  re  now  lay  virtually  with  him. 
Yet  he  did  not  deny  it. 

I  took  elaborate  precautions  to  in- 
sure the  most  modest  seclusion  on  the 


appointed  evening,  even  to  sending  my 
husband  up  a  ladder  to  the  gallery  at 
the  very  top  of  the  dome  to  smoke  his 
cigar.  But  I  waited  in  vain, — in  my 
best  gown,  by  the  way.  No  one  came, 
though  my  ayah  assured  me  that 
several  jealously  guarded  dhoolies  had 
arrived  at  the  garden-gate,  and  gone 
away  again  when  it  was  known  that 
Mrs.  Futtehdeen  had  not  come. 

I  was  virtuously  indignant  with  the 
offender,  and  the  next  time  he  came 
to  see  me  sent  out  a  message  that  I 
was  otherwise  engaged.  I  felt  a  little 
remorseful  at  having  done  so,  however, 
when  committee-day  coming  round 
the  Reformer  was  reported  to  be  on 
the  sick-list.  And  there  he  remained 
until  after  the  first  rain  had  fallen, 
bringing  with  it  the  real  Indian 
spring,  the  spring  full  of  roses  and 
jasmine  of  which  the  poets  and  the 
bulbuls  sing.  By  this  time  the  novelty 
had  worn  off  philanthropy  and  plum- 
pudding,  so  that  often  we  had  a 
difficulty  in  getting  a  quorum  together 
to  resolve  anything  ;  and  I,  personally, 
had  begun  to  weary  for  the  dazzled 
eyes  and  the  eager  voice  so  full  of 
sanguine  hope.  Therefore  it  gave 
me  a  pang  to  learn  from  the  vice- 
president,  who  being  a  Government 
official  was  a  model  of  punctuality, 
that  in  all  probability  I  should  never 
hear  or  see  either  one  or  the  other 
again,  since  Futtehdeen  was  dying  of 
the  rapid  decline  which  comes  so  often 
to  the  Indian  student. 

A  recurrence  of  vague  remorse  made 
me  put  my  pride  in  my  pocket,  and  go 
unasked  to  the  Reformer's  house  ;  but 
my  decision  came  too  late.  He  had 
died  the  morning  of  my  visit,  and  1 
think  I  was  glad  of  it.  For  the 
paragon  of  beauty  and  virtue,  of  edu- 
cation and  refinement,  was  a  very 
ordinary  woman,  many  years  older 
than  my  poor  Reformer,  marked  with 
the  smallpox  and  blind  of  one  eye. 
Then  I  understood. 

F.  A  STEEL. 


456 


THE    WEST   INDIAN   REBELLION. 


I. GRENADA . 


OF  all  years  in  the  history  of  the 
West  Indies,  since  the  Spanish  Furies 
of  the  first  conquerors,  the  most 
terrible  is  probably  the  year  1795. 
It  was  a  year  of  massacre,  plunder, 
and  ruin  ;  of  war  not  only  of  French 
and  English,  but  of  the  subject  against 
the  dominant  race,  of  the  black  man 
against  the  white.  Kindled  first  in 
San  Domingo  by  the  sparks  that  flew 
from  the  central  conflagration  at  Paris, 
the  flames  spread  swiftly  from  island 
to  island,  until  there  was  hardly  one 
that  was  not  ablaze.  In  the  spring 
of  1794  the  British  forces  under 
General  Sir  Charles  Grey  and 
Admiral  Sir  John  Jervis  had 
attacked  the  French  islands  with 
signal  success,  and  had  added 
Martinique,  Guadeloupe,  and  St. 
Lucia  to  the  "Windward  Islands 
captured  from  France  in  previous 
wars.  But  within  a  year  all  this  was 
changed.  Before  the  end  of  1794 
the  energy  of  Victor  Hugues,  the 
Commissioner  of  the  National  Con- 
vention in  Paris,  had  recovered 
Guadeloupe ;  and  in  the  spring  of 
1795  the  same  vigorous  spirit 
organised  a  simultaneous  insurrection 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  Wind- 
ward Islands.  In  one  after  another 
the  same  scenes  repeated  themselves. 
The  French,  intoxicated  with  new 
ideas  as  to  the  rights  of  man,  and 
ever  delighting  to  do  mischief  to  the 
British,  took  advantage  of  colour- 
feeling  to  rouse  the  Negroes  against 
the  English,  and  in  island  after 
island  the  latter  were  driven  to  the 
utmost  extremity.  In  St.  Lucia  the 
feeble  garrison  was  fairly  over- 
powered and  driven  out  ;  in  St. 
Vincent  the  troops  barely  held  the 
capital  against  the  French  and  their 
savage  allies  the  Caribs ;  and  in 


Grenada  the  danger  was  hardly  less- 
pressing  than  in  St.  Vincent.  For  a 
whole  year  the  Brigands,  as  these 
fanatical  bands  of  French  and 
Negroes  were  called,  held  these 
islands  at  their  mercy,  till  the  British 
at  last  made  head  against  them,  and 
crushed  them  out. 

The  memory  of  these  things  has 
well  nigh  perished.  The  names  of  St. 
Vincent,  Grenada,  Martinique,  and 
Guadeloupe  are  borne  on  the  colours 
of  many  regiments,  but  why  and 
wherefore  few  men  know,  and  still 
fewer  care.  The  West  Indies  have 
lost  their  importance.  Once  the 
richest  of  our  possessions,  nurtured 
under  a  system  which,  good  or  bad,  kept 
them  increasingly  prosperous,  they 
were  overthrown  by  two  Acts  of 
Parliament  which  destroyed  the 
system  at  a  blow  and  therewith 
ruined  the  islands.  The  British 
nation  having  ruined  them  decided 
to  have  no  more  to  do  with  them  ; 
and  thus,  while  millions  have  been 
poured  into  the  treasuries  of  innumer- 
able corrupt  governments,  colonial  and 
foreign,  little  or  nothing  has  been 
spared  for  the  West  Indies. 

Yet  another  cause  has  contributed 
to  thrust  the  war  of  the  West  Indies 
into  the  background.  For  the  best 
part  of  two  generations  the  policy  of 
Pitt  in  fighting  for  the  Caribbean 
Archipelago  has,  through  the  influence 
of  Macaulay,  met  with  nothing  but 
condemnation.  Quite  recently,  how- 
ever, an  author  who  writes  with 
impartiality  no  less  than  with 
profound  knowledge,  has  vindicated 
Pitt's  action;  and  where  Macaulay 
and  Captain  Mahan  differ  on  a  point 
of  strategy,  it  is  no  disrespect  to 
Macaulay  to  prefer  Captain  Mahan. 

But  even  granting  that  Macaulay 


The    West  Indian  Rebellion. 


457 


we:-e  right,  it  is  not  good  that 
Englishmen  should  forget  with  what 
desperate  struggles  and  frightful  loss 
of  life  these  islands  were  won,  held, 
and  regained.  The  names  of  Ralph 
Abercromby  and  John  Moore  are  not 
unknown  in  English  military  annals; 
but  how  many  know  that  Abercromby 
reconquered  the  West  Indies  for  us  in 
171'6  ;  that  John  Moore,  having  done 
the  best  share  of  the  work  of  the 
recDvery  of  Morne  Fortunee,  was  left 
to  complete  the  reduction  of  St.  Lucia ; 
anc  that,  while  engaged  in  the  process, 
he  was  stricken  with  yellow  fever, 
anc  actually  abandoned  for  dead  ?  As 
to  lesser  military  men,  brigadiers, 
colonels,  and  the  like,  to  say  nothing 
of  nere  civilian  administrators,  their 
names  have  perished,  though  their 
dispatches  still  survive  unnoticed  and 
unread.  Simple,  straightforward 
documents  they  are,  telling  merely 
thaj  their  men  are  dying  like  flies, 
and  they  themselves  at  their  wits' 
end  ;  but  that  they  are  alive  to  the 
high  trust  which  His  Majesty  has 
placed  in  their  keeping,  and  will  do 
their  duty  come  what  may.  Occasion- 
ally, when  hard  pressed,  as  for 
instance  at  the  evacuation  of  St. 
Lucia,  on  June  19th,  1795,  they 
set  forth  their  case  in  a  ghastly 
return,  thus  : — 


Total 
strength. 

Fit  for 
duty. 

Sick. 

Fo  ir  regiments 

<f  Infantry.,    ;     1171          583 
Ar  illery  40 

588 
11 

Ne*ro  Soldiers 

12                1 

11 

1223          613 

610 

And  therewith  they  hope  that  His 
Majesty  will  not  judge  them  harshly. 
Let  us  trace  the  course  of  one  of  these 
islands  through  the  year  1795,  and 
try  to  realise,  however  faintly,  what 
the  revolt  of  the  West  Indies  really 
meaat. 

G  renada,  one  of  the  most  southerly 


of  the  Windward  group  of  the 
Caribbean  Archipelago,  is  an  island 
about  twenty  miles  long  by  ten  broad. 
Seen  on  the  chart  it  has  the  shape  of  a 
beetle,  with  its  head  pointing  slightly 
to  the  east  of  north,  and  a  stump  of 
an  erratic  tail  swinging  out  to  south- 
west. Seen  in  itself  it  is  a  rugged 
confused  mass  of  volcanic  hills,  rising 
to  near  three  thousand  feet,  covered 
with  forest  of  an  almost  cloying 
verdure,  except  where  the  monotony 
is  broken  by  the  gentler  green  of 
sugar-canes.  The  colour  of  the  soil, 
where  seen,  is  the  deep  rich  red  of  the 
sandstone  land  in  Devon;  and  the 
effect  of  the  whole  as  it  rises  out  of 
the  blue  of  the  tropical  sea  is  of  an 
intensity  of  colour  almost  too  superbly 
bold  for  an  English  eye  to  bear.  On 
the  east  or  (trade)  windward  side  of 
the  island  are  two  little  ports — St. 
Andrew's,  the  southernmost,  and 
Grenville,  a  few  miles  to  north  of  it, 
wherein  the  trade-wind  throws  up  a 
heavy  surf.  At  the  north  point  is 
another  little  port,  Sauteurs,  and 
thence  travelling  down  the  leeward 
coast  we  come  to  Gouyave  or 
Charlottetown,  and  farther  to  the 
south  to  St.  George's,  the  capital. 
The  entrance  to  St.  George's  is 
narrow  ;  but  within  the  harbour 
expands  trefoilwise  into  three  little 
bays,  hemmed  in  on  all  sides  by 
hills.  To  the  left,  commanding  the 
entrance,  stands  Fort  George,  a 
picturesque  old  mass  of  masonry, 
with  the  town  clustered  like  a  Devon 
fishing-village  beneath  and  beyond  it. 
To  your  right,  within  the  harbour  as 
you  enter  it,  you  can  see  the  remains  of 
old  batteries  and  barracks  on  the  hills 
at  the  farther  side  of  the  bay.  The 
town  is  steep  and  roughly  paved,  and 
bears  unmistakable  signs  of  French 
origin ;  but  it  has  a  character  of  its 
own  which  enables  it  to  stand  without 
marring  the  beauty  of  one  of  the 
loveliest  little  harbours  in  the  world. 

And  here  on  the  night  of  the  2nd  of 
March,  1795,  the  population  retired 
as  usual  to  rest.  The  trade-wind 
dropped,  as  ever,  at  sunset ;  the  fire- 


458 


The    West  Indian  Rebellion. 


flies  glanced  hither  and  thither, 
revelling  in  the  darkness  as  the 
butterflies  in  the  sunshine  ;  "  last 
post "  rang  out  from  the  bugles  at 
Fort  George,  and  was  answered  from 
the  barracks  across  the  bay ;  one 
hundred  and  fifty  British  soldiers, 
who  formed  the  garrison  of  Grenada, 
realised  that  another  hot  day  was 
passed  and  another  hot  night  begun  ; 
and  the  sentries,  too  lazy  to  pace  up 
and  down  in  the  heat,  stood  without 
the  low  stifling  barracks  and  declared 
that  all  was  well.  Not  a  suspicion  of 
mischief  was  there ;  the  Governor 
himself,  Mr.  Home,  had  gone  away  on 
a  journey  to  windward.  Before  dawn 
the  news  was  brought  that  the  French 
free  Negroes  had  risen  in  the  night, 
had  massacred  the  Whites  at  Gren- 
ville  Bay  to  windward,  and  seized 
those  at  Charlottetown  and  around  it 
on  the  leeward  coast.  One  can  im- 
agine the  confusion  and  terror  at  such 
tidings,  the  more  to  be  dreaded  after 
all  that  had  happened  at  Guadeloupe 
and  St.  Domingo.  Moreover,  the 
Governor  was  away,  and  no  one  could 
tell  when  he  would  return.  No  one 
could  guess  that  the  poor  man  would 
never  enter  Government  House  again. 
Soon  after  came  a  message  to  say  that 
he  too  had  been  captured  by  the 
insurgents  at  Charlottetown,  while 
hastening  on  his  way  back  to  the 
capital,  and  added  to  the  forty-two 
white  prisoners  already  in  their 
hands. 

Without  losing  his  head  for  a 
moment,  the  senior  member  of  the 
Council,  Mr.  Mackenzie,  took  over 
the  reins  of  government,  proclaimed 
martial  law,  and  despatched  messengers 
to  Trinidad,  Barbados,  and  Martinique 
to  beg  assistance.  Meanwhile  he 
called  out  the  St.  George's  militia, 
mainly  coloured  men,  and  sent  off  by 
sea  what  regular  force  he  could  raise, 
a  mere  one  hundred  and  fifty  men 
under  an  officer  of  the  Fifty-Eighth, 
to  attack  the  insurgent  position  at 
Charlottetown  from  the  south,  order- 
ing the  local  militia  at  the  other  end 
of  the  island  to  threaten  it  simultane- 


ously from  the  north.     Then  came  a 
few  anxious  days  of  suspense.    On  the 
9th    the    expedition    returned.     Two 
wounded  men  were  carried  on  shore ; 
and   the    only    news   was     that    the 
insurgents  had  artillery  and  were  too 
strongly  posted  to  permit  attack  with 
so  small  a  force.     As  for  the  northern 
militia,  it  was  not  to  be  found,   for 
the  whole  population  in  its  panic  had 
fled  to  the  coasting  vessels  for  safety. 
Plainly   nothing   could    be    done    till 
reinforcements    should     come.       The 
first  of  these  arrived  within  a  couple 
of  days    from   Trinidad,    whence   the 
Spanish     Commander,    Don    Chacon, 
had     generously    sent    three    armed 
vessels   and    forty   soldiers   from    his 
own      tiny     garrison.         Poor      Don 
Chacon  !     Two  years  later  it  was  his 
fate  to  sign  the  capitulation  of  Trini- 
dad to  the  very  power  which  he  now 
so  unselfishly  assisted.     On  the  12th 
of  March,  some  hours  later  than  the 
Spaniards,     came     Brigadier-General 
Lindsay   from   Martinique   with    one 
hundred  and   fifty  men  of  the  Ninth 
and  Sixty-Eighth  drawn  from  thence 
and    from   St.   Lucia;    for   St.   Lucia 
as    yet  was    not    thought    to   be    in 
danger.     He  garrisoned   St.  George's 
with  Spaniards,  and  with  the  English 
marched  against  the  insurgents.     On 
the  17th  of  March  he  attacked  them 
and  drove  them  from  one  position  with 
trifling  loss,  only  to  find  that  they  had 
retired  to  another,  still  stronger  than 
the   first,  on  the  steep  wooded  hills. 
He  prepared  to  follow  them,  but  the 
rain  fell  as  only  tropical  rain  can  fall 
and  put  a  stop  to  all  further  opera- 
tions.    There  are  not  too  many  roads 
in   Grenada    now ;    there   were    still 
fewer  a  century  ago,  and  those  mere 
narrow  tracks,  paved  in   the  French 
fashion,  too    strait    for   any  wheeled 
vehicle.       Along   these,    all    slippery 
with    rain    and    mud,    the   dispirited 
soldiers  had  to  march,  drenched  to  the 
skin,  and  exhausted   by  the  stifling, 
steaming  heat.  General  Lindsay,  worn 
out  with    fever   and    fatigue,  became 
delirious,  and   in   his    delirium  made 
away  with   himself.     The  Spaniards, 


The   West  Indian  Rebellion. 


unable  to  spare  their  troops  any  longer, 
sent  orders  for  them  to  return  to 
Trinidad.  Lindsay's  successor  declared 
it  useless  to  attack  the  insurgents  with 
his  small  force;  for  unless  assailed 
from  several  points  they  simply 
abandoned  one  position  to  take  up 
another  and  a  stronger.  Bad  news 
began  to  come  from  St.  Vincent  and 
St.  Lucia  of  Brigands  triumphant  and 
British  hard  pressed,  and  the  outlook 
for  Grenada  became  darker  and 
darker.  Evidently  nothing  was  to 
be  done  but  to  hold  St.  George's 
and  Charlottetown  to  leeward  and 
Grenville  to  windward,  and  equip 
vessels  to  intercept  French  reinforce- 
ments from  Guadeloupe. 

For  by  this  time  the  secret  of  the 
moving  power,  the  terrible  Victor 
Hu^ues,  had  come  to  light ;  and  the 
British  in  Grenada  knew  the  enemy 
against  whom  they  were  fighting. 
Proclamations  printed  both  in  French 
(the  language  of  Grenada)  and  in 
English  were  scattered  broadcast 
through  the  islands ;  such  proclam- 
ations as  could  not  but  appeal  to  any 
Frenchmen  bitten  with  the  Virus 
of  the  Revolution.  Two  specimens 
of  these  are  before  us ;  one  dated 
3  Ventose  III.  (21st  February  1795) 
threatening  the  guillotine  to  all 
•Frenchmen  who  join  the  enemy,  and 
reprisals  for  the  death  of  any 
Republican  executed  by  the  British  ; 
the  other  of  earlier  date  but  even 
more  significant,  and  worth  printing 
as  i -j  originally  appeared  in  its  official 
translation. 

Victor  Hugues,  Commissary  delegated 
by  Ihe  National  Convention  in  the  Lee- 
wan  I  Caribee  Islands, 

C  >nsidering  that  the  crimes  committed 
by  the  British  officers  as  well  at  the  taking 
as  ii.  the  defending  of  the  Colonies  shows 
a  ch  iractere  of  such  a  consumed  and  un- 
heai  i-of  rogeury,  of  which  history  never 
as  y.;t  produced  an  example, 

Cc  .nsidering  that  the  rights  of  humanity, 
of  \var,  of  men  and  of  nations  have  been 
viol;  ted  by  Charles  Grey,  general  ;  John 
Jervis,  admiral  ;  Thomas  Dundas,  major- 
general ;  Charles  Gordon,  likewise 
General  officer,  as  well  as  of  other  subaltern 


officers  in  imitation  of  their  chief  com 
manders, 

Considering  that  the  robberies,  murders, 
and  other  crimes  committed  by  them  ought 
to  be  transmitted  to  posterity, 

It  is  resolved  :  that  the  remains  of 
Thomas  Dundas,  deceased  in  the  Island  «.f 
Guadeloupe  on  the  3rd  day  of  the  month 
of  juin  (style  of  the  slaves),  shall  be  de- 
terred and  thrown  to  the  wind,  and  that 
there  shall  be  erected  in  the  same  spot  at 
the  expense  of  the  Republic  a  lofty  monu- 
ment, bearing  on  the  one  side  this  present 
resolution,  and  on  the  other  the  following 
inscription  : 

This  spot,  returned  to  liberty  through  the 
courage  of  the  Republicans,  was  dishonoured 
by  the  body  of  Thomas  Dundas,  Major- 
General  and  Governor  over  the  Island  of 
Guadeloupe,  in  the  name  of  the  Tyran 
George  III.  In  remembrance  of  his  crimes, 
the  public  indignation  has  caused  him  to  be 
deterred,  and  this  monument  to  be  ei'ected  to 
attest  the  same  to  posterity. 

The  %Qth  frimaire  in  the  3rd  year  of  the 
French  Republic,  one  and  indivisible. 

Signed,  VICTOR  HUGUES. 

Such  were  the  utterances  of  the 
Directory  at  Guadeloupe ;  and  the 
action  of  their  agents  was  worthy 
of  them.  Julien  Fedon,  a  Grenada 
Mulatto  who  headed  the  insurrection, 
and  Besson,  a  deputy  sent  from  Guade- 
loupe, issued  a  proclamation  that  the 
heads  of  the  captured  Governor,  le 
tyran  Ninian  Home,  and  of  his  fellow- 
prisoners  should  answer  for  the  good 
behaviour  of  the  inhabitants.  This 
manifesto  produced  its  due  effect. 
The  Negroes  flocked  to  Fedon's 
standard  in  hundreds,  no  fewer  than 
four  thousand  joining  him  in  the 
month  of  March  alone.  Moreover 
not  Negroes  only  but  Frenchmen  of 
all  classes  and  colours  in  Grenada, 
whether  through  terror  or  inclination, 
threw  in  their  lot  with  the  insurgents 
and  fought  by  their  side  ;  while  Victor 
Hugues  strove  indefatigably  to  evade 
the  English  cruisers  and  pour  men, 
arms,  and  ammunition  into  the  island. 
The  plantations  were  devastated,  the 
estate  houses  plundered  and  burned ; 
and  blank  ruin  stared  Grenada  in  the 
face. 

On  the  1st  of  April,  however,  a  smal 
reinforcement  arrived  from  Barbados, 


460 


The    West  Indian  Rebellion. 


consisting  of  the  Twenty-Fifth  and 
Twenty-Ninth  regiments,  both  very 
weak,  under  Brigadier  Campbell.  The 
dauntless  Mackenzie  again  essayed  to 
organise  a  combined  attack  on  the 
rebel  position,  and  again  failed  utterly, 
probably  from  inappreciation  of  the 
fact  that  operations  on  paper  and  in 
the  field  are  two  very  different  things. 
The  rain  was  falling  in  torrents,  the 
men  were  raw  recruits  just  arrived 
from  England,  the  officers  new  to  the 
country  and  to  the  system  of  warfare  ; 
moreover  the  enemy,  strengthened  by  a 
supply  of  officers  who  had  successfully 
run  the  blockade,  made  remarkably 
skilful  dispositions.  Nevertheless  on 
the  8th  of  April  Campbell,  like  Lindsay 
before  him,  resolved  with  his  two 
weak  regiments  and  a  party  of  blue- 
jackets to  make  at  any  rate  a  direct 
attack  on  the  post  at  Charlottetown. 
The  insurgents  repeated  their  former 
tactics  ;  they  withdrew  from  the  lower 
ground  to  a  higher  point  on  ground 
almost  inaccessible  and  strengthened 
by  felled  trees  and  abattis.  The 
British  troops  did  all  that  men  could 
do,  but  the  ground  was  so  slippery 
from  the  heavy  rain  that,  although 
most  of  them  had  lost  their  shoes, 
they  could  make  no  way  ;  and  Campbell 
was  fain  to  retire,  having  lost  nearly 
one  hundred  men  of  the  five  or  six 
hundred  with  him. 

A  week  later  arrived  a  new  general, 
Brigadier  Nicolls,  but  no  troops  with 
him.  He  at  once  decided  to  occupy 
the  landing-places  only,  and  abandon 
the  interior  to  the  insurgents,  harass- 
ing them  as  best  he  could.  Nothing 
else  could  be  done,  for  the  troops  were 
worn  out,  and  the  militia  in  a  state  of 
mutiny,  while  the  Negroes  joined  the 
Brigands  in  greater  numbers  than 
ever.  Fedon  on  his  side,  after  repel- 
ling Campbell's  attack,  brought  out 
Governor  Home  and  thirty-nine  more 
of  his  prisoners  and  massacred  them 
in  cold  blood ;  he  was  not  a  man  who 
threatened  for  nothing. 

Such  was  the  state  of  Grenada  two 
months  after  the  rising.  One  can 
imagine  the  intense  bitterness  of  men's 


minds  in  so  tiny  a  community ;  the 
fury  of  the  ruined  and  bereaved 
against  the  black  Brigands  and  still 
more  against  the  white  men  who, 
false  to  their  colour,  had  allied  them- 
selves with  them.  And  now  the 
summer  drew  on,  bringing  with  it  a 
new  and  terrible  enemy,  yellow  fever. 

"The  Twenty-Fifth  and  Twenty- 
Ninth  begin  to  fall  down  fast,"  wrote 
Nicolls  on  the  llth  of  May.  "  Twenty 
died  here  last  week  and  six  were  carried 
off  yesterday."  All  through  July  the 
fever  raged  furiously.  The  regulars 
died  at  an  appalling  rate,  the  Twenty- 
Ninth  losing  eighty  men  in  a  single 
month ;  and  some  of  the  militia 
regiments  were  annihilated.  The  in- 
surgents laid  the  whole  island  waste, 
and  waxed  bolder  and  bolder.  In 
October  a  reinforcement  of  two 
hundred  men  with  arms  and  ammuni- 
tion contrived  to  make  its  way  to  them 
from  Guadeloupe  ;  thus  strengthened, 
they  attacked  the  British  post  at 
Charlottetown,  which,  with  all  its 
stores,  artillery,  and  sick  men,  was 
perforce  abandoned  to  them.  Never- 
theless for  a  moment  a  transient  gleam 
of  hope  struck  even  then  through  the 
gloom  to  the  British  in  Grenada. 
Reinforcements  had  reached  Barbados 
from  England,  and  would  doubtless 
hasten  to  their  aid  ;  but  it  was  not  to 
be.  Martinique  was  hard  pressed,  St. 
Vincent  was  at  the  last  gasp,  St. 
Lucia  had  been  evacuated  ever  since 
June  ;  Grenada  must  wait. 

And  now  came  a  fresh  anxiety  for 
the  sick  hearts  in  the  island.  The 
French  Commissioners  at  Guadeloupe 
sent  an  emissary  to  the  insurgent  post 
in  Charlottetown  to  summon  Fedon 
thither  to  answer  for  his  barbarities, 
and  to  proclaim  that  the  war  should 
henceforth  be  carried  on  on  principles 
of  humanity.  True,  Fedon  defied  the 
French  authorities  to  take  him ;  but 
Nicolls  was  none  the  less  apprehensive 
that  the  new  policy  would  draw  many 
waverers  to  the  side  of  Hugues.  Those 
were  evil  days  for  the  unfortunate 
Brigadier.  The  insurgent  leaders  sent 
him  insolent  letters,  dated  from 


The   West  Indian  Rebellion. 


461 


"  Porte  Libre,  ci-devant  La  Gouyave  " 
(Charlottetown),  calling  upon  him  to 
abandon  his  disgraceful  service  under 
the  tyrant  George.  He  could  not 
avenge  the  insult,  for  every  day  made 
his  position  worse.  Slowly  and 
reluctantly  he  was  compelled  to  with- 
draw post  after  post,  and  abandon  the 
landing-places  to  the  rebels.  The 
year  1795  went  out,  and  the  year 
1798  came  in,  but  no  hope  came 
with  it, — nothing  but  news  of  failure, 
and  heavy  losses  in  St.  Vincent,  and 
the  diversion  of  all  reinforcements 
to  i)hat  island.  In  Grenada  itself 
disaster  followed  disaster.  In  January 
the  rebels  received  further  rein- 
forcements from  Guadeloupe ;  in 
February  they  contrived  to  surprise 
and  capture  some  ships  sent  round 
with  stores  and  ammunition  for  the 
British  post  at  Grenville.  Flushed 
with  success  they  then  invested  the 
post  itself,  and  compelled  the  troops 
to  evacuate  it.  Six  weeks  before  this 
little  British  garrison  had  contrived 
to  repel  a  desultory  attack ;  but  now, 
with  neither  food  nor  clothes  nor 
ammunition,  it  could  make  no  resist- 
ance. The  situation  became  des- 
perate. The  insurgent  force  had  by 
this  time  reached  the  number  of 
ten  thousand  men,  amply  supplied 
with  arms  and  ammunition,  and  led 
by  capable  commanders.  Nicolls  thus 
driven  to  extremity  withdrew  all  his 
outlying  troops,  and  concentrated  his 
whole  force  at  St.  George's ;  it 
remained  to  be  seen  how  long  he 
could  hold  this  last  position. 

At  length  the  tide  began  to  turn. 
Aft<r  long  delay  through  gales  and 
foul  winds  reinforcements  reached 
Bar!  >ados  from  England  j  and  the 
relief  of  Grenada,  and  not  of  Grenada 
only,  was  at  hand.  On  the  4th  of 
Maroh  five  hundred  and  eighty-eight 
men.  from  the  Tenth,  Twenty-Fifth, 
and  Eighty-Eighth  Foot,  under  Briga- 
dier Mackenzie,  arrived  at  St.  George's 
froni  Barbados.  True,  forty-five  of 
them  had  gone  down  with  sickness  in 
the  oourse  of  the  two  days'  voyage, 
but  none  the  less  their  arrival  was 


timely  and  welcome ;  and  the  insur- 
gents, who  had  advanced  toward 
George's,  thought  it  prudent  to  retire. 
A  week  later  further  reinforcements 
from  the  Third,  Eighth,  and  Sixty- 
Third  Foot,  and  the  Seventeenth 
Light  Dragoons,  landed  at  Sautemsat 
the  extreme  north  ;  and  Campbell 
decided  to  attack  the  rebel  position 
at  Grenville  without  delay.  On  the 
24th  of  March  the  forces  from  St. 
George's  and  the  north  converged,  the 
former  by  land  and  the  latter  by 
sea,  upon  the  doomed  entrenchments, 
constructed  a  battery  of  three  guns  in 
the  night,  and  opened  fire  at  daybreak 
next  morning.  Before  attacking  the 
main  position,  however,  it  was  neces- 
sary first  to  carry  a  secondary  height 
adjoining  it.  Two  companies  of  the 
Eighty- Eighth  were  detailed  for  this 
duty,  but  such  was  the  difficulty  of 
the  ground  that  it  was  two  hours 
before  they  could  get  near  the  enemy, 
and  when  they  did  reach  them  it  was 
only  to  be  driven  back.  With  great 
reluctance  Campbell,  who  had  made 
his  dispositions  to  cut  off  the  insur- 
gents on  every  side,  was  compelled  to 
bring  up  a  detachment  of  the  Eighth 
Foot  to  support  the  attack.  Just  at 
that  moment  a  party  of  rebels  con- 
trived to  steal  round  to  his  rear  and  set 
fire  to  the  stores  on  the  beach ;  and  the 
conflagration  was  hardly  extinguished 
when  two  French  schooners  anchored 
in  the  bay  and  opened  fire  to  cover 
the  landing  of  the  troops  which  were 
on  board.  Campbell  saw  that  no 
time  was  to  be  lost.  Under  a  heavy 
fire  both  from  the  rebel  fort  ashore 
and  from  the  schooners  in  the  bay, 
the  Seventeenth  Light  Dragoons 
charged  down  the  beach  and  swept  it 
clear.  Then  Campbell,  concentrating 
the  whole  of  his  infantry,  led  them 
straight  to  the  assault,  and,  not 
without  difficulty,  carried  the  rebel 
entrenchments  by  storm.  The  insur- 
gents fled  in  all  directions,  but  they 
did  not  get  off  scot  free ;  for  as  they 
emerged  upon  the  low  ground  the 
cavalry  again  fell  upon  them  and  cut 
down  every  soul.  Three  hundred 


462 


The    West  Indian  Rebellion. 


Brigands,  mostly  sans  culottes  from 
Guadeloupe,  met  their  death  at  the 
hands  of  the  Seventeenth  that  day. 
Only  six  prisoners  were  taken :  it 
was  not  a  time  for  taking  prisoners : 
and  the  surviving  rebels  fled  to  their 
stronghold  opposite  Charlottetown  in 
the  centre  of  the  island.  The  British 
loss  was  twelve  officers  and  one 
hundred  and  thirty-five  men  killed 
and  wounded. 

After  this  nothing  more  was  done 
for  a  time.  There  was  sickness  among 
the  soldiers  and  confusion  in  the 
island ;  there  had  been  no  time  to 
provide  for  the  housing  of  the  troops, 
and  chaos  could  not  be  reduced  to 
order  in  a  moment.  Mr.  Houston, 
the  new  Governor,  who  arrived  in 
April  to  succeed  the  murdered  Home, 
found  to  his  -great  disgust  that 
Government  House  was  occupied  by 
the  Light  Dragoons,  who  were  by 
no  means  disposed  to  make  room  for 
him.  But  by  this  time  things  were 
beginning  to  improve  in  the  West 
Indies.  Sir  Ralph  Abercromby,  who 
had  been  driven  back  to  Portsmouth 
in  February  after  three  weeks'  futile 
contest  with  gales  in  the  Channel,  had 
at  last  managed  to  reach  Barbados 
(March  17th),  and  was  getting  to 
work.  St.  Lucia  was  his  first  care ; 
and  St.  Lucia,  thanks  to  the  good 
service  of  Moore,  was  in  his  hands  by 
the  24th  of  May.  Thence  he  returned 
to  the  final  relief  of  St.  Yincent, 
which  was  accomplished  on  the  10th 
of  June ;  and  lastly  he  sent  Colonel 
Hope  to  Grenada,  to  concert  opera- 
tions with  Campbell.  On  the  19th  of 
June  an  English  force  landed  unopposed 
at  Charlottetown  to  leeward,  and  a 
second  advanced  from  the  windward 
side,  both  intent  on  the  capture  of 
Morne  Quaqua,  the  central  stronghold 
of  the  Brigands  which  had  defied  the 
British  for  so  long.  It  was  a  position 
so  formidable  that  Lindsay  and 
Campbell  might  be  excused  for  their 
failure  to  carry  it  by  assault.  The 
camp  itself  lay  at  a  considerable 
elevation,  and  above  it  rose  a  rocky 
precipice  accessible  only  by  a  narrow 


path,  which,  together  with  the  lower 
ground  beneath  it,  was  commanded  by 
a  field-gun  with  several  swivels  and 
wall-pieces.  Above  this  again  rose 
another  bluff,  with  another  gun  in 
position ;  and  finally  above  this,  up  a 
very  steep  ascent,  was  the  summit.  The 
British  now  approached  it  in  several 
small  columns ;  and  the  French 
Commandant,  seeing  that  it  would 
inevitably  be  carried,  thought  best  to 
surrender.  Fedon  and  the  desperate 
faction,  knowing  that  they  must 
expect  short  shrift,  led  out  the  white 
prisoners,  some  twenty  in  number, 
stripped  them,  bound,  and  murdered 
them ;  and  having  thus  done  their 
worst  took  to  flight. 

From  that  moment  the  war  became 
merely  a  chase.  The  main  body  of 
the  insurgents  was  dispersed  and 
taken  piecemeal ;  the  Whites,  over 
eighty  in  number,  surrendered  ;  and 
Fedon  alone,  with  a  small  body  of 
ruffian  Negroes,  remained  at  large  in 
spite  of  all  efforts  to  capture  him. 
Once  indeed  his  pursuers  came  upon 
him  by  surprise,  but  he  disappeared 
like  a  cat  over  a  precipice  whither 
none  dared  follow  him,  and  it  does  not 
appear  that  he  was  ever  taken.  Far 
different  was  the  fate  of  the  rest ;  for 
now  the  hour  of  vengeance  was  come. 
First  the  eighty  white  men  were 
brought  to  trial  before  a  specially 
constituted  court.  Forty-seven  of 
them  were  condemned  to  death,  of 
whom  thirty-five  were  actually  exe- 
cuted, the  remaining  twelve  being 
saved  only  by  the  interposition  of 
Governor  Houston,  who  thereby  made 
himself  extremely  unpopular.  Had 
the  House  of  Assembly  (for  nearly  all 
these  islands  possessed  a  parody  of 
an  elected  Assembly  until  1876)  been 
allowed  its  own  way  it  would  probably 
have  put  an  end  to  the  whole  eighty 
by  a  sweeping  Act  of  Attainder;  for 
no  offence  is  so  deadly  among  white 
men  in  a  black  man's  country  as  dis- 
loyalty to  colour.  It  is  easy  for  those 
who  sit  at  ease  in  Exeter  Hall  to 
decry  colour-feeling ;  but,  let  them 
say  what  they  may,  that  feeling  is 


The   West  Indian  Rebellion. 


natural,  for  it  is  born  of  the  instinct 
of  6  elf-preservation;  and  it  is  necessary, 
for  it  is  the  backbone  of  the  white 
man's  supremacy  in  the  torrid  zone. 
So  the  white  insurgents  paid  dearly 
for  their  alliance  with  the  Blacks,  and 
the  Blacks  as  dearly  for  the  more 
pardonable  crime  of  rising  against 
their  masters.  Men  were  in  no  very 
gentle  mood  just  at  that  period. 

Ho  ended  the  revolt,  but  not  the 
troubles  of  Grenada.  The  island  was 
ruined  ;  the  bare  expenses  of  the  war 
alo ae,  to  say  nothing  of  other  losses, 
amounted  to  £230,000  (about  five 
years'  revenue),  and  every  source  of 
wealth  was  destroyed.  From  sheer 
compassion  the  British  Government 
lent  the  unhappy  island  £1 00,000  to 
enable  it  to  exist.  As  the  summer 
;id\anced  the  yellow  fever  appeared 
for  the  second  time,  and  wrought  even 
more  appalling  havoc  than  on  its  pre- 
vious visit.  The  year  1796  was  per- 
haps the  sickliest  season  ever  known 
in  the  West  Indies.  By  December 
the  House  of  Assembly  had  hardly  a 
member  left  alive,  and  the  Governor 
was  at  a  loss  to  contrive  to  get  the 
necossary  business  transacted.  Among 
the  troops  many  regiments  buried 
froia  one  hundred  to  one  hundred  and 
fifty  in  October  alone.  The  Seven- 
teenth Light  Dragoons,  to  take  a 
typical  instance,  out  of  three  troops  of 
a  total  strength  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  men,  lost  thirty-seven  in  a 
single  week,  and  eighty-five  in  six 
months.  At  one  time  in  Grenada  one 
thousand  men  out  of  two  thousand 
five  hundred  were  in  hospital,  while  in 
St.  Lucia  Moore  could  raise  only 
one  thousand  effective  soldiers  from 
his  garrison  of  four  thousand.  It 
may  be  said,  in  a  word,  that  most  of 
the  British  soldiers  who  garrisoned 
the  West  Indies  in  1795-96  are  in  the 
West  Indies  still.  If  the  tale  of  lives 
lost  by  disease  in  the  death-struggle 
against  France  could  hang  about  our 
necks  like  the  sum  of  the  National 
Debt ,  we  should  find  it  hard  indeed  to 
raise  our  heads. 


And  to  what  end,  it  may  be  asked, 
was  all  this  loss  of  life  ]  If  the  events 
that  took  place  in  Grenada  were  only 
a  sample,  and  that  not  the  worst 
sample,  of  those  that  were  repeated 
with  superficial  differences,  for  better 
or  worse,  in  St.  Vincent,  St.  Lucia, 
and  elsewhere,  what  is  there  to  show 
for  it  1  Why  was  it  worth  while  for 
us  to  fritter  away  so  much  strength  on 
such  possessions  ?  Perhaps  the  tersest 
answer  to  such  questions  may  be 
obtained  by  a  visit  to  the  United 
Service  Institution,  where  there  is 
still  to  be  seen,  though  in  a  rusty  and 
unserviceable  condition,  the  axe  of  the 
guillotine  employed  by  the  triumvirate, 
Victor  Hugues,  Goyraud,  and  Lebas 
at  Guadeloupe, — the  identical  weapon 
wherewith  they  threatened  to  exter- 
minate the  loyalists  in  all  the  English 
islands.  This  forgotten  trophy  of  the 
British  Army  is  emblematic  of  much. 
Kind  nature  in  its  mercy  has  oblite- 
rated most  traces  of  the  struggle  of 
1795-6  in  the  West  Indies.  You  will 
find  it  difficult  in  the  neglected  state 
of  the  military  cemeteries  to  read  any 
history  of  those  terrible  days  ;  and 
you  will  rightly  judge  it  more  pleasant 
and  profitable  to  watch  the  fields  of 
graceful  waving  canes,  and  the  hill- 
sides rich  with  the  glossy  leaves  and 
blazing  yellow  fruit  of  the  cacao.  For 
the  white  man  is  still  supreme  over 
most  of  the  archipelago.  But  there 
is  one  island  where  the  work  of  the 
French  Revolution  was  never  undone, 
hard  though  the  English  strove  to 
undo  it,  and  that  island  is  Hayti. 
There  the  fruit  of  the  Revolution  may 
be  seen  in  a  black  community  relapsed 
into  a  barbarism  baser  than  that  from 
which  it  originally  emerged.  It  is  no 
thanks  to  France  that  the  Caribbean 
Archipelago  is  not  a  nest  of  Haytis  ; 
and  it  may  be  said  without  much 
exaggeration  that,  if  the  guillotine-axe 
of  Guadeloupe  were  not  now  in  the 
United  Service  Institution,  the  West 
Indies  would  all  be  even  as  Hayti  now 


is. 


J.  W.  FOBTESCUE. 


464 


BRITISH    RIGHTS   IN  EGYPT. 


IN  view  of  the  recent  incidents 
which  have  occurred  in  connection 
with  the  consultative  body,  styled  the 
Legislative  Council,  established  in 
Egypt  by  Lord  Dufferin  in  1883, 
and  having  regard  to  the  assumption 
made  by  certain  Continental  journals 
that  there  is  something  irregular  or 
invalid  in  the  British  government  of 
Egypt,  it  is  desirable  to  consider  the 
origin  of  that  government  and  its 
international  justification.  It  is  not 
true,  as  certain  Continental  publicists 
maintain,  that  the  British  right  to 
intervene  in  Egypt  springs  from  a 
concession  by  the  Sultan  or  the 
Khedive,  or  that  it  can  be  limited 
or  abrogated  by  casual  expressions 
of  an  intention  to  leave  Egypt  made 
by  an  administration.  The  British 
Government,  in  common  with  all 
civilized  Powers,  is  bound,  not  by 
unilateral  expressions  of  intention 
or  hope,  but  by  its  duly  concluded 
treaties.  To  act  on  any  other  theory 
would  be  to  render  constitutional 
government  an  impossibility  and 
diplomacy  a  waste  of  time. 

Five  years  before  the  British  occu- 
pation of  1882,  Lord  Derby's  despatch 
to  the  Russian  ambassador,  dated 
May  6th,  1877,  categorically  defined 
the  rights  claimed  in  Egypt  by  the 
British  Government.  The  preserva- 
tion of  the  Empire  of  India  is  one 
of  the  highest  duties  to  the  British 
nation  and  to  humanity  at  large 
which  a  British  Ministry  can  fulfil. 
The  protection  of  the  route  to  India 
through  the  Suez  Canal  is  therefore 
incumbent  on  every  British  Govern- 
ment. Furthermore,  the  extent  of 
British  commercial  interests  in  Egypt 
is  such  that  the  order  and  security  of 
that  territory  are  ef  great  concern  to 
the  British  people. 


The  particular  occasion  for  Lord 
Derby's  interference  was  that  there 
was  danger  of  the  operation  of  the 
war  between  Russia  and  Turkey  being 
extended  to  the  Suez  Canal  and  Egypt. 
The  British  Government  therefore 
announced  its  intention  of  interfering 
by  force  of  arms  to  defend  Egyptian 
territory.  The  fact  that  its  inter- 
vention was  effective  (a  fact  attested 
by  the  despatch  of  Prince  Gortschakoff 
of  May  30th,  1877,  promising  not  to 
attack  Egypt)  establishes  on  an  unim- 
peachable basis  the  independent  char- 
acter of  the  British  right  of  interven- 
tion. Without  the  mandate  of  Sultan 
or  Khedive,  during  a  war  against  the 
Sultan  in  which  the  British  Empire 
was  neutral,  the  British  Government 
asserted  not  the  Sultan's  but  its  own 
rights  over  Egyptian  territory ;  and 
that  assertion,  acquiesced  in  by  both 
belligerents,  averted,  if  not  a  Russian 
annexation,  certainly  a  devastating 
Russian  invasion  of  Egypt. 

The  same  British  rights  which 
justified  British  intervention  in  1877 
to  secure  Egypt  from  foreign  invasion, 
justified  British  intervention  in  1882 
to  protect  Egypt  from  the  equal  or 
greater  ills  which  arise  from  internal 
disorder  or  maladministration.  On 
August  10th,  1882,  the  British 
representative  at  the  Conference  of 
Constantinople  announced  to  the  re- 
presentatives of  the  Great  Powers 
the  British  occupation  of  Suez.  The 
mere  fact  that  the  occupation  had 
necessarily  as  its  immediate  object 
the  restoration  of  the  authority  of 
the  Khedive  has  no  bearing  whatever 
on  the  nature  of  the  right  of  British 
intervention.  It  was  obviously  es- 
sential to  the  restoration  of  order 
to  re-establish  so  far  as  possible  the 
status  quo  ante  bellum.  It  is  no  time 


British  Rights  in  Egypt. 


to  organise  new  governmental  insti- 
tutions during  the  suppression  of 
a  rebellion;  in  President  Lincoln's 
phrase,  it  is  no  time  to  swap  horses 
wher  crossing  a  stream.  But  the 
British  Government  never  declared, 
nor  did  the  Sultan  or  the  Khedive 
or  a  single  European  Power  ever 
dream,  that  the  sole  object  of  the 
intervention  was  to  re-establish  the 
authority  of  the  Khedive.  The  im- 
mediate object  was  necessarily  com- 
prised in  that  restoration ;  the  ultim- 
ate object  was  obviously  the  main- 
tenance of  British  rights  in  Egypt, 
compromised  by  internal  disorder. 

Throughout  the  negotiations  which 
preceded  and  followed  the  occupation, 
the  British  Government  showed  itself 
scrupulously  desirous  of  acting  in 
concert  with  the  other  Great  Powers, 
although  the  interests  in  Egypt  of 
none  of  them1  can  for  a  moment  com- 
pare with  those  of  the  possessors  of 
the  Empire  of  India.  But  at  no  time 
did  the  British  Government  profess 
to  base  its  right  on  the  will  of  the 
Turkish  or  of  the  Egyptian  rulers. 

It  is  particularly  worth  noting  that 
the  sume  is  to  be  said  of  the  French 
Government.  At  the  Conference  of 
1882  a  joint  declaration  was  made  by 
the  British  and  French  ambassadors 
that  1  heir  Governments  were  ready,  if 
necessity  should  arise,  "to  employ 
thenu  elves  in  the  protection  of  the 
Suez  Canal,  either  alone,  or  with  the 
addition  of  any  Power  who  is  willing 
to  assist."  The  British  ambassador 
declared  that  acceptance  of  the  Italian 
proposal  at  the  Conference  was  not 
to  prevent  England  or  other  Powers 
landii  g  troops  in  Egypt.  The  French 
ambassador  made  a  similar  declara- 
tion, and  reserved  "entire  liberty  of 
action  "  for  the  French  Government. 

So  j'ar  did  the  British  Government 
press  its  desire  to  act  in  concert  with 
other  Powers,  that  it  invited  the 
Frenci  Ministry  to  effect  a  joint 
occupation.  But,  for  reasons  which 
it  is  the  task  of  French  publicists 
to  defend,  the  French  Government 

No.  420. — VOL.  LXX. 


465 

declined  the  invitation.  The  British 
right  to  intervene  can  be  in  no  respect 
affected  by  that  refusal. 

At  the  Conference  of  London,  held 
in  June  1884  to  consider  the  financial 
position  of  Egypt,  a  French  proposal 
was  made  to  neutralise  Egypt ;  but 
this  was  excluded,  as  beyond  the  scope 
of  the  invitation  to  the  Conference. 
As  was  proved  later  on,  the  Sultan  was 
strongly  opposed  to  any  neutralisa- 
tion. By  the  Declaration  of  London, 
March  18th,  1885,  the  Great  Powers 
assert  the  freedom  of  the  Suez  Canal. 
At  the  Conference  of  Paris  of  the 
Suez  Canal  International  Commission, 
held  from  April  to  June  1885,  regu- 
lations for  the  navigation  of  the  canal 
were  considered. 

The  next  step  in  the  negotiations 
relative  to  Egypt  deserves  careful  at- 
tention, as  the  misinterpretation  of  the 
effect  of  these  negotiations  has  played 
the  greatest  part  in  obscuring  the 
true  position  of  the  British  in  Egypt. 

Desirous,  not  to  abandon  its  rights 
in  Egypt,  or  to  represent  them  as 
emanating  from  the  will  of  the  Sultan, 
but  to  avoid  a  breach  of  continuity  in 
the  relations  of  the  Khedive  with  his 
suzerain,  and  in  the  relations  of  the 
Mahommedan  population  with  its  re- 
ligious head  in  Constantinople,  the 
British  Government  decided  to  con- 
clude a  treaty  with  the  Sultan.  This 
is  the  Treaty  of  Constantinople,  Octo- 
ber 24th,  1885,  which  now  regulates, 
not  British  authority  in  Egypt,  but 
British  engagements  towards  the 
Sultan  with  reference  to  the  exercise 
and  the  possible  termination  of  that 
authority.  The  Treaty  provides  that 
a  British  and  Turkish  High  Commis- 
sioner are  to  be  appointed  to  proceed  to 
Egypt.  Then  follows  the  article,  the 
French  version  of  which  is  declared 
to  be  binding,  which  determines 
British  relations  to  the  Sultan  in  re- 
gard to  Egypt.  "So  soon  as  the  two 
High  Commissioners  shall  have  ascer- 
tained that  the  safety  of  the  frontiers 
and  the  good  working  and  stability  of 
the  Egyptian  Government  are  assured, 
H  H 


466 


British  Eights  in  Egypt. 


they  shall  present  a  report  to  their 
respective  Governments,  who  shall 
take  measures  for  the  conclusion  of  a 
Convention  to  arrange  for  the  retire- 
ment of  the  British  troops  from  Egypt 
after  a  reasonable  interval."  It  is 
therefore  quite  sufficient  to  say  that 
the  High  Commissioners  are  not  yet 
agreed  as  to  the  arrival  of  a  period 
wherein  the  British  troops  may  be 
safely  withdrawn.  Judging  by  ap- 
pearances, and  especially  considering 
the  agitation  against  British  adminis- 
tration encouraged  by  foreign  and 
native  influences,  it  may  even  be  con- 
jectured that  a  very  long  time  must 
elapse  before  such  a  period  is  reached. 
As  regards  this  treaty  with  the 
Sultan,  the  British  Government  some 
years  ago  gave  evidence  of  its  desire 
to  abide  by  its  voluntary  self-denying 
ordinance,  provided  that  the  para- 
mount rights  of  the  empire  can  be 
safeguarded.  Sir  H.  D.  Wolff's  mis- 
sion to  Constantinople  in  1885  and 
1886,  the  object  of  which  was  em- 
bodied in  the  note  verbale  of  Novem- 
ber 4th,  1886,  testified  to  an  almost 
excessive  desire  to  consult  the  wishes 
of  the  Porte.  The  Convention  of  Con- 
stantinople of  May  22nd,  1887,  pro- 
vided that  British  troops  should  be 
withdrawn  in  three  years,  on  condition 
that  the  Mediterranean  Powers  as- 
sented to  the  treaty,  and  that  the 
territorial  security  of  Egypt  should 
be  respected.  The  British  negotiation 
so  far  deferred  to  Turkish  susceptibili- 
ties as  to  substitute  the  words  "  terri- 
torial inviolability  (stirete  territoriale}" 
for  "  neutralisation,"  as  the  Sultan  ob- 
jected to  the  latter  word.  The  Conven- 
tion provided  most  reasonably  that  the 
British  right  to  intervene  in  Egypt  to 
protect  British  interests  should  not  be 
less  after  the  ratification  of  the  Con- 
vention than  it  was  iru!877.  In  case 
any  danger  to  the  territorial  security 
of  Egypt  should  arise  after  the  British 
evacuation,  the  right  of  intervention 
should  again  come  into  force.  In  an 
annexe  of  the  same  date  the  refusal 
of  any  of  the  great  Mediterranean 


Powers  to  assent  to  the  stipulations 
of  the  treaty  is  defined  as  a  case  of 
danger. 

Lord  Salisbury's  despatch  of  June 
8th,  1887,  announced  the  British 
ratification  of  the  Convention.  The 
Sultan's  ratification  was  withheld. 
The  refusal  of  the  Porte  to  ratify  the 
Convention  made  it  clear  that  the 
British  Government  would  have  no 
guarantee  that  the  withdrawal  of 
British  troops  would  not  be  followed 
by  a  French,  or  even  a  Russian,  or 
Italian  occupation  of  Egypt.  The 
situation  in  1887,  instead  of  being 
better,  would  be  worse  than  in  1877. 

The  agreement  therefore  of  the 
British  Government  in  the  treaty  of 
1885,  voluntarily  limiting  in  regard 
to  Turkey  the  term  of  British  occupa- 
tion of  Egypt,  might  well  be  held  to 
have  lapsed,  since  its  execution  was 
rendered  impossible  by  the  refusal 
of  the  Sultan  to  assent  to  the  rea- 
sonable conditions  annexed  to  the 
evacuation.  A  contract  which  one 
of  the  parties  renders  impossible  of 
performance  is  no  longer  binding ; 
and  the  British  Government  would 
be  quite  within  its  right  to  regard 
the  treaty  as  at  an  end.  If,  however, 
it  is  taken  as  still  in  force,  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  say  that  the  conditions  of 
evacuation  contemplated  in  that  treaty 
have  not  come  into  existence. 

The  British  Government  by  no 
means  questions  the  interest  of  the 
States  of  Europe  in  the  freedom  of 
the  Suez  Canal.  The  British  assent 
to  the  Convention  of  Constantinople, 
October  29th,  1888,  sufficiently  attests 
its  readiness  to  acknowledge  that 
interest  as  real,  though  not  para- 
mount in  Egypt. 

In  so  far,  however,  as  the  question 
of  the  strict  international  right  of  the 
British  Government  is  concerned,  it 
will  be  plain  from  the  foregoing  re- 
cord of  British  intervention  that  the 
right  cannot  be  affected  by  the  wish 
of  the  Khedive  or  the  Sultan,  or  the 
inspired  opinions  of  a  largely  nom- 
inated body,  such  as  the  so-called 


British  Rights  in  Egypt. 


4G7 


Legislative  Council.  Even  if  the 
subject  fellaheen  of  Egypt  were 
opposed  to  the  British  occupation,  it 
is  manifest  that  the  wishes  of  a  few 
millions  of  a  semi-barbarous  popula- 
tion should  not  be  permitted  to  weigh 
in  the  balance  against  the  welfare  of 
an  empire  extending  over  one  fifth  of 
the  human  race. 

The  exact  reverse  is,  however,  the 
tru  :h  as  regards  the  subject  population 
of  Egypt.  For  the  first  time  since 
the  days  of  the  Roman  administration, 
ord  3r  and  prosperity  reign  in  the  valley 
of  fche  Nile.  The  fact  that  the  peas- 


ant has  been  able  to  pay  his  taxes, 
while  holding  back  his  agricultural 
produce  until  a  higher  price  can  be 
obtained  for  it,  is  conclusive  proof  of 
a  state  of  things  without  parallel  in 
the  East  under  native  rule  It  is 
well  known  that  nothing  but  the  ever- 
present  fear  that  the  British  may 
abandon  Egypt  prevents  the  peasant, 
who  has  not  forgotten  the  rapacity  of 
the  native  administration,  from  testi- 
fying in  an  unmistakable  fashion  to 
his  satisfaction  with  the  Pax  Britan- 


mca. 


M.  J.  FARRELLY. 


468 


SISTER    CORDELIA. 


"  WE  are  therefore  formed  into  this 
sisterhood,"  said  the  lecturer,  "for 
the  ultimate  good  of  humanity  and 
for  the  higher  development  of  the 
mental  and  spiritual  faculties.  We 
lose  ourselves,  in  order  that  we  may 
find  our  truer  selves.  We  glean  all 
that  is  best  and  purest  in  all  doctrines 
of  all  great  teachers.  We  divest  our 
minds  of  all  prejudice,  pettiness,  and 
above  all  of  selfishness.  Love,  my 
sisters,  is  our  standpoint.  We  are 
bound  by  no  oaths,  we  renounce  no 
earthly  ties,  and  this  leads  us  to  the 
question  of  marriage, — marriage,  my 
sisters.  Now  we  are  agreed  that 
woman  is,  psychically  speaking,  a 
higher  development  than  man.  The 
Ideal  Man  is  unfortunately  not  at 
present  evolved.  Nor,  it  may  be 
urged,  is  the  Ideal  Woman.  We 
admit  it ;  but  the  esoteric  yearning 
of  woman  for  further  spiritual  devel- 
opment has  at  length  burst  forth  into 
open  day,  and  is  embodied  in  this 
sisterhood.  We  note  in  man  a 
deplorable  self-satisfaction  coupled 
,with  a  melancholy  contentment  with 
the  inferior  type  of  woman,  which 
marks  his  lower  calibre  of  mind. 
Now,  not  only  is  close  association 
with  an  inferior  mind  degrading,  but 
there  is  another  point  to  be  very 
seriously  considered.  Would  not  this 
sisterhood  do  well  to,  I  do  not  say 
finally  renounce,  but  refrain  from 
dwelling  upon  the  desirability  of 
marriage ;  since  its  aims  are  the 
universal  good  of  mankind,  and  a 
general  love  of  humanity  which  might 
readily  be  warped  by  concentration 
upon  an  inferior  unit.  Our  chief 
labour  is  for  the  amelioration  of  the 
lot  of  woman ;  yet  I  do  not  say  that 
we  should  close  our  sympathies  to  a 
large  section  of  humanity  such  as  is 
constituted  by  man  as  opposed  to 
woman.  No  !  We  should  rather  strive 


to  lead  him  to  a  higher  spiritual 
plane ;  to  restrain  his  natural  bru- 
tality ;  to  raise  his  aims,  to  purify 
his  ideals  ;  to,  in  short,  help  to  evolve 
the  Ideal  Man  a  fitting  mate  for  the 
Ideal  Woman.  In  doing  this,  we  shall 
do  well  to  do  it  generally ;  not  dwell- 
ing in  thought  upon  any  representa- 
tive unit  but  upon  the  Race." 

"  Sister  Cordelia  Brevoort."  It 
was  a  still  small  voice,  and  it  pro- 
ceeded from  the  lips  of  a  slender 
sister,  with  fair  hair  and  dove-like 
eyes,  who  lay  back  in  a  softly  cush- 
ioned chair. 

"What  is  it,  Sister  Elsie  Lacor- 
daire?"  inquired  the  lecturer  be- 
nignly. She  was  a  young  lady  of 
some  twenty-three  summers,  and 
whatever  might  be  her  mental  and 
spiritual  development,  her  physical 
woman  was  goodly.  She  was  tall, 
and  moulded  like  a  youthful  Juno  ; 
her  gait  and  pose  were  free,  un- 
trammelled, royal ;  she  gave  an  agree- 
able impression  of  fresh  moorland 
air  and  cold  water ;  the  setting  of 
her  head  and  moulding  of  her  brow 
would  have  made  Pallas  Athene  jeal- 
ous. Her  contemplative  gray  eyes 
had  one  fault ;  they  were  too  full  of 
lofty  thoughts  to  be  comfortable  to 
people  who  have  not  evolved  ideals 
from  their  inner  consciousness.  Her 
fine  features  were  rather  heavily 
moulded,  but  the  lips  were  sensitive, 
strong,  and  withal  sweetly  meek ;  her 
skin  was  white  as  lily  blooms,  and 
her  glossy  black  hair  grew  low  on  her 
forehead."  Her  voice  was  rich  and 
soft,  and  the  rules  of  the  sisterhood 
did  not  debar  her  from  wearing  a  tea- 
gown  which  was  in  itself  an  ideal  of 
a  lofty  nature. 

"Dear  President  and  sister,"  said 
Sister  Elsie  mildly,  "  I  desire  to  put 
a  question." 

**  Pray  proceed,  sister." 


Sister  Cordelia. 


469 


"  Sister  Cordelia,  you  have  such 
mertal  grasp  and  breadth  of  view,  I 
can  credit  your  being  capable  of  sym- 
pathising with,  and  elevating  all  the 
men  in  England ;  but  I,  yearning  as  I 
am  jO  elevate,  am  deficient  in, — in, — 
universality.  Would  there  be  any 
harm  in  my  trying  to  elevate  one  man 
at  a  time,  just  to  gain  mental  grasp 
by — by  degrees?" 

T  ae  President  frowned.  "  It  would 
be  a  dangerous  precedent,  sister,"  she 
said,  "and  it  might  be  misunderstood. 
It  night,  even  by  the  men  themselves, 
be  mistaken  for, — I  shudder  at  the 
word — for  flirtation." 

"  0  Sister  Cordelia  !  If  I  were  tall 
and  stately  like  yourself,  all  would  be 
well  No  one,  dear  President,  would 
have  the  temerity  to  suggest  that 
you  were  flirting,  with,  for  example, 
Mr.  Rutherford." 

Sister  Cordelia  looked  pained.  "  I 
trust  not,"  she  said  with-  a  gentle  and 
repressive  dignity.  "  Fra, — Mr. 
Rutherford  and  myself  played  to- 
gether as  children.  His  mental  ad- 
vancement is  a  cause  of  great  anxiety 
to  me.  He  does  not  take  life  seriously  ; 
at  college  he  was  over-addicted  to 
field-sports,  with  the  result  that  he 
was  repeatedly,  to  speak  familiarly, 
plucked.  Yet  in  many  directions  he 
shows  appreciative  yearnings  for  bet- 
ter tilings.  At  the  same  time  he  can- 
not attain  to  that  abstract  love  of 
Hum  anity " 

"  A— hem,"  said  Sister  Elsie.  "  Ex- 
cuse me,  dear  President,  the  influenza 
left  me  such  a  nasty  cough." 

The  President  drew  herself  up.  "  I 
desiro  to  exercise  no  repressive 
authority,"  said  she.  "I  am  a  sister, 
though  your  President.  Do,  Sister 
Elsie  Lacordaire,  do,  my  yisters,  as 
seeing  good  to  you,  bearing  always  in 
mind  the  welfare  of  the  Race.  Tea  is 
in  th<;  next  room,  and  Aunt  Margaret 
is  waiting.  Our  meeting,  sisters,  is 
adjourned." 

In  -.he  next  room,  a  luxurious  apart- 
ment, sat  two  elderly  ladies.  One,  a 
plum  a  and  pleasing  person,  sat  by  the 
tea-table, dispensing  tea, cream, muffins, 


and  cake  ;  she  was  also  recounting  her 
grievances.  "  The  troubles  of  a  cha- 
peron ! "  said  she.  "  They've  been 
sung  and  groaned  often  enough,  Mary. 
The  troubles  of  the  chaperon  of  a 
beautiful  heiress  are  great,  but  when 
that  heiress  is  a — a  philanthropist,  they 
become  perfect  nightmares.  Cordelia 
is  very  trying.  This  ridiculous  sister- 
hood is  comparatively  harmless  ;  but 
oh,  my  dear,  her  terrible  «  slumming  ! ' 
She  doesn't  even  do  that  like  other 
girls  ;  I  dread  to  hear  her  announce 
her  intention  of  marrying  some  social- 
istic tinker  for  the  good  of  humanity. 
Why  can't  she  marry  Frank  Ruther- 
ford ?  Such  a  suitable  match  ;  such  a 
charming  fellow !  " 

"  Perhaps  she  does  not  love  him. 
But  she  would  not  marry  beneath  her." 

"My  dear,  she  only  looks  at  a 
man's  soul ;  and  I  suppose  they're  of 
no  particular  set  in  society." 

44  There  is  a  great  deal  of  her." 

44  Yes,  she's  admired,  but  no  man 
shorter  than  Frank  cares  to  dance 
with  her.  If  she'd  lived  when  there 
were  giants  on  the  earth,  she'd  have 
been  more  appreciated." 

"  I  meant  mentally." 

44  Oh,  mentally !  I  wish  young 
women  had  no  mental  development 
at  all.  That's  summed  up  in  one 
word, — impossible.  You  do  a  great 
deal  of  good,  Mary,  but  you  do  not 
set  about  it  in  the  mad  way  Cordelia 
does." 

44 1  am  older,  Margaret,  more  cyni- 
cal, more  world-worn,  and  smaller- 
souled.  The  child  doubtless  makes 
mistakes,  but  the  stuff  she  is  made 
of  is  good. 

Their  works  drop  earthwards,  but  them- 
selves, I  know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  Heaven  that's  shut 
to  me." 

4t  Oh,  that's  nonsense  !  " 

44  It's  Browning." 

"It's  the  same  thing.  You  can't 
guide  your  life  by  poetry,  though,  of 
course,  it's  very  nice  in  its  place. 
Candidly,  Mary,  this  latter-day  Christ- 
ianity is,  not  to  speak  profanely,  very 


470 


Sister  Cordelia. 


trying.  I  am  an  orthodox  person  ;  I 
dislike  new  doctrines,  or  new  develop- 
ments of  the  old.  Theosophy  is  the 
most  comfortable  of  the  new  faiths ; 
you  have,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  to 
think  of  your  next  reincarnation,  so 
of  course  you  must  take  care  of  your- 
self. That's  sensible.  Oh,  here  they 
come !  No,  it's  Frank  and  Mrs. 
Braintree." 

There  came  into  the  room  a  slender, 
graceful  woman,  exquisitely  dressed, 
with  a  low,  pleading  voice  and  rolling 
brown  eyes.  She  was  followed  by  an 
agreeable  specimen  of  Young  England, 
a  big,  fair,  well-looking,  well-dressed 
young  man. 

"  How  are  you,  dear  Lady  Bland  1 
A.  little  pale — ah  !  do  take  care  of 
yourself.  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Carfax  ? 
Mr.  Rutherford  and  I  met  on  the 
steps.  And  our  darling  Cordelia,  how 
is  she?" 

"  Yery  well,  thanks.  How  d'ye 
do,  Frank?  Cordelia  will  be  here 
directly,  Mrs.  Braintree.  Do  you  take 
sugar  1  No  ?  Yery  weak,  because  of 
your  nerves?  We  are  all  so  terribly 
highly  strung  nowadays, — except  you, 
Frank  ;  your  nerves  are  cast-iron." 

Mr.  Rutherford,  who  was  pulling 
his  moustache  disconsolately,  roused 
himself  to  hand  Mrs.  Braintree  her 
cup.  Lady  Bland  abominated  Mrs. 
Braintree,  an  American  singer  who 
had  recently  appeared  to  storm  Lon- 
don, and  who,  by  her  sympathy  and 
love  for  the  Race,  had  won  the  heart 
of  Miss  Brevoort.  Lady  Bland  was 
thankful  when  there  was  an  irruption 
of  the  Sisterhood  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  she  was  spared  the  neces- 
sity of  talk  with  "  that  woman." 

"Dear,  darling  Cordelia,  if  you 
knew  how  grieved  I  was  at  being  un- 
avoidably prevented  from  singing  to 
your  deeply  interesting  sandwich-men. 
I  was  distressed,  dearest ;  so  dis- 
tressed." 

"  You  could  not  help  it,  Alice ;  your 
sick  friend  had  the  first  claim.  Frank 
kindly  sang  another  song,  and  a  duet 
with  me." 

"I  thought  you  were  not  able  to 


get    back    in    time    from    golf,    Mr. 
Rutherford  ? " 

"  Er — no;  but  I  gave  up  golf." 
"For  the  sake  of  the  sandwich- 
men  ?  How  good,  how  sweet  of  you !  " 
"  It  was  kind  of  you,  Frank,"  said 
Cordelia.  She  sighed.  Signer  Rum- 
bletante's  fugue  had  fallen  flat ;  Mr. 
Rutherford's  rendering  of  "  Mrs. 
'Enry  'Awkins "  had  been  doubly 
encored.  These  things  saddened 
President  Cordelia  Brevoort.  She 
moved  to  give  Miss  Carfax  some 
cake ;  Mr.  Frank  Rutherford  followed 
her,  arid  it  befell,  perchance  because 
of  this  young  man's  strategical  gifts, 
that  Cordelia  drank  her  own  tea  in  a 
quiet  corner  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
and  Frank  Rutherford  sat  there  too. 
There  was  a  buzz  of  talk,  and  they 
were  virtually  alone. 

"Frank,  it  was  very  good  of  you 
to  give  up  your  golf  for  those  poor 
people." 

"A — hem,  yes.     Cordelia,  it  wasn't 
for  the  men." 
"No?" 

"  No ;  it  was  for  you.  I  always 
meant  to  come,  but  I  had  to  get  out 
of  dining  with  Mrs.  Braintree.  I 
came  to  please  you,  to  see  you." 

"This  is  what  I  so  deplore  in  you, 
Frank,"  said  Cordelia  sadly.  "I  am 
but  a  unit;  the  sandwich-men  are 
many.  You  place  the  unit  before  the 

many,  and " 

"I  do,  when  the  unit's  you.  Not 
but  what  I'm  sorry  for  these  poor 
devils,  Delia." 

"Frank,  that  is  not  the  way  to 
speak  of  suffering  brethren." 

"I'm  very  sorry.  But,  Cordelia, 
I  shall  always  put  you  first.  I'm 
getting  on,  you  know,  I  feel  I  am, 
but  you  come  first ;  you  always  must. 
Now,  Delia,  I  feel  when  I'm  away 
from  you  I'm  addicted  to, — to, — 
backsliding; — that's  the  word,  back- 
sliding. If  I  were  always  with  you, 

you  know " 

"  How  could  that  be  possible  ?  But, 
surely,  if  you  really  lay  to  heart  these 

principles " 

"Stop,  dear  Delia.     If  you   would 


Sister  Cordelia. 


471 


mak 


ke  up  your  mind  to, — to, — marry 
me  !  I'm  far  beneath  you  in  every 
way ,  of  course,  but  I  love  you  dearly, 
and  I'd  be  as  good  a  husband  as  I 
knew  how." 

"Frank,  you  grieve  me  inexpres- 
sibly." 

"Why,  dearest?  Of  course,  if  you 
feel  you  don't  care  for  me " 

"  It  is  not  that.  I  have  a — sisterly 
reg8Td,  a  genuine  affection  for  you ; 
but  that  you  should  introduce  this 
personal,  this,  —  a,  —  a,  —  subjective 
element  into  our  friendship,  distresses 
me.  You  know  I  labour  for  the 
weliare  of  the  Race." 

"  But  you  know  how  I  sympathise 
with  you ;  you  know  how  I  admire 
your  views.  Look  at  it  this  way. 
Think  of  the  incalculable  good  you 
miglit  do  the  Race ;  there  are  my 
tenants,  all  human  beings,  all  going 
to  the  devil — 

"  Frank!" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  dear  ;  I  mean 
that  they  are  greatly  in  need  of  light. 
There  are  no  technical  classes,  no 
choral  societies,  no  dramatic  clubs,  no 
debating  societies,  no  culture  of  any 
kind.  All  Tumbleton  belongs  to  me; 
you  could  build  model  cottages.  The 
village  is  in  dreadful  repair;  the 
drainage  is  simply — 

Miss  Brevoort  cut  her  lover  short. 
"Frank!  Do  I  understand  that  you 
are  knowingly  allowing  your  pro- 
perty to  be  in  an  insanitary  con- 
dition?" 

"  N"o,  no,  dear  Cordelia,  not  that. 
But  there  is  much  I  should  like  to  do, 
only  I  lack  your  guidance,  don't  you 
see?  ' 

"I  can  advise  you;  I  can  help 
you.r> 

"  It  would  not  be  the  same  thing.  ^ 

"  I  must  live  for  Humanity,  Frank." 

"You  cannot  be  ubiquitous,  dear. 
My  property  is  very  large ;  it  would 
be  a  wide  sphere  of  action.  I  really 
think  it's  your  duty,  Cordelia.  And 
then.— there's  me.  I  love  you  so, 
darling.  You  used  to  say  you  loved 
me,  when  you  were  the  sweetest  little 
girl  that  ever  wore  pinafores;  have 


you  quite  forgotten?  I  love  you 
dearly,  Cordelia." 

No  one  who  heard  Mr.  Rutherford's 
usual  well-bred  monotone  could  have 
credited  his  voice  with  possessing  that 
range  of  notes.  Woman,  considered 
psychically,  might  be  higher  than  man. 
Man,  as  embodied  by  Mr.  Francis 
Lillington  Rutherford,  was  as  different 
from  the  primitive  savage  as  his  gar- 
denia was  unlike  a  daisy;  but  the 
substratum  of  the  psychical  develop- 
ment in  the  tea-gown  and  of  the 
nineteenth-century  dandy  was  alike 
humanity.  Consequently,  when  that 
thrill  came  into  the  notes  dispensed 
by  Mr.  Rutherford's  vocal  chords,  the 
corners  of  Miss  Brevoort's  mouth 
trembled,  and  a  lovely  crimson  flush 
ran  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  as 
naturally  as  though  she  had  been  a 
dairy-maid.  "It  is  as  well  that  you 
should  have  said  this,"  she  said. 
"Just  now  I  was  thinking  uncharit- 
ably of  Sister  Elsie, — 1  mean  of 
Miss  Lacordaire  ;  I  was  unduly  proud, 
very  harsh.  You  have  shown  me  my 
own  weakness,  Frank,  and  I, — 1-— 
thank  you." 

"  Cordelia,  darling,  what  you  call 
weakness  is  no  weakness.  You  love 
me,  dearest,  and  you  won't  confess  it. 
You  are  too  proud." 

"  Not  proud  ;  but  I  strive  to  be  un- 
selfish, Frank.  I  feel  that  I  have 
unconsciously  allowed  myself  to  think, 
— to  give  you  an, — an  affection  that  I 
ought  to  be  expending  upon  Humanity. 
I  know  very  well  that  if  I  yield  to  it, 
it  will  grow.  My  judgment  will  be 
warped  ;  affection  for  you  will  become, 
as  I  have  frequently  said  it  should 
never  be  allowed  to  do,  a  glori6ed 
selfishness.  No,  Frank,  no,  dear 
Frank,  it  cannot  be.  Do  not  pain 
me  by  referring  to  it." 

"  You  do  not  care  for  my  pain." 

"I  do,  very  much.  Strive  to  fix 
your  mind  on  wider  things  ;  cast  this 
weakness  behind  you,  as  I  do,  as  a 
childish  folly." 

"  Never  !  It  is  not  folly ;  it  is  a 
natural  human  feeling  which  you 
would  deform.  Cordelia,  you  give  me 


472 


Sister  Cordelia. 


no  hope,  but  I  shall  never  change.  I 
never  have  loved  another  woman,  and 
I  never  shall." 

"  You  grieve  me  ;  yet  perhaps,  that 
is  well.  In  the  present  state  of  the 
evolution  of  the  Race,  affection,  con- 
centrated upon  an  individual,  is  debas- 
ing. You  may  become  the  Ideal  Man ; 
strive  to  do  so." 

Miss  Brevoort  smiled  sadly,  but  her 
eyes  looked  pleased.  She  swept  softly 
away. 

tSix  weeks  later,  Sister  Cordelia  sat 
in  the  room  in  which  she  received  her 
intimates,  wrote  her  letters,  and  trans- 
acted her  business  generally.  It 
was  a  pretty  room,  and  she  looked 
the  better  for  the  pleasing  back- 
ground. She  was  not  alone ;  Mrs. 
Braintree  was  with  her.  Mrs.  Brain- 
tree  had  been  lunching  with  her  dear 
Cordelia  ;  she  sat  in  a  deep  cushioned 
chair  and  ate  candy.  "  Really  these 
candies  are  delicious,"  she  said. 

"  They're  nice,  bub  I  do  not  care  for 
sweets." 

"  No,  dearest  Cordelia,  your  mind 
is  fixed  on  higher  things." 

"  Mr.  Rutherford  in  the  drawing- 
room,  ma'am,"  announced  the  servant. 
Cordelia  rose.  "  Come,  Alice,  let  us 
go  down  stairs." 

"No,  dearest,"  said  Mrs.  Brain- 
tree  gently.  "  No ;  you  go,  dear 
Cordelia.  I  will  remain  here." 

"Why,  Alice?" 

"  I  would  prefer  it." 

Miss  Brevoort  looked  surprised. 
"  I  cannot  imagine  why." 

"  Dearest,"  said  Mrs.  Braintree,  as 
one  who  gives  utterance  to  a  painful 
admission,  "  since  you  press  for  an 
answer,  it, — in  short, — it  is  painful  to 
me  to  meet  Mr.  Rutherford." 

"  Alice,  you  surprise  me  !  I  had 
thought,  especially  of  late,  that  you 
and  Mr.  Rutherford  were  very  much 
together."  Miss  Brevoort  coloured 
slightly. 

"  We  were,  dear ;  we  shall  not  be 
so  in  future." 

Cordelia  looked  nervous.  "  If  you 
will  not  come  down,"  she  said  hesitat- 
ingly, "I  will  not  see  Mr.  Ruther- 


ford ;  Aunt  Margaret  will  entertain 
him."  She  seated  herself.  "I  wish 
you  would  explain,  Alice.  " 

"  No,  dear,  I  am  perhaps  over  sen- 
sitive. You  might  think  little  of 
it." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  simply  told.  I  am  singularly 
loyal  to  my  sex.  It  is  a  folly,  a  weak- 
ness, but  a  fact." 

"  Do  not  say  that.  Loyalty  a  folly  ? 
Never  !  " 

"  Sweet  Cordelia,  you  are  so  sym- 
pathetic. It  is  thus,  my  dear  girl. 
Mr.  Rutherford  has  been  excessively 
friendly, — most  kind, — most  attentive 
to  me.  He  was  two  years  in  America, 
was  he  not?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  American,  as  you  know.  In 
writing  to  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine, 
I  casually  mentioned  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford's name.  My  friend,  it  appears, 
met  him  in  America,  and  wrote  me  a 
sad  tale  of  the  result  of  an  idle  flirta- 
tion of  his, — nothing,  of  course,  in  his 
eyes.  But  the  girl  believed  that  he 
cared  for  her,  and  being  very  delicate, 
fretted  so  much  that  she  is  actually 
dying  of  decline.  Now,  of  course, 
dearest,  this  is  not  Mr.  Rutherford's 
fault  ;  but  I  am  over  sensitive,  I  dis- 
like to  meet  him.  I  can  trust  you, 
dear  girl ;  this  is  in  strict  confidence." 

Cordelia  was  very  pale.  "  You  are 
not  over  sensitive,"  she  said  ;  "  you 
are  rightly  sensitive.  Such  conduct 
is  base,  selfish,  despicable, — all  that  is 
detestable  ! " 

"  You  will  not  mention  it  to  him  1 " 

"  No ;  but  I,  like  yourself,  can 
never  again  feel  pleasure  in  Mr. 
Rutherford's  society."  Miss  Brevoort 
was  agitated,  her  breath  came  in  little, 
quick  pants.  "It  is  shameful !  "  she 
said.  "  Shameful  ;  and  he  is  a  hypo- 
crite ;  he  said  he  had  never, — I  mean, 
he  professed  love  for  the  whole  Race." 

"  You  will  not  mention  it  to  him  1  " 

"  Certainly  not.  I, — I, — am  dis- 
appointed in  him,  that  is  all." 

"I  must  go,  darling.  I  knew  you 
would  feel  with  me." 

Mrs.  Braintree  kissed  her    friend, 


Sister  Cordelia. 


473 


and  glided  softly  away.  She  went 
home,  put  on  a  lovely  pale-green  tea- 
gown,  and  turned  the  pink-shaded 
lights  low.  "Just  a  precaution," 
she  murmured.  "No  violent  scandal 
was  necessary  ;  she  is  so  very  refined, 
sensitive,  and  highly  strung.  A  dear 
gir.,  but  in  some  things  stupid." 
Sh€  rang  the  bell.  "  Lay  two  places 
at  table,"  said  she.  "  I  expect  Mr. 
Ru  jherford  to  dinner." 

Miss  Brevoort  lay  back  in  her  low 
•chair,  and  shut  her  eyes.  Presently  a 
tea]-  slid  from  beneath  the  lashes ;  it 
was  shed  for  a  unit,  and  a  unit  whom 
she  had  rejected.  But  then,  she  had 
hoped  he  might  ultimately  evolve  into 
the  Ideal  Man. 

Cordelia  Brevoort  had  a  district 
wherein  she  visited ;  she  was  filled 
with  philanthropic  schemes  for  the 
amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the 
Human  Race.  It  was  in  this  district 
thai  Lady  Bland  dreaded  her  possible 
-encounter  with  a  socialistic  tinker. 
Cordelia  was  visiting  it  on  a  remark- 
Ably  raw  and  chilly  morning  in 
January  ;  she  stood  on  the  top  step  of 
A  small  neat  house,  and  talked  to  a 
comrortable-looking  dame,  the  land- 
lady. . 

"  I'd  take  it  very  kind  of  you  if 
you'd  see  'im,  Miss,"  said  the  land- 
lady "  I'm  thinking  it  'ud  be  as  well 
if  'e  went  into  the  'orspital.  He  ought 
to  'ave  proper  nursing,  and  with  all  my 
littli;  ones,  I  ain't  got  no  time,  Miss." 

"Is  he  very  poor  1 " 

"Oh  no,  Miss,  'e  ain't  that  poor;  'e 
makes  good  money." 

"  .Drawing  1 " 

"Yes,  Miss,  drawing  'eads  and 
•flowf-rs  and  sich.  He  draws  'em  in 
•chalks,  mostly ;  he  done  some  for  a 
man  as  goes  '  screeving  '  on  the  flags. 
Mr.  i?enton  does  no  end  for  'im  ;  and 
'e  sticks  'em  up  as  'is  own,  Miss." 

"  That  was  very  dishonest." 

"They're  poor,  Miss,  and  must  live 
some  low  ;  but  there  ain't  no  blessin' 
on  dishonesty.  Will  you  see  'im, 
Miss  ! " 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  use." 

"  Step  in,  Miss." 


Cordelia  stepped  in,  the  landlady 
unceremoniously  flung  open  a  door, 
and  remarking,  "  'Ere,  Mr.  Fenton, 
'ere's  a  lady,"  departed.  The  room 
was  small,  decently  and  hideously 
furnished,  and  very  untidy.  There 
were  a  number  of  sketches,  chiefly 
crayon,  littered  about.  Birds,  flowers, 
elves, — a  nest  of  blue  eggs  shaded  with 
apple  blossom, — the  head  of  a  pretty 
soulless  Undine, — all  very  charming 
and  dainty,  exhibiting  great  talent 
and  a  very  graceful  fancy. 

The  artist,  who  was  crouching  over 
the  fire,  started  and  stood  up  ner- 
vously. He  was  a  tall,  slim  man, 
with  an  un-English  grace  of  gesture, 
who  might  have  been  thirty,  perhaps 
not  so  much,  certainly  not  more  than 
thirty-two  or  three.  He  was  very 
pale  and  evidently  ill,  but  in  other 
respects,  save  for  his  dress,  a  »good 
looking  fellow,  with  fair  curly  hair, 
worn  artistically  long,  a  clean-shaven 
face,  blue  eyes,  and  his  mouth,  though 
weak,  was  very  sweet  in  expression. 
He  was  pitiably  nervous,  more  like  a 
shy  child  than  a  man. 

"  Mrs.  Green  told  me  you  were  ill 
I  visit  here." 

"  I, — yes,  I  suppose  I  am  ill.  I  have 
got  inflammation  of  the  lungs  ;  that, — 
that  does  make  you  ill." 

"  Of  course  it  does.  Are  you  sure 
you  have  it ;  because  if  so,  you  ought 
not  to  be  up?" 

"I  am  sure  it  is  my  lungs;  they 
are  always  weak."  He  was  drawing 
lines  on  the  table  with  his  hand ;  it 
was  a  fine,  delicate  hand,  purely  artis- 
tic, but  the  art  of  such  a  man  must 
necessarily  be  without  pith  or  vigour. 
A  man  with  those  hands  and  that 
mouth  might,  and  probably  would, 
draw  an  exquisite  Titan ia ;  never  a 
Madonna,  or  a  Joan  of  Arc.  His 
voice  was  pleasant ;  it  was  obvious 
that  he  was  what  we  call  a  gentleman, 
a  man  of  culture  and  refinement. 

"  Do  sit  down,"  said  Cordelia  gently. 
"  Is  your  name  Fenton  ?  " 

11  Yes  ;  Mark  Fenton." 

"Mr.  Fenton,  I  hope  you  do  not 
mind  my  coining  in;  I  mean  only 


474 


Sister  Cordelia. 


help.  The  people  here  are  used  to 
me ;  they  expect  me  to  come  in,  but 
you  might  think  it  a  liberty." 

"  Why  should  I,  more  than  they  ?  " 

"  Because  you  are, — in  rather  dif- 
ferent a  position.  You  might  resent 
it;  but  I  mean  to  be  kind." 

"  I  am  sure  you  do.  In  what  way 
am  I  in  a  different  position  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Fenton,  I, — you 
won't  mind  my  saying — I  see  you  are 
a  gentleman.  That  is  what  .1  mean 
by  a  different  position." 

"  If  to  be  a  gentleman  means  to 
have  a  banking  account  and  a  good 
coat,  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  No  one  thinks  it  means  that.  Of 
course  if  a  man  is  once  a  gentleman 
he  is  always  one." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  he  asked 
eagerly. 

"  Certainly.     Do  not  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  there  are,"  began  the  man, 
and  was  cut  short  by  his  cough.  Cor- 
delia caught  his  arm  and  put  him  into 
the  leather  chair  by  the  tire ;  he  was 
panting  for  breath.  "  You  are  very 
ill,"  she  said  gently.  "  You  must  go 
to  bed  at  once,  and  be  nursed.  You 
are  utterly  untit  to  be  about.  You 
must  have  a  doctor  and  a  nurse, — 
and, — and  be-taken  care  of  generally. 
Have  you  any  friends  to  whom  I  could 
write  ?  " 

"No,— none." 

"No  one  who  would  come  here  and 
nurse  you  ? " 

"  No, — no  one  ;  I  am  quite  alone  in 
the  world;  all  my  friends — are  dead." 

"Are  you  comfortable  in  these 
rooms?" 

"  Yes ;  I  wish  the  children  were 
quieter."  He  passed  his  hand  over 
his  brow. 

"  I  shall  send  the  doctor  here.  I 
know  him  quite  well,  and  I  shall  tell 
him  to  send  a  nurse." 

"  Stop, — Miss, — Miss —  " 

"  My  name  is  Brevoort." 
"  I  have  heard  of   you,  Miss  Bre- 
voort.    I  cannot   pay  the  doctor  for 
more  than  one  visit ;  I  cannot  pay  the 
nurse  at  all." 


"  That  will  be  all  right,  Mr.  Fenton. 
You  must  not  worry  yourself." 

"  You  mean,  you  are  going  to  pay. 
You  are, — it  is, — how  can  I  accept 
your  goodness?" 

"It  is  no  goodness.  If  you  know 
anything  about  me,  you  also  know  my 
views  about  money.  I  do  not  consider 
that  the  large  sums  which  I  inherit, 
through  the  accident  of  birth,  are 
mine.  I  should  like  to  have  the  bulk 
of  my  money  taken  away,  and  given 
to  its  proper  owners.  I  cannot  have 
that  done,  so  I  think  of  myself  as  a 
trustee,  not  as  an  owner.  Please 
don't  talk  ;  it  makes  you  cough,  and 
tires  you.  Good-bye." 

She  was  gone,  and  after  she  had  seen 
the  doctor,  who  cherished  a  great  though 
Platonic  admiration  for  that  beauti- 
ful lunatic,  Sister  Cordelia  Brevoort, 
she  went  home  with  her  active  brain 
and  tender,  sympathetic  heart  brooding 
on  the  affairs  of  Mark  Fenton,  artist 
in  crayons. 

He  was  exceedingly  ill,  but  at  length 
he  rallied,  and,  through  Cordelia's  in- 
fluence, went  to  a  convalescent  home  in 
Bournemouth.  Thence  he  wrote  to  her 
a  long,  well-expressed,  grateful  letter, 
saying  that  he  was  quite  well,  and 
should  return  to  London  the  next 
week.  He  did  return,  and  Cordelia 
went  to  see  him.  She  had  been 
markedly  cold  in  her  manner  to  Frank 
Rutherford  since  Mrs.  Braintree's  con- 
fidence, and  that  young  gentleman, 
hurt  and  puzzled,  spent  a  considerable 
portion  -of  his  time  in  the  society  of 
the  fair  widowed  songstress. 

Mrs.  Braintree,  mainly  through 
Miss  Brevoort' s  introductions,  was 
swimming  gaily  with  the  stream ;  but, 
though  it  is  hard  to  judge  a  lady's 
private  views,  it  is  to  be  surmised 
that  she,  being  devoid  of  that  uncom- 
fortable and  erratic  appendage  of  the 
body,  the  artistic  soul,  judged  that  it 
would  be  more  agreeable  to  be  Mrs. 
Rutherford  the  county  magnate,  than 
Mrs.  Braintree  the  public  singer,  how- 
ever great  and  successful.  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford considered  her  to  be  "  a  jolly, 
sensible  little  woman,  who  has  a  hard 


Sister  Cordelia. 


47.-, 


time,  and  no  end  of  pluck;  no  non- 
sense about  her,  and  no  highflown 
notions  " — this  last  clause  with  some 
bitterness. 

Cordelia  Brevoort  went  to  see  Mark 
Fer.ton,  and  looked  at  his  drawings. 
He  was  much  better;  no  longer 
nervous  with  her,  he  appeared  to  be 
brighter,  more  sanguine,  more  in  love 
with  life.  Cordelia's  soft,  sympathetic 
enthusiasm  was  like  a  draught  of 
elisir  to  the  lonely  man.  Those 
qualities  in  her  led  her  into  being 
"hideously  swindled,"  said  Lady 
Bland.  Here  and  there  they  gave  a 
crushed  spirit  a  new  lease  of  life ;  but 
what  is  that  set  against  a  five-pound 
note  unworthily  bestowed  ? 

The  more  she  studied  the  drawings 
the  more  struck  she  became  with  the 
artist's  talent.  It  was  talent,  great 
talent,  perfect  technical  skill,  not 
genius.  The  man's  gifts  were  thrown 
awuy  ;  true,  they  supported  him,  but 
they  ought  to  do  more.  Cordelia's 
brain  gave  birth  to  an  idea,  and  an 
incident,  carelessly  thrown  in  by  Fate, 
shaped  it.  She  supported  an  art- 
school  for  girls ;  they  had  to  show 
undeniable  talent  to  be  eligible,  and 
they  received  their  artistic  training 
absolutely  free.  The  lady  who  had 
been  their  instructress  entered  into  the 
holy  estate  of  matrimony,  and  went 
to  live  in  the  north  of  England.  Miss 
Bn-voort  pondered  ;  it  was  vacation 
at  the  school.  She  took  a  cab,  and 
drove  to  Mark  Fenton's.  He  was  at 
home,  sitting  in  the  window  to  get  a 
good  light,  and  drawing  a  clump  of 
daffodils,  with  a  tiny  blue  tit  flutter- 
ing over  them. 

*•  How  pretty  it  is  !  "  said  Cordelia. 
"  Go  on  drawing,  please,  while  I  talk." 
She  drew  a  portfolio  towards  her  and 
began  turning  over  the  sketches ; 
suddenly  she  stopped.  "Oh,  it  is 
very  good,"  she  exclaimed  frankly; 
"  but  it's  flattering." 

Mark  Fenton's  pale  face  grew  scarlet. 
"  "You  do  not  think  it  a  liberty  ?  "  he 
faltered.  "  It  is  for  myself;  not  for 
sale-,  of  course." 

"  Certainly  I  do  not." 


"  I  began  to  draw  your  face  mechani- 
cally," said  Fenton,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  was  just  sitting,— thinking " 

It  was  a  remarkably  good  likeness, 
representing  Cordelia  in  an  attitude 
into  which  she  often  fell ;  leaning  for- 
ward, the  hands  crossed,  the  lips 
apart,  the  eyes  luminous  with  feeling, 
the  air  of  tender  listening,  of  absorp- 
tion in  another,  lighting  the  whole  face. 
There  was  something  written  beneath 
the  portrait.  Cordelia  read  it,  flushed 
a  little,  as  a  humble,  unselfish  nature 
does  flush  at  praise,  and  made  no 
comment.  The  lines  were  :  — 

Half  angel  and  half  bird, 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire, 
Yet  human  at  the  red  ripe  of  the  heart. 

She  laid  the  sketch  softly  away  and 
spoke.  "  Mr.  Fenton,  I  came  to  see 
you  on  business.  There  is  an  appoint- 
ment in  connection  with  an  art-school 
which  I  can  obtain  "  (seeing  that  the 
salary  came  out  of  Miss  Brevoort's 
private  purse,  she  could  naturally 
obtain  it).  "Now  I  think  you  are 
the  very  person  for  it.  The  pupils 
are  girls;  they  are  all  clever,  other- 
wise they  are  not  admitted,  so  the 
work  ought  to  be  interesting.  The 
salary  is  not  very  large,  but  it  is 
fairly  good,  and  there  are  rooms  at 
the  school ;  you  will  live  rent-free. 
It  would  be  better,  and  I  think 
pleasanter,  than  what  you  are  doing  ; 
and  you  would  have  leisure  to  pursue 
your  own  work." 

Fenton  started  and  laid  down  his 
crayon.  "  You  offer  me  this  appoint- 
ment ?  How  more  than  good  you 
are ! " 

"  No ;  I  study  the  interests  of  the 
girls ;  I  wish  to  secure  them  a  good 
master.  Hitherto  they  have  been 
taught  by  a  lady.  I  like  to  stand  by 
my  own  sex,  but  I'm  not  bigoted  on  the 
point ;  I  know  of  no  lady  available 
who  would  fill  the  post  as  you  would. 
I  must  think  of  the  advancement  of 
the  girls.  Your  '  technique '  is  so 
perfect ;  I  could  think  that  bird 
was  going  to  flutter  out  across  the 
room." 


476 


Sister  Cordelia. 


"  Miss  Brevoort,  what  can  I  say1?  " 

"  I  hope,— yes." 

"  If  I  said  no,  you  would  think  me 
ungrateful.  What  shall  I  do  V '  He 
was  greatly  agitated. 

"  Why  should  you  say  no  ?  " 

"  Because  you  would  withdraw  your 
offer  if  you  knew  all.  I  am  not  so 
vile  as  to  sail  under  false  colours  with 
you.  I  must  tell  you, — I  ought  to 
have  told  you.  I  cannot  accept  your 
heavenly  kindness,  and  it  is  so  hard 
to  tell  you  why ;  you  do  not  know  how 
hard.  You  have  been  like  a  cup  of 
cold  water  in  the  desert.  Think  what 
a  man  would  feel  who  had  to  pour  it 
away,  and  see  the  sand  drink  what 
his  lips  were  parched  for." 

"  I  hope  you  know  that  you  are 
secure  of  my  sympathy." 

"  I  dorit  know  j  ah,  it's  horribly 
hard  !  "  He  drew  lines  on  the  table 
with  a  shaking  hand. 

"  You  surely  are  not  afraid  of 
me?" 

"  That  is  just  what  I  am.  I  am 
afraid  of  everything  and  every  one  ; 
and  of  you,  at  this  moment,  most  of 
all.  I  must  tell  you,  though.  You 
said,  '  Once  a  gentleman,  always  a 
gentleman,'  or  something  like  it, 
didn't  you  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"I  was  born  a  gentleman,  and 
educated  as  one ;  but  if  a  man  dis- 
honours his  birth  and  his  training, 
what  then  1  " 

"Then  he  is  very  much  to  be 
pitied." 

Fenton  drew  his  breath  in  a  gasp. 

"  Miss  Brevoort,  I  am  a  returned 
convict.  I  was  five  years  in  prison." 

Cordelia  started.  The  theory  of 
the  universal  brotherhood  of  man 
necessitates  the  admission  of  the 
criminal  into  the  family  circle ;  but 
theory  and  practice  are, — different. 

"  But  you  were  innocent  ? " 

"No,  I  was  guilty." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then  Corde- 
lia spoke.  "  I  am  sure  you  are  very 
sorry." 

"For  myself?  I  have  suffered 
enough  for  my  sin  to  repent  it." 


"  I  did  not  mean  that.  I  am  sure 
you  would  be  just  as  sorry,  even  had 
you  not  suffered." 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Will  you  tell  me 
a  little  more?" 

"I  will  try.  I  had  plenty  of 
money,  and  I  lived  up  to  my  income. 
I  fell  in  love  when  I  was  twenty- 
three,  and  I  married.  I  was  unbusi- 
nesslike ;  I  speculated  foolishly,  and 
lost  a  lot  of  money.  I  could  not  make 
my  wife  see  the  necessity  of  retrench- 
ment ;  I  was  as  weak  as  water, — a 
fool,  in  short,  as  I  am,  and  always 
have  been.  We  lived  extravagantly 
and  ran  into  debt.  When  I  was 
twenty-six,  there  was  money  belong- 
ing to  some  people  for  whom  I  was 
trustee.  I  had  only  been  trustee  a 
year ;  I  borrowed  some  of  that  money 
for  a  time  ;  the  other  trustee  came 
from  abroad,  and — that  was  when  1 
was  twenty-six.  I  have  been  free 
two  years  ;  I  am  supposed  to  be  dead." 
He  spoke  in  a  curious,  dry,  level  voice, 
and  still  drew  lines  upon  the  table. 
"I  suppose  I  repent,"  he  went  on. 
"  I  do  ;  I  am  wretched  ;  that  is  repent- 
ance, I  imagine.  The  eyes  of  strangers 
in  the  street  used  to  turn  me  sick 
with  shame  ;  I'm  getting  used  to  that 
now.  You  see  what  a  useless  life 
you  saved." 

I  could  not.     There  is  not  such  a 
th  ng." 

As  what?" 
As  a  useless  life." 
You  cannot  mean  that?  " 
I  do.     You  are  wasting  your  time 
now,   perhaps,  but  when  you  realise 
that,  you  will  gather  up  the  fragments 
of  life,   and  start  again.     You  were 
foolish  to  be  afraid  of  telling  me,  and 
unjust  to  me.     I  am  very,  very  sorry 
for  you." 

* '  You  really  think  I  can  start 
again?  You  don't  understand.  I 
am  not  an  innocent  man,  suffering 
unjustly  ;  I  am  a  thief." 

''Say,  you  were  a  thief;  you  are 
not  one  now,  if  you  are  sorry.  And 
I  am  quite,  quite  sure  you  will  not  be 
so  again." 


tiister  Cordelia. 


477 


"  No,  I  will  nob ;  but  you  see  I 
cannot  have  that  appointment." 

•'  Mr.  Fenton,  I  think  the  first  part 
of  your  sentence  renders  the  second 
un:rue.  You  can,  if  you  will." 

' '  You  are  not  offering  me  this  now 
thf.t  you  know  all  about  me  1  " 

1 '  Yes,  I  am.  Because  you  say  you 
are  very  sorry,  because  I  believe  you, 
because  you  have  spoken  the  truth 
whf  n  you  might  have  held  your 
tor.gue,  and  I  think  that  was  very 
br&ve  and  honest ;  because  you  are 
belter  qualified  for  the  post  than  any 
one*  I  know  who  would  accept  it ;  and, 
a  1:  ttle  bit,  though  this  is  a  very  bad 
reason,  because  you  are  a  personal 
friend  of  mine.  Will  you  say  yes  1 " 

Mark  Fenton  did  not  say  "  yes " 
in  words  \  he  stared  at  her  like  one 
stunned.  "I  did  not  know  there  was 
such  a  woman  possible  as  you,"  he 
sail.  "  You  are  like  a  vision  of  God." 

' '  You  must  not  say  that.  I  am  no 
better  than  other  people.  We  are  all 
visions  of  God,  when  we  forget  our- 
selves for  a  moment,  and  try  to  help 
each  other." 

Fenton  stood  up.  He  held  his  head 
a  little  higher,  and  straightened  his 
shoulders ;  he  had  a  habit  of  stoop- 
ing. "Miss  Brevoort,"  he  said,  "I 
will  be  true  to  the  vision  vouchsafed 
me_  God  helping  me.  I  will  not  say 
again  you  have  saved  a  worthless  life. 
Yoi  are  wiser  than  I.  It  is  worth 
something,  since  you  have  looked  at 
it.  Your  faith  has  saved  it, — shall 
sanctify  it."  The  two  pairs  of  eyes 
mei .  Cordelia's  had  tears  in  them  ;  he 
sav  the  tears,  took  her  hand  very 
gently,  very  humbly,  and  touched  it 
with  his  lip's.  "  It  is  nothing  to  say 
God  bless  you,  Miss  Brevoort,"  he 
said  ;  "  you  are  His  blessing  made  in- 
car.-iate.  I  will  do  the  best  work  I  can." 

So  the  art-school  had  a  new  master, 
and  flourished  exceedingly;  and  two 
litt!e  flower  paintings  of  Fenton's 
weie  hung  in  a  winter  exhibition. 

The  flirtation  between  Mr.  Buther- 

'for<;   and  Mrs.  Braintree  was  carried 

on  discreetly  on  the  lady's  side.     Miss 

Bre  voort  grew  very  quiet,  and  gentler 


than  usual ;  she  was  rather  pale,  and 
a  little  depressed,  though  unwearied  < 
in  well-doing.  Lady  Bland  became 
possessed  by  an  awful  terror  in  which 
the  "drawing  person"  usurped  the 
place  of  the  "socialistic  tinker." 
Mrs.  Braintree  learned  of  the  afflicted 
chaperon's  anxiety,  and  told  Frank 
Rutherford  of  it.  He  was  so  obvi- 
ously disconcerted  that  his  friend  was 
as  much  annoyed  as  amused  when  he 
left  her. 

In  the  spring  of  that  year,  a  wealthy 
and  benevolent  Australian  visited 
England.  He  brought  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  Lady  Bland,  and  be- 
came a  profound  admirer,  in  a  strictly 
fatherly  fashion,  of  Miss  Brevoort. 
He  visited  her  school,  and  announced 
his  intentions  of  endowing  an  institu- 
tion of  the  kind  on  a  larger  scale  in 
his  native  land.  "  You've  got  a  cap- 
ital teacher,"  said  he.  "  You  couldn't 
tell  me  of  any  one  equally  good?" 
and  he  named  his  proposed  rate  of 
payment,  double  Fenton's  salary. 

Cordelia  pondered  ;  Fenton  was  not 
a  strong  man,  and  the  English  winters 
tried  him.  She  suggested  that  the 
Australian  appointment  should  be 
offered  to  him.  The  benevolent  gentle- 
man jumped  at  the  idea  ;  he  heard  the 
whole  history,  and  offered  Fenton  the 
post.  Fenton  very  gratefully,  very 
humbly,  very  apologetically,  refused 
it.  The  Australian  would  not  take 
the  refusal,  being  struck  by  Fenton's 
method  of  teaching,  his  talents,  and 
the  infinite  amount  of  pains  he  took. 
He  gave  him  a  month  to  consider  it. 

Cordelia  went  to  see  him  and  to 
remonstrate.  "Why  don't  you  ac- 
cept?" 

•'  I  am  contented  here ;  unless  you 
are  dissatisfied." 

"That  is  foolish,  Mr.  Fenton.  I 
am  satisfied,  of  course  ;  but  really  this 
is  a  splendid  opportunity,  and  you 
know  you  cannot  stand  the  fogs." 

"I  do  not  want  anything  better 
than  I  have.  I  am  getting  used  to 
fogs  ;  I  like  them." 

"  Like  them  !  You  told  nie  you 
could  hardly  breathe  in  them." 


478 


Sister  Cordelia. 


"  I  am  not  ungrateful,  but  I  do  not 
want  to  go." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  why  not.  Really, 
this  present  appointment  does  not 
give  you  a  fair  chance.  I  think  you 
don't  know  how  very  clever  Mr. 
Anderson  thinks  you.  He  is  a  better 
critic  than  I  am ;  he  would  push  you 
forward  as  I  cannot ;  and  altogether, 
the  entire  change,  the  climate,  the 
new  country " 

"  Miss  Brevoort,  will  you  tell  me 
I  am  impertinent  if  I  say  something  1" 

"  No." 

"Then  'Entreat  me  not  to  leave 
thee.'  You  do  not  know  how  very 
much  your  friendship  is  to  me  ;  I  am 
utterly  unworthy  of  it,  but  I  cannot 
give  it  up." 

"  You  would  not,  Mr.  Fenton ;  I 
hope  we  shall  always  be  friends, — great 
and  trusted  friends,  as  we  are  now." 

"It  would  not  be  the  same.  I 
should  not  see  you,  I  should  not  hear 
your  voice,  I  should  not  feel  as  I  do 
now,  that  any  hour,  any  minute,  I 
might  hear  your  step,  see  your  smile, 
feel  the  unspeakable  beauty  and  com- 
fort of  your  presence." 

Cordelia  had  not  talked  much  lately 
of  the  superiority  of  the  many  over 
the  unit,  of  the  psychical  development 
of  woman  as  opposed  to  man.  Some- 
thing, some  one,  was  winnowing 
and  sifting  the  chaff  from  the  grain. 
Yet,  though  she  was  conscious  that 
the  influence  of  a  unit  had  metamor- 
phosed Mark  Fenton  and  given  him 
new  life  and  strength,  mentally  and 
morally,  she  now  became  vaguely 
aware  that  the  conversation  was  grow- 
ing too  subjective. 

They  were  seated  in  the  studio  ;  the 
swing-door  at  the  end  of  the  room 
opened. 

"  This  way,  Mrs.  Braintree.  Good 
morning,  Fenton.  I  just  met  my 
friend,  Mrs.  Braintree,  passing  here, 
and  persuaded  her  in  to  see  that 
'Undine  '  of  yours.  It  has  a  look  of 
her.  Mr.  Rutherford  was  with  her, 
so  he  has — I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss 
Brevoort,  I  did  not  see  you." 

It   was    Mr.    Anderson  ;     Cordelia 


stood  up,  with  a  sense  of  having  been 
tricked.  Frank  Rutherford  with  Mrs. 
Braintree  ! 

"  Dear  Cordelia,"  cooed  that  lady  to 

her,  "  I  can  explain.  Is  this  the 

Ah — h — h  !  "  It  was  as  honest  a 
shriek  as  ever  burst  from  a  pair 
of  lying  lips.  "  Mark  !  "— "  Alice  !  " 
Mrs.  Braintree  was  a  woman  of  power- 
ful mind,  but  she  went  into  hysterics. 
The  resurrection  of  a  dead  man  of 
shady  antecedents  is  a  cruel  strain 
upon  the  nerves  of  a  true  believer  in 
the  gospel  of  "getting  on"  when  the 
dead  man  is  the  believer's  husband. 
This  was  the  painful  position  of  Alice 
Braintree. 

"  Leave  her  to  me."  said  Cordelia 
quickly.  "Pray  leave  her  to  me." 
She  tried  to  support  her  from  the 
studio  ;  Fenton  followed  ;  his  face  was 
gray.  "Let  me  come  too,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  She  was, — she  is, — my  wife." 

Cordelia  was  filled  with  sympathy. 
"  Ah  !  "  she  cried.  "  She  thought  you 
were  dead,  and  this  is  joy." 

Fenton  smiled  rather  bitterly,  but 
did  not  answer.  Mrs.  Braintree  began 
to  recover  her  speech,  but  not  her  self- 
control.  "  You  !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  And  I  thought  I  was  free  !  Oh, 
there  never  was  a  woman  so  shame- 
fully treated  as  I  am — never  ! " 

Fenton  was  silent. 

"  Alice  !  "  cried  Cordelia. 

"  Do  you  know  who  your  protege 
isl"  screamed  the  angry  woman. 
"  He  is  a  returned  convict,  a  thief.  I 
have  had  to  change  my  name,  and 
work  like  a  galley-slave,  through  that 
man.  I  believe  he  set  it  abroad  that 
he  was  dead  from  sheer  spite.  I  might 
have  married,  or  anything  !  Oh,  it's 
infamous  !  I  tell  you  (and  you  may 
tell  Mr.  Anderson),  he's  a  thief." 

"  I  know  your  husband's  past 
history,  Alice,"  said  Cordelia.  "He 
told  it  me." 

"  And  you  help  a  man  like  that  ! 
You  are  a  mass  of  affectation !  I 
suppose  you  sought  a  new  experience, 
a  platonic  flirtation  with  a  returned 
convict." 

Cordelia  turned  white. 


Sister  Cordelia. 


479 


''Alice,"  said  Fenton,  "you  may 
ghe  me  your  wifely  welcome  in  what- 
ever terms  you  please  ;  you  shall  not 
insult  Miss  Brevoort.  I  forbid  you  to 
speak  another  word." 

Mrs.  Braintree  collected  her  scat- 
tered senses.  "  Cordelia,"  she  said, 
with  a  diluted  smile  of  hysterical  rage 
and  conciliation,  "I  do  not  know 
what  I  have  been  saying,  d — d — dear. 
I  am  an  ill-used  woman ;  I  have 
suffered  a  shock;  I  have  endured 
much  at  the  hands  of  that  man  ;  our 
pal  hs  must  lie  apart ;  he  knows  this, 
I  f  jn  sure  he  wishes  it.  I  grieve  if 
I  have  spoken  to  you,  my  on — on — 
only  friend,  unjustly." 

"You  were  excited,  Alice;  do  not 
think  more  of  it.  Forgive  me  if  I  say 
that  your  husband  has  suffered  too. 
I  will  go  now,  and  leave  you  to  talk. 
I  hope  you  will  persuade  him  to  accept 
Mr.  Anderson's  offer."  She  turned 
to  Fenton  and  held  out-  her  hand  ;  he 
took  it  silently.  "  Mark,"  she  said, 
calling  him  thus  for  the  first  time,  "  I 
hoj  e  this  may  mean  happiness  for  you. 
I  shall  see  you  again  in  a  few  days ; 
I  am  always  your  friend, — you  know 
that." 

She  turned  away. 

';0ne  moment,  sweet,"  said  Mrs. 
Braintree.  "  Dear  Cordelia,  even  at 
this  trying  moment,  I  cannot  bear 
that  you  should  judge  me  harshly; 
you  thought  it  strange  to  meet  me  with 
Mr  Eutherford  1  To  my  great  happi- 
nes?,  I  find  it  was  a  Mr.  F.  C.  Ruther- 
ford with  whom  my  friend  was  ac- 
quainted, not  F,  L.  It  was  such  a 
relief  to  my  mind  ;  I  got  the  letter 
yesterday,  and  was  coming  to  tell 
you."  She  paused.  "  Dear  one,"  she 
whispered,  «may  I  beg  that  you  will 
use  your  influence  with  the  gentlemen 
to  induce  them  to  be  silent  about 
the.— this— affair;  and  be  silent  your- 
self ? " 

Cordelia  looked  at  her  steadily, 
will  do  so,"  she  said  quietly.  She 
looted  back  again  at  Fenton,  and 
thei  e  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Good- 
bye.." she  said,  softly.  "  No,—  au 
revo'r." 


She  left  the  room,  and  re-entered 
the  studio;  with  one  little  quick 
glance  at  Frank  Rutherford,  she 
approached  Mr.  Anderson,  and  spoke 
low. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  Miss  Bre- 
voort. I  have  not  learnt  much  in  my 
fifty  years,  except  to  hold  my  tongue. 
I  am  sorry  to  have  been  the  means 
of  bringing  about  an  unpleasant 
scene.  Good-bye.  .  Good-bye,  Ruther- 
ford." 

Mr.  Frank  Rutherford  and  Miss 
Cordelia  Brevoort  were  left  alone. 
"  Frank,"  she  said,  "  will  you  call  me  a 
cab,  please  1  "  Her  voice  was  meek  ; 
she  was  thinking  of  the  wrong  she 
had  done  him  in  thought,  thinking, 
too,  of  a  certain  lesson  in  psychology 
taught  her  by  six  months  of  jealous 
pain  and  disillusionment, — but  Frank 
Rutherford  thought  that  Mark  Fenton, 
the  drawing-master,  was  on  her  con- 
science, and  drew  himself  up  stiffly. 
Thus  do  our  dear  friends  fail  to  pluck 
out  the  heart  of  our  mystery.  "  Cer- 
tainly, unless  you  would  prefer  — er — 
Mr.  Fenton  to  get  one  for  you." 

She  directed  a  heavenly  glance  of 
reproach  at  him,  but  the  imp  that  sat 
on  the  tongue  of  this  goddess  was 
purely  human.  "No,  Frank,"  said 
she,  "I  had  rather  you  got  one  for 
me  ;  Mr.  Fenton  is  engaged.  And  I 
think  Mrs.  Braintree  will  excuse  you." 

Frank  Rutherford  got  the  cab  in 
humble  silence,  and  helped  her  in. 
"Home?" 

"Home." 

"  A — a — may  I  come  too,  Delia  ? " 

Miss  Brevoort  did  not  answer  ;  but 
Frank  Rutherford  gave  his  directions 
to  the  driver  through  the  trap-door  in 
the  roof. 

Meanwhile  husband  and  wife  faced 
each  other.  Mrs.  Braintree  sat  down 
on  the  sofa.  "Let  us  look  at  this 
thing  calmly,  Mark,"  she  said.  "  We 
will  not  scold  each  other.  I  lost 
my  temper  ;  I  admit  it ;  I  am  cool 
now.  Cordelia  Brevoort  will  keep 
quiet,  and  she  will  keep  the  men  quiet 
too.  I  am  making  a  decent  liveli- 
hood ;  so,  I  suppose,  are  you.  You 


480 


Sister  Cordelia. 


don't  want  me ;  I,  assuredly,  don't 
want  you.  You  do  not  want  me  2  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  Then  we  meet  and  part  here.  If 
we  meet  again,  you  will  not  know  Mrs. 
Braintree?" 

"I  am  entirely  at  your  orders,  Alice." 

"You  are  behaving  very  decently, 
very  sensibly.  I  suppose  the  fact  is, 
you  don't  care  for  me." 

"  No,  I  don't."   . 

"  That  is  very  nice ;  I  am  so  glad. 
Good-bye,  then ;  I  wish  you  good  luck, 
Mark."  She  was  perfectly  good- 
tempered  now. 

"  One  minute,  Alice  ;  I  wanted  to 
ask  you  something.  You  don't  mind 
having  a  few  minutes'  conversation 
with  me  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  oh  dear  no  !  I  came  to 
see  your  '  Undine.'  What  is  it  1 " 
She  leaned  back,  playing  with  her 
eyeglasses. 

"  You  said  something  about  Mr. 
Rutherford  to  Miss  Brevoort :  what 
was  it?" 

"Oh,  that, — I  practised  a  pious 
fraud  upon  our  dear  Cordelia.  I  told 
her  something  about  Mr.  Rutherford  ; 
nothing  any  other  woman  would  have 
cared  a  fig  about,  but  she's  so  ridicu- 
lous. However,  I  wanted  a  Roland, 
so  I  gave  her  an  Oliver.  Besides,  in 
the  circumstances,  I  had  no  reason  for 
not  doing  so." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"  It  is  rather  an  awkward  thing  to 
say  to  you,  Mark  ; — gauche,  bad  form, 
but — Mr.  Rutherford  is  very  eligible. 
I,  though  you  do  not  care  for  me,  am 
still  as  attractive  as  you  thought  me, 


— before  you  married  me.  And  I 
thought  I  was  a  widow." 

"  You  meant  to  marry  Rutherford, 
had  it  not  been  for  my  want  of  tact ; 
I  grasp  that.  But  what  has  that  to 
do  with  Miss  Brevoort  ?  " 

"  Frank  Rutherford  is  in  love  with 
Cordelia  Brevoort ;  and;  though  she  is 
half-cracked,  she  likes  him.  I  told 
her  a  girl  was  dying  for  love  of  him ; 
she  prides  herself  on  her  'loyalty  to 
her  sex,'  ha,  ha  !  " 

"  Go  on." 

"Now  I  have  cleared  matters  up 
between  them.  He  is  just  the  sort  of 
fool  that  these  recognised,  catalogued, 
ticketed  '  clever  women  '  can't  resist, 
which  proves  that  there  is  one  thing 
more  stupid  than  an  overgrown  fool 
of  a  man,  and  that's  a  clever  woman. 
He  understands  about  one  minute 
section  of  Cordelia's  mind,  which 
section  he  admires  very  blindly.  And 
he  also  likes  a  woman  to  be  tall ; 
Cordelia  is  very  tall.  They  will 
marry,  and  live  happily  ever  after. 
I  dare  say  they  are  engaged  by  this 
time."  Mrs.  Braintree  laughed  gaily. 

"  Ah  !  "  It  was  a  curious  little 
sound,  neither  sob,  sigh,  nor  groan, 
yet  partaking  of  the  nature  of  all 
three.  Mrs.  Braintree  raised  her 
glasses,  and  scrutinised  her  husband. 
"Dear  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  "how 
very  truly  absurd  !  " 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Anderson 
received  Mark  Fenton's  acceptance  of 
the  Australian  appointment.  He 
sailed  three  weeks  later,  and  the 
crayon  sketch  of  Sister  Cordelia 
Brevoort  sailed  with  him. 


END   OF   VOL.    LXX. 


RICHARD  CLAY  AND  SONS,   LIMITED,  LONDON   AND  BUNGAY. 


No-  415.] 


[One  Shilling 


MACMILLAN'S 


MAY,    1894 


Contents 

I.— PERLYCROSS  ;    by    R.    D.    BLACKMORE.     Chapters 
XXXVI.—  XXXVIII 

II.— THE  PARLIAMENTS  AND  MINISTRIES  OF  THK  CEN- 
TURY; by  C.  B.  ROYLANCE-  KENT 

III. — A  DISCOURSE  ON  SEQUELS 

IV.— DITAS 

V. — THE  MELANCHOLY  MAN 

VI. — BEGGING  LETTERS  AND  THEIR  WRITERS.     .    .     . 
VII.— THE  CLIFF-CLIMBERS 

VIIL— THE  LAST  FIGHT  OF  JOAN  OF  ARC;  by  AM>I:I.\\- 
LANG  . 


MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

29  &  30  BEDFORD  STREET,  STRAND,  LONDON 
AND  NEW  YORK 

GLASGOW  :  James  Maclehose  fy  Sons  OXFORD  :  James  Parker  &  Co, 

LEIPSIC  (for  the  Continent) :  A.  Twietmeyer 

MELBOURNE:  E.  A.  Petherick  and  Co.  H'.  Maddock 

ADELAIDE:  W.  C.  Eigby  HOBART  AND  LAUNCESTON :  J.  Walch 

SOLD   BY   ALL  BOOKSELLERS   AT   HOME    AND    ABROAD 


W-.J.LINTON.  S.< 


ICHARD  CLAY  AND   SONS,    LIMITED] 

The  Eight  of  Translation  and  Reproduction  is  Reserved 


[LONDON  ANI> 


Fry's 

'RIZE     ^f^^mlr 

Cocoa 


CONCENTRATED 


PRIZE 
MEDALS 
Awarded 
to  the 

Firm. 


" EXCELLENT— OF  GREAT  VALUE."    Lancet,  June  15,  1889. 

*  PEPTONIZED 

COCOA 


1 

[PATENT] 

1  SAVORY  &  MOORE,  LONDON.  &  MILK. 

Most  Delicious,  Nutritious  &*  requiring  no  digestive  effort, 
Tins  2/6.      Half-Tins  (Samples)    1/6. 


AS  SUPPLIED  TO  H.M.  THE  QUEEN. 

CURE   FOR 
INDIGESTION, 


If  any  difficulty  be 
experienced  in  obtain- 
ing "Hovis,"  or  if 
what  is  supplied  as 
" Hovis"  is  not  satis- 
factory, please  write, 
sending  sample  (the 
cost  of  which  will  be 
defrayed)  to 

S.FITTOMSON. 

MILLERS,  MACCLfSFIELO. 


v 

RSlvcerine 


PLASTER 


PRESERVES  the  SKIN  and  COMPLEXION  trmn 

the  eflects  of  the  Sun,  Winds,  Hard  Water,  and  Inferior 
Wi?!;-  Re™ves.a?<1  Prevents  all  Redness,  Roughness, 
ppitation,  Freckles,  Tan,  &e.,  invaluable  at  all 

reasons  of  the  year  for  Keeping  the  Skin  Soft  &  Blooming. 
Beware  of  Imitations  many  of  which  are  poisonous. 

B°  sre  t0/?^  for   '  BEETHAM'S,"  which    is  perfectly 

mnnlexs  and  the  only  Genuine.  Bottles  i..  and  2,.  6d.,  of  all 
hemtsts  and  Perfumers.  Either'size  Post  Free.  3d.  eitra.  from  the 
Sole  Makers:  -M.  BEETHAM&  SON,  Chemists,  CHELTENHAM 


S  ••:  »l  £  J»  »'  E  V  K  It 
«  «««»  like  maarir  in  relieving  all  pain  and 
""robbing,  ami  soon  cures  the  most  obstinate 
corns  an<l  bunions.  It  is  especially  useful  for  reducing  en- 
larSed  Gr«at  Toe  Joints,  which  so  spoil  the  symmetry  of  otherwise 
beautihl1  f«et.  Thousands  have  been  cured,  tome  of  whom  had 
n'-ffisredfor  fifty  years,  without  being  able  to  get  relief  from  any  other 
remedi>-  <Ifc  is  a  thiu  plaster,  and  takes  up  no  room  in  the  boot  l 
A  trial  °f  a  Box  is  earnestly  solicited,  as  immediate  relief  is  sure- 
Boxes-  !*•  1H-,  of  all  Chemists.  Post  Free  for  14  Stamps  from  the 
Proprietors,  M.  BEETHAM  &  SOX  Chemists,  CHELTENHAM. 


FIFTY-SIXTH 
ANNUAL  REPORT 

BEING  FOR  YEAR 

1893. 

NEW  ASSURANCES 

£1,124,700 

PREMIUMS  £602,550 

INCOME  £959,900 

CLAIMS  £410,100 

MORE  THAN  HALF  OF  THE 
MEMBERS  WHO  DIED.  IN 
1893  HAD  BONUSES  AVER- 
AGING CLOSE  ON  50  PER 
CENT  OF  THEIR  POLICIES 
WHICH  PARTICIPATED. 

THE  FUNDS 

EXCEED 

81  MILLIONS. 

INCREASE  IN  YEAR  £409.900 


THE  PREMIUMS  ARE  so  MODERATE  THAT,  AT  USUAL 
AGES  FOR  ASSURANCE,  £1200  OR  £1250  MAY  BE 

SECURED  FROM  THE  FIRST  FOR  THE  YEARLY  PAYMENT 
WHICH  IN  MOST  OFFICES  WOULD  BE  CHARGED  (WITH 
PROFITS)  FOR  £1000  ONLY,— EQUIVALENT  TO  AN  IM- 
MEDIATE  AND  CERTAIN  BONUS  OF  2O  TO  25  PER  CENT. 


THE  WHOLE  PROFITS  GO  TO  THE  POLICY-HOLDERS" 

ON  A  SYSTEM  AT  ONCE  SAFE  AND  EQUITABLE  — NO 
SHARE  GOING  TO  THOSE  BY  WHOSE  EARLY  DEATH 
THERE  IS  A  LOSS  TO  THE  COMMON  FUND. 


1HE    DISTINCTIVE    SYSTEM    OF 

THE  INSTITUTION  is  SPECIALLY 
SUITABLE  FOR  ASSURANCES  RE- 
QUIRED FOR 

FAMILY  PROVISIONS 

MARRIAGE  SETTLEMENTS 

AND  PARTNERSHIP  OR 

OTHER  BUSINESS  ARRANGEMENTS 

LND  FOR  ALL  CASES  WHERE  IT  IS  OF  SPECIAI 
MPORTANCE  THAT  THE  PREMIUM  BE  MODERAT1 
VND  AT  THE  SAME  TIME  SECURE  RIGHT  Tl 
•ARTICIPATE  IN  THE  WHOLE  SURPLUS. 


S[EXT  DIVISION  OF  SURPLUS  AS  AT  CLOSE  OF  1894 


THE  ARRANGEMENTS  AS  TO  SURRENDER,  NON-FORFEITURE,  FREE  RESIDENCE,  LOANS  »  'N 
POLICIES,  AND  EARLY  PAYMENT  OF  CLAIMS,  AND  ALL  OTHER  POINTS  OF  PRACTICE, 
I  ARE  CONCEIVED  ENTIRELY  IN  THE  INTERESTS  OF  THE  MEMBERS,  THERE  BEING  NO 
(OPPOSING  INTERESTS  IN  A  MUTUAL  SOCIETY.  POLICIES,  AS  A  RULE,  ARE  WORLD- 
WIDE AFTER  5  YEARS,  PROVIDED  THE  ASSURED  HAS  ATTAINED  THE  AGE  OF  30. 

EDINBURGH,  6  ST.  ANDREW  SQ.      JAMES  GRAHAM  WATSON,  MANAGER. 


Scottish  Provident  Institution. 


TABLE  OF  PREMIUMS,  BY  DIFFERENT    MODES   OF  PAYMENT, 
For  Assurance  of  £100  at  Death — With  Profits. 


Age 
next 
Birth- 
day. 

Annual 
Premium  pay- 
able during 
Life. 

ANNUAL   PREMIUM   LIMITED   TO 

Single 
Payment. 

Age 
next 
Birth- 
day. 

Twenty-one 
Payments. 

Fourteen 
Payments. 

Seven 
Payments. 

21 

£1   16      3 

£2  10     6 

£3     4  11 

£5  10     0 

£33     0     1 

21 

22 

1    16      9 

2  11     0 

359 

5  11     0 

33     5  10 

22 

23 

1  17     2 

2  11     6 

365 

5  12     1 

33  11     2 

23 

24 

1  17     7 

2  12     1 

3     6  11 

5  13     1 

33  16     5 

24 

25 

1  18     0 

2  12     6 

373 

5  14     0 

34     2     0 

25 

26 

1  18     6 

2  13     0 

3     7  10 

5  14  11 

34     8     2 

26 

27 

1  19     2 

2  13     6 

387 

5  15  11 

34  16     1 

27 

28 

1  19  11 

2  14     1 

395 

5  17     1 

35     4     9 

28 

29 

208 

2  14     8 

3  10     3 

5  18     6 

35  14     1 

29 

*30 

216 

2  15     4 

3  11     2 

601 

36     4     0 

*30 

31 

226 

2  16     2 

3  12     1 

6     1  10 

36  14     6 

31 

32 

235 

2  17     1 

3  13     2 

638 

37     5     5 

32 

33 

246 

2  18     0 

3  14     4 

658 

37  17     2 

33 

34 

257 

2  19     0 

3  15     7 

6     7     9 

38     9     7 

34 

35 

2     6  10 

302 

3  16  11 

6  10     0 

39     2     9 

35 

36 

282 

315 

3  IS     4 

6  12     5 

39  16  11 

36 

37 

298 

329 

3  19  11 

6  15     0 

40  12     4 

37 

38 

2  11     3 

343 

4     1     7 

6  17     9 

41     8     7 

38 

39 

2  12  11 

359 

434 

707 

42     5     4 

39 

t40 

2  14     9 

375 

452 

737 

43     2  10 

t40 

41 

2  16     8 

392 

472 

768 

44     0  11 

41 

42 

2  18     8 

3  11     1 

493 

7     9  11 

44  19     9 

42 

43 

3     0  11 

3  13     1 

4  11     5 

7  13    3 

45  19     3 

43 

44 

333 

3  15     3 

4  13  10 

7  16     9 

46  19     7 

44 

45 

359 

3  17     6 

4  16     4 

807 

48     0     8 

45 

46 

385 

400 

4  19     1 

846 

49     2     8 

46 

47 

3  11     5 

428 

521 

888 

50     5     8 

47 

48 

3  14     8 

458 

554 

8  13     2 

51     9     7 

48 

49 

3  18     1 

489 

589 

8  17  11 

52  14     1 

49 

50 

417 

4  12     1 

5  12     4 

9     2  10 

53  19     3 

50 

51 

456 

4  15     5 

5  16     1 

9     7  11 

55     4     5 

51 

52 

495 

4  18  10 

5  19  11 

9  13     1 

56     9     0 

52 

53 

4  13     5 

525 

6     3  11 

9  18     3 

57  12  11 

53 

54 

4  17     8 

563 

680 

10     3     5 

58  17     2 

54 

55 

5     1  11 

5  10     2 

6  12     1 

10     8     6 

60     0     8 

55 

[The  usual  non-participating  Rates  of  other  Offices  differ  little  from  these  Premiums.] 
*  A  person  of  30  may  secure  £1000  at  death,  by  a  yearly  payment,  during  life,  of  £20  : 15s. 

This  Premium  would  generally  elsewhere  secure  £800  only,  instead  of  £1000. 

OR,  he  may  secure  £1000  by  21  yearly  payments  of  £27  :  13  : 4— being  thus  free  of  payment  after  age  50. 
t  At  age  40,  the  Premium  ceasing  at  age  60  is,  for  £1000,  £33  : 14  :  2, — about  the  same  as  most  Offices 
require  during  the  whole  term  of  life.     Before  the  Premiums  have  ceased,  the  Policy  will  have  shared  in 
at  least  one  division  of  profits.    To  Professional  Men  and  others,  whose  income  is  dependent  on  contina- 
ance  of  health,  the  limited  payment  system  is  specially  recommended. 


BRANCH    OFFICES: 

GLASGOW,  29  St.  Vincent  PI.          BRISTOL,  31  Clare  Street. 
ABERDEEN,  25  Union  Street.          CARDIFF,  19  High  Street. 
DUNDEE,  12  Victoria  Chambers.      LEEDS,  35  Park  Row. 
BIRMINGHAM,  95  Colmore  Row.      LIVERPOOL,  25  Castle  Street. 

DUBLIN     ...    36  COLLEGE  GREEN. 
LONDON  OFFICE  :    17  KING  WILLIAM  STREET,  E.G. 


MANCHESTER,  10  Albert  Sq, 
NEWCASTLE,  1  Queen  Street 
NOTTINGHAM,  27  Victoria  St 
BELFAST,  10  Donegall  So,.,  N0 


'^0V*         ^^Jfs2i 

CLERICAL 
MEDICAL* 
GENERAL 


LIFE  ASSURANCE  SOCIETY 


gtredtors. 
CHAIRMAN-RIGHT  HON.  SIR  J.  R.  MOWBRAY,  BART.  M.P.  D.C.L, 

DEPUTY-CHAIRMEN-REV.  JOHN  EDWARD  KEMPE,  M.A.     SIR  JAMES  PAGET,  BART.  D.C.L.  LL.D.  F.R.S. 


LIONEL  S.  BEALE,  M.B.  F.R.S. 

JOHN  ASTLEY   BLOXAM,  ESQ.  F.R.C.S. 

JOHN  COLES,  ESQ. 

WILFRED  JOSEPH  CRIPPS,  ESQ.  C.B. 

HON.  GEORGE   N.    CURZON,  M.P. 

VEN.  ARCHDEACON  FARRAR,  D.D.  F.R.S. 

SIR  WALTER  FOSTER,  M.D.  D.C.L.  M.P. 


PROFESSOR  SIR  G.  M.  HUMPHRY,  M.D.  F.R.S. 

SIR  WILLIAM  JENNER,  BART.  o.c.B.  M.a  F.R.S. 

THC  VISCOUNT  MIDLETON. 

RICHARD  DOUGLAS   POWELL,  M.O. 

SIR  WM.   OVEREND  PRIESTLEY,  M.D  LL.D. 

REV.  RICHARD  WHITTINGTON,  M.A. 

PETER  WILLIAMS,    ESQ. 


WILLIAM     J.    H.    WHITTALL,    ESQ. 


BENJAMIN     NEWBATT,    ESQ. 

FINANCIAL  POSITION,  June  30th  1893. 

Assets,  over    ..................  £3,OOO,OOO 

Income,  over  ..................     £36O,OOO 

New  Assurances  in  the  year,  over  ......     £47O,OOO 

Annual  Premiums  thereon   ......  £16,OOO 

Sum  Divided  among  the  Assured,  1892,  over     £  352,OOO 

(yielding  an  average  Cash  Bonus  of  35  °/0  on  Premiums.) 

Reversionary    Addition    to    Policies 

corresponding  thereto,  nearly  ...     £5OO,OOO 

CHIEF  OFFICE:  15,  ST  JAMES'S  SQUARE, 
LONDON. 
s.w. 


Clerical  flfoebical  anb  General 


I3TH    BONUS-1892. 

RESERVES. 

The  Valuation  having  been  made  by  the  most  stringent  Tables  of  Mortality  in  use 
(the  HM  and  RM(s)  Tables  of  the  Institute  of  Actuaries),  in  combination  with  the  very  low 
rate  of  2^  per  cent,  interest  (a  rate  employed  by  two  other  offices  only),  and  to  the  high 
reserves  so  brought  out,  viz.,  £2,533,078,  further  sums  amounting  to  £90,000  having  been 
added,  the  total  reserves,  relatively  to  the  engagements  they  have  to  meet,  were  brought  up 
to  an  amount  in  excess,  it  is  believed,  of  those  of  any  other  office  whatever. 

PROFITS. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  these  large  and  exemplary,  reserves,  the  condition  of  prosperity 
of  the  Society  was  such  that  the  divisible  surplus  in  respect  of  the  5  years  was  larger  by 
£53,450  than  that  of  any  previous  quinquennium.  The  sum  remaining  for  division  among 
the  Assured,  viz. ,  £352,500,  which  was  larger  by  £40,000  than  any  previous  one,  provided 
a  Cash  Bonus  averaging  35  per  cent,  on  the  premiums  of  the  quinquennium,  being  the  largest 
Cash  Bonus  ever  declared  by  the  Society.  The  following  is  a 

TABLE    OF   SPECIMEN    BONUSES 

Declared  on  Whole- Life  Policies  of  d61,OOO  each,  effected  by  Annual 
Premiums  at  the  ages  undermentioned. 


Duration 

20 

30 

35 

of 
Policy. 

Cash. 

Reversion. 

Cash. 

Reversion. 

Cash. 

Reversion. 

£  s.     d. 

£    ^    d. 

£    J-    d. 

£  s.   d. 

£  s.   d. 

£   ^   d. 

5  years 

30  10    o 

86    o    o 

41    o   o 

95    o    o 

47  10    o 

101     O     O 

10     „ 

31    o   o 

79  10    o 

41  10    o 

88  10    o 

48    o    o 

92  10    o 

15    » 

31  10    o 

73    o    o 

42    o    o 

81    o    o 

48    o    o 

84    o    o 

20     ,, 

32    o    o 

67  10    o 

42    o    o 

73  10    o 

48    o    o 

77    o    o 

25     „ 

32    o    o 

62    o    o 

42    o   o 

67  10    o 

48  10    o 

72    o    o 

30     ,, 

32    o    o 

56  10    o 

42  10    o 

63    o    o 

49    o    o 

67    o    o 

Duration 

40 

45 

50 

of 
Policy. 

Cash. 

Reversion. 

Cash. 

Reversion. 

Cash. 

Reversion. 

£    *•    ^ 

£     *•     d. 

£  s.  d. 

£    J-     d. 

£    J.    d. 

£  s.   d. 

5  years 

56    o    o 

108  10    o 

65    o    o 

114    o    o 

78    o    o 

126    o    o 

10     ,, 

56    o    o 

98  10    o 

65    o    o 

104  10    o 

79  10    o 

118    o    o 

15  „ 

56    o    o 

90  10    o 

66    o    o 

98    o    o 

79  10    o 

109  10    o 

20     ,, 

57    o    o 

84  10    o 

66    o    o 

91    o    o 

80  10    o 

103  10    o 

25     „ 

57    o    o 

78  10    o 

66  10    o 

86    o    o 

82    o    o 

99    o    o 

30     „ 

57  10    o 

74    o    o 

68    o    o 

82  10    o 

82  10    o 

95  10    o 

N.B.— In  future  the  method  of  distributing1  profits  will  be  so 
modified  that  the  proportion  of  profits  allotted  to  any  Policy  will 
increase  with  its  increased  duration,  a  modification  in  favour  of  the 
older  Policyholders  which,  it  is  believed,  will  not  appreciably  affect  the 
large  initial  bonuses  here  shown  to  be  given  to  the  younger  members. 


Chief  Office:— 15  ST.  JAMES'S  SQUARE,  LONDON,  S.W. 

Branch  Offices:— Mansion  House  Buildings,  E.G.;    8  Exchange  Street,  Manchester. 


Society 


ASSURANCE    AT    PRIME    COST. 

QNE  of  the  wants  of  the  present  day  is  a  table  of  whole-life  premiums 

which,  while  making  the  least  possible  demand  on 
tie  resources  of  the  Assured,  shall  at  the  same  time  admit 
tie  Policies  to  full  Bonus  advantages.  The  annexed  table 
of  reduced  premiums,  which  are  believed  to  be  lower  than 
any  hitherto  published  for  Policies  issued  fre«»  from 


has  been  framed  to  meet  this  want.  Being  below  the  mathe- 
matical premiums  for  the  several  risks  provided  in  the  Society's  full 
p  -emiums,  these  reduced  premiums  may  properly  be  said  to  supply 
"  assurance  at  prime  cost."  They  depend  on  the  realization  of 
a  certain  ratio  of  profit,  and  in  the  event  of  the  profit  at  any 
division  being  insufficient,  the  sum  assured  by  any  particular  policy 
will  need  to  be  charged  with  payment  of  such  a  sum  as  will  make 
good,  its  share  of  the  deficiency,  unless  the  Assured  prefer  to  pay  off 
the  balance  due  to  the  Society.  So  large  and  so  consistent, 
he  wever,  have  been  the  profits  of  this  Society,  that  there  is  little 
livelihood  of  any  such  deficiency  arising. 

The  new  premiums,  which  are  payable  annually,  are  at  all  ages 
75  per  cent,  only  of  the  ordinary  whole-life,  with-profit  rates,  the 
Sc  ciety  advancing  the  remaining  25  per  cent.  The  25  per  cent,  so 
prmded  by  the  Society,  accumulated  at  5  per  cent,  interest  in 
advance,  will  be  a  charge  on  the  current  bonus.  If  death  should 
oc  :ur  within  the  quinquennial  bonus  period,  the  interim  bonus  will 
ex  ictly  -meet  the  current  charge,  and  allow  of  the  sum  assured  being 
pa  d  without  deduction.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Policy  should 
sui  vive  the  quinquennial  period  and  share  in  the  declared  bonus,  it 
mz  y  be  expected  that  the  cash  bonus  allotted  at  each  division  will 
me  re  than  meet  the  current  charge. 

This  surplus  cash  bonus  may,  on  its  declaration,  either  be  at 
ont  e  received  by  the  Assured,  or,  if  he  prefer  it,  be  converted  into 
an  equivalent  Reversionary  Bonus,  payable  with  the  sum  assured  in 
the  event,  and  in  the  event  only,  of  death  occurring  subsequently 
to  he  attainment  of  an  age  to  be  stated  in  the  Policy. 


Further   particulars  as  to  the   Prime  Cost  System  will   be 
fur  lished  on  application. 


REDUCED  ANNUAL 

PREMIUM 

For  £100  at  death. 

AGE 

NEXT 

ANNUAL 

BIRTH 

PREMIUM. 

DAY. 

£  s.  d. 

20 
21 

h 

22 

9    5 

23 

IO     2 

24 

II      2 

25 

II   II 

26 

12   10 

?* 

13     9 

14    8 

29 

15    8 

30 

16    7 

31 

17    6 

32 

18    5 

33 
34 

19    7 
208 

35 

2     I   10 

36 

232 

$ 

245 
259 

39 

273 

40 

289 

4i 

2   10     3 

42 

2  II     9 

43 

2  13    3 

44 

2   14   II 

9 

2  16    8 

2  18    6 

47 

305 

48 

328 

49 

353 

50 

3    8    i 

INVALID    LIVES. 

SSURANCES   on  Declined   Lives,  or  others  below  the  average  standard   of 
health,    effected   at    rates    proportioned   to  the    risk,   upon    a    system   which 
grac  ually  ameliorates  and  ultimately  nullifies  the  original  surcharge.    (See  Prospectus.) 


Chief  Office:— 15  ST.  JAMES'S  SQUARE,  LONDON,  S.W. 
Branch  Offices:— 3  Bennett's  Hill,  Birmingham;  36  Park  Row,  Leeds;  22  Clare  Street,  Bristol. 


I   ^M^nBi  ^^^^^^A 

CLERICAL 
MEDICAL& 
GENERAL 

LIFE  ASSURANCE  SOCIETY 

T3th    BONUS— 1892. 

QfHORTLY  stated,  the  results  of  the  Bonus  show,  as  the  direct 
.N-'  consequence  of  the  settled  policy  of  the  Directors  in  giving 
increased  strength  to  the  Society  at  successive  Valuations, 

That  the   SOCIETY'S    RESERVES 
r  are  now  the  STRONGEST, 

and   That  its   BONUSES 

are   amongst  the   LARGEST  known. 

[See  further  particulars  on  previous  pages.] 

NEXT    BONUS. 

THE  NEXT  DIVISION  OF  PROFITS  will  take  place  in  January  1897. 
Profit  Policies  effected  now  or  before  the  end  of  June  will  be 
entitled  to  one  year's  additional  share  of  Profits. 

The  Last  Bonus  Report,  the  Full  Prospectus,  Forms  of  Proposal 
and  every  information  on  application. 

B.    NEWBATT, 

November  1893.  ACTUARY  £  SECRETARY. 

CHIEF  OFFICE!  15,  ST  JAMES'S  SQUARE, 
LONDON, 
s.w. 


MACMILLAN'S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS  | 


-'««forofi^1«nr 


MACMILLAN'S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 


THE  BEST  BOOKS  FOR 
HOLIDAY  READING. 


each. 


HANDY  FOR  THE  POCKET 
IN  SIZE  AND  SHAPE. 


Huton^m  li 


Volume  I. 

THE   UPPER    BERTH, 

By  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 

Volume  II. 

MAD    SIR    UCHTRED, 

By  S.  R,  CROCKETT. 

Volume  III. 

BY  REEF  AND  PALM, 

By  LOUIS  BECKE. 

[Shortly. 


What  the  Press  says  about  the  "  AUTO  NY M." 
The  SPEAKER. 

"  If  the  '  Autonym  Library'  keeps  up  to  the 
pitch  of  excellence  attained  by  this 'first  volume 
its  success  is  assured." 

The  ATHEN^UM. 

"The  volumes  promise  to  be  as  handy  in 
shape  and  size  as  those  of  the  original  series  ; 
the  printing  is  excellent,  the'  paper  is  good, 
and  the  external  appearance  is  neat  and  at- 
tractive." 

The  NEWSAGENT. 

"  Altogether  there  is  a  smartness  in  appear- 
ance, and  an  individuality  and  originality 
which  will,  no  doubt,  characterise  the  stories." 

The  GLASGOW  HERALD. 

"The  new  Library  is  very  dainty  and 
pleasing  in  appearance." 


jpseufcon^m  library 


LIST  OF  THE  SERIES. 

1,  Mademoiselle  Ixe.— 2,  The  Story  of  Eleanor  Lam- 
bert.— 3,  A  Mystery  of  the  Campagna. — 4,  The  School 
of  Art.— 5,  Amaryllis.— 6,  The  Hotel  d'Angleterre.— 
7,  A  Russian  Priest. — 8,  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 
9,  European  Relations.— 10,  John  Sherman,andDhoya. 
—11,  Through  the  Red-Litten  Windows.— 12,  Green 
Tea:  A  Love  Story.— 1 3,  Heavy  Laden.— 14,  Makar's 
Dream. — 15,  A  New  England  Cactus. — 16.  The  Herb 
of  Love.— 17.  The  General's  Daughter.— 18,  The  Sag- 
halien  Convict.— 19,  General  Upcott's  Daughter.— 20,  A 
Splendid  Cousin.— 21,  Colette.— 92,  Ottilie.— 23,  A 
Study  in  Temptations.— 24,  The  Cruise  of  the  Wild 
Duck.— 25,  Squire  Hellman.— 26,  A  Father  of  Six.— 27, 
The  Two  Countesses.— 28,  The  Sinner's  Comedy.— 
29,  Cavalleria  Rusticana. — 30,  The  Passing  of  a  Mood. 
—31,  God's  Will.— 32,  Dream  Life  and  Real  Life.— 
33,  The  Home  of  the  Dragon. — 34,  A  Bundle  of  Life. — 
35,  Mimi's  Marriage.— 36,  The  Rousing  of  Mrs. 
Potter.— 37,  A  Study  in  Colour.  — 38,  The  Hon.  Stan- 
bury.— 39,  The  Shen's  Pigtail. — 40,  Young  Sara  and 
Sabina. — 41,  The  Silver  Christ. 


What  the  Press  says  about  the  "PSEUDONYM." 

The  TIMES. 

"The  'Pseudonym  Library'  deserves  the 
success  it  has  done  so  much  to  obtain  from  the 
very  audacity  of  its  conception.  It  was  a  bold 
and  original  idea  to  invite  a  variety  of  writers, 
presumed  to  be  exceptionally  gifted,  to  merge 
their  personalities  in  that  of  their  publishers, 
and  bring  any  fame  they  might  gain  to  a  com- 
mon stock.  The  result,  so  far  as  the  scheme 
has  been  parried  out,  has  been  to  give  us  a 
series  of  novelettes  very  decidedly  above  the 
average;" 

The  SATURDAY  REVIEW. 
"  Delightful  Books  to  hold." 

The  ACADEMY. 

"  Its  narrow  single  column  of  clear  type  is 
very  inviting ;  the  paper  is  good,  and  the 
cover  pleasing." 

The  GRAPHIC. 

"  These  quaint-shaped  booklets  always  pro- 
mise originality." 


LONDON:  T.  FISHER  UN  WIN,  PATERNOSTER  SQUARE,  E.G. 


^-^OT^ 

MESSRS.  LONGMANS  &  CO.'S  LIST 


WORKS    BY    H.    RIDER 

SHE.  g  d 

32  Illustrations.  QSrd  Thousand^  6 

ALLAN  QUATERMAIN. 

31  Illustrations.  63rd  Thousand  3  6 

MAIWA'S  REVENGE. 

(Boards,  Is.)  mh  Thousand  1  6 

COLONEL  QUARITCH,  V.C. 

28th  Thousand  3  6 
CLEOPATRA. 

29  Illustrations.  43rd  Thousand  3  6 

BEATRICE.  26th  Thousand  3  6 

ERIC  BRIGHT-EYES. 

51  Illustrations.  25th  Thousand  3  6 

NADA  THE  LILY.     23rd  Thousand  6  0 

23  Illustrations. 


HAGGARD. 


MONTEZUMA'S  DAUGHTER.     ,  d 
AT  T  A         mtionS-  2W*  Thousand  6  0 

ALLAN'S  WIFE,       16*   Thousand  3  6 

and  other  Tales.     34  Illus 
THE  WITCH'S  HEAD. 

With  Illustrations.       33rd  Thousand  3  6 
MR.   MEESON'S  WILL. 

With  Illustrations.       15th  Thousand  3  6 

DAWN. 

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Contributions  by  the  following  eminent  writers  have  appeared   in  its  columns  : 


Lord  Tennyson. 

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Edmond  About. 
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The  Earl  of  Redesdale. 


Sir  James  Pagct,  Bart. 
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G.  F.  Watts,  R.A. 
Pere  Hyacinthe. 
SirTheodore  Martin,  K.C.B. 
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Justin  McCarthy,  M.P. 
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Dr.  Charles  Mackay, 
C.  Kegan  Paul. 
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Professor  A.  Vambery. 
Syed  Ameer  Ali. 
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Samuel  Latng,  M.P. 
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Dr.  Octavius  Sturges. 
Dr.  Seymour  Sharkey. 
E.  Raoul  Duval. 
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Professor  Max  M  tiller. 
Mrs.  Algernon  Kingsford. 
CONTENTS  for  JUNE,  1894.— Checks  on  Democracy  in  America. 


Rev  Dr.  Wright. 

James  W.  Barclay,  M.P. 

W.  Bence  Jones. 

Sir  Alex.  J.  Arbuthnot. 

Lord  Colin  Campbell,  M.P. 

Dr.  T.  Lauder  Brunton. 

Dr.  Siemens,  F.R.S. 

Hamilton  Aide. 

C.  F.  Gordon  Gumming. 

Lord  Stanley  of  Alderley. 

His  Excellency  Count   de 

Falbe. 

Ahmed  Arabi. 
Prince  Krapotkine. 
Maria  Trench. 
Hon.W.St.J.Brodrick,M.P. 
C.  E.  Lewis,  M.P. 
Wm.  Rathbone,  M.P. 
Rev.  Canon  Gregory. 
Lady  Paget. 

SirLi  ntornSi  mmons,  G.  C .  B . 
Sydney  C.  Buxton,  M.P. 
Rt.  Hon.  Lord  Lifford. 
Samuel  Plimsoll. 
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Prof.  MonierWilliams.C.LE. 
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Marquis  of  Blaudford. 
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Rt.  Hon.  Lord  Monteagle. 
Sir  R.  Loyd  Lindsay,  V.C. 
M.  Joseph  Reinach. 
Rt.  Hon.  Earl  De  la  Warr. 
M.  Emile  de  Lavelaye. 
Rt.  Hon.  Earl  Derby. 
W.  Farrer  Ecroyd,  M.P. 
Sir  John  Pope  Hennessy. 
Rev.  Dr.  F.  G.  Lee. 
The  Earl  of  Lytton. 
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Principal  Tulloch,  D.D. 
Charles  Milnes  Gaskell. 
Hon.  E.  Lyulph  Stanley. 
Prof.  Owen,  C.B.,  F.R.S. 
M.  le Baron  D'Estournelles. 
F.  C.  Burnaud. 
Rev.  Stopford  A.  Brooke. 
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Professor  G.  A.  Macfarren. 
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SirHenryParkes,  K.C.M.G. 
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The  Duke  of  St.  Albans. 
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R.  W.  Dale. 
H.  O.  Arnold  Forster. 


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Leslie  Stephen. 
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H.  D.  Traill. 
Sir  Henry  Taylor. 
Rt.  Hon.  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
Herbert  Spencer.        [bury. 
C.  Magniac,  M.P. 
lit.  Hon.  Earl  Camperdown. 
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Kane,   l>e    Vismes,    M.A.,    M.R.I. A..  European  Butterflies          10    6    ...      40 

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