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WITHDRAW 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


VOL.   LXXXV 


MACMILLAN'S 


VOL.  LXXXV 

NOVEMBER,  1901,  TO  APE^L,   1902 


Jtonlion 
MACMILLAN    AND    CO.,   LIMITED 

NEW  YORK:  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1902 


W.J  .  LlMTOM.    3?i 


JOHN  BALE,  SONS  &  DANIELSSON,  LTD. 
83-89,  GREAT  TITOHFIKLD  STRKBT,  LONDON,  W. 


INDEX. 


A  Great  War,  The  Close  of ;  by  the  Hon.  J.  W.  FOETESCUB .321 

An  Unpublished  Poem  by  Robert  Burns 30 

Art  and  Life  ;  by  LEWIS  F.  DAY 429 

Art  of  Friendship,  The 106 

Australian  Verse,  Some 136 

British  Officer  and  his  Foreign  Critics,  The  ;  by  Lieut.-Colonel  MAUDE       .     .     .  208 

Capture  of  Hassein,  The 256 

Chinamen,  The  ;  by  ROBIN  ROSCOE 461 

Dickens  and  Modern  Humour 31 

Did  Napoleon  mean  to  Invade  England  ?  by  DAVID  HANNAY 285 

Dinners  and  Diners 49 

Dolls  the  Gold-finder 150 

Dr.  Johnson  among  the  Poets  ;  by  H.  C.  MINCHIN 98 

Edward  Fitzgerald  on  Music  and  Musicians  ;  by  0.  W.  JAMES 330 

Evangeline,  The  Story  of ;  by  CHARLES  EDWARDES 118 

Forecasts  of  the  Future ;  by  JESSE  QUAIL 219 

Francesco  Crispi ;  by  G.  M.  FIAMINGO 24 

For  the  Honour  of  his  Corps  ;  by  HUGH  CLIFFORD,  C.M.G 302 

Gods  and  Little  Fishes  ;  by  the  Rev.  J.  SCOULAR  THOMSON 181 

Golf  (The  Man  and  the  Book)  ;  by  MARTIN  HARDIE 45 

His  Last  Letter 226 

India,  Ethnographic  Survey  of  ;  by  F.  H.  BROWN 128 

King  Drought ;  by  W.  H.  OGILVIE 460 

Land  of  the  Poppy,  The  ;  by  G.  A.  LEVETT-YEATS  : 

IV.— Its  River-Life 88 

Legion  of  the  Lost,  The ;  by  JOHN  OXENHAM 385 

Mystery  of  Collaboration,  The 70 

National  Games  and  the  National  Character 295 

New  Art,  The  ;  by  LEWIS  F.  DAY 19 

Novels  with  a  Moral ;  by  B.  N.  LANGDON-DAVIES 441 

Object-Lesson,  An • 362 

Ode  to  Japan  ;  by  A.  C.  BENSON 439 

"  Paradise  Lost,"  Who  wrote  ?          338 


Index. 

PAGE 

Pater's  Philosophy  of  Life 193 

Path  in  the  Great  Waters,  A  ;  by  W.  J.  FLETCHER 401 

Primrose-Day 428 

Princess  Puck : 

Chapters  xxin. — xxvi 1 

Chapters  xxvn. — xxx 81 

Chapters  xxxi. — xxxrv 161 

Chapters  xxxv. — xxxvn 241 

Bed  Torches  and  White 279 

Revival  of  a  Language,  The ;  by  STEPHEN  GWYNN 281 

Euler  of  Taroika,  The  ;  by  HAROLD  BINDLOSS 843 

Samuel  Richardson  and  George  Meredith 356 

Shepherding  on  the  Fells  in  Winter  ;  by  W.  T.  PALMER 879 

Sir  William  Molesworth  and  the  Colonial  Reformers 371 

Slaves  of  the  Oar 452 

Snug  Little  Shooting-Box,  A ;  by  T.  E.  KILBY 144 

Song  of  Dartmoor,  A 117 

Stampede  of  the  Black  Range  Cattle,  The ;  by  A.  B.  PATERSON 274 

St.  Louis  of  "  The  Crisis,"  The  ;  by  Professor  DIXON       188 

St.  Lucia,  1778  ;  by  the  Hon.  J.  W.  FORTESCUB 419 

That  Strain  Again 870 

The  Sleeping  City,  Over ;  by  the  Rev.  J.  M.  BACON 55 

Tom  D'Urfey  ;  by  W.  G.  HUTCHISON 61 

Type  of  the  Town,  A ;  by  ERNEST  G.  HENHAM 350 

Victor  Hugo ;  by  H.  C.  MACDOWALL      .     . 811 

Wards  of  God;  by  GERALD  BRENAN • Ill 

Welsh  Marches,  On  the ;  by  A.  G.  BRADLEY 264 

Where  the  Pelican  builds  its  Nest ;  by  ALEXANDER  MACDONALD 199 


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MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


NOVEMBER,    1901. 


PRINCESS   PUCK. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

POLLY  may  have  been  a  clever 
woman,  as  Mr.  James  Brownlow  had 
said  she  was,  but  in  his  catalogue  of 
her  abilities  he  omitted  to  mention  her 
one  great  gift,  her  undeniable  talent 
for  getting  things.  She  was  a  true 
collector  and  picker-up  of  trifles  ;  she 
had  brought  this  too  little  appre- 
ciated art  to  a  rare  perfection,  and  she 
never  went  anywhere  without  acquir- 
ing something,  never  came  home  com- 
pletely empty-handed,  never  declined 
or  passed  by  a  single  article  or  oppor- 
tunity however  trivial  or  cumbersome. 
Her  motto  was  It  might  be  useful. 
"If  she  went  to  the  Sahara,"  Bill 
said,  "  she  would  bring  home  sand 
for  the  chickens'  run."  But  besides 
the  collector's  art  Polly  possessed  the 
true  genius  for  getting,  not  begging 
nor  demanding,  but  annexing  calmly 
as  by  right  divine,  or  acquiring 
gracefully  as  bestowing  a  favour  in 
accepting  one.  "  I  don't  ask  for 
things,"  she  used  to  say ;  "  people 
always  offer  them  to  me.  I  am  sure 
I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  they  do, 
and  it  looks  so  rude  to  refuse." 

So  she  never  refused,  and  seldom 
went  anywhere  or  met  anyone  with- 
out directly  or  indirectly  turning  the 
occasion  to  profit.  Bymouth  did  not 
promise  a  very  likely  field  for  her 
abilities,  but  even  here  she  found 
and  seized  an  opportunity.  It  was 
No.  505. — VOL.  LXXXV, 


late  in  the  visit  certainly,  not  till 
after  their  fellow-lodgers  had  gone. 
This  took  place  on  Tuesday,  the  day 
on  which  Bill  told  Kit  Harborough 
of  the  claim. 

The  drawing-room  family  left  at 
one  o'clock,  the  cousins  watching  them 
go.  They  drove  to  Bybridge  in  a 
small  wagonette,  and  it  was  interest- 
ing to  see  them  getting  into  it,  for 
the  family  was  large,  far  too  large  for 
the  wagonette. 

"  They  will  never  do  it,"  Bella  said 
as  she  watched  them. 

"  After  the  way  in  which  they 
packed  into  that  bedroom,"  Polly  re- 
marked severely,  "  I  should  say  they 
could  go  anywhere  or  anyhow." 

"  They  had  two  bedrooms,"  Bill 
said ;  "  there  was  another  up  the 
yard." 

"  I  call  it  positively  indecent,"  was 
Polly's  opinion,  but  Bill  asked  : 
"  Where  is  the  indecency  ?  The  girls 
were  in  one  and  the  boys  in  the 
other.  Mrs.  looked  after  the  girls 
and  Mr.  after  the  boys ;  they  had 
more  space  apiece  than  we  three  have, 
and  I  am  sure  we  are  all  right." 

Polly  explained  that  their  own 
arrangement  was  quite  different  and 
much  better,  but  Bill,  who  had  now 
joined  Bella  at  the  window,  did  not 
pay  any  attention  to  her. 

"  Oh,  do  come  and  look,  Polly,"  she 
said ;  "  they  have  nearly  done  it. 
They  would  do  it  easily  if  it  were  not 


Princess  Puc~k. 


for  the  luggage ;  they  ought  to  have 
a  cart  for  that." 

"They  are  far  too  stingy,"  Polly 
observed  contemptuously. 

"  The  mother  will  nurse  the  baby," 
Bill  went  on,  "and  the  father  the 
next-sized  one,  and  the  little  girl  that 
big  bundle.  They  have  left  one  box 
out." 

"Where  will  they  put  it?"  Bella 
said. 

"They  can't  get  it  in  front,"  was 
Bill's  opinion;  "the  coachman  can 
hardly  see  round  the  rampart  of 
luggage  as  it  is.  They  are  going 
to  try  though.  If  they  would  put 
it  inside  it  could  be  managed.  There 
it  goes  !  I  knew  it  would  fall  off  the 
front !  If  you  were  to  put  it — " 

"Come  in,  Bill!"  Polly  seized 
Bill's  arm.  "  Come  in  at  once  !  It 
is  no  business  of  yours  ;  let  people 
manage  their  own  concerns.  I  am 
ashamed  of  you  ! " 

But  Bill  was  not  ashamed  of  her- 
self ;  she  was  far  too  much  absorbed 
in  the  difficulties  of  the  family  to  care 
for  Polly,  and  when  someone  in  the 
wagonette  below  having  heard  her 
voice  called  up  to  know  what  she  had 
said,  she  leaned  out  of  the  window 
again  and  told  them.  "  Put  it  inside ; 
I  believe  you  could  do  it  then, — not 
that  way,  small  end  down.  You 
don't  mind  me  suggesting  it,  do  you  ? 
It  would  have  been  such  a  pity" 
("  Bill !  ")  "  if  you  couldn't  all  get  in. 
That's  right ;  now  "  ("  Bill !  Shut 
that  window,  Bella.")  "  if  the  two 
little  boys  sit  on  it  and  the  biggest 
one  stands  on  the  step — that's  splen- 
did!" 

"  Shut  that  window,  Bella  !  " 

Bella  shut  the  window  almost  on 
to  Bill's  neck,  leaving  her  no  choice 
but  to  draw  her  head  in.  The  family, 
•who  did  not  appear  to  resent  her 
interference,  shouted  their  thanks  to 
where  she  had  been,  while  Bella,  who 
had  been  as  much  annoyed  as  Polly 


by  Bill's  behaviour,  joined  the  elder 
cousin  in  telling  the  culprit  so. 

But  Bill  did  not  mind  much.  "  It 
would  have  been  such  a  pity  if  they 
had  not  managed  it,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  don't  believe  they  could  any  other 
way." 

"It  was  no  affair  of  yours,"  Bella 
said  ;  "  I  don't  see  why  you  wanted 
to  make  such  an  exhibition  of  yourself. 
There  were  people  passing  too,  one 
of  those  shooting  men  from  the  River 
House  had  just  come  out  of  the  post- 
office;  he  did  stare  at  you,  and  no 
wonder ! " 

Bill  said  she  did  not  care,  which 
was  true ;  but  she  did  not  know  that 
the  man  described  the  incident,  in- 
clusive of  her  and  her  directions,  in 
Kit  Harborough's  hearing  that  even- 
ing. Kit  recognised  her  from  the 
description,  as  Gilchrist  had  done 
when  his  lawyer-friend  Ferguson  de- 
scribed her,  and  Kit,  like  Gilchrist, 
did  not  betray  her  identity.  He  said 
even  less  about  her  than  did  Gilchrist, 
though  he  experienced  a  youthful 
desire  to  knock  the  informant  down 
when  .he  announced  an  intention  of 
finding  out  who  the  girl  was.  But 
the  pugilistic  wish  was  restrained,  Kit 
reflecting  that,  as  Bill  was  leaving 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  it  was  most 
unlikely  the  fellow  would  find  out 
anything  about  her ;  and,  after  all, 
that  he  should  wish  to  do  so  was,  in 
Kit's  opinion,  quite  natural  and  only 
what  was  to  be  expected.  It  was 
also,  in  the  same  opinion,  quite  natural 
that  Bill  should  assist  the  family  in 
the  wagonette  with  her  advice,  quite 
natural  and  quite  right ;  indeed,  so 
right  that  Kit  never  questioned  its 
propriety  at  all,  possibly  because  she 
did  it ;  though  in  his  defence  it  must 
be  said  that  he  troubled  less  about 
the  correctness  of  an  action  than  did 
Gilchrist,  thinking  not  at  all  of  "  how 
it  looked."  He  had  been  brought  up 
among  people  who,  being  quite  sure 


Princess  Puck. 


of  themselves  and  their  public,  never 
troubled  their  heads  about  how  a 
thing  might  look. 

Polly  had  not  been  so  brought  up, 
and,  conscious  that  her  actions  would 
not  always  bear  investigation,  she  was 
most  anxious  that  appearances  should, 
when  possible,  be  beyond  reproach. 
She  lectured  Bill  proportionately,  and 
was,  as  usual,  listened  to  with  indiffer- 
ence ;  but  when  at  last  Polly  brought 
her  remarks  to  a  close  with,  "  It  was 
like  everything  else  you  do,  most  un- 
ladylike," Bill  said  rather  wistfully  : 
"  I  suppose  I  am  unladylike,  Polly  ] " 
"Hopelessly,"  was  the  crushing 
answer. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  better,"  the 
voice  was  a  shade  more  wistful ;  "  I 
would  try  if  I  knew  what  to  do." 

"  Don't  lean  out  of  the  window  to 
give  advice  to  strangers,"  Polly  said, 
and  Bill  making  no  reply,  she  began 
to  perceive  that  her  young  cousin  was 
in  an  unusually  pliant  mood.  Seeing 
this  she  seized  the  opportunity,  the 
first  that  had  offered,  of  speaking  to 
her  about  her  behaviour  to  Gilchrist. 
As  a  preliminary  she  heaved  a  deep 
ligh,  and,  after  a  quick  glance  at  the 
•1,  began  with  chastened  mildness. 
"  After  all,"  she  said,  "  to  lean  out 
the  window  like  that  is  only  a 
small  thing,  but  it  is  an  illustration 
of  your  ways.  Your  ways  often 
trouble  me,  Bill,  do  you  know  that  ? 
Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  shall  give  you 
up  entirely,  and  then  again  sometimes 
I  think  you  really  are  ignorant  and 
would  try  to  do  better  if  you  only 
knew  how  your  behaviour  looked." 

Bill  twisted  restively,  Polly's  voice 
having  taken  on  the  melancholy  semi- 
nasal  drawl  which  belonged  to  her 
part  of  the  grieved  guardian.  Bill 
did  not  believe  in  her  at  any  time, 
and  that  afternoon  the  manner  irri- 
tated instead  of  amusing.  But  she  was 
sincerely  convinced  of  her  own  short- 
comings, and  though  she  had  no  great 


opinion  of  Polly,  there  was  no  one 
else  to  whom  she  could  go ;  so  she 
said:  "Tell  me  what  I  do  wrong;  you 
need  not  put  in  all  that  about  being 
sorry  and  the  rest ;  I  know  how  that 
goes,  and  can  fill  it  in  for  myself." 

"  Thank  you,  Bill,"  Polly  said  with 
dignity  ;  but  quickly  seeing  the  girl's 
attitude  of  mind  and  the  precarious- 
ness  of  her  own  opportunity,  she 
shortened  her  part  and,  after  a  brief 
remark  on  her  cousin's  impoliteness 
and  her  own  forbearance,  got  to  busi- 
ness without  further  delay. 

"  You  want  to  know  where  I  think 
you  wrong  ?  I  will  tell  you  one  or  two 
things," — she  spoke  as  one  who  has 
a  wide  range  of  examples  from  which 
to  choose.  "  There  is  your  behaviour 
to  Gilchrist  to  begin  with  ;  you  do  not 
behave  at  all  nicely  to  him." 

"To  Theo!"  Bill  exclaimed  in 
astonishment,  "  to  him  !  What  do  I 
do  wrong  to  him  ? " 

"  You  call  him  Theo  for  one  thing ; 
he  objects  to  it  and  it  is  ridiculous  ; 
all  nicknames  are  ridiculous." 
"All?" 

"  Yes,  all ;  and  abbreviations  of 
names  are  almost  as  bad, — I  don't 
see  why  you  should  not  be  called 
Wilhelmina  instead  of  Bill.  It  does 
not  suit  you,  it  is  true,  but  I  am  sure 
he  would  prefer  it,  besides  Bill  is 
vulgar ;  don't  you  think  so  yourself  ? " 
"  He  can  call  me  Wilhelmina  if  he 
likes,"  Bill  said  in  a  subdued  voice. 
"And  as  for  Theo,  that  is  easily 
altered ;  he  can  be  Gilchrist  if  he 
wishes  it,  though  I  think  it  is  quite 
as  unsuitable  for  him  as  Wilhelmina 
for  me." 

"My  dear  Bill,"— Polly  was  de- 
lighted to  have  made  so  much  impres- 
sion— "it  is  not  a  question  of  what 
you  think  but  of  what  he  wishes. 
You  ought  to  consider  his  wishes; 
you  ought  to  try  to  please  him  and 
consult  his  tastes;  remember,  he  is 
proposing  to  give  you  a  great  deal, 

B  2 


Princess  Puck. 


and  as  you  can  give  him  nothing  in 
return  except  a  little  consideration, 
it  is  hardly  right  to  withhold  that  as 
you  do." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Bill's 
voice,  quiet  and  cold,  was  almost 
like  that  of  one  who  faces  an  un- 
expected shock. 

Polly,  really  in  her  element  now, 
enumerated  a  list  of  the  things  Bill 
had  done  wrong,  or  might  have  done 
right,  concluding  her  remarks  with, 
— "  Try  to  be  pleasant  to  him,  talk 
seriously  when  he  wants  you  to,  be 
cheerful  and  lively  when  he  is  in  the 
humour  for  it,  put  on  your  best  dress 
and  try  to  make  yourself  look  nice 
when  he  comes.  It  is  your  duty,  you 
know,  you  owe  it  to  him.  Make  the 
most  of  yourself  ;  don't  set  him  to 
water  the  garden  and  so  on,  but  talk 
to  him  and  be  pleasant." 
"  Always,  do  you  mean  ? " 
There  was  something  very  like 
consternation  in  Bill's  tone,  but  Polly 
did  not  know  it,  and  answered  readily, 
— "  Yes,  of  course." 

"Always?"  Bill  dropped  her 
hands  on  the  table.  "I  can't  do 
it,"  she  said  vehemently  :  "it  is 
simply  no  use,  Polly,  I  can't  do  it ; 
I  shall  have  to  throw  it  up." 

"  Throw  what  up  ?  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"  I  can't  be  respectable  always ;  it 
is  no  use  trying  ;  he  would  be  sure  to 
find  me  out  after  we  were  married,  if 
not  before.  He  knew  the  sort  of 
person  I  was  when  he  asked  me  to 
marry  him  ;  if  he  did  not  like  it  why 
did  he  ask  me  ?  " 

"  You  did  not  call  him  Theo  before 
you  were  engaged,"  Polly  said,  wisely 
attacking  the  details  and  not  the 
mass  of  Bill's  protest.  "  And  of 
course,"  she  went  on,  "  people  usually 
expect  their  fiancees  will  be  nice  to 
them.  The  average  girl  does  it  as 
a  matter  of  course  because  she  wishes 
to ;  it  is  because  you  do  not  seem  to 


know  what  is  expected  of  you,  and 
never  wish  to  do  what  is  right,  that 
I  have  had  to  speak  to  you." 

"It  is  part  of    the    contract,   you 
think  ?  "  Bill  asked. 

"  Certainly  not ;  there  is  no   con- 
tract in  the  matter." 

So  Polly  said,   but  Bill    took    her 
meaning  otherwise,  as  it  was  intended 
she   should,    and    there   was    a   long 
silence.      Polly,    feeling    the   subject 
was  closed,  rose  and  moved  about  the 
room,  while  Bill  sat  lost  in  thought. 
At   last    the   younger   cousin   spoke. 
"  I  will  try  to  do  what  is  right,"  she 
said,    "I    will    really.     I'll   write   to 
Theo — to    Gilchrist    this    afternoon, 
though  I  did  write  yesterday.    I'll  take 
the  letter  out  on  the  sands  with  me." 
Polly  was  very  much  pleased  ;  here 
was  an    obvious  sign   of   repentance, 
and  one  moreover  which  would  keep 
Bill    from    wading    for    shrimps,    an 
occupation   she   herself   strongly  dis- 
approved  of.      She   set   off    for   the 
shore   that    afternoon    with    a    really 
happy  mind ;    she  had   settled    Bill's 
affairs,  she  had  arranged  for  a  good 
tea  when  she  should  come  in,  and  the 
drawing-room   family,   a  great  source 
of  annoyance  to  her,  were  gone.     She 
felt  very  well  pleased  with  the  world 
in  general  and  herself  in  particular 
as  she  sat  watching  Bill  writing  her 
letter,  a  grotesquely  and  pathetically 
polite  letter  it  was  too,  if  only  she 
had  known  it.     Polly  felt  that   the 
stay  at  Bymouth  had  been  most  suc- 
cessful;    before   she   finally   left   she 
was  even  more  convinced  of  this,  for 
while  at  the  little  seaside  resort  she 
achieved  a   piece   of   business  which 
even   astonished    herself.       "  Fancy," 
she    used    to    say    with    complacency 
afterwards,  "  fancy  meeting  my  future 
landlord  at  a  little  place  like  that !  " 

But  this  she  did  in  the  person  of 
the  old  gentleman  who  came  to  the 
drawing-room  floor  on  Tuesday  even- 
ing. He  only  arrived  on  Tuesday, 


Princess  Puck. 


and  Polly  left  on  Thursday ;  but  she 
made  good  use  of  her  time  and  struck 
up  a  great  friendship  with  him  and 
his  wife,  sympathising  with  their  ail- 
ments, recommending  a  butcher,  telling 
them  in  the  course  of  time  something 
of  her  own  difficulties.  They  were 
interested,  pleased,  favourably  im- 
ressed.  They  gave  her  a  good  deal 
of  advice, — this  she  asked  for  but  did 
not  necessarily  take  ;  they  also  even- 
tually gave  her  a  little  help, — this 
she  did  not  ask  for  but,  true  to  her 
rule,  took  without  hesitation. 

The  old  gentleman  had  some  house 
property  in  London,  small  houses 
Bayswater  way,  "  a  shrewd  invest- 
ment,"— Polly  was  sure  of  it.  The 
tenants  had  been  giving  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  lately,  "  disgraceful,"  — 
Polly  was  sympathetic.  It  was  a 
capital  place  for  apartments,  and 
Polly  could  not  do  better  than  settle 
in  that  part  when  she  made  her 
"  plucky  venture  ;  "  that  was  the  old 
gentleman's  advice.  One  of  the 
houses  was  empty  now,  and  before 
Polly  left  on  Thursday,  she  was 
warmly  pressed  to  take  it  on  the 
most  advantageous  terms ;  that  was 
the  old  gentleman's  offer. 

Polly  thanked  him  in  her  very  best 
manner,  saying  she  doubly  appreciated 
his  kindness  since  she  was  so  much 
alone  in  the  world.  Mr.  Brownlow 
had  died  during  the  summer,  and 
Polly  said  at  the  time  that  it  was 
>nvenient  as  they  were  already  in 
ourning ;  she  said  it  was  convenient 
ow,  since  she  was  consequently  free 
to  conduct  her  affairs  without  his 
advice  and  criticism.  She  did  not 
say  this  to  the  old  gentleman,  but 
told  him,  after  thanking  him  for  his 
offer,  that  she  must  talk  it  over  with 
her  cousins  before  finally  accepting 
it ;  adding  that  she  was  nearly  sure 
of  their  approval,  quite  sure  of  their 
obligation  on  her  behalf  and  their 

Iwn  for  his  kindness, — and  so  forth. 


Polly  was  vastly  pleased  with  her- 
self and  detailed  the  whole  affair  with 
much  satisfaction  to  the  two  younger 
girls  as  they  had  a  hurried  lunch  before 
starting  on  their  walk  to  Bybridge 
station.  Bella  was  not  at  all  con- 
gratulatory; she  did  not  like  having 
the  family  affairs  discussed  with 
strangers,  neither  did  she  like  posing 
as  part  of  Polly's  responsibilities. 

"  I  am  not,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  say  I  am.  I  am 
only  your  cousin  and  that  is  no  re- 
sponsibility, and  not  such  a  wonder- 
fully near  relationship  either." 

"No,"  Polly  retorted,  "not  when 
you  are  married  to  a  rich  man  like 
Jack  Dawson  and  I  let  lodgings  in 
town  for  a  bare  living ;  the  relation- 
ship will  not  be  near  then  I  admit," 
and  Polly  sniffed. 

"I  didn't  mean  that !  "  Bella  cried  ; 
"  Oh,  you  are  unkind  !  I  don't  look 
down  on  you  and  I  never  shall ;  it  is 
with  your  cadging  ways  that  I  hate 
to  be  mixed  up." 

"  Polly  is  a  born  cadger,"  Bill  said 
resignedly,  "  and  we  are  part  of  her 
stock  in  trade.  She  is  like  a  beggar- 
woman  singing  in  the  street  and  never 
asking  for  pennies,  but  always  getting 
them.  I  am  her  hired  baby  and  you 
are  her  imitation  cough  ;  she  would 
not  get  on  nearly  so  well  without  us." 

"Well,  at  all  events  you  reap  the 
benefit  ^of  what  I  get,"  Polly  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Bill  agreed  readily. 

"  And  I  don't  think,  Bill,  that  you 
will  ever  despise  me."  Polly's  tone 
was  becoming  highly  moral.  "It  is 
a  great  comfort  to  me  to  think  that 
when  you  leave  me  and  marry  you 
will  never  look  down  on  or  ignore 
me.  It  is  true  you  will  never  have 
Bella's  temptation,  but  I  am  sure  you 
would  not  do  it." 

"  You  are  unkind  !  "  Bella  repeated. 
But  Bill's  face  had  suddenly  har- 
dened ;  she  was  thinking  of  Gilchrist 
and  Wood  Hall  and  the  county  who 


Princess  Puck. 


were  going  to  be  compelled  to  recog- 
nise him  and  his  wife, — his  wife  who 
would  have  to  reform  and  perhaps 
forget. 

"  No,"  she  said  suddenly,  almost 
passionately ;  "  I  will  never  forget 
you,  Polly,  never  look  down  on  you, 
never,  no  matter  where  I  am,  nor 
what  I  become.  If  I  lived  in  a  palace 
you  should  come  and  stay  with  me ; 
if  I  married  a  king  he  should  receive 
you  and  take  you  in  to  dinner,  and  all 
the  silly  courtiers  should  bow  down  to 
you  because  you  were  mine.  You  are 
an  old  fraud,  Polly,  and  a  cadger,  and 
a  bit  of  a  humbug  too,  but  I  am  fond 
of  you  all  the  same.  "We  are  not 
swells,  you  and  I,  but  we  will  stand 
by  each  other,  and  I  will  never,  never 
forget ! " 

"  That  is  a  very  nice  spirit,"  Polly 
said  impressively  and  very  much 
through  her  nose. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  forget  ?  " 
Bella  asked  rather  hurt.  "  You  seem 
to  think  I  am  a  horrid  creature." 

"  No,  we  don't,"  Bill  answered  her, 
"  of  course  we  don't ;  we  know  really 
that  you  never  would  be  ashamed  of 
your  grubby  relations.  Don't  let  us 
talk  any  more  nonsense  about  it." 

So  peace  was  restored,  and  Polly 
began  cutting  slices  off  the  cold 
shoulder  of  mutton  while  the  younger 
girls  finished  their  lunch. 

"  If  you  married  a  king,"  Bella 
said  to  Bill  laughing,  "  he  might 
object  to  Polly  walking  up  to  the 
palace  with  a  nose-bag  of  apples 
sticking  out  of  the  middle  of  her 
mackintosh." 

"  Not  if  he  had  married  me ;  he 
would  have  got  used  to  that  sort  of 
thing." 

Bella  laughed  again.  "  It  is  a  good 
thing  your  Theo  is  not  very  particular 
about  appearances." 

"  You  don't  know  very  much  about 
Theo,"  Bill  answered  quietly. 

"I    know    this    much,"    Bella    re- 


plied; "he  will  not  let  you  do  just 
as  you  like  if  it  happens  to  be  some- 
thing he  does  not  like  and  has  good 
reason  to  think  wrong." 

"  There  may  be  difficulties,"  Bill 
admitted  with  the  glimmer  of  a  smile, 
her  war-smile  which  Polly  knew  to 
her  cost. 

"  Bill  is  very  easy  to  manage  when 
you  understand  her,"  that  lady  said 
as  she  sharpened  her  knife.  "  Gil- 
christ  will  find  out  how  to  do  it  in 
time  ;  at  least  he  may." 

She  added  the  last  words  under  her 
breath,  neither  of  the  others  hearing 
her,  for  Bella  was  asking  in  astonish- 
ment :  "  You  would  never  really 
oppose  a  man  you  loved,  would  you, 
Bill  ? " 

Bill  debated  the  question  for  a 
moment  looking  straight  before  her. 
"  No,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  suppose 
I  should  not."  Then  she  changed 
the  subject  abruptly  :  "  What  is  that 
meat  for,  Polly  1 " 

"  To  take  home  with  us.  I  am  not 
going  to  leave  all  that  good  meat 
behind ;  there  is  quite  enough  now 
on  the  bone  to  look  decent,  and  it 
would  be  a  great  pity  to  leave  all 
this." 

Bella  did  not  approve  of  this  pro- 
ceeding, but  Polly,  untroubled  by 
her  objections,  packed  the  meat  up. 
"  There,"  she  said,  giving  the  parcel 
a  final  pat,  "  it  will  come  in  very 
nicely  for  our  supper  when  we  get 
home,  and  I  am  sure  there  is  quite 
a  lot  on  the  joint  still." 

Bill  examined  it  gravely.  "  There 
is  enough  for  our  cat  here,"  she  said ; 
"  it  seems  a  pity  to  leave  that.  Let's 
take  it ;  we  haven't  time  to  scrape  it 
off,  but  you  might  put  the  bone  in 
your  hat-box ;  it  would  go  in  if  I 
broke  it  in  half." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Bill,"  Polly 
said  with  dignity,  "  ridiculous  and 
mean.  I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh 
at,  Bella." 


Princess  Puck. 


Apparently  Bella  did,  but  Polly 
never  minded  being  laughed  at,  and 
it  was  in  a  friendly  fashion  that  the 
three  cousins  started  for  home.  In 
the  main  the  three  agreed  admirably ; 
Bella  seldom  opposed  Polly,  and  Bill, 
since  she  had  developed  an  oppos- 
ing individuality,  had  been  little 
with  them  ;  moreover,  she  was  of 
a  nature  with  which  it  was  not  easy 
to  quarrel.  Polly,  however,  having  a 
respect  for  her  ability  to  give  trouble 
on  occasions,  sent  her  back  to  Theresa 
at  Ashelton  two  days  after  their  re- 
turn to  Wrugglesby.  "  I  have  got 
a  lot  of  things  to  settle/'  she  ex- 
plained to  Bella,  "  and  I  can  do 
them  better  without  her." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

So  Bill  was  packed  off  to  Ashelton, 
and  then  Polly  proceeded  to  settle 
things  to  her  own  complete  satis- 
faction. She  saw  the  house  in 
Bayswater  and  settled  that ;  she 
saw  the  parents  of  the  few  pupils  re- 
maining to  her  and  settled  them  very 
completely ;  and  then  she  wound  up 
her  connection  with  Wrugglesby  with 
but  few  difficulties  and  not  a  single 
regret. 

"  Well,  I  cannot  say  I  ever  cared 
for  it,"  she  said  when  Bella  expressed 
some  natural  sorrow  at  leaving  the 
town  which  had  been  her  home  for 
nearly  seven  years.  "  I  never  was 
fitted  for  a  pokey  little  place  like 
this  ;  I  need  a  wider  life." 

"It  may  be  pokey,"  Bella  declared 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  but  I  like  it, 
and  I  am  sorry  to  leave  it,  and  to 
leave  the  shabby  old  house  and  the 
shabby  old  furniture." 

"  We  are  not  leaving  the  furni- 
ture," Polly  said  quickly.  "  We  are 
taking  all  we  want  with  us,  and  only 
selling  what  is  of  no  use  to  any  of 
us.  You  and  Theresa  have  each 


chosen  what  you  wanted ;  one  can't 
keep  all  the  rubbish." 

The  last  was  added  very  decidedly, 
for  there  had  been  some  discussion 
about  the  furniture.  Bella  had  fallen 
in  quietly  enough  with  Polly's  judi- 
cious arrangements,  but  Bill,  who 
cherished  ridiculous  sentiments  about 
old  and  cumbersome  articles  of  fur- 
niture, had  disputed  Polly's  decision 
article  by  article,  winning  sometimes, 
losing  sometimes,  and  only  desisting 
when  it  was  obvious  that  the  little 
house  at  Bayswater  could  hold  no 
more.  All  this  had  taken  place 
during  the  visits  she  and  Theresa 
occasionally  paid  the  cousins  at 
Wrugglesby  during  the  time  of  the 
settlement.  It  was  all  over  now, 
arranged  finally  some  days  ago  ;  Polly 
was  only  afraid  of  reopening  the 
question.  The  three  were  assembled 
for  the  last  time  at  Langford  House, 
Robert  having  driven  Bill  to  Wrug- 
glesby that  afternoon  to  see  the  last 
of  the  old  place  and  the  old  associa- 
tions. There  was  nothing  at  all  to 
be  done,  it  was  really  nonsense  for 
her  to  come,  Polly  said,  and  was  not 
at  all  surprised  that  Bill  did  not 
arrive  till  almost  dark. 

Robert  had  been  delayed  in 
starting,  and  when  Wrugglesby  was 
reached  Bill  would  not  be  driven  to 
the  house,  but  got  down  from  the 
dog-cart  at  the  stables  and  walked, 
with  something  clinking  forgotten  in 
her  pocket,  down  the  familiar  streets, 
saying  a  silent  good-bye.  It  was  a 
grey,  gusty  afternoon,  the  first  of 
October.  There  were  dead  leaves  in 
the  quiet  corners, — all  the  corners 
were  quiet  here — and  the  wind  came 
now  and  then  whirling  them  about  her 
feet.  It  was  a  good  wind,  fresh  and 
sweet  for  all  its  strength,  and  the 
girl  felt  she  loved  it ;  it  was  the 
home- wind  to  her,  the  wind  of  the 
Eastern  Counties.  And  the  greyness 
and  the  peace  and  the  great  sense 


Princess  Puck, 


of  space  and  abundant  room  were 
home  to  her,  the  land  of  the  Eastern 
Counties,  not  grand  at  all,  but  still 
and  wide,  and  very,  very  dear. 

She  stood  a  moment  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  little  town  looking  across 
the  well  remembered  country.  Then 
she  turned  and  walked  home  through 
the  small,  ill-paved  streets,  past  the 
familiar  shops, — those  with  the  new 
fronts,  those  with  the  old  many- 
paned  windows ;  past  the  police- 
station,  the  Georgian  house  with  the 
legend  County  Police  set  over  the 
door  ;  past  the  church  with  its  ancient 
burying-ground  where,  five  steps 
above  the  town,  Aunt  Isabel  slept 
under  the  dark  green  grass  and 
fluttering  sycamore  leaves ;  past  gen- 
teel houses  with  small  gardens  where 
sunflowers  lingered  with  hollyhocks 
and  dahlias  still  unhurt  by  frost ;  past 
each  familiar  thing  until  at  last,  just 
as  the  lamps  in  the  town  were  being 
lighted,  Langford  House  was  reached. 

But  the  cousins  who  received  her 
knew  nothing  of  Bill's  lonely  walk, 
nor  yet  of  the  something  which  clinked 
in  her  pocket.  Indeed,  she  her- 
self did  not  think  of  the  last  imme- 
diately ;  she  did  not  think  of  it  until 
after  Bella  had  made  the  remark  on 
her  regret  at  leaving  Wrugglesby. 
Bill  did  not  speak  of  her  regret,  and 
as  for  Polly,  she  had  none  of  which 
to  speak.  "As  we  have  got  to  go 
some  time,"  she  said,  "  it  may  as  well 
be  now  as  later;  better  in  fact,  for 
though  the  lease  is  not  up  till  Chris- 
mas,  we  could  not  expect  to  get  such 
another  chance  of  a  house  as  the  one 
now  offered." 

To  which  wisdom  Bella  assented  ; 
after  all,  leaving  the  house  now  did 
not  concern  her  so  very  much,  for  in 
any  circumstances  she  would  have  had 
to  leave  before  the  spring,  as  Jack 
insisted  that  they  should  be  married 
in  February.  Mrs.  Dawson,  though 
she  had  at  first  objected  to  this 


arrangement,  finally  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  since  it  was  inevitable 
it  might  as  well  be  soon  as  late. 
Indeed  after  a  time  she  came  to 
accept  it  with  so  much  meekness 
(other  people  called  it  pleasure)  that 
she  invited  Bella  to  come  to  Greys' 
when  Polly  left  Wrugglesby  and  stay 
there  till  the  winter  set  in.  There- 
fore Bella,  though  she  assented  to 
them,  cannot  be  said  to  have  had 
a  very  personal  interest  in  Polly's 
plans. 

As  for  Bill,  on  this  particular 
afternoon  she  said  nothing  even  with 
regard  to  the  furniture,  except  that 
in  reply  to  Polly's  emphatic  remark  to 
the  effect  that  they  could  not  take  all 
the  rubbish  with  them,  she  said  she 
hoped  it  would  get  a  good  home  and 
be  well  treated.  Polly  considered  such 
sentiments  foolish  in  the  extreme  and, 
having  said  so,  dismissed  the  subject 
from  her  mind  and  remarked  :  "  I 
flatter  myself  that  we  have  done  very 
well  on  the  whole." 

Bella  agreed,  but  Bill  corrected. 
"It  is  not  we  but  you  who  have  done 
it.  It  was  you  who  cadged  the  house 
in  London  on  very  low  terms,  you  who 
first  impressed  Mrs.  Dawson  with  the 
fact  that  we  are  a  nice  family, — oh 
yes,  she  likes  Bella  for  herself  now, 
but  she  began  by  liking  you,  or  rather 
what  she  takes  you  to  be.  You 
arranged  that,  just  as  you  arranged 
the  contract  for  the  repairs  of  this 
house  at  the  end  of  the  lease.  You 
are  a  champion  cadger,  Polly,  what- 
ever else  you  are." 

Polly  was  not  certain  whether  to 
be  pleased  or  offended  by  this  tribute. 
"  I  think  you  have  a  great  deal  to 
thank  me  for,"  she  said  complacently ; 
"  I  am  glad  you  appreciate  it,  though 
I  object  to  the  word  cadger." 

"  What  shall  I  say  ?  "  Bill  asked, 
"  If  you  don't  cadge  things  what  do 
you  do  1  Acquire  them  ?  " 

"Well,   yes,    perhaps   I  do,"  Polly 


Princess  Puck. 


9 


I  have  the 


admitted  ;  "yes,  I  suppose 
acquisitive  faculty." 

"  I  should  say  you  have." 

"So  have  you,"— Polly  did  not 
like  Bill's  tone.  "  I  am  sure  you 
have  it ;  people  give  you  things  and 
you  don't  refuse  them." 

Bill  laughed  and  went  over  to  the 
fire-place,  the  something  in  her  pocket 
clinking  audibly  as  she  moved. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  asked  the  inquisi- 
tive Polly. 

"Oh,  I  had  forgotten."  Bill  put 
her  hand  into  her  pocket.  "  It  is 
something  I  brought  to  show  you," 
she  said,  and  drew  out  first  a  piece  of 
crumpled  paper  in  which  the  articles 
had  been  wrapped  and  then  two  large 
old-fashioned  shoe-buckles. 

"  What  are  they  ? "  Polly  made  a 
pounce  on  one. 

"  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  "  Bella 
took  the  other  from  the  table  where 
Bill  had  put  them.  "What  are 
they?" 

They  gleamed  in  the  fading  light  as 
the  cousins  held  them,  gleamed  and 
shimmered  with  wonderful  changing 
splendour,  flashing  when  the  firelight 
touched  them  and  found  a  dozen 
answering  tongues  of  flame. 

"Paste,"  Polly  said,  "old  paste; 
they  must  be  worth  a  lot  of  money." 

"  Diamonds,"  Bill  corrected. 

"  Diamonds  ?  Nonsense  !  They 
might  be  worth  as  much  as  a  hundred 
pounds  apiece  if  they  were  !  " 

"They  are  diamonds,"  Bill  per- 
sisted, "  though  they  can't  be  worth 
that.  They  are  mine." 

"Yours?"  Polly  almost  screamed. 
"  Diamonds — and  yours  ?  Talk  about 
the  acquisitive  faculty  !  " 

Bill  flushed.  "  I  did  not  acquire 
them,"  she  said  rather  illogically ;  "  at 
least,  I  hated  to  have  them,  and  I 
have  promised  to  give  them  to  some- 
body as  a  wedding-present,  not  yet, 
some  day,  when  there  is  a  wedding. 
I  will  give  them  back, — I  don't  care 


what  you  say, — you  need  not  think 
about  selling  them, — they  are  not 
going  to  be  sold." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense  to  me,"  was 
Polly's  answer.  "  If  they  are  diamonds 
they  shall  be  sold,  that  is,  if  you  have 
any  right  to  them,  which  I  am  sure 
you  have  not.  They  must  be  paste  !  " 

Bill  took  the  buckle  out  of  her  hand, 
Bella  placing  the  fellow  on  the  table 
beside  it :  "Are  they  really  diamonds  1 " 
she  asked.  "  How  did  you  come  by 
them,  and  whose  were  they  1 " 

Bill  stood  looking  at  them  a  mo- 
ment as  they  flashed  in  the  firelight. 
"  They  were  Peter  Harborough's  shoe- 
buckles,"  she  said. 

CHAPTEE   XXV. 

POLLY  had  no  doubt  done  wisely 
in  sending  Bill  to  Ashelton  while  she 
herself  was  settling  affairs  at  Wrug- 
glesby.  Not  only  was  she  thus  freed 
from  Bill's  interference,  but  also  Bill 
had  an  opportunity  for  putting  into 
practice  her  good  resolutions  regard- 
ing Gilchrist  Harborough.  Polly  was 
sure  she  would  make  use  of  the 
opportunity,  for  Bill  could  always 
be  relied  on  to  keep  her  word.  In 
the  main  she  fulfilled  Polly's  expecta- 
tions ;  she  certainly  tried  to  do  so. 
Theresa  found  her  curiously  subdued 
on  her  return  to  Ashelton,  and  found 
also  that  she  herself  was  watched  and 
sometimes  imitated  with  an  embarrass- 
ing closeness.  Bill  was  trying  to  be 
a  lady. 

She  obeyed  to  the  letter  Polly's 
instructions  concerning  Gilchrist, 
always  putting  on  her  best  dress 
for  his  coming,  never  calling  him 
Theo  now,  never  baffling  him  by 
tantalising  moods  and  goblin  mockery 
and  playful  defiance.  Indeed  so  cir- 
cumspect was  her  behaviour  that  Gil- 
christ not  unnaturally  concluded  that 
the  lecture  he  had  given  her  after 
the  affair  of  the  plums  had  taken 


10 


Princess  Puck. 


effect.  Of  course  he  was  humanly 
gratified  to  find  that  his  words  had 
not  been  wasted,  but  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  he  found  Bill  in  her  new 
character  of  lady,  as  copied  from 
Theresa,  something  of  a  disappoint- 
ment ;  she  did  not  always  compare 
favourably  with  her  model. 

Bill  did  not  know  how  her  efforts 
impressed  Gilchrist,  neither  did  she 
greatly  care,  for  his  opinion  was  not 
her  highest  standard.  But  she  was 
herself  by  no  means  satisfied,  and 
one  day,  soon  after  her  return  to 
Ashelton,  she  took  her  difficulties  to 
her  friend  the  rector.  He,  by  right 
of  his  office  and  reason  of  his  experi- 
ence, had  been  consulted  on  many 
points  in  his  time,  some  rather 
peculiar  ones  since  his  acquaintance 
with  Bill;  but  even  she  had  never 
faced  him  with  anything  quite  so 
unexpected  as  on  the  day  when  she 
brought  him  the  problem  of  her  own 
behaviour.  She  was  examining  the 
high  shelves  of  his  book-case  at  the 
time,  standing  on  the  back  of  an  arm- 
chair to  do  so,  having  first  weighted 
the  seat  with  encyclopaedias. 

"  THE  DIARY  OP  A  LADY,"  she  read 
the  title  of  one  of  the  books,  then 
stood  a  moment  looking  at  it  thought- 
fully. "Monseigneur,"  she  said,  "you 
know  I  told  you  I  was  trying  to 
behave  better?  Well,  I  am  not  get- 
ting on  a  bit." 

Mr.  Dane  was  busy  with  his  parish 
accounts ;  as  a  rule  the  girl's  presence 
did  not  disturb  him  at  all,  but  now 
he  looked  up,  arrested  by  her  tone. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  putting 
down  his  pen.  "  What  have  you 
been  doing  ? " 

"  Nothing  ;  I  haven't  done  any- 
thing wrong  and  I  do  all  the  right 
things  I  can  find  to  do.  Theresa 
thinks  I  am  much  improved,  but  I'm 
not  really."  As  she  reached  up  to 
replace  the  book,  the  chair  tilted  a 
little.  "  Would  you  mind  kneeling 


on  the  seat?"  she  said.  "The  chair 
tips  when  I  reach  up.  Thank  you." 

She  jumped  to  the  ground  and 
drawing  a  chair  to  the  writing-table 
faced  the  rector.  "  What  is  your 
notion  of  a  lady  ?  "  she  asked 
abruptly. 

Mr.  Dane  considered  a  moment, 
before  hazarding  an  opinion,  knowing 
that  his  answer  would  be  taken 
literally  and  perhaps  translated  into 
action.  "One,"  he  said  at  length, 
"  who  considers  others,  who  never 
by  word  or  deed  causes  unnecessary 
pain,  who  listens  sympathetically, 
talks  pleasantly,  never  says  a  great 
deal  even  when  she  feels  much  or 
knows  more.  One  who  does  her 
mental  and  moral  washing  in  private, 
but  is  not  afraid  to  do  her  duty  in 
public ;  who  respects  the  secrets  of 
others,  the  honour  of  her  family,  and 
her  own  self  more  than  all.  One 
who  speaks  with  tact,  acts  with  dis- 
cretion, and  places  God  before  fashion 
without  needlessly  advertising  the 
fact  to  the  annoyance  of  the  rest  of 
the  world." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Bill,  and  a  long 
silence  followed  ;  perhaps  she  was 
learning  the  definition  for  her  own 
benefit.  At  last  she  spoke  again. 
"  You  think  I  could  be  a  lady  if  I 
learned  to  control  myself  and, — and 
did  not  run  away  when  I  wanted  to, 
and  all  those  sorts  of  things  ?  " 

Mr.  Dane  did  think  so ;  possibly 
he  did  not  regard  her  as  so  hopeless 
a  case  as  did  Polly.  Then  there  was 
another  silence  during  which  there 
came  the  sound  of  wheels  on  the 
drive  at  the  other  side  of  the  house. 
Neither  noticed  it  and  Bill,  thinking 
of  Polly's  lectures  on  her  disreputable 
appearance,  asked  a  second  question. 
"  I  suppose  a  lady  always  wants  to 
look  right?  It  matters  very  much 
how  she  looks,  how  she  is  dressed  ? " 

"  It  matters  very  much  for  some," 
the  rector  answered  ;  but  others — " 


Princess  Puck. 


11 


he  was  only  a  man  after  all  and 
though  old  not  altogether  wise — 
"  with  others,"  he  said,  "  you  are 
so  busy  wondering  what  colour  their 
eyes  are  that  you  never  notice  their 
gowns ;  so  much  perplexed  as  to  what 
they  are,  Princess  Puck,  that  you 
never  know  what  they  wear — " 

He  broke  off  smiling  as  the  house- 
keeper opened  the  door  :  "A  gentle- 
man to  see  Miss  Alardy,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

"Mel"  Bill  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  miss ;  he  has  been  to  Hay- 
lands,  he  says,  and  they  told  him  you 
were  here ;  he's  waiting  in  the  hall 
now, — young  Mr.  Harborough." 

"  Mr.  Harborough  ?  "  Bill  repeated 
rising.  "  Whatever  can  he  want  1 " 

"  Not,  Mr.  Harborough  from  Crows' 
Farm,"  the  housekeeper  explained ; 
"  young  Mr.  Harborough  from  Wood 
Hall." 

"  Oh  ! —  I'll  come  and  speak  to 
him." 

Ladies  controlled  themselves ;  they 
said  nothing  even  when  they  felt 
much ;  they  respected  themselves,  the 
honour  of  their  family,  the  secrets  of 
their  friends.  Bill  was  going  to  be 
a  lady,  and  she  would  not  even  allow 
herself  to  feel  surprised. 

Mr.  Dane  took  up  his  pen  again. 
Old  Mr.  Harborough  was  worse  no 
doubt ;  he  had  been  ill  all  the  week, 
and  that  it  was  a  mere  question  of 
days  everyone  knew.  Probably  it 
was  a  question  of  hours  now,  and  for 
that  reason  they  had  summoned  the 
heir.  And  for  what  reason  had  the 
heir  come  for  Bill  ?  If  old  Mr.  Har- 
borough had  a  fancy  for  seeing  her 
again  before  he  died  Mr.  Dane  was 
not  the  man  to  gainsay  him.  Bill 
knew  that,  the  instant  he  came  into 
the  hall  where  she  stood  with  Kit 
Harborough. 

"  Go,  by  all  means,"  was  his  advice, 
"  go  at  once  :  I  will  explain  to  Mrs. 
Morton." 


So  Bill  fetched  her  hat  from  the 
study  where  it  lay  on  the  encyclo- 
paedias and  without  another  word 
drove  away  with  Kit  to  Wood  Hall. 
And  Mr.  Dane  had  time  to  finish  his 
accounts  and  then  explain  matters  to 
Theresa  before  lunch. 

Theresa  was  very  much  surprised 
to  hear  of  Bill's  going,  but  since  the 
rector  approved  she  was  quite  willing 
to  do  the  same.  As  the  afternoon 
wore  on  and  Bill  did  not  return,  she 
began  to  wonder  a  little  what  the 
girl  was  doing ;  and  when  in  the 
evening  Gilchrist  called  and  Bill  was 
still  absent,  she  found  the  situation 
rather  awkward.  Gilchrist  showed 
such  an  unreasonable  displeasure  at 
her  absence  that  Theresa  wished  Mr. 
Dane  could  have  explained  to  the 
impatient  lover  the  propriety  and 
justice  of  Bill's  going.  To  tell  the 
truth  Gilchrist  was  both  displeased 
and  anxious,  for  he  did  not  feel  at 
all  sure  what  Bill  might  be  saying 
with  regard  to  the  Wood  Hall  estate. 
She  had  told  him  how  she  had  met 
and  warned  Kit  Harborough  at  By- 
mouth  ;  and  though  it  is  true  that 
she  had  listened  with  commendable 
humility  to  his  natural  explosion  of 
anger,  and  at  the  end  had  assured 
him  (with  the  shadow  of  contempt  in 
her  voice)  that  the  heir  had  declined 
to  take  advantage  of  the  warning, 
what  guarantee  was  there  that  she 
might  not,  for  some  reason  of  her 
own,  think  fit  to  warn  the  old  man 
in  time  to  create  unnecessary  compli- 
cations? Gilchrist  was  very  uneasy 
indeed,  not  at  all  sure  what  Bill 
would  do. 

But  Kit  had  no  doubts  at  all.  He 
was  perfectly  sure  she  would  say 
nothing ;  and,  as  certain  of  her  as  he 
was  of  himself,  he  never  once  during 
the  drive  to  Gurnett  reopened  the 
question  of  the  claim.  He  never  even 
mentioned  it  when  he  helped  her  to 
alight  at  the  great  door,  never  spoke 


12 


Princess  Puck. 


of  it  or  referred  to  it  as  he  led  her 
across  the  echoing  hall  to  the  wide 
stairs  and  the  rooms  above. 

Old  Harborough  was  dying,  but 
dying  elegantly,  almost  as  if  with 
a  subtle  and  unconscious  recollection 
of  what  was  due  to  the  traditions 
of  his  family.  He  was  powerless  in 
body  but  terribly  alert  in  mind,  keenly 
conscious  of  the  situation  and  accept- 
ing the  inevitable  with  the  cynicism 
he  had  shown  to  so  many  of  the 
happenings  of  his  life,  neither  curious 
nor  afraid,  politely  indifferent,  almost 
politely  sceptical.  Bill,  the  many- 
sided,  the  sympathetic,  felt  something 
like  a  touch  of  admiration  for  this  sur- 
vival of  a  passing  type.  He,  on  his 
part,  feeble  as  he  was,  still  received 
her  with  something  of  his  former 
mocking  courtesy,  thanked  her  for 
troubling  to  come  to  him,  apologised 
for  the  manner  of  her  reception,  and 
prayed  her  to  be  seated. 

There  was  a  nurse  present  when 
Bill  entered  the  room,  a  tall,  quiet 
woman  who  looked  curiously  at  the 
girl.  The  man  who  had  met  Mr. 
Harborough  with  the  chair  that 
April  day  in  the  woods  was  also 
present;  but  he  did  not  look  curi- 
ously at  Bill,  either  because  he 
thought  it  bad  manners,  or  else  be- 
cause he  understood  her  claim  to  his 
master's  interest.  Both  of  them, 
however,  withdrew  to  a  more  distant 
part  of  the  large  room.  Kit  remained 
standing  near  the  bed,  but  Mr.  Har- 
borough took  no  notice  of  him,  only 
once  indirectly  acknowledging  his 
presence  and  then  in  no  pleasant 
manner;  it  was  when  he  himself 
apologised  to  Bill  for  not  handing 
her  to  a  chair. 

"You  must  take  the  will  for  the 
deed,"  he  said,  "  since  I  cannot  do  it ; 
it  is  clear  such  trifling  attentions  will 
not  survive  the  old  generation." 

He  did  not  look  at  Kit,  neverthe- 
less the  lad  coloured  hotly.  Bill  sat 


down,  wondering  a  little  how  the  old 
manners  would  suit  the  new  genera- 
tion ;  but  she  did  not  say  so  and  in 
a  minute  she  dropped  the  thought 
out  of  her  mind,  turning  her  entire 
attention  on  Mr.  Harborough.  She 
did  not  find  it  difficult  to  talk  to 
him,  even  though  Kit  was  a  listener, 
even  when  the  old  man  referred  to 
her  last  visit  and  the  offer  then  made 
she  felt  little  embarrassment. 

"  Are  you  not  sorry  you  did  not 
take  it?"  he  asked  her.  "I'd  have 
left  you  Wood  Hall  for  as  long  as 
you  remained  a  Harborough.  Pity 
it  was  not  done  !  It  might  have 
saved  the  old  place ;  an  heiress  isn't 
always  the  only  thing  or  the  best 
thing  to  mend  a  broken  family."  He 
seemed  almost  to  be  speaking  to  him- 
self, but  he  addressed  her  directly 
when  he  asked  abruptly :  "  Are  you 
not  sorry  you  did  not  take  it1?  By 
this  time  to-morrow  it  would  all  have 
been  yours." 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  she  answered 
him  vehemently.  "  I  don't  want  it ; 
I  would  hate  to  have  it !  " 

"Hate  to  have  it?  Why,  I 
thought  you  liked  it  ? " 

"  I  do,  so  much  that  I  would  hate 
to  have  it." 

A  priest  had  come  quietly  into 
the  room,  but,  seeing  Mr.  Harborough 
engaged  in  conversation,  he  went  to 
a  distant  window  and  opened  a  book 
he  carried.  Bill  recognised  him  at 
once  for  the  same  man  who  had  read 
the  mass  at  Ashelton  Church.  Mr. 
Harborough  followed  her  eyes  but, 
not  being  aware  that  she  recognised 
him,  thought  she  was  only  wondering 
as  to  the  reason  of  his  presence. 

"  The  last  relic  of  the  Catholic 
faith  here,"  he  explained  in  his  weak 
harsh  voice.  "I  have  to  be  dressed 
for  the  next  world,  the  last  of  us 
who  ever  will  be.  Kit  is  not  a 
Catholic  ;  he  is  a  Purist  or  a  Deist 
or  something  sincere  and  modern. 


Princess  Puck. 


13 


He  troubles  about  his  soul  and  his 
Creator  like  any  other  mental  dys- 
peptic, and  believes  something  on  his 
own  account.  When  I  was  young  it 
was  thought  ill-bred  to  interfere  with 
the  concerns  of  the  Almighty,  and 
the  minding  of  souls  was  left  to  those 
who  were  paid  to  do  it.  We  were 
not  tied  down  by  a  Sunday-school 
morality  in  those  days,  and  we  had 
the  courage  of  our  convictions." 
Bill  nodded.  "  I  know,"  she  said. 
"  How  do  you  know  1 "  he  asked 
sharply. 

"  By  you,"  she  answered. 
"By  me?     What  have  I  said   to 
you  ?     What  do  you  know  ] " 

"  I  can't  exactly  explain,"  she  said 
doubtfully;  "only  the  world  was 
different  then.  One  can't  measure 
you  by  the  people  of  to-day,  nor  the 
people  of  to-day  by  you." 

He  fixed  her  with  eyes  which  were 
still  keen.  "  How  do  you  know  that  1 " 
he  persisted. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  suppose  I  feel 
it." 

"  You  are  a  lenient  judge,"  he  said 
almost  softly,  "  about  the  most  lenient 
judge  I  have  ever  had,  you  odd  child. 
What  an  odd  child !  I  did  not  know 
how  odd  the  day  I  found  you  in  the 
wood,  the  day  you  found  God  in  the 
wood ;  you  did  find  Him,  did  you 
not  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  simply.  "  He 
seemed  very  close ;  but  then  I  think 
the  devil  was  too." 

"God  and  the  devil  at  your  right 
elbow  and  your  left.  A  survival  of 
Puritan  days, — to  find  God  in  the 
woods  now  ! " 

The  tone  was  not  wholly  mocking  ; 
there  was  a  touch  of  wistfulness  in 
it,  and  Bill  hearing  it  answered  it 
from  the  depth  of  her  own  convic- 
tions. "  Everywhere  it  is  beautiful 
one  feels  God,"  she  said  softly,  "  in 
forest  and  sea  and  sky."  She  raised 
her  eyes  and  met  Kit's.  He  may 


have  been  guilty  of  a  Sunday-school 
morality ;  he  certainly  was  guilty  of 
a  belief,  and  he  betrayed  its  existence 
then  to  one  who  shared  it. 

But  Mr.  Harborough  did  not  know 
it ;  he  was  not  thinking  of  Kit  at  all 
as  he  lay  looking  curiously  at  the 
girl.  His  lips  moved  once :  "  Shall 
see  God,"  he  said  as  if  to  himself, 
then  raising  his  voice  slightly  he 
asked :  "  Who  is  it  that  shall  see 
God,  Father  Clement  ? " 

The  priest  turned.  "  '  Blessed  are 
the  pure  in  heart  for  they  shall  see 
God,'  "  he  answered  drawing  nearer. 

"The  pure  in  heart,"  Mr.  Har- 
borough repeated,  "  that  is  it ;  I 
had  forgotten.  Well,  little  witch, 
you  have  seen  something  that  I,  for 
all  my  years  and  experience,  have 
not ;  something  that  I — I  suppose  be- 
cause of  those  years  and  experience — 
cannot  see.  But  now  I  must  ask  you 
to  go ;  there  is  a  heavenly  toilet  to 
be  made.  Go  down  and  get  some 
lunch,  but  come  back  by-and-bye. 
Kit  must  take  you;  I  apologise  for 
him  beforehand." 

Bill  rose.  "  Kit  does  not  need 
anyone's  apology,"  she  said  hotly ; 
then  she  followed  the  young  man 
out  of  the  room  feeling  ashamed. 

CHAPTEB  XXVI. 

KIT  that  day  was  like  the  Kit  of 
Bymouth,  the  Kit  she  had  met  in 
the  lane ;  there  did  not  seem  such 
a  gulf  between  them  as  when  they 
parted,  nor  yet  such  terrible  cour- 
tesy. They  were  boy  and  girl  in 
the  great  house  together,  boy  and 
girl  watching  together,  by  an  odd 
chain  of  circumstances,  for  the  coming 
of  the  great  shadow.  They  went  to  the 
solemn  old  dining-room  and  lunched 
in  state  as  Bill  had  once  lunched  with 
Mr.  Harborough.  During  the  meal 
Kit  did  not  mention  to  his  guest  the 
subject  which  had  never  really  been 


Princess  Puck. 


absent  from  his  mind  since  she  herself 
first  put  it  there  that  morning  on  the 
sands  at  Bymouth.  A  little  while 
back  he  had  had  some  talk  with  a 
solicitor  of  his  acquaintance,  and 
without  betraying  a  personal  interest 
in  the  test-case  he  described,  had 
learned  the  very  serious  position  of 
the  man  placed  as  he  was.  But  he 
did  not  speak  of  it  to  Bill  then, 
although,  in  spite  of  the  still  intan- 
gible nature  of  it  all,  he  felt  the 
shadow  of  this  man  from  the  new 
country  spread  over  the  stately  old 
house,  filling  its  most  secret  corners, 
taking  possession  of  its  most  sacred 
spots.  And  Bill,  though  he  did  not 
speak  of  it,  knew  the  thought  that 
was  in  her  companion's  mind,  and 
felt  with  him  this  haunting  presence. 

After  lunch  the  doctor  and  nurse 
agreed  in  forbidding  either  Kit  or  his 
guest  to  see  the  patient  before  four 
o'clock,  saying  that  they  should  be 
summoned  then  unless  some  unex- 
pected change  made  their  presence 
necessary  earlier.  There  were  nearly 
two  hours  before  them,  two  hours 
for  Kit  to  play  host  in  the  house 
which  might  soon  pass  to  another. 
With  an  effort  be  tried  to  banish 
the  thought  from  his  mind  as  he 
asked  Bill  to  come  to  the  library. 

"This  is  the  room  I  like  best," 
he  said  when  they  stood  in  the  great 
low  room  where  some  past  Har- 
borough  had  gathered  a  store  of 
books.  Mercifully  the  later  comers, 
not  thinking  them  of  sufficient  value 
to  sell,  had  left  them  intact,  even, 
indeed,  adding  a  volume  now  and 
then,  each  man  according  to  his  taste, 
for  there  was  no  lack  of  intellect 
even  among  the  wildest  of  them. 
The  September  sunlight  slanted 
through  the  broad  low  windows  where 
weedy  sunflowers  and  uncut  trails  of 
late-blooming  roses  looked  in  on  a 
big  room,  irregular  in  shape,  full  of 
angles,  with  bookshelves  jutting  out 


in  unexpected  places,  and  a  silence 
in  it  which  was  a  luxury  of  the  brain. 
The  light  was  a  warm  brown  gloom 
cast  back  from  book-lined  shelves ; 
the  smell  was  the  wonderful,  inde- 
scribable smell  of  an  old  library, 
Russia  leather,  and  oak  shelves,  and 
book -dust  blended  into  one,  a  perfume 
never  to  be  forgotten.  For,  as  the 
rose  on  his  mistress's  bosom  to  a 
lover,  or  the  breath  of  the  clover 
which  filled  the  air  when  he  pledged 
his  vows,  so  is  the  smell  of  such  a 
library  to  the  man  of  books,  and 
above  all,  to  the  man  who  has  been 
reared  to  it,  the  man  who  has  learned 
by  common  use  and  childish  associa- 
tion to  love  the  outside  of  the 
volumes  or  ever  he  could  read  them 
within. 

Bill  felt  her  breast  heave  suddenly, 
and  a  great  lump  came  in  her  throat. 
She  had  never  been  in  such  a  library 
before,  never  to  her  knowledge  smelt 
its  sweet  familiar  smell,  yet  her  breast 
heaved  and  she  could  not  speak.  It 
was  absurd,  of  course ;  it  was  nothing 
to  her,  the  books  were  not  her  friends, 
and  as  an  alien  she  could  claim  no 
kinship  with  them  ;  yet  she  felt  for 
them,  felt  so  that  she  could  not 
speak.  As  for  Kit,  he  had  followed 
her  into  the  room  and  stretched  out 
a  hand  to  set  straight  a  book  on 
a  lower  shelf,  but  he  did  not  touch 
it;  his  hand  dropped  and  he  turned 
abruptly  to  a  window,  and  for  a  long 
minute  both  stood  silent,  not  regard- 
ing one  another.  Then  Bill  mastered 
herself  with  an  effort. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  she  asked,  taking 
a  book  at  random. 

It  was  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  VUL- 
GAR ERRORS,  an  old  folio  edition  with 
wonderful  woodcuts.  Kit  looked  at 
it  for  a  moment,  though  he  knew 
it  well  enough,  and  then  recovering 
himself  he  told  her.  They  took  the 
book  to  the  broad  window-sill  and 
together  turned  its  pages,  looking  at 


Princess  Puck. 


15 


the  curious  pictures.  After  that  he 
took  down  another  book  and  then 
another ;  Bill  was  sitting  on  the  win- 
dow-sill now,  the  books  piled  beside 
her,  while  Kit  drew  a  great  wooden 
chair  in  front.  In  this  way  he 
showed  her  a  Chaucer  massively 
bound  and  clamped  with  brass,  a 
Pope  of  1717,  a  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS 
grotesquely  illustrated, — the  books  he 
loved,  wonderful  old  German  prints, 
poets  of  a  later  date,  and  stout  old 
sermon-writers  with  whose  solid  works 
he  had  built  houses  in  childish  days. 

So  the  afternoon  passed  with  strange 
pleasure  to  both,  though  neither  quite 
forgot  the  shadow  that  hung  over  the 
house,  nor  the  even  deeper  shadow 
not  only  of  death,  that  brooded  over 
the  library  and  in  some  unexplained 
way  touched  every  book  they  looked 
at  and  every  passage  they  read. 
Once  Kit  took  down  a  Milton,  old 
and  shabby  and  unopened,  except  by 
himself,  for  many  years,  and  began  to 
read  a  passage  from  IL  PENSEROSO. 

"  Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 
Over  some  well  watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow — " 

He  stopped  abruptly ;  each  heard 
the  curfew  as  on  that  night,  each 
smelt  the  scent  of  the  wet  grass  in 
the  lane.  There  was  a  pause  when 
neither  looked  at  the  other ;  then  he 
went  on  hurriedly,  a  little  lower  down 
the  page  : 

"  Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the 

room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom — " 

Kit  shut  the  book  sharply  and  gave 
it  up.  All  round  him  lay  the  heaped 
up  volumes  as  they  used  to  lie  on  the 
winter  afternoons  when  he  had  built 
towers  with  the  works  of  the  divines 
in  that  same  glowing  gloom.  He 


glanced  at  the  wide  fireplace ;  Bill 
had  glanced  at  it  before  him,  because 
she  too  had  thought  of  it,  though 
she  had  never  seen  it  when  the  fire 
burned  low  at  twilight.  So  they 
each  looked,  and  then  each  looked 
at  the  other  and  neither,  for  all  their 
resolutions,  hid  the  thought  nor  pre- 
tended to  hide  it.  Bill's  throat  began 
to  swell  again.  A  volume  of  Hooker, 
balanced  on  the  window-sill,  fell  with 
a  thud  to  the  floor.  Kit  took  a  long 
time  in  picking  it  up,  and  when  at 
last  he  put  it  in  a  place  of  safety 
with  Marcus  Aurelius  on  the  top,  he 
said  :  "  He  would  love  the  books." 

It  was  perfectly  unnecessary  to 
explain  who  he  was  ;  Bill  knew  and 
thought  of  Gilchrist's  tastes  and  book- 
shelf before  she  answered  :  "  Yes,  I 
think  he  would."  She  picked  up  the 
MEDITATIONS.  "He  has  got  this," 
she  said  ;  "his  is  in  English,  though, 
bound  in  green  cloth,  and  cost  one 
and  sixpence.  I  believe  he  would  like 
his  own  edition  better ;  it  is  cheaper 
and  clearer." 

Kit  silently  took  the  imperial 
philosopher  from  the  girl's  hand,  as 
she  got  down  from  the  window- seat 
and  helped  him  to  put  the  books 
back  in  their  places.  Neither  spoke 
of  Gilchrist  again  ;  and  a  little  later 
someone  came  to  fetch  them  to  Mr. 
Harborough. 

They  went  up-stairs  together  and 
quietly  into  the  old  man's  room.  Bill 
noticed  a  difference  directly  she 
entered ;  she  needed  no  one  to  tell 
her  that  she  had  been  called  to  say 
good-bye  to  the  eccentric  old  man  she 
had  so  little  known. 

"  Come  here,"  he  said  hoarsely  when 
he  saw  her  hesitate  near  the  door. 

She  came  and  stood  close  to  him, 
Kit  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bed. 

"  Here's  a  keepsake  for  you,"  he 
whispered,  trying  to  raise  his  nerve- 
less hand.  "  I  give  it  you  in  the  pre- 


16 


Princess  Puck. 


sence  of  witnesses,"  he  glanced  at  the 
nurse  as  he  spoke,  "so  there  will  be 
no  dispute  afterwards.  It  is  not  an 
heirloom,  and  I  can  do  with  it  as  I 
like.  Put  your  hand  on  mine,  take 
it,  here." 

Bill  put  her  hand  in  his  as  re- 
quested and  the  cold  powerless  fingers 
beneath  her  warm  touch  fumbled 
feebly  before  the  two  glittering 
buckles  fell  into  her  hand. 

"There,"  he  said  triumphantly, 
"  they  are  for  you  ;  that  is,  if  you  will 
do  me  the  favour  of  accepting  them." 

"  For  me  ? "  she  said  gazing  half 
bewildered,  half  fascinated  by  the 
brilliancy  of  the  stones. 

"  Yes,  for  you,"  Mr.  Harborough 
told  her.  "  They  are  yours  now,  the 
gift  is  witnessed,"  he  went  on  for  she 
hardly  seemed  to  realise  the  fact. 
Then  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  hand 
that  gave  them. 

"  They  were  Peter  Harborough's 
shoe-buckles,"  he  whispered,  "  about 
the  only  thing  he  did  not  lose  at 
cards  ;  he  lost  everything  else  even 
including — "  there  was  a  little  cough 
for  breath — "  including  his  life.  My 
father  left  them  to  me  ;  they  are  my 
own  ;  I  can  do  with  them  as  I  like,  and 
I  like  to  give  them  to  you.  They  are 
all  the  diamonds  we  have  now  and," 
addressing  Kit  with  a  sudden  access 
of  spite,  "  no  wife  of  yours  can  have 
them  now." 

Bill  dropped  the  buckles  as  if  they 
had  burnt  her  ;  they  fell  with  a  clink 
on  the  counterpane  and  lay  there,  a 
sparkle  of  light.  "  I  can't  take  them," 
she  said.  "  I  won't  have  them ;  you, 
— you  don't  understand." 

Kit  leaned  across  and,  picking 
them  up,  gently  gave  the  buckles 
back  to  her.  He  did  not  speak,  but 
there  was  something  in  his  manner 
she  could  not  resist. 

"  That's  right,"  the  old  man  mut- 
tered as  if  he  had  not  fully  under- 
stood. "  They  are  yours,  little  witch  ; 


he  can't  take  them ;  I  have  given 
them  to  you." 

Bill  grasped  them  in  silence,  press- 
ing the  sharp  stones  into  her  flesh. 

"  Now  good-bye,"  Harborough  said 
more  clearly,  "good-bye,  or  shall  we 
say  au  revoir  ?  "  His  breath  failed 
him  for  a  moment  but  he  recovered 
himself  and  went  on  cynically.  "  I 
have  to  go  through  with  this  business, 
and  being  new  to  it  I  may  bungle. 
In  case  I  do  not  die  decently  I  would 
rather  not  disgrace  myself  in  the 
presence  of  a  lady." 

So  Bill  said  good-bye  and  went  out. 
Kit  opened  the  door  for  her,  and 
shutting  it  after  her,  left  her  standing 
alone  outside.  So  she  stood  a  moment, 
like  one  in  a  dream,  the  diamonds 
still  pressed  into  her  flesh  ;  then  she 
turned  and  went  with  slow  steps 
down  the  stairs,  with  quickening  steps 
across  the  hall  to  the  open  door,  and 
so  out  into  the  garden  where  the 
afternoon  shadows  were  long  and  the 
tender  warmth  of  September  lay  over 
everything.  She  followed  the  ter- 
raced path  awhile,  and  then,  her  steps 
still  .quickening,  crossed  the  lawn 
where  the  grass  was  emerald  green 
and  the  elm  leaves  lay  scattered  here 
and  there.  She  was  almost  running 
now,  quite  running  when  she  came  to 
the  shrubbery,  running  at  full  speed, 
running  blindly,  wildly,  faster  and 
faster  until  she  reached  the  wood  and 
flung  herself  down  in  the  waist-deep 
bracken  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

It  was  much  later  when  Kit  found 
her,  knowing  perhaps  where  to  look 
for  her.  She  had  told  him  of  her 
first  ramble  in  the  wood ;  at  any  rate 
when  all  was  over,  he  found  her  under 
the  yellowing  beeches  half  hidden 
among  the  ferns.  She  started  when 
she  heard  his  step  beside  her,  and  at 
first  was  minded  to  pretend  she  had 
not  been  crying  and  practise  a  belated 
self-control.  But  she  did  not,  chiefly 


Princess    Puck. 


17 


because  he  did  not  pretend  ;  he  made 
no  pretence  of  anything,  nor  yet 
behave  in  the  manner  expected  of 
him  and  worthy  of  his  breeding.  He 
sat  down  beside  her  without  speaking, 
whereupon  she  obstinately  buried  her 
face  in  the  bracken  and  would  not  so 
much  as  look  up  though  the  stiff  fern- 
stalks  pricked  her  neck.  She  moved 
her  head  uneasily  and  he  gently  broke 
a  stalk  away  ;  in  doing  so  his  hand 
came  in  contact  with  her  hair,  a  little 
curl  of  which,  having  become  loosened, 
had  contrived  to  get  wet  with  tears. 
The  contact  with  it,  and  the  recog- 
nition that  it  was  wet  with  tears, 
were  things  Kit  did  not  soon  forget ; 
but  he  drew  his  hand  away  and  only 
said  stupidly :  "  Don't  cry,  please 
don't  cry  ;  I  didn't  know  you  cared 
about  him  like  that." 

"  He  was  good  to  me  " — Bill's  voice 
was  muffled  by  the  ferns — "but  it 
isn't  exactly  that." 

He  had  not  been  good  to  Kit,  yet 
Kit  felt  vaguely  grieved  and  shocked 
by  his  death ;  he  looked  in  some 
perplexity  at  the  girl  beside  him. 
"What  is  it  then?"  he  asked,  but 
she  did  not  answer  so  he  fell  back  on 
his  first  remark  and  entreated  her  not 
to  cry  any  more. 

"  I  shall,"  she  answered  without 
looking  up.  "  I  have  not  cried  half 
enough  yet, — there  are  so  many 
things. —  I  haven't  nearly  done." 

Kit  glanced  rather  hopelessly  at 
the  half  buried  figure.  "  Are  you 
going  to  cry  for  them  in  order  ? "  he 
asked  attempting  to  smile. 

"  Yes." 

Nevertheless  Bill,  with  the  sunny 
lights  coming  back  to  her  eyes,  sat  up 
rustling  the  dead  leaves  as  she  did  so. 
"  I  wonder  if  the  wood  will  be  cut 
down,"  she  said  wistfully,  as  she 
glanced  up  at  the  interwoven  branches 
above  her. 

"No,"  Kit  told  her,  "for  neither 
you  nor  I  would  allow  it." 
No.  505. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


"  1 1" 

"  Yes ;  if  it  is  not  mine  it  will  be 
yours,  or  as  good  as  yours." 

"  Ii|ine  ? " 

"  Yes ;  if  it  is  Theo's — you  said 
you  were  going  to  marry  him — it  will 
be  yours  too,  and  I  am  glad." 

"  Glad  !     I  am  not." 

Her  voice  was  passionate,  almost 
vindictive,  and  Kit  went  on  quickly  : 
"  I  am  glad,  and  you  ought  to  be  too. 
You  said  once  that,  were  you  in  my 
place,  you  would  do  anything  to  get 
Wood  Hall ;  surely  you  ought  not  to 
mind  if  you  have  it." 

"  I'm  not  in  your  place,"  Bill  said, 
"  and  I  don't  want  it  a  bit.  Do  any- 
thing to  get  it  !  A  woman  can't  do 
anything  but  be  married.  I  don't 
want  Theo  to  have  it,  and  I  don't 
want  to  come  here." 

She  buried  her  face  in  the  ferns 
again,  but  now  she  did  not  cry.  Kit 
broke  the  stiff  fern-stalk  into  little 
pieces,  and  as  he  threw  them  away 
caught  sight  of  the  buckles  shining 
among  the  ferns  near  the  girl's  arm. 
Bill  heard  them  clink  as  he  picked  them 
up,  and  sat  up  again,  facing  him  now 
with  a  calm  determination.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  have  them,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  You  must ;  you  can't  help  your- 
self. They  were  given  to  you,  and 
you  must  have  them,"  and  he  dropped 
them  in  her  lap. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  have  them," 
she  repeated;  "had  he  known,  he 
would  not  have  given  them  to  me." 

"  No,  because  very  probably  they 
would  have  come  to  you  in  any  case ; 
I  don't  know  how  such  things  go,  but 
it  is  likely  they  would  have  come  to 
you.  At  all  events  they  are  yours 
beyond  dispute  now." 

"  Mine,  not  my  husband's  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  yours  absolutely." 

"  Mine  to  do  with  as  I  like  ? " 
The  sense  of  ownership  seemed  to 
please  the  girl.  Kit  wondered  why 
a  little,  but  he  did  not  ask  and  her 


18  Princess  Puck. 

next  words  explained.     "  Then  I  can          Bill  put  the  rejected  buckles  in  her 

give  them  to  whom  I  please  ?     I  shall  pocket,  but  Kit  said  quietly  :  "  That 

give  them  to  your  wife  on  her  wedding-  you  will  never  do,  for  I  shall  never 

day."  marry." 

(To  be  continued.) 


19 


THE   NEW   ART. 


ART  and  archseology  are  pursuits 
commonly  associated  together,  in  pro- 
grammes and  prospectuses  at  all  events; 
but  artist  and  archaeologist  are  always, 
because  temperamentally,  at  odds. 
There  is  on  the  one  side  the  man  of 
science,  who  would  have  art  dependent 
upon  learning,  and  on  the  other  the 
man  of  skill,  who  claims  to  be  free  of 
the  past  and  all  its  works.  If  either 
of  them  can  be  said  to  be  in  the  right, 
it  is  only  from  his  own  narrow  point 
of  view ;  but  each  in  turn  prevails 
over  popular  opinion,  to  the  exclusion 
of  the  other.  A  generation  or  so 
ago  it  was  the  man  of  learning  who 
preached  that  art  was  not  art  unless 
it  was  a  revival  of  the  past.  Just 
now  it  is  the  man  unlearned  who  will 
have  no  dealings  with  the  past ;  for 
him  it  is  dead. 

Dead  as  it  may  seem,  the  seed  of 
the  future  is  in  it ;  and  the  idea  of  a 
New  Art,  of  which  we  hear  so  much, 
is  as  far  from  possible  realisation  as 
that  of  the  Gothic  Revival,  which  we 
lave  outlived.  We  see  now,  in  the 
light  of  a  new  century,  how  foolish 
was  the  flirtation  between  art  and 
irchseology,  how  hopeless  the  entangle- 
ment, how  impossible  any  lasting  tie 
between  them.  What  more  tedious 
to  us  than  the  perfunctory  attempts 
at  antiquarian  art  which  in  their  day 
made  such  a  stir  in  the  world1? 

So  long  as  there  are  men  whose 
hearts  are  in  the  past,  the  past  will 
be  reflected  in  their  art.  It  is  not 
with  them  a  question  of  choice,  but 
of  necessity ;  they  go  the  way  of  their 
bent;  they  cannot  help  it,  and  no 
chiding  of  ours  will  turn  them  from 
it.  Indeed  it  is  not  our  affair  but 


theirs ,  the  condition  on  which  they 
give  us  of  their  best  is,  that  they 
be  allowed  to  work  with  free  hands. 
They  are  no  less  free  to  bring  archae- 
ology to  bear  upon  their  art  than  we 
are  to  leave  it  out  of  ours.  The 
mistake  was  ever  to  insist  upon 
medievalism,  ever  to  impose  upon  the 
latter  part  of  the  nineteenth  century 
the  style  of  ages  gone.  It  could  but 
lead  to  insincerity  and  affectation. 
So  lifeless  seems  to  us  already  the 
work,  or  most  of  it,  done  in  the  name 
of  the  Gothic  Revival,  that  we  find 
ourselves  doubting  if  it  can  ever  have 
been  alive.  The  art  of  here  and  there 
an  artist,  living,  as  it  were,  back  in 
the  Middle  Ages  and  imbued  with 
their  poetry,  may  last ;  the  rest  is 
already  lumber. 

The  question  now  is  whether,  in 
the  violence  of  reaction  against  the 
enforced  adoption  of  some  historic 
style,  we  may  not  have  gone  too  far 
in  the  direction  of  a  new  style,  as  it 
is  called,  which  in  reality  is  no  more 
representative  of  us  than  medievalism 
was  representative  of  our  fathers.  The 
present  temper  is  to  break  abruptly 
with  tradition,  and  to  dismiss  from 
our  minds  all  thought  of  what  has  till 
now  been  done.  As  though  we  could ! 
As  though  to-day  were  not  the  direct 
consequence  of  yesterday  !  This  mood 
cannot  last.  There  is  not  much  to 
choose  between  the  folly  of  never 
looking  back  for  direction  and  the 
foolishness  of  looking  only  behind  us. 
It  is  idle  to  pretend  that  the  present 
is,  or  can  be,  or  should  be,  independent 
of  the  past,  even  of  the  distant  past. 
Grant  the  undue  preponderance  of 
medieval  influence  upon  Victorian  art, 

c  2 


20 


The  New  Art. 


and  the  absurd  degree  to  which  anti- 
quarian considerations  were  allowed 
to  prevail  over  aesthetic,  it  were 
almost  better  to  make  no  protest 
against  this  scientific  blunder  than, 
by  protesting  against  it,  to  counten- 
ance the  notion  that  the  study  of  the 
best  that  has  been  done  in  art  is 
anything  less  than  essential  to  our 
doing  the  best  it  is  in  us  to  do.  The 
absurd  theory  of  our  modern  self- 
sufficiency  is  absurdly  modern.  A 
short  generation  ago  no  man  would 
have  been  rash  enough  to  propound  it. 
At  the  root  of  the  new  movement 
is  the  spirit  not  merely  of  revolution 
but  also  of  anarchy.  It  is  not  harsh 
laws  that  are  defied  by  the  New  artist ; 
he  will  abide  no  law.  It  is  not  a 
given  way  he  declines  to  go  ;  he  is 
bent  on  straying.  Small  blame  to  the 
man  who  refuses  to  be  tethered  to  the 
signpost ;  but  why  not  avail  oneself 
of  the  roads?  Possibly  they  may 
have  been  worn  here  and  there  into 
ruts, — which  may  be  a  reason  for 
leaving  them  awhile,  but  not  for  long ; 
the  best,  the  safest,  and  the  quickest 
way  proves  always  in  the  end  to  be 
some  trodden  track. 

True,  there  has  been  far  too  much 
dogmatism  as  to  which  is  the  right 
way.  "  All  roads  lead  to  Rome  " ; 
yes,  but  it  has  not  yet  become  pro- 
verbial that  the  way  to  get  there  is 
to  wander,  according  to  the  mood  of 
the  moment,  over  hill  and  waste  where 
not  a  foot-track  is  to  be  seen.  That 
may  lead  to  all  manner  of  pleasant 
places,  but  not  to  a  fixed  destination. 
Were  it  not  wiser  of  the  artist  who 
knows  where  he  wants  to  go,  and 
means  to  get  there,  to  follow  for  the 
first  part  of  his  journey  at  least, 
perhaps  for  a  long  way  on  it,  the  road, 
the  high  road  even,  and  so  save  his 
strength  for  the  toils  of  that  portion 
of  the  way  which  he  will  necessarily 
have  to  explore  for  himself?  The 
mistake  of  pedantry  has  been  to  insist 


upon  one  only  way,  whereas,  such  is 
the  personal  quality  of  art,  so  much 
does  it  depend  upon  a  man's  tempera- 
ment, that  a  road  demonstrably  the 
shortest  is  not  for  everyone  the  surest 
and  most  expeditious.  Each  must 
choose  his  own  path,  and  is  himself 
the  best  judge  as  to  which  that  may 
be  ;  so  much  of  freedom  is  necessary 
to  the  spontaneous  exercise  of  art, 
but  no  one  nowadays  denies  an  artist 
that  right ;  the  danger  is  no  longer 
lest  freedom  be  restricted,  but  lest 
licence  go  without  restraint.  The 
time  when  some  historic  style,  im- 
posed by  authority,  lay  like  a  weight 
upon  the  individuality  of  the  artist 
is  past,  and  well  past;  what  weighs 
upon  it  now  is  the  pretended  style 
of  to-day.  The  past  is  dead ;  and 
from  its  ashes  there  is  arisen  the  New 
Art,  the  art  that  is  to  be,  the  art 
which  each  man  thinks  to  evolve  for 
himself  out  of  himself. 

This  New  Art  is  nothing  if  not 
original.  And  yet,  so  fearful  is  it 
of  its  own  originality,  so  mistrust- 
ful of  its  individuality,  that  it  will 
look  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left ;  still  less  dare  it  on  any  account 
look  back,  lest  somehow  the  virgin 
purity  of  its  vision  be  sullied.  And 
all  the  while  it  is  unconscious  of  the 
images  reflected  from  every  side,  images 
which,  whatever  may  at  first  have 
been  the  piquancy  of  their  most 
strange  distortion,  are  by  this  time 
the  very  commonest  property  of 
design,  with  the  least  pretensions 
to  be  (according  to  its  own  elegant 
phraseology)  up-to-date. 

So  it  happens  that  the  new  origi- 
nality ends  always  in  the  same  sort  of 
thing,  though  not  one  genius  of  them 
all  doubts  for  a  moment  that  his  art 
expresses  his  own  most  personal  idea, 
or  suspects  that  his  favourite  swirl  is 
indeed  nothing  but  the  unconscious 
reproduction  of  forms  which  begin 
already  to  be  as  hacknied  as  those 


The  New  Art. 


21 


of  any  orthodox  period.  If  only  they 
were  half  as  beautiful !  The  Greek 
fret  becomes  at  last  tiresome  by  per- 
petual repetition,  but  how  soon  we 
tire  of  the  new  meander  !  And  it  is 
not  in  ornament  alone  that  we  are 
determined  to  be  new.  Think  of  it ! 
we  rebel  against  the  authority  of  the 
Parthenon, — only  to  submit  to  the 
sway  of  the  Poster  !  The  fashion  is 
to  seek,  instead  of  beauty,  novelty. 
But  the  New  Art  is  not  so  new 
as  its  exponents  think  ;  and  the  idea 
underlying  it  is  no  newer  than  the 
forms  it  takes,  though  we  work  it 
nowadays  for  all  that  it  is  worth, 
as  the  saying  is,  or  more  than  it  is 
worth,  and  worry  a  notion  to  death 
in  a  shorter  time  than  was  ever  done 
fore.  There  is  no  more  individu- 
ity  (nowadays  less  indeed)  in  looking 
round  about  you  for  inspiration  than 
in  looking  backwards,  in  looking 
downwards  than  in  looking  upwards. 
It  is  no  sign  of  independence  to  avoid 
the  purest  sources,  and  for  no  better 

ion  than  that  they  are  known. 
The  bigoted  demand  for  antiquity 
in  modern  art  came  from  the  study ; 
the  frivolous  demand  for  novelty 
comes  from  the  shop.  The  recom- 
mendation of  the  newest  thing,  and 
the  idea  that  it  has  something  to 
recommend  it,  come  to  us  from  across 
the  counter. 

Was   there   ever,    apart   from    the 
lesman's  point  of  view,  a  more  pre- 
>sterous  conception  than  that  of  a 
ew  Art  ?     As  though   we  were   not 
itill  and  always  the  children  of  the 
past !     As  though  the  artist  were  not 
what  he  is  through  those  who  went 
before  him  !     As  though  he  did   not 
begin  with  inheritances  (possibilities 
as  well  as  disabilities)  for  which  he  is 
n   no   wise   responsible  !     The    true 
eaning  of  invention  is  the  strict  one, 
something  not  all  ours,  but  which  we 
find  and  make  our  own. 

Man's    imagination    is    no    blank 


sheet  upon  which  at  his  maturity 
personal  fancies  and  emotions  write 
themselves.  Before  ever  he  begins  to 
feel  or  think  for  himself  time  prints 
upon  its  sensitive  surface  images 
deliberately  to  be  effaced  only  by 
effort  not  worth  the  while,  seeing  how 
much  there  is  in  these  traces  of  the 
past  which  he  may  turn  to  personal, 
nay,  to  original  account.  A  man  of 
real  initiative  arrives  at  absolutely 
original  results  even  though  he  may 
take  for  his  starting-point  the  thing 
which  has  been  done.  What  paralyses 
individuality  is  only  to  accept  it  as 
an  end.  Novelty  itself  is  -by  rights 
the  result  of  changing  conditions ;  it 
comes  naturally  of  our  accepting  them ; 
and  the  craving  for  a  new  style  is 
about  as  reasonable  as  the  hankering 
after  an  old  one.  Between  adopting 
an  old  formula  and  manufacturing  a 
new  one,  the  choice  is  only  a  choice 
of  evils. 

We  vex  ourselves  to  little  purpose 
about  style.  It  does  not  come  by 
conscious  effort.  Sober  workmen, 
intent  on  their  work  and  not  thinking 
about  it,  are  all  the  while  building  it 
up.  From  time  to  time  we  note  a 
stage  of  progress  and  call  it  perhaps 
new.  Only  in  so  far  is  art  ever  new. 

All  unconsciously  some  man, 
stronger  than  the  rest  and  more  con- 
summate master  of  his  craft,  asserts 
his  individuality,  and,  not  of  master- 
fulness aforethought,  but  simply  be- 
cause he  is  a  master,  imposes  it  upon 
his  fellows,  who  become  his  followers, 
work  in  his  manner,  echo  him ;  and 
so  he  sets  a  fashion,  and  a  style  is 
formed.  There  comes  in  time  anothei 
strong  personality,  and  a  new  style 
arises.  Thus  fashions  change  even 
without  the  aid  of  trade  whose  busi- 
ness it  is  to  foster  them,  even  to  foist 
them  upon  us.  And  who  shall  judge 
them  1  This  much  at  least  may  be 
taken  as  certain,  that  of  all  fashions 
the  one  least  safe  to  follow  is  the  last 


22 


The  New  Art. 


new  fashion,  the  one,  that  is  to  say, 
which  has  not  yet  stood  the  test  of 
time,  the  one  which  is  so  near  to  us 
that  we  do  not  see  it  in  perspective, 
the  one  which  a  haze  of  popularity 
magnifies  out  of  all  just  appreciation. 
And  yet  the  cunning  pedlar  of  to- 
day has  only  to  cry  "  New  lamps  for 
old,"  and,  as  in  the  mythical  past 
when  young  Aladdin  gave  away  his 
talisman,  we  vie  in  eagerness  to  yield 
up,  in  exchange  for  trash,  traditions 
of  design  artistically  above  price. 

For  the  student,  it  is  of  his  age  to 
be  carried  along  with  the  current ;  he 
has  this  excuse  for  ignoring  the  past, 
that   he  really  knows  nothing  of  it. 
The  more  the  pity ;  and  the  more  the 
blame    to    his    teachers,    their    plain 
duty  being  to  guide  him  in  the  right 
path,  little  attraction  as  it  may  have 
for  him,  and  the  less  it  attracts  him 
the  more  persistently  to  point  it  out. 
For  the  cunning  purveyor  of  novelty, 
it  is  his  trade  to  make  much  of  a  new 
commodity.     But   for   the   men  who 
know  or   ought   to   know,  what   are 
we  to  think  of  them  when  they  are 
caught  by  the  cry,  when  the  appointed 
guardians     of     art-teaching     acclaim 
the   latest    upstart    eccentricity   and 
hail  it  for  the  newest  art?     Yet  it 
has   come   to   this,   that   the   powers 
responsible   for   the    conduct   of   our 
great  storehouse  of  practical  and  in- 
dustrial art  have  so  far  yielded  to  the 
temptation  of  the  moment  as   to  re- 
move from  their  place  of  honour  in 
the  national  museum  masterpieces  of 
Renaissance  cabinet-work  and  carving 
to  make  room  for  the  ultimate   ex- 
pression of  fantastic  extravagance  in 
French  furniture-design,  and  to  cover 
up  priceless   tapestries    with   designs 
about  on  a  level  with  the  street  poster, 
even    with    the    very    advertisement 
sheets    themselves.     It   is   significant 
that  the  new  form  of  decorative  figure- 
design    accepts    the    poster    for    its 
standard.     That    is    perhaps    a    new 


idea.  As  for  the  ever-recurring  swirl 
of  line  which  does  duty  for  new  orna- 
ment, it  resolves  itself  at  its  best 
into  something  so  like  the  rocaille  of 
Louis  Quinze  that  one  is  disposed  to 
greet  it  as  an  old  friend, — or  enemy, 
as  the  case  may  be.  It  is  not  denied 
that  good  work  may  take  at  times 
the  incoherent  form  which  we  identify 
as  the  New  Art ;  it  is  merely  asserted 
that  the  best  in  the  New  Art  is  not 
that  which  is  new,  and  the  newest  in 
it  is  the  reverse  of  good. 

In  truth  the  value  of  the  new 
endeavour  is  that  it  endeavours. 
There  are  signs  in  it  of  life  and 
energy.  It  promises  something ;  and 
courage  counts  for  much,  even  the 
courage  to  go  astray.  In  the  way  of 
accomplishment  it  has  little  to  show, 
nothing  certainly  to  compare  with  the 
art  which  in  a  remote  or  recent  past 
has  earned  the  admiration  of  artists  ; 
and  to  give  it  a  place  among  the 
treasures  of  the  nation  is  at  once 
to  place  it  in  a  false  light,  and,  by 
recognition  at  the  best  premature,  to 
stifle  what  promise  there  may  be  in  it. 

Regarded  as  the  outlet  of  youth- 
ful restlessness,  its  extravagance  may 
pass ;  as  the  serious  expression  of 
mature  art  it  lacks  coherence,  sober 
sense,  and  sanity.  If  this  is  what 
comes  of  avoiding  the  path  of  pre- 
cedent and  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
voice  of  tradition,  what  further  proof 
is  needed  to  show  how  absolutely 
necessary  it  is  to  an  artist  that  he 
should  know  what  has  been  done 
before  and  how  it  has  been  done  ? 

The  theory  is,  that  nature  is 
enough,  that  an  artist  has  only  to  look 
at  her  and  she  will  guide  him  in  the 
right  path, — but  there  is  absolutely 
no  shadow  of  a  reason  why  nature 
should  point  out  the  way  of  art.  In 
relying  wholly  upon  nature  the  artist 
is  no  better  advised  than  in  trusting 
altogether  to  art.  The  New  Art, 
indeed,  cannot  be  said  to  breathe 


the  spirit  of  nature ;  but  professed 
allegiance  to  nature  does  not  lead 
always  to  natural  results.  It  has 
resulted  before  now  in  ornament 
more  suggestive  of  railway-signals 
than  of  any  natural  growth;  it  has 
resulted  also  in  the  New  Art;  at 
least,  its  votaries  take  shelter  under 
the  name  of  nature.  And,  until  now, 
it  has  hardly  been  denied  that  the 
artist,  study  nature  as  he  may,  and 
as  he  must,  is  bound  to  study  the 
methods  of  art  also,  aye,  and  the 
works  of  artists  before  him ;  or, 
admirably  as  he  may  do,  he  will  fall 
short  of  his  possible  achievement. 
The  sincere  artist  seeks  always  the 
best,  not  the  newest  expression  of  his 
personality. 


The  New  Art. 


23 


A  new  art  impatient  to  break 
with  the  old,  merely  because  it  is  old, 
proclaims  itself  parvenu.  It  is  all 
very  well  at  a  time  like  the  turn  of 
the  century  to  take  stock  of  art ;  but, 
in  dismissing  as  old  stock  anything 
in  the  nature  of  last  season's  goods, 
we  act  like  men  of  business  merely. 
To  an  artist  the  true  criterion  is 
beauty. 

The  new  century  affects  to  believe 
that  whatever  is  established  is  already 
out  of  date ;  but  then  the  century  is 
very  young.  It  will  arrive,  in  its 
turn,  at  the  knowledge  that  art  has 
no  age,  and  that  the  pursuit  of  novelty 
is  the  oldest  of  illusions. 

LEWIS  F.  DAY. 


24 


FRANCESCO    CRISPI. 


UP  to  the  first  days  of  May,  1860, 
Garibaldi  entertained  grave  doubts  as 
to  the  possible  success  of  the  expedition 
into  Sicily.  Moreover,  the  natural 
inclination  which  he  felt  to  succour 
Nice,  his  birthplace,  and  to  prevent, 
even  with  force,  its  annexation  by 
France,  made  him  hesitate,  while 
a  long  cherished  dream  led  him  to 
prefer  the  Eternal  City,  as  a  gift 
to  United  Italy,  rather  than  Sicily, 
where  the  insurrections  of  Bagheria 
and  Palermo  had  already  been  sternly 
repressed. 

Crispi  saw  all  his  carefully  prepared 
plans  threatened  with  destruction. 
For  it  was  Crispi  who  had  now  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  from  the  Pied- 
montese  government,  which  had  ex- 
pelled him  from  Turin  a  few  years 
previously,  more  than  a  sympathetic 
neutrality,  a  veritable  support.  It 
was  he  who  persuaded  the  Milan 
Revolutionary  Committee  to  furnish 
the  necessary  arms,  and  inspired 
Garibaldi  with  confidence  in  his 
epic  project.  But  the  General  still 
hesitated,  remembering  the  unfor- 
tunate expeditions  of  Murat,  of  the 
brothers  Bandiera,  of  Pisacane,  who 
had  been  shot  down  almost  immedi- 
ately after  setting  foot  on  the  land 
which  Crispi  asserted  to  be  ripe  for 
insurrection  and  anxious  to  embrace 
the  cause  of  its  liberators.  Never- 
theless, a  few  days  before  his  interview 
with  Garibaldi,  Francesco  Crispi  had 
hired  a  small  sailing-vessel,  and,  land- 
ing in  Sicily,  had  secretly  visited  the 
principal  centres  of  the  island,  where 
a  sentence  of  death  hung  over  him 
like  a  sword  of  Damocles.  He  had 
found  the  most  daring  and  ardent 


partisans  of  his  revolutionary  plans 
discouraged  and  afraid  to  organise  an 
uprising  against  the  forty  thousand 
men  of  the  Bourbon  army.  At  last 
Garibaldi,  tortured  by  his  doubts 
and  indecision  between  Rome  and 
Nice,  after  having  walked  up  and 
down  his  room  in  a  fever  of  uncer- 
tainty, turned  abruptly  on  Crispi,  and 
asked  him  almost  fiercely  :  "  Do  you 
render  yourself  responsible  to  me  for 
Sicily  ? " 

Crispi  calm  and  assured,  replied : 
"  Yes,  General." 

"  On  your  life  ? " 

"  On  my  life." 

"  Take  care ;  I  show  no  mercy  to 
those  who  deceive  me." 

"If  I  deceive  you,  you  may  do 
what  you  like  with  me." 

"  All  right ;  then  we  shall  start." 

This  is  how  Francesco  Crispi  sums 
up  the  rapid  events  of  the  following 
months  in  his  diary. 

On  the  5th  of  May  we  sailed  from 
Quarto;  on  the  llth  we  landed  at  Mar- 
sala; on  the  15th  we  won  the  battle  of 
Calatafimi ;  on  the  27th  we  made  our 
entry  into  Palermo,  which  was  at  once 
evacuated  by  the  enemy ;  on  the  22nd  of 
July  we  triumphed  at  Milazzo ;  on  the  7th 
of  September  we  entered  Naples,  and 
finally  on  the  1st  of  October,  by  the 
victory  of  the  Volturno,  we  swept  away 
the  last  vestiges  of  the  Bourbon's  throne. 

Had  Crispi  answered  Garibaldi's 
brow-beating  questions  with  less  as- 
surance, had  he  not  offered  his  life 
as  the  guarantee  of  his  statements, 
had  he,  in  a  word,  not  been  possessed 
of  that  boundless  confidence  in  him- 
self which  always  distinguished  him, 
it  is  certain  that  the  nineteenth  cen- 


Francesco  Crispi. 


25 


tury  would  not  have  witnessed  one  of 
the  noblest  episodes  of  the  epic  of  the 
Risorgimento. 

His  deeply-rooted  and  unlimited 
self-confidence  was  the  principal 
reason  of  Francesco  Crispi's  popular 
success.  It  was  this  boundless  con- 
fidence in  his  own  powers  which 
rendered  him  almost  unconscious  of 
danger  and  gave  him  courage  to  run 
the  greatest  risks,  as,  for  instance, 
when  he  secretly  visited  Sicily  with 
the  borrowed  names  of  Manuel  Pereda 
and  Tobia  Glivaje  to  prepare  the 
insurrection,  or  when,  as  Prime 
Minister,  he  accepted  Bismarck's 
invitation  to  Friedrichsruhe  merely 
to  show  Europe  that  Italy  was  not 
afraid  to  defy  France.  Even  when 
he  was  forced  to  relinquish  the  reins 
of  power,  crushed  by  the  military 
disaster  of  Adowa,  this  exaggerated 
individual  sentiment  prevented  Crispi 
from  adequately  appreciating  his  share 
of  responsibility  in  the  terrible  dis- 
aster, which  caused  more  victims  than 
all  the  wars  of  the  Italian  Independ- 
ence. And  when  the  Radical  party 
of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  covered 
him  with  execration  and  abuse  his 
only  answer  to  their  indignant  shouts 
was  :  "  Whenever  Italy  shall  need 
me,  she  may  count  upon  me."  Even 
in  the  face  of  the  disaster,  in  an 
atmosphere  of  dismay  and  discourage- 
ment, Crispi  felt  the  necessity  of 
re-affirming  his  great  personality,  in 
order  to  reassure  the  weak  and  timid 
and  to  prove  to  sceptics  that  Italy 
could  still  boast  of  one  great  man. 
Like  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  Crispi  felt 
himself  really  superior  to  all  other 
men,  and  in  affirming  this  superiority 
there  was  so  much  confidence  and 
evident  self-belief  that  he  actually 
avoided  falling  into  ridicule. 

This  exaggerated  individual  senti- 
ment manifested  itself  in  Crispi  under 
the  guise  of  a  powerful  will  and  of 
great  courage.  It  was  thanks  to 


these  two  qualities  that  he  succeeded 
in  imposing  himself  upon  the  mass  of 
the  Italians,  who  are  precisely  lacking 
in  them.  For  although  the  Italians 
as  a  people  are  intelligent,  their  in- 
telligence is  cold  and  sceptical;  they 
are  indolent,  moreover,  avoiding  hard 
work,  and  becoming  easily  tired  after 
a  long  suspense.  The  average  Italian, 
therefore,  gladly  accepts  a  sort  of 
social  Buddhism  which  keeps  him 
away  from  political  struggles.  During 
forty  years,  if  we  except  the  Radical 
movement  now  taking  place,  the 
masses  have  never  taken  a  lively 
interest  in  any  social  or  political 
question,  and  the  Italian  Parliament 
has  never  represented  in  reality  any 
section  of  public  opinion.  A  man 
possessing  Crispi's  courage  and  power 
of  will  finds  no  difficulty  in  imposing 
himself  on  a  sceptical  and  apathetic 
mass,  having  no  ideas  of  its  own  to 
uphold.  At  one  time,  indeed,  it 
could  have  been  said  without  ex- 
aggeration that  Crispi  had  become 
a  veritable  Dictator  in  Italy.  The 
Parliamentary  opposition  to  his  go- 
vernment had  almost  completely  dis- 
appeared, and  when,  during  his  second 
term  of  office,  the  Opposition  rose 
against  him  and  became  compara- 
tively active,  Crispi  violated  with 
impunity  all  parliamentary  rights, 
proroguing  the  sessions  and  dissolving 
Parliament  without  offending  public 
opinion  or  giving  rise  to  any  mani- 
festation or  protest. 

Crispi  is  not  an  Italian  type,  his 
tendencies  and  characteristics  being, 
indeed,  quite  opposed  to  it.  In  his 
exaggerated  sentiment  of  individu- 
ality we  see  reproduced  a  type  which 
is  very  common  in  Sicily,  where  this 
hypertrophy  of  personality  indicates 
great  energies  and  explains  the 
daring,  the  love  of  adventure,  and 
the  rapid  resolutions  which  are  charac- 
teristics of  the  islanders.  But  the 
Sicilian  often  lacks  the  analytic 


26 


Francesco  Crispi. 


faculty  and  the  positive  sense,  be- 
cause he  does  not  possess  modern 
culture.  Crispi  had  a  veritable  cult 
for  the  Sicilian  philosopher  Empe- 
docles,  and  used  to  say  that  com- 
pared with  him  even  Kant,  Hegel,  or 
Hartmann  are  unimportant.  In  the 
Sicilian  what  prevails  is  the  worship 
of  force  which  is  suggested  by  his 
surroundings,  by  nature,  by  legend, 
and  by  history  itself.  Etna  with  its 
fantastic  eruptions  and  with  its  earth- 
quakes which  destroy  whole  cities, 
the  semi-tropical  sun  and  vegetation, 
such  historical  memories  as  the  battle 
of  Hymera,  the  Giants'  Temple  at 
Agrigentum,  the  tyrants  Oleander, 
Panoetius,  and  Phalaris,  the  bells 
which  gave  the  signal  of  the  in- 
surrection against  the  French,  and 
all  the  epic  struggles  of  the  islanders 
against  the  invaders  who  came  like 
birds  of  prey  from  Africa,  Asia,  and 
Europe  ;  all  these  are  memories  which 
go  far  towards  forming  the  Sicilian 
character. 

Crispi  was  one  of  the  highest 
manifestations  of  the  psychological 
characteristics  peculiar  to  the  Sici- 
lian. One  of  the  most  general 
accusations  against  him  is  that,  even 
when  a  minister,  he  remained  the 
conspirator  that  he  was  between  1848 
and  1860.  But  the  charge  is  false. 
Crispi  remained  what  he  was  even 
before  1848;  he  remained  what  the 
social  and  historic  milieu  had  made 
him,  a  worshipper  of  that  spirit  of 
power  which,  repressed  by  bondage 
and  civilisation,  has  transformed 
itself  into  a  revolutionary  and  con- 
spiring spirit.  The  whole  social 
movement  of  modern  times,  even  in 
its  most  rational  manifestations,  was 
always  regarded  by  Crispi  as  a  con- 
spiracy and  explained  in  the  lights 
of  his  vast  and  deep,  but  exclusively 
classical,  culture.  For  instance,  he 
attributed  the  Sicilian  riots  of  1893, 
which  were  the  result  of  misery  and 


hunger,  to  a  Franco-Russian  con- 
spiracy having  for  its  object  to 
deprive  Italy  of  its  most  fertile 
island.  The  solemn  denunciation  of 
this  imaginary  conspiracy  from  his 
seat  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies, 
where  he  also  declared  that  he  had 
documents  to  prove  its  existence, 
brought  upon  him  an  avalanche  of 
ridicule.  Again,  Crispi  attributed 
the  socialist  movement  which  had  its 
centre  in  Milan  to  the  separatist 
tendencies  of  Lombardy.  On  another 
occasion,  always  judging  from  his 
classical  point  of  view,  he  defined 
Socialism  as  a  return  to  the  Com- 
munism of  Sparta.  Crispi,  therefore, 
was  a  characteristic  instance  of  that 
Sicilian  type  so  common  in  the  Terre 
Promise  of  Paul  Bourget,  and  of 
which  Giorgio  Arcoleo,  who  has  care- 
fully analysed  it,  says  :  "  They  live 
to-day,  but  they  think  as  if  a  century 
ago."  Crispi  was  still  so  powerfully 
under  the  influence  of  the  social 
milieu  in  which  he  was  born,  that, 
having  been  away  from  it  for  nearly 
sixty-five  years,  he  still  made  use 
of  the  Sicilian  dialect  in  private 
conversation. 

It  was  from  that  cult  of  power  that 
Crispi  derived  the  conception  of  a 
greater  Italy,  politically  and  mili- 
tarily strong.  He  shared  the  error 
of  all  those  who  contributed  in  build- 
ing up  modern  Italy,  men  who,  like 
Cavour,  Bonghi,  and  Minghetti,  had 
a  wide  economic  culture,  but  thought 
that  Italy,  being  a  naturally  rich 
country,  could  undertake  the  most 
expensive  enterprises  with  impunity. 
Even  so  late  as  the  electoral  campaign 
of  1890  Crispi  still  upheld  this  theory. 
When  he  became  Prime  Minister  the 
Budget  of  the  State  was  nearly  in 
equilibrium,  the  total  yearly  outlay 
amounting  to  about  1,400,000  Italian 
lire.  But  already  in  the  year  1888-89 
he  had  brought  this  sum  up  to 
1,736,000,  with  the  result  that  a 


Francesco  Crispi. 


27 


deficit  of  235,000,000  lire  remained, 
and  there  was  no  possibility  of  filling 
it  and  restoring  the  balance.  In  fact, 
during  the  years  Crispi  was  in  office 
the  Italian  Debt  increased  by  leaps 
and  bounds. 

But  while  he  exhausted  the  finances 

»of  the  country  in  order  to  give  it  a 
navy  which  at  one  time  ranked  third 
in  Europe  after  those  of  England  and 
France,  and  in  order  to  strengthen 
and  reorganise  the  army  on  a  German 
model,  Crispi  embarked  Italy  on  a 
terrible  political  and  economic  struggle 
with  France,  he  raised  his  country 
to  Germany's  level  in  the  Triple 
Alliance  and  gave  a  political  mean- 
ing to  the  friendship  with  Great 
Britain. 

It  is  Crispi's  glory  to  have  accom- 
plished what  neither  the  weak  Ricasoli 
and  Mingheti  Cabinets,  although  no- 
minally followers  of  Cavour's  policy, 
nor  the  Rattazzi  or  Depretis  Minis- 
tries, hampered  as  they  were  with 
the  opportunism  of  their  home  policy, 
ever  succeeded  in  doing,  namely  to 
demonstrate  that  Italy  belongs  to  the 
group  of  great  European  Powers. 
But  Crispi,  in  his  worship  for  power 
and  in  the  excessive  vanity  of  his 
grand  individuality,  conquered  a  place 
for  Italy  among  the  great  Powers  of 
Europe  at  a  terrible  sacrifice  to  the 
country  itself.  "You  are  too  great 
for  a  country  like  Italy,"  Count  D'Arco 
remarked  to  him  one  day ;  and  if  we 
take  the  edge  of  irony  from  this  com- 
pliment, it  becomes  the  most  just 
appreciation  of  the  man.  Crispi  him- 
self once  exclaimed  :  "  If  only  I  had 
made  England  instead  of  Italy  !  " 

In  the  face  of  violent  opposition 
and  hostility  Crispi  never  relinquished 
his  dream  of  a  greater  Italy.  He 
embarked  upon  the  African  war  merely 
because  Italy,  like  the  other  great 
States  of  Europe,  was  to  have  her 
colonies,  and  that  war  cost  six  hun- 
dred millions  of  lire,  besides  shameful 


humiliations.  The  rupture  of  the 
commercial  treaty  with  France,  caused 
by  Crispi's  policy,  who  wished  to  affirm 
Italy's  moral  independence,  produced 
a  terrible  crisis  in  the  peninsula  and 
delayed  its  economic  development  at 
least  ten  years.  It  was  not  before 
1900  that  Italy's  foreign  commerce 
recovered  from  the  shock  and  rose 
again  to  three  milliards  of  lire,  as  it 
had  been  in  the  year  which  preceded 
the  war  of  tariffs  with  France.  And 
under  the  influence  of  his  policy  it 
was  easy  to  mark  the  progressive 
impoverishment  of  the  country,  as 
demonstrated  by  the  steady  decline 
in  the  consumption  of  such  necessary 
articles  as  bread,  meat,  sugar,  and 
coffee. 

If  Crispi  succeeded  in  imposing  for 
many  years  an  expensive  military 
policy  upon  a  country  such  as  Italy, 
where  the  numerous  ills  caused  by 
denutrition  reap  thousands  of  lives 
every  year  and  keep  the  southern 
provinces  in  a  state  bordering  upon 
barbarism,  this  grave  political  error 
demonstrates  to  what  an  eminent 
degree  the  man  who  imposed  it  upon 
a  nation  of  thirty-two  millions  of  in- 
habitants must  have  possessed  self- 
confidence,  courage,  and  power  of  will. 

When  Crispi  saw  the  signs  of  dis- 
satisfaction and  the  economic  ills 
caused  by  his  policy  increasing  to  a 
dangerous  extent,  then  he  would 
have  recourse  to  his  extraordinarily 
fervid  imagination,  which  seldom 
failed  to  come  to  his  aid.  Thus 
when,  following  the  dictates  of  his 
authoritative  character,  he  had  be- 
come a  reactionary,  in  a  speech  pro- 
nounced at  Palermo  on  May  15th, 
1892,  he  spoke  of  the  rights  of  labour 
in  a  veritable  socialistic  strain,  and 
shortly  afterwards  introduced  a  bill 
which  aimed  at  the  abolition  of  the 
latifondi  or  extensive  landed  property 
in  Italy.  On  another  occasion  the 
politician  who  had  always  violently 


23 


Francesco  Crispi. 


advocated  the  destruction  of  the  Tem- 
poral Power,  following  an  open  anti- 
clerical policy,  attempted  to  bring 
about  a  conciliation  between  modern 
Italy  and  the  Vatican,  and  in  1895 
maintained  in  a  speech  at  Naples 
the  necessity  of  living  in  peace  with 
the  Papacy.  In  1894  Crispi,  who 
had  hitherto  been  the  most  pugnacious 
of  Italian  politicians  and  had  despised 
all  opposition,  on  being  again  called 
to  the  government  invoked  the  treve 
de  Dieu  of  all  parties,  just  as  in  1890, 
after  having  shown  his  contempt  for 
the  policy  of  commercial  treaties,  he 
proposed  to  Count  von  Caprivi  the 
formation  of  a  Central  European 
Federation  of  Customs.  In  another 
age,  with  an  imagination  so  fervid 
and  inconstant,  Crispi  might  have 
become  the  apostle  of  some  new  reli- 
gion or  led  a  crusade  to  the  Holy 
Land. 

But  it  was  not  in  Crispi's  nature 
to  pause  in  order  to  perfect  the  little 
fleeting  projects  of  his  fervid  fantasy. 
His  intellectual  and  political  person- 
ality was  too  deeply  imbued  with  the 
desire  to  make  a  greater  Italy,  from 
the  political  greatness  and  military 
strength  of  which  he  hoped  that  the 
economic  good  of  the  country  would 
spring  up  as  a  natural  and  necessary 
result.  Though  he  had  on  several 
occasions  drawrf  up  a  complete  pro- 
gramme of  political  and  administrative 
reforms,  and  though  in  1860,  as 
Garibaldi's  minister,  he  had  shown  in 
those  dictatorial  decrees,  which  con- 
stitute perhaps  his  best  work  as  a 
statesman,  that  he  was  possessed  of  a 
powerful  administrative  and  organis- 
ing mind,  he  sacrificed  everything  to 
this  grand  ideal  of  raising  Italy  to 
the  rank  of  a  great  Power.  As  early 
as  1866,  when  he  had  not  yet  been 
converted  to  the  monarchical  faith 
and  was  still  a  Radical,  he  spoke 
as  follows  :  "  We  have  had  civil  wars 
and  powerful  revolutions,  but  a  war 


in  which  Italy  alone  has  struggled 
with  the  foreigner  and  shown  her 
strength  has  still  to  take  place.  It 
is  well  that  there  should  be  such  a 
war.  Italy  needs  a  baptism  of  blood  ; 
she  owes  it  to  herself,  so  that  the 
great  nations  of  Europe  may  know 
that  she  too  is  a  great  nation,  and 
sufficiently  strong  to  command  respect 
in  the  world." 

In  Crispi's  mind  political  power, 
backed  by  cannon  and  bayonets,  was 
to  open  the  way  to  riches  and  pros- 
perity for  Italy,  as  it  had  done  for 
Germany.  All  his  life  he  basked  in 
the  rays  of  this  great  ideal.  To  this 
he  sacrificed  his  republican  faith  and 
rebelled  against  Mazzini,  whose  dis- 
ciple he  had  been  :  to  the  realisation 
of  it  he  devoted  his  whole  political 
career  which  has  been  an  uninter- 
rupted struggle  of  half  a  century's 
duration  ;  and  as  he  was  always  fixed 
in  this  ideal,  he  often  appeared  to  be 
an  opportunist  in  politics,  the  Gam- 
betta  of  Italy,  as  he  was  called. 

He  has  died  with  the  tormenting 
consciousness  of  having  never  realised 
his  ideal  and  of  having  been  always 
misunderstood.  One  day,  not  long 
before  his  death,  the  conversation 
turned  upon  Bismarck,  and  on  the 
great  work  he  had  accomplished  :  "But 
he  was  thirty  years  in  power  and  had 
time  to  carry  out  a  programme  !  "  ex- 
claimed Crispi.  And  this  man  who, 
in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  ideals,  always 
remained  a  child,  and  could  never 
see  FEDORA  acted  without  evincing 
deep  emotion,  also  on  this  occasion 
was  unable  to  refrain  from  shedding 
tears. 

If  Crispi,  after  the  disaster  of 
Adowa,  voluntarily  abandoned  the 
government,  presenting  his  resigna- 
tion in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies, 
although  he  was  still  sure  of  a 
majority,  if  he  spontaneously  with- 
drew from  political  life,  this  must 
not  be  attributed  to  lack  of  courage 


Francesco  Crispi. 


29 


or  resolution.  For  these  redeeming 
qualities  of  the  statesman  were  never 
lost  or  crushed,  not  even  by  the  over- 
whelming military  disaster  or  by  the 
terrible  accusations  brought  against 
him  in  connection  with  the  shameless 
squandering  of  public  money  during 
the  African  war.  Crispi  was  only 
conquered  by  age  and  fatigue,  which 
had  at  length  got  the  best  of  his 
powerful  constitution.  During  his 
last  period  of  office  Crispi  began  to 
suffer  from  such  frequent  and  serious 
losses  of  memory  that  he  even  forgot 
what  had  been  decided  in  a  preced- 
ing Cabinet  Council.  During  this  sad 
closing  scene  he  was  surrounded  by 
crowds  of  parasites  whom  he  had  no 
longer  the  strength  to  drive  away, 
and  who,  under  the  false  guise  of 
friendship,  were  the  real  authors  of 
the  plundering  of  public  funds  for 
which  Crispi  was  responsible.  And 
he  also  tolerated  in  his  Cabinet 
ministers,  like  Sonnino,  whose  policy 
was  notoriously  opposed  to  his  own, 
and  whose  resignation  he  would  in 
happier  days  have  peremptorily  de- 
manded, as  he  had  done  in  his  first 
Cabinet. 

But  the  nervous  and  intellectual 
debacle  began  even  before  his  last 
tenure  of  office.  Only  thus  can  we 
explain  the  phenomenon  of  a  states- 
man, whose  political  experience  and 
abilities  were  recognised  even  by  his 
adversaries,  committing  a  deliberate 
•suicide  in  1891  when  he  pronounced 
a  few  stupid  and  perfectly  useless 
phrases  against  a  section  of  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies  which  had 
hitherto  always  supported  him  and 
which  consequently  rose  as  one  man 
against  him  and  forced  him  to  resign. 
Nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  if  Crispi 
at  the  age  of  seventy,  after  a  life 


spent  in  continual  struggles  and 
in  uninterrupted,  feverish  activity, 
should  begin  to  show  signs  of  fatigue. 
During  this  last  sad  period,  of  his 
exaggerated  individual  sentiment,  of 
his  powerful  will  and  blind  courage, 
nothing  remained  but  the  gesture, 
the  famous  colpo  di  pugno,  or  em- 
phatic striking  of  the  fist,  more 
expressive  than  any  amount  of  vehe- 
ment words. 

With  Crispi  disappears  one  of  the 
greatest  political  figures  of  the  past 
century,  a  man  gifted  with  a  mar- 
vellous power  of  imagination,  capable 
of  conceiving  and  carrying  out  the 
epic  expedition  of  the  Thousand,  and 
so  conscious  of  his  own  commanding 
personality  that  he  was  courageous 
to  the  point  of  foolhardiness,  and  so 
full  of  his  political  ideal  as  to  subdue 
and  drag  into  his  way  of  thinking 
even  his  adversaries  themselves. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether 
he  assumed  the  reins  of  power  too  late 
to  fully  carry  out  his  political  pro- 
gramme, or  whether  that  programme 
was  in  itself  a  mistake,  a  mere  Utopia 
for  a  country  like  Italy.  All  Italy 
is  now  trying  to  solve  the  dispute, 
and  even  over  his  grave  there  are  two 
opposite  parties,  the  one  praising  the 
deceased  statesman  with  exaggerated 
fervour,  the  other  continuing  to  pelt 
him  with  insults  and  the  most  terrible 
accusations. 

But  of  Crispi's  great  energy  and 
resolute  will,  which  made  him  known 
as  the  Dictator  by  his  adversaries,  no 
beneficial  result  has  remained  in  a 
country  so  disorgauised  as  Italy,  and 
the  only  visible  vestige  of  his  work 
is  the  financial  exhaustion  brought 
about  by  his  government. 

G.    M.    FlAMINGO. 


30 


AN   UNPUBLISHED   POEM   BY   ROBERT   BURNS. 

[The  following  verses  were  recently  found  among  some  papers  belonging 
to  the  late  Mrs.  Berrington,  who  died  in  1885.  During  a  great  part  of 
her  life  Mrs.  Berrington  lived  in  Monmouthshire,  at  no  great  distance  from 
Itton  Court,  the  home  of  Mrs.  Curre,  to  whom,  according  to  the  endorse- 
ment on  the  manuscript,  the  verses  were  addressed  by  Burns.  Mrs.  Curre, 
who  died  in  1823,  was  the  daughter  of  John  Bushby,  Esq.,  of  Tinwald 
Downs  in  Dumfriesshire.  The  copy  from  which  the  verses  are  printed  is  in 
the  early  handwriting  of  the  late  Miss  Eliza  Waddington,  whose  family  also 
lived  in  Monmouthshire.  It  is  hoped  that  the  present  publication  may  lead 
to  the  discovery  of  the  original  manuscript.] 

OH  look  na,  young  Lassie,  sae  softly  and  sweetly  ! 

Oh  smile  na,  young  Lassie,  sae  sweetly  on  me  ! 
Ther's  nought  waur  to  bear  than  the  mild  glance  of  pity 

When  grief  swells  the  heart  and  the  tear  blins  the  e'e. 

Just  such  was  the  glance  of  my  bonnie  lost  Nancy, 
Just  such  was  the  glance  that  once  brightened  her  e'e ; 

But  lost  is  the  smile  sae  impressed  on  my  fancy, 
And  cauld  is  the  heart  that  sae  dear  was  to  me. 

Ilka  wee  flow'ret  we  grieve  to  see  blighted, 

Cow'ring  and  with'ring  in  frost  nippet  plain  ; 
The  naist  turn  of  Spring  shall  awauken  their  beauty, 

But  ne'er  can  Spring  wauken  my  Nancy  again. 

And  was  she  less  fair  than  the  flow'rs  of  the  garden 

Was  she  less  sweet  than  the  blossoms  of  May  1 
Oh,  was  na  her  cheek  like  the  rose  and  the  lily, 

Like  the  Sun's  waving  glance  at  the  closing  o'  day  ? 

And  oh  sic  a  heart,  sae  gude  and  sae  tender  ! 

Weel  was  it  fitted  for  beauty  sae  leal : 
Twas  as  pure  as  the  drop  in  the  bell  o'  the  lily, 

A  wee  glinting  gem  wi'  nought  to  conceal. 

But  the  blush  and  the  smile  and  the  dark  e'es  mild  glances, 
I  prized  them  the  maist,  they  were  love's  kind  return, 

Yet  far  less  the  loss  of  sic  beauty  lamented, 

'Twas  the  love  that  she  bore  me  that  gaes  me  to  mourn. 


31 


DICKENS   AND    MODERN   HUMOUR. 


THE  conceptions  of  novelists,  though 
not  necessarily  their  power  of  treat- 
ment, have  grown  continuously  from 
the  beginning.  If  we  take  Fielding 
as  a  starting-point — though  he  him- 
self, with  trouble,  may  be  proved  a 
direct  descendant  (shall  we  say  ?)  of 
Apuleius  and  Homer — we  shall  find 
a  steady  growth  in  the  extent  of  the 
material  which  the  novel  is  thought 
fit  to  cover.  The  stages  of  the  growth 
may  be  suitably  marked  by  Fielding, 
Scott,  Hugo  or  Balzac,  George  Eliot, 
and  even  Mr.  George  Meredith.  In 
the  last  instance  there  is  clearly  no 
increase  of  skill,  of  actual  merit,  of 
poignancy,  on  the  work  of  Fielding. 
It  is  merely  that  the  aim  and  scope 
have  altered,  and  on  the  whole,  if 
judged  by  intention,  not  by  perform- 
ance, THE  EGOIST  is  as  much  superior 
to  NOTRE  DAME  as  NOTRE  DAME  is  to 
TOM  JONES.  Using  the  test  of  evolu- 
tion, the  more  complex  is  a  develop- 
ment of  the  more  simple,  the  bird  of 
Paradise  many  ages  superior  to  the 
archseopterix.  But  it  is  even  more 
true  that  THE  EGOIST  is  incomparably 
inferior  to  TOM  JONES.  The  later 
author  reminds  one  of  a  belated 
traveller  stumbling  about  a  field  of 
turnips  on  a  dark  night ;  there  are 
curses,  headlong  scrambles  to  prevent 
a  fall,  somersaults,  terrors  of  looming 
shapes,  stops  to  kick  off  the  gathered 
mud,  weariness,  and  but  little  pro- 
gress. When,  if  ever,  the  writer 
reaches  home  a  glow  of  pride  for  the 
memorable  difficulties  he  has  con- 
quered is  intense ;  such  a  task  none 
ever  before  attempted,  and  if  the 
labour  was  long  and  the  method  un- 
gainly, what  matter  1  Finis  can  be 


written  with  a  flourish,  and  writer 
and  reader  are  together  proud.  Field- 
ing did  not  try  such  a  route ;  he 
turned  into  the  road  and  moved 
smoothly  along,  neither  fast  nor  slow, 
now  and  again,  if  he  felt  so  disposed, 
leaning  on  the  top  bar  of  a  gate  to 
express  his  gratitude  that  nowadays 
cross-country  routes  were  unnecessary ; 
when  he  reached  home  he  had  his 
dinner  and  went  to  sleep,  happy 
enough  but  not  particularly  proud. 
Why  should  he  be  ?  He  had  travelled, 
with  a  good  deal  of  pleasure,  his 
natural  course.  Like  many  of  Field- 
ing's successors,  Mr.  Meredith  has 
been  too  ambitious  ;  why  should  they 
strain  to  make  the  novel  an  amalga- 
mation of  all  literature?  The  teller 
of  a  story  should  be  above  all  things 
unconscious  ;  and,  in  spite  of  develop- 
ment and  theories,  a  novel  still  depends 
for  its  claim  to  merit  on  the  sheer- 
capacity  for  romantic  narration.  So 
although  the  novel  since  his  day  has 
made  good  its  claim  to  be  as  serious  a 
piece  of  lasting  literature  as  a  drama 
or  a  picture  or  a  poem,  the  first 
English  novelist  is  at  least  as  great 
as  the  last,  as  Mr.  Meredith  or  as 
Mr.  Hardy. 

Now  Dickens  in  his  infancy  learned 
TOM  JONES  almost  by  heart,  and 
necessarily  imbibed  some  of  the 
character  of  the  author.  Critics,  who 
like  to  fit  every  author  into  his  place 
in  the  mosaic  of  their  theory,  have 
condemned  Dickens  out  of  hand 
because  he  was  the  last  of  a  school 
which  had  been  superseded  by  one  of 
higher  and  wider  aims.  As  Stevenson 
pointed  out  in  connection  with  Victor 
Hugo,  great  moral  principles  are  part 


32 


Dickens  and  Modern  Humour. 


of  the  tissue  of  modern  tales.  Take 
away  the  motif,  on  which  all  the 
French  critics  lay  such  stress,  from 
LBS  TRAVAILLBURS  DE  LA  MER  and  no 
story  is  left.  With  Dickens,  though 
no  one  more  deliberately  and  vigor- 
ously attacked  standing  abuses,  the 
people  are  the  thing.  It  is  as  if 
hypocrisy  were  invented  to  illustrate 
Mr.  Pecksniff.  Such  an  elemental 
creation  could  never  have  been 
fashioned  by  secondary  inspiration. 
Chiefly  for  this  reason  all  attempts  to 
fit  Dickens  into  an  essential  place  in 
the  development  of  fiction  have  been 
found  beside  the  mark.  His  date, 
as  well  as  his  character,  forbids  it. 
Though  he  owed  much  to  Fielding 
he  is  in  no  full  sense  of  Fielding's 
school ;  and  though  in  aim  he  is  as 
simple  as  Mr.  Meredith  is  complex, 
his  work  is  not  therefore  earlier  in 
theoretical  evolution.  Even  with  re- 
gard to  Thackeray,  with  whom  he  is 
often  unfairly  compared,  he  is  his 
contrary,  not  his  contradictory,  natur- 
ally different,  not  consciously  opposed. 
He  belongs  to  the  immortal  band  of 
observers,  the  men  whose  observation 
is  so  keen  and  interest  so  vivid 
that  articulate  expression  becomes  a 
necessity.  When  the  kettle  boils, 
the  steam  must  escape.  The  char- 
acter, training,  environment  of  the 
authors  give  them  each  individuality, 
but  Dickens's  laughable  hyperbole, 
Thackeray's  genial  cynicism,  Hugo's 
melodramatic  extravagances,  are  indi- 
vidual accidents,  not  the  inheritance 
of  a  school.  Dickens,  then,  is  neither 
the  first  nor  the  last  of  a  school, 
though  he  owed  much  to  Fielding, 
and  has  been  now  and  then  slavishly 
imitated  by  Daudet.  Literary  men 
have,  from  time  to  time,  thrown  off 
a  sketch  or  two,  as  Gigadibs  did, 
which  may  be  mistaken  for  Dickens, 
but  to  keep  up  the  effort  for  a 
hundred  pages  is  beyond  the  power 
of  imitation. 


But  though  fortunately  Dickens 
founded  no  school,  his  work  has 
produced  an  almost  unexampled  effect 
on  the  humour  of  a  whole  nation.  It 
is  impossible  to  estimate  the  popu' 
larity  of  the  novels  in  America,  but 
it  is  certain  that  if  he  had  received 
a  penny  royalty  on  the  sale  of  his 
books  there,  he  would  have  been,  in 
spite  of  his  generous  habits,  a  man  of 
vast  wealth.  The  number  of  pirated 
editions  was  immense ;  it  is  no  wonder 
that  he  wrote  home  with  such  bitter- 
ness of  the  cruelty  that  the  want  of 
a  copyright-law  entailed.  He  may  be 
said  to  have  been  the  first  novelist 
whom  the  whole  nation  through  all 
its  castes  read  and  enjoyed.  He 
found,  as  he  writes  in  one  of  the 
letters  from  America,  even  "  the 
carmen  of  Hertford  in  their  blue 
frocks  all  reading  my  books."  Though 
his  published  impressions  of  America 
caused  the  deepest  indignation,  which 
was  intensified  by  the  powerful  but 
rather  unhappy  chapters  in  MARTIN 
CHUZZLEWIT,  he  regained  his  popu- 
larity quickly  for  the  reason  that  his 
bitterest  foes  had  never  escaped  from 
the  grip  of  his  charm.  His  humour 
"  fair  whipped,"  as  one  of  them  said, 
anything  they  had  read  before ;  and 
the  appreciation  of  it,  widespread 
beyond  precedent,  had  exercised  an 
unprecedented  influence  on  the  style 
of  the  nation's  humour. 

No  people  have  a  form  of  humour 
so  well  defined  as  the  Americans.  It 
is  not  perhaps  particularly  admirable  ; 
it  is  not  literary ;  it  is  certainly  much 
inferior  to  the  humour  of  Dickens's 
novels,  but  it  is  still  descended 
directly,  having  developed  certain 
unfortunate  features,  from  the  chil- 
dren of  Dickens's  genius.  On  humour 
in  England  Dickens  has  exercised  no 
similar  effect  because  the  quality  of 
the  nation's  humour  was  already 
individual  when  Dickens  wrote.  In 
some  ways  his  humour  is  not  particu- 


Dickens  and  Modern  Humour. 


33 


larly  English,  or  rather  it  exaggerated 
one  attribute  to  the  exclusion  of 
others.  Typical  English  humour,  the 
result  of  Teuton  solidity  meeting  Celtic 
imagination,  is  reticent,  subtle,  even, 
it  may  be,  grim ;  it  is  chiefly  marked, 
as  a  rule,  by  inward  appreciation,  and 
more  often  made  articulate  by  action 
than  by  speech.  A  twinkle  at  the 
corner  of  the  mouth  is  a  more  fre- 
quent sign  than  an  epigram  or  a 
laugh.  But  it  is  well  to  remember 
that  there  are  no  clowns  like  the 
English,  no  such  physical  humourists, 
so  to  speak,  who  plunge  into  extrava- 
gant quiddities  for  the  mere  zest  of 
tumultuous  life.  Dickens  was  a  prince 
of  clowns,  and  the  title  is  commenda- 
tory. His  whole  person  overflowed 
with  vitality,  and  the  fun  in  him 
came  out  anyhow,  tricked  in  grotesque 
trappings,  tumbling  into  ridiculous 
antics,  grimacing,  frowning,  blubber- 
ing, cracking  whips,  turning  Catherine- 
wheels,  mimicking,  originating  ;  but 
always  it  was  exuberant,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  most  farcical  folly  betray- 
ing an  almost  supernatural  shrewd- 
ness of  observation.  Such,  from  one 
isolated  point  of  view,  was  Dickens's 
humour,  and  in  this  aspect  it  appealed 
with  universal  force  to  the  American 
people.  There  existed  no  doubt  traces 
of  this  bent  of  humour  in  the  States 
before  Dickens  wrote  ;  but  his  work, 
especially  the  earliest  and  least  ma- 
ture, gave  an  impetus  to  the  move- 
ment by  reason  of  which  it  is  still 
hurried  forward.  The  cardinal  at- 
tribute of  American  humour  is  exag- 
geration. It  seeks  out  and  clings  to 
the  extravagant,  heaping  hyperbole 
on  hyperbole  with  care  to  leave  the 
grotesquest  addition  to  the  top  of  the 
outrageous  heap.  The  effect  of  the 
stories  is  always  cumulative.  Of  those 
that  are  quotable  one  of  the  best 
examples  is  the  description  of  the 
latest  rifle-club,  and  its  use  was  to 
cap  any  "  tall  "  talking  from  visitors. 
No.  505. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


The  opening,  to  borrow  a  metaphor 
from  the  chess-board,  is  one  commonly 
played  by  Americans.  A  foreigner 
had  spoken  of  his  nation's  skill  with 
the  rifle.  "  That's  nothing,"  said  his 
host.  "  In  America,  we  never  think 
of  shooting  at  a  still  target;  some- 
one justs  rolls  a  tub  down-hill,  and 
you've  got  to  put  three  consecutive 
bullets  into  the  bunghole  before  you 
can  become  a  member  of  the  club. 
There's  a  fresh  trial  of  the  members 
every  month,  and  every  man  that 
misses  one  of  his  three  shots  has  to 
leave  the  club."  Then,  with  a  pause 
designed  to  create  the  impression  that 
hyperbole  had  reached  its  limit,  the 
narrator  would  add,  "  And  we  haven't 
lost  a  member  for  four  years."  The 
incidents  of  the  story  are  cumulative. 
By  artificial  extravagance,  lie  is  heaped 
upon  lie  till  altitude  can  be  carried 
no  further.  Just  the  same  means 
are  adopted  with  considerable  effect 
by  Mark  Twain  in  his  sketch,  popular 
at  Penny  Readings,  of  the  doings 
and  goings  of  his  watch  after  he  had 
begun  to  meddle  with  the  regulator. 
If  you  are  in  boisterous  health,  you 
may  indulge  in  tumults  of  laughter. 
If  your  mood  is  only  receptive,  not 
aggressive,  you  will  find  your  sense 
of  humour  strained  to  the  breaking- 
point.  There  is  no  middle  course 
possible,  no  midway  smile  between 
appreciation  and  laughter. 

It  is  a  commonplace,  and  a  par- 
ticularly irritating  commonplace,  of 
criticism  that  Dickens  is  spoiled  by 
exaggeration.  Mr.  Micawber,  we  are 
told,  and  Mark  Tapley  are  gross  cari- 
catures. "  Dickens  could  not  draw 
a  gentleman,"  as  if  Mr.  Pickwick  was 
ever  anything  else.  "  No  man  of 
literary  perceptions  can  read  Dickens 
if  he  has  learned  to  appreciate 
Thackeray,"  as  though  Peggotty's 
heart  were  not  as  valuable  as  Becky's 
brain.  "  Dickens's  pathos  is  a  model 
of  mock  sentiment,"  as  though  even 


Dickens  and  Modern  Humour. 


the  critics  themselves  in  their  salad- 
days  had  not  suffered  with  Agnes 
and  Dr.  Strong.  Dickens  is  no 
artist,  they  assure  us,  and  the  pro- 
phets prophesy,  in  the  face  of  the 
new  editions,  that  the  Dodsons  and 
Gamps  will  die  forgotten  as  soon 
as  manners  change  and  abuses  are 
scattered.  Poor  Dickens  !  When 
the  literary  man  has  done  with  him, 
there  is  nothing  left  but  a  sub- 
stratum of  burlesque  humour,  fit  to 
please  a  few  uncultured  spirits  of  the 
middle  class.  Even  the  admirers  of 
Dickens  grant  the  truth  of  these 
arguments,  and  confess  that  the 
portraiture  of  the  character  is  gener- 
ally damaged  by  some  hyperbolic 
attribute.  There  are  no  Quilps  in 
real  life  who  swallow  liquid  fire ; 
hypocrites  do  not  reach  the  Peck- 
sniffian  level ;  small  Olivers  do  not 
whimper  over  mothers  they  have 
never  known.  These  charges,  par- 
tially accurate  in  the  letter,  are 
founded  on  a  misconception ;  but  it 
is  true  that  the  exaggerative  and 
boisterous  qualities  of  Dickens  have 
chiefly  enthralled  Americans;  and 
it  is  the  popular  misconception  of 
Dickens's  art  and  aim,  fostered  by 
certain  critics,  which  has  perverted 
throughout  America  the  influence  of 
Dickens's  work.  With  a  natural 
appreciation  of  extravagances,  such 
as  those  they  thought  they  had 
found  in  Dickens,  American  humour- 
ists, imitating  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, sought  to  create  effects, 
similar,  for  instance,  to  Mr.  Dounce's 
quandary  in  the  SKETCHES  BY  Boz, 
by  inventing  a  series  of  ridiculous 
situations.  But  the  result  has  been 
something  essentially  different  from 
anything  in  Dickens,  because  with 
him  the  occurrences  are  always  co- 
ordinate emanations  from  a  central 
character,  with  the  Americans  they 
are  successive  tours  de  force  of  the 
author's  inventiveness.  Now  and 


then,  perhaps,  in  Dickens  the  events 
are  grotesque  and  extravagant,  but 
they  are  never  unreal,  because  the 
characters  commit  just  that  sort  of 
action  which  they  should  in  accord- 
ance with  the  essential  attributes  of 
their  definition.  The  degree  of  the 
action  may  be  disproportionate,  its 
quality  never  is.  With  writers,  on 
the  other  hand,  whose  characters  are 
produced  by  the  events,  the  action 
is  the  essential  part,  and  if  the 
details  be  judged  improbable  or  un- 
convincing the  tale  or  sketch  loses 
its  justification. 

We  may  say  that  Dickens  never 
consciously  set  out  for  dramatic  situa- 
tion. His  characters  did  that  for 
him,  acting  as  did  John  Inglesant 
on  Mr.  Shorthouse.  "  It  was  days," 
Mr.  Shorthouse  once  said,  "  before  I 
could  make  Inglesant  travel  over  to 
Italy."  Inglesant's  heart  was  in  the 
little  village  of  Gidding  and  he 
refused  to  leave  England,  and  it  was 
not  till  after  a  week's  wrestling  that 
he  reluctantly  yielded  to  his  author's 
remonstrances  and  crossed  the  channel. 
In  the  pages  of  the  book  you  feel 
the  hero's  reluctance  ;  he  drags  along, 
for  the  reason  that  his  experiences 
were  not  of  his  own  finding.  The 
characters  he  created  were  more  real 
to  Dickens  than  Inglesant  was  to  Mr. 
Shorthouse,  and  Dickens  was  seldom 
foolish  enough  to  contradict  their 
wishes.  His  method  is  excellently 
described  in  one  of  his  letters  to 
Felton  :  "I  am  in  great  health 
and  spirits  and  powdering  away  at 
Chuzzlewit  while  all  manner  of  face- 
tiousness  rises  up  before  me  as  I  go 
on."  The  humour  rose  up,  the  situa- 
tions came  :  "  He  spoke  in  numbers 
for  the  numbers  came."  Such  confes- 
sions may  be  made  by  almost  every 
genius,  and  of  no  one  is  it  truer  than 
of  Dickens  that  "he  wrote  because 
he  could  not  help  it."  His  characters, 
at  least  in  the  earlier  novels,  said 


Dickens  and  Modern  Humour. 


3.5 


what  they  said  because  he  could  not 
help  it.  Without  the  help  of  the 
good  lady  no  one,  not  even  Dickens, 
could  have  written  Mrs.  Nickleby's 
more  eloquent  speeches  :  there  is  less 
exaggeration  in  the  whole  of  her 
amazing  orations  than  in  a  page  of 
Mark  Twain  (a  great  humourist,  we 
grant,)  or  of  Mr.  Jerome,  who  repre- 
sents American  humour  on  its  way 
back  to  England.  Contrast  the  most 
ludicrous  passage  (for  instance,  the 
slipping  of  the  tow-rope)  in  Mr. 
Jerome's  THREE  MEX  IN  A  BOAT, 
with  any  speech  taken  at  haphazard 
from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Nickleby,  and 
the  superiority  of  the  method  of 
Dickens  to  the  best  efforts  of  Ameri- 
can and  the  newest  English  humour 
will  appear  at  once.  Hers  is  the 
true  oratory.  Listen  to  her  at  the 
theatre  with  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  and 
his  delectable  companions. 

"  I  think  there  must  be  something  in 
the  place,  for,  soon  after  I  was  married,  I 
went  to  Stratford  with  poor  dear  Mr. 
Nickleby,  in  a  post-chaise  from  Birming- 
ham— was  it  a  post-chaise  though?  "  said 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  considering.  "  Yes  it  must 
have  been  a  post-chaise,  because  I  recol- 
lect remarking  at  the  time  that  the  driver 
had  a  green  shade  over  his  left  eye ; — 
in  a  post-chaise  from  Birmingham,  and 
after  we  had  seen  Shakespeare's  tomb 
and  birthplace,  we  went  back  to  the  inn 
there,  where  we  slept  that  night,  and  I 
recollect  that  all  night  long  I  dreamt  of 
nothing  but  a  black  gentleman,  at  full 
length,  in  plaster-of-Paris,  with  a  lay- 
down  collar  tied  with  two  tassels,  leaning 
against  a  post  and  thinking  ;  and  when  I 
woke  in  the  morning  and  described  him 
to  Mr.  Nickleby,  he  said  it  was  ^Shake- 
speare just  as  he  had  been  when  he  was 
alive,  which  was  very  curious  indeed. 
Stratford  —  Stratford,"  continued  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  considering.  "Yes,  I  am  posi- 
tive about  that,  because  I  recollect  I  was 
in  the  family-way  with  my  son  Nicholas 
at  the  time,  and  I  had  been  very  much 
frightened  by  an  Italian  image-boy  that 
very  morning.  In  fact,  it  was  quite 
a  mercy,  ma'am,"  added  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
in  a  whisper  to  Mrs.  Wititterly,  "  that  my 
son  didn't  turn  out  to  be  a  Shakespeare, 


and  what  a  dreadful   thing  that   would 
have  been !  " 


Mrs.  Nickleby  speaks  as  her  defini- 
tion compelled ;  she  was  forced  by 
inward  compulsion  to  live  up  to  her 
attributes.  The  case  is  exactly  re- 
versed with  a  great  deal  of  the 
humour  that  is  now  commended  ;  it  is 
either  imported  or  reported.  That  is 
to  say,  facetious  words  or  ridiculous 
occurrences  are  fetched  from  anywhere 
and  this  or  that  character  compelled 
to  say  or  act  them,  though  they  each 
would  be  just  as  funny  if  it  were  spoken 
or  experienced  by  anyone  else.  We 
may  take  the  adventures  of  the  Three 
Men  in  a  Boat,  or  of  the  Invisible 
Man,  or  even  of  Huckleberry  Finn, 
as  illustrative;  the  words  and  occur- 
rences are  imported. 

Another  class  of  humourist,  who  is 
now  enjoying  a  vogue,  laboriously 
studies  a  locality  and  its  slang,  and 
then  invents  characters  and  story  to 
illustrate  the  entries  in  the  notebook. 
Mr.  Morrison,  who  writes  pictur- 
esquely and  powerfully,  was  greatly 
commended  in  a  late  review  for  his 
"easy  swing  of  detail."  He  had,  in 
a  word,  a  large  amount  of  notes  to 
pick  from,  and  he  made  us  laugh  by 
the  accuracy  of  his  reports.  There  is 
an  undoubted  laugh  in  the  boast  of 
the  man  that  he  had  "a  pair  of 
Benjamins  cut  saucy  with  double  fake- 
ments  down  the  sides."  The  phrase 
we  remember  well,  but  who  it  was 
that  said  it  we  have  long  since  for- 
gotten. On  the  other  hand  let  anyone 
hear  such  simple  unremarkable  words 
as  "so  dispoged"  or  "swelling  wisi- 
bly,"  and  the  pictures  of  Mrs.  Gamp 
or  of  Tony  Weller  rise  up  instantly. 
The  mind  acts  on  the  law  of  associa- 
tion of  ideas,  by  which,  if  two  things 
are  once  associated  together,  ever 
afterwards  the  appearance  of  the 
lesser  tends  to  suggest  the  greater. 
If  the  character  came  before  the  words 

D  2 


36 


Dickens  and  Modern  Humour. 


in  the  order  of  creation,  the  hearing 
of  the  words  will  recall  the  character ; 
if  the  phrase  was  made  and  afterwards 
put  into  a  character's  mouth,  we  must 
hear  of  both  the  character  and  the 
phrase  before  we  can  recall  their 
connection. 

The  causes  of  what  we  may  call  the 
degeneration  of  humour  are  reciprocal, 
as  between  author  and  public.  There 
is  continuous  pressure  on  the  author 
to  supply  what  the  public  wishes,  and 
the  wishes  of  the  public  are  fostered 
by  the  sort  of  literature  which  authors 
supply.  The  author  may  be  above 
his  public;  but  he  is  also  of  it, 
vitiated  by  its  prejudices  and  inspired 
with  its  enthusiasms,  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  bulk  of  people 
prefer  that  sort  of  forced  wit  which 
the  admirers  of  Dickens  deprecate. 
As  a  test  of  popular  opinion  it  is 
illuminating  to  cross-examine  a  num- 
ber of  people  who  may  be  described 
without  offence  as  belonging  to  the 
class  of  professional  novel  -  reader. 
The  unanimity  of  their  criticisms  will 
be  surprising.  Let  Mr.  Barrie,  in  his 
capacity  as  humourist,  be  taken  as  the 
subject  of  interrogation.  Let  one 
story,  for  example  THE  COURTING  OF 
T'NOWHEAD'S  BELL,  be  selected  for 
illustrating  our  professional  novel- 
reader's  theories  of  humour.  It  will 
be  found  that  at  least  nine  out  of  ten 
will  become  rapturous  over  that  detail 
of  the  story  in  which  occurs  the  de- 
scription of  the  race,  as  watched  from 
the  kirk  gallery,  between  Sanders 
Elshioner  (who  took  the  roadway  and 
to  his  eternal  disgrace  ran  on  the 
Sabbath)  and  Samuel  the  weaver,  who 
tried  the  short  cut  over  the  burn  and 
up  the  commonty.  The  race  is  de- 
scribed with  much  spirit  and  the  details 
are  diverting  ;  but  the  essence  of  the 
story,  its  claim  to  a  more  than 
fugitive  distinction,  its  real  humour, 
lies  in  the  subsequent  events  as  dis- 
played in  the  repeated  conversations 


between  the  canny  Sanders  and  the 
diffident  Samuel.  The  conclusion  is 
quite  excellent. 

"  Ye'll  be  gaein'  up  to  the  manse  to 
arrange  wi'  the  minister  the  morn's 
mornin',  "  continued  Sanders  in  a  sub- 
dued voice. 

Sani'l  looked  wistfully  at  his  friend. 
"  I  canna  do't,  Sanders,"  he  said,  "  I 
canna  do't." 

"  Ye  maun,"  said  Sanders. 

"  It's  aisy  to  speak,"  retorted  Sam'l 
bitterly. 

"  We  have  a'  oor  troubles,  Sam'l,"  said 
Sanders  soothingly,  "  an'  every  man 
maun  bear  his  ain  burdens.  Johnnie 
Davie's  wife's  dead,  and  he's  no  repinin'.  " 

",  Ay,"  said  Sam'l,  "  but  a  death's  no  a 
maritch ;  we  hae  ha'en  deaths  in  oor 
family  too." 

"  I  maun  hae  langer  to  think  o't,"  said 
Sam'l. 

"Bell's  maritch  is  the  morn,"  said 
Sanders  decisively. 

The  Scotch  allusiveness  and  the 
characters  of  the  two  men  are  illus- 
trated here  with  an  exquisite  touch, 
and  in  this  vein  Mr.  Barrie  would 
have  done  really  good  work.  He  is 
not  Scott,  but  Sanders  and  Sam'l 
have  the  native  charm  which  has 
helped  to  make  Caleb  Balderstone 
and  Andrew  Fairservice  immortal. 
Sanders  is  a  small  man  compared  with 
the  Olympians  of  Scott ;  but  Sanders 
in  pursuit  of  a  wife  is  endowed  with 
the  real  native  humour  not  less  truly 
than  Caleb  running  off  with  the  wild 
ducks  on  the  spit  or  Andrew  in  the 
arrangement  of  a  horse- deal.  But  the 
later  Barrie  !  What  a  falling  off  is 
there !  And  the  reason  is  not  only 
that  Thrums  had  been  worked  out 
and  the  store  of  its  characters  ex- 
hausted, but  that  popularity  lay  in  the 
direction  of  extravagant  incident,  of 
hyper-sensitive  sentiment. 

There  is  another  fault  in  the  later 
humourists  which  is  also  conspicuous 
in  many  writers  on  other  subjects, 
even  on  science.  It  springs  in  the 


Dickens  and  Modern  Humour. 


37 


first  place  from  hurry  and  from  the 
poverty  of  thought  which  must  result 
from  it.  Authors  will  not  take  even 
a  vastly  modified  form  of  Horace's 
advice  to  let  their  work  lie  fallow  for 
a  time.  Mr.  Shorthouse  did  it  in  the 
case  of  JOHN  INGLESANT;  Messieurs 
Paul  et  Victor  Margueritte  have  made 
a  trilogy  of  novels  the  work  of  a  life- 
time ;  but  in  most  cases  the  man  who 
is  conscious  of  talent  exhausts  his 
material  as  soon  as  it  is  acquired  ;  he 
shapes  out  the  forms  of  his  imagina- 
tion before  he  has  learned  his  business. 
The  immediate  result  is  thinness.  It 
is  as  if  Dickens,  having  come  across 
the  abominations  of  a  Bumble  or  a 
Squeers,  had  filled  OLIVER  TWIST  and 
NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY  with  their  doings 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  thieves,  actors, 
and  the  rest  of  the  immortal  char- 
acters that  fill  the  pages.  Supposing, 
again,  that  Dickens  had  acquired  such 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  Thames 
shipping  as  Mr.  Jacobs,  we  should 
have  had  from  him  glorious  chapters 
winking  to  the  brim  with  the  bubbles 
of  humour ;  but  to  offer  a  brew  of 
nothing  but  Thames  boatmen  would 
never  have  occurred  to  him. 

A  humourist,  whose  field  should  be 
as  wide  as  his  world,  needs  above  all 
things  broad  observation  and  broad 
sympathy.  The  world  is  right  in 
refusing  to  keep  before  its  eyes  a 
number  of  miniatures.  However 
clever  and  neat,  they  must  become 
wearisome  and  unsatisfying.  We  can 
put  up  with  a  few.  Mr.  Jacobs  un- 
doubtedly makes  us  laugh  ;  in  his  vein 
he  has  genuine  wit  and  humour,  and 
needs  only  to  give  himself  wider  scope. 
Mr.  Hope  is  subtle  and  clever  beyond 
his  classical  predecessors.  Mr.  Anstey, 
on  the  almost  irritating  irony  of  fate 
working  in  the  unimaginative  medium 
of  middle  class  lives,  has  won  more 
than  an  ephemeral  success ;  but  they 
are  all  too  contracted,  too  subtle,  too 


clever,  too  careful  of  means,  too  well 
bridled.  They  are  infinitely  superior 
to  most  of  their  farcical  contempo- 
raries who  must  be  always  sticking 
spurs  into  jaded  nature,  that  she 
may  seem,  at  any  rate  to  the  gallery, 
to  be  gambolling  naturally  ;  but 
something  bigger  is  wanted,  a  man 
before  whom  "all  manner  of  facetious- 
ness  will  rise  up  "  as  he  writes.  He 
will  not  come  while  men  are  content 
to  spread  their  stuff  thin,  and .  to 
write  before  they  have  realised.  In 
spite  of  his  many  deficiencies  the  one 
exception  is  Mr.  Kipling.  He  is  real ; 
he  speaks  that  he  knows ;  his  humour 
is  inherent  and  plain-spoken;  Mul- 
vaney  is  and  the  drummer-boys  of  the 
Fore  and  Aft  were.  His  imagination 
is  actual  on  whatever  subject  it  works. 

When  'Omer  smote  'is  bloomin'  lyre 
'E'd  'eard  men  sing  by  land  and  sea  ; 

An'  what  'e  thought  'e  might  require 
"E  wen'  and  took,  the  same  as  me. 

This  is  the  true  historical  imagina- 
tion, which  working  on  things  past  or 
present  sees  for  itself  without  strain- 
ing and  without  distortion.  Even  so 
free  from  hypocrisy  was  Dickens,  and 
the  modern  novelist  and  the  modern 
humourist  both  need  a  full  dose  of 
him.  The  Americans  have  only  copied 
his  extravagances  and,  if  we  may 
allow  the  criticism,  his  want  of  style. 
The  English  humourists  have  either 
taken  a  sort  of  tertiary  inspiration 
through  the  Americans,  or  have  mis- 
taken the  humour  of  situations  for 
the  humour  of  character  and  the 
product  of  the  mere  intellect  for  the 
expression  of  character.  We  are  told 
that  Dickens  is  about  to  go  out  of 
favour.  The  consummation  will  only 
be  reached  when  the  sense  of  humour 
is  destroyed  either  by  the  dilettante 
affectations  of  professional  word- 
catchers  or  the  overwhelming  flood 
of  paragraphic  facetiousness. 


38 


THE    LAND    OF    THE    POPPY. 


IV. — ITS  RIVER-LIFE. 


SARJU  is  a  name  common  to  several 
rivers  in  a  certain  district  of  Poppy 
Land.  In  order  therefore  to  distin- 
guish one  Sarju  from  another  it  is 
necessary  to  prefix  an  adjective  before 
the  name.  The  river  of  which  I 
speak,  and  on  whose  green  banks  I 
have  spent  so  many  happy  hours,  is 
the  Chota  Sarju,  which  translated  into 
the  English  tongue  means  the  Lesser 
Sarju.  The  Chota  Sarju  is  in  reality 
the  off-scourings  of  a  much  larger 
river,  the  course  of  which  was  arti- 
ficially diverted  into  an  old  channel 
which  joins  another  river  known  as 
the  Koriala.  This  diverted  stream  is 
now  called  the  Sarju,  and  the  surplus 
water  that  flows  a  mile  past  the  station 
of  Bahraich  is  the  one  known  as  the 
Chota  Sarju.  The  head  waters  of  the 
stream  are  in  the  hills  of  Nepaul,  and 
the  river  is  consequently  liable  to 
floods  which  usually  occur  at  the  com- 
mencement of  and  during  the  rainy 
season.  A  mile  from  the  cluster  of 
bungalows  and  the  crowded  bazaar, 
that  rejoices  in  the  name  of  Bahraich, 
a  small  pontoon  bridge  has  been 
thrown  across  the  stream. 

River  crossings  or  fords  are  known 
in  India  as  ghdts,  and  the  place  where 
the  pontoon  bridge  has  been  con- 
structed is  called  Golwa  Ghat.  Fifty 
yards  above  the  pontoons  the  abut- 
ments of  a  masonry  bridge  are  still 
standing,  the  silent  monuments  of  an 
engineering  mistake.  The  bridge  was 
apparently  not  built  with  sufficient 
water-escape,  and  when  the  river  rose 
in  its  wrath  the  arches  came  down 
like  a  house  of  cards,  and  no  attempt 


has  been  made  to  rebuild  it.  Between 
the  ruined  abutments  and  the  pontoon 
bridge  the  river  widens  into  a  deep 
pool  or  khund.  .To  the  south  of  this 
there  is  another  shallower  pool  joined 
to  the  larger  one  by  a  narrow  channel. 
Looking  up  the  river  from  the  foot  of 
the  ruins,  the  scene  is  a  strikingly 
beautiful  one.  The  river  winds 
through  a  broad  green  plain,  covered 
with  feathery  grasses  and  dotted  with 
clumps  and  groves  of  handsome  trees. 
Above  everything  is  the  glorious  sky 
of  Bahraich.  The  sunsets  here  would 
fill  the  heart  of  an  artist  with  rejoic- 
ing and  despair,  with  delight  at  the 
indescribable  cloud-effects  and  glow- 
ing lights,  with  despair  at  the  thought 
of  having  to  reproduce  by  means  of 
such  coarse  mediums  as  paint  and 
canvas  the  glorious  tints  that  greet 
his  eyes. 

The  fishes  of  the  Chota  Sarju 
may  be  broadly  divided  into  vege- 
table feeders  and  those  that  require 
animal  food.  The  vegetable  feeders 
belong  to  the  families  of  Indian 
carp  and  trout,  and  may  be  distin- 
guished by  their  scaly  bodies,  tough 
leathery  lips,  and  small  mouths.  The 
flesh-eaters  are  predaceous  in  their 
habits,  and  have  mostly  large  flat 
heads,  with  wide  jaws  armed  with 
numerous  teeth.  Their  bodies  are 
clothed  with  a  tough  pliant  skin 
generally  of  a  silver  colour  on  the 
sides  and  a  greyish  green  on  the  back 
and  head.  They  are  most  of  them 
repulsive-looking  creatures,  but  some 
afford  fairly  good  sport  with  rod  and 
line. 


The  Land  of  the  Poppy. 


39 


Chief  among  these  aquatic  high- 
waymen is  the  parkin,  a  voracious 
feeder  and  relentless  destroyer  of  the 
young  carp  and  trout.  The  dental 
armament  of  this  fish  is  particularly 
formidable,  and  it  must  be  seen  to 
be  properly  understood.  The  head 
of  one  of  these  fierce  creatures  lies 
before  me  as  I  write.  It  is  ten 
inches  in  length,  and  of  this  the  jaws 
occupy  five  inches,  the  under  jaw 
protruding  a  little  beyond  the  upper. 
The  teeth,  looking  like  small  ivory 
pins,  are  arranged  in  a  dense  belt 
about  an  inch  broad  in  botii  jaws, 
and  are  countless  in  number.  It 
would  be  thought  that  this  apparatus 
would  be  enough  to  ensure  the  cap- 
ture of  the  slipperiest  of  the  long- 
nosed  eels  that  wriggle  in  the  mud 
at  the  bottom  of  the  river  ;  but  the 
destruction  of  the  parkin's  victim  is 
rendered  still  more  certain  by  clusters 
of  teeth  arranged  on  his  palate.  The 
eye-sockets  are  high  up  on  the  sides 
of  the  flattened  head,  and  are  thus 
placed  because  the  wily  creature  con- 
ceals itself  in  the  mud,  or  in  a  dense 
patch  of  weeds,  and  awaits  there  the 
approach  of  some  unwary  victim  on 
which  it  darts  with  relentless  fury, 
eyes  glaring,  whiskers  outstretched, 
and  jaws  wide  open,  the  incarnation 
of  hideous  gluttony. 

The  saw-like  action  of  the  parkin's 
jaws  is  often  too  much  for  ordinary 
gut,  and  if  there  is  a  really  large 
one  about  a  few  strands  of  fine  wire 
are  often  used  instead.  The  parkin 
makes  a  grand  rush  when  struck,  but 
after  that  one  desperate  plunge  for 
freedom,  his  courage  often  oozes  out 
of  him,  and  the  coward  comes  pas- 
sively to  land  staring  stupidly  at  the 
strange  world  into  which  he  is  hauled 
only  to  be  instantly  executed.  The 
death  of  a  parkin  is  looked  upon  by 
all  anglers  as  an  act  of  retributive 
justice  ;  hence  none  are  spared  when 
caught,  and  even  a  baby  parkin  is 


destroyed  with  as  much  gusto  as  the 
patriarch  of  the  family.  The  flesh  of 
this  fish  is  coarse  and  muddy.  But 
on  this,  as  on  all  other  points,  tastes 
differ,  and  partisans  are  not  wanting 
who  declare  that  the  parkin  pro- 
perly smoked  over  a  fire  of  sugarcane- 
sticks  becomes  a  dish  fit  to  set  before 
a  king.  Native  fishermen  will  accept 
the  brute  gratefully,  considering  him 
a  delicacy  even  without  the  aid  of 
sugarcane  and  smoke. 

Another  member  of  the  criminal 
tribes  of  fishes,  that  may  be  found 
lurking  in  the  mud,  in  dark  holes, 
or  under  the  shadows  of  the  pontoons, 
ready  to  destroy  the  unwary  roku  or 
naini  that  may  approach  it,  is  the 
gunch  or  Sagarins  Yarrelli  of  natural- 
ists. This  fish  is  the  one  commonly 
known  as  the  fresh-water  shark.  It 
is  clothed  with  a  thick  leathery  skin, 
blotched  with  black  and  flesh  colour, 
the  head  flattened,  and  as  usual  the 
upper  jaw  is  furnished  with  two  long 
feelers.  The  jaws  have  a  powerful 
armament  of  teeth.  Thegtinch  is  not 
very  common  in  the  Chota  Sarju,  and 
I  have  not  heard  of  any  very  large 
ones  having  been  caught  here.  In 
other  rivers  it  runs  very  large,  often 
to  as  much  as  a  hundred  pounds.  It 
has  been  harpooned,  and  if  the  har- 
poon used  be  sufficiently  light  the 
sport,  it  is  said,  becomes  exciting. 

These  two  fish  may  in  a  popular 
way  be  described  as  river-sharks,  but 
there  are  several  other  predatory  fish 
of  smaller  size  and  strength.  One 
of  the  most  numerous  of  these  is  the 
mohi. 

The  mohi  may  frequently  be  seen 
rising  to  the  surface  of  the  water, 
taking  a  mouthful  of  air,  and  diving 
straight  down  again,  showing  as  it 
does  so  a  broad  gleam  of  silver.  It 
attains  to  a  considerable  size,  often 
reaching  three  or  four  feet  in  length, 
and  weighing  from  twenty  to  thirty 
pounds.  Its  configuration  viewed 


40 


The  Land  of  the  Poppy. 


sideways  is  peculiar.  The  shoulders 
rise  in  a  great  hump  over  the  long 
flat  head,  and  then  curve  gently  down 
to  the  tail.  The  body  is  compressed 
and  flattened.  A  mohi  that  would 
measure  about  four  inches  across  the 
back  at  the  broadest  part  might  be 
about  fifteen  inches  from  dorsal  to 
ventral  fin.  The  dorsal  fin  is  pro- 
longed until  it  meets  the  tail  to  which 
it  is  united,  and  the  tail  fin  is  not 
forked  as  in  the  carp  family.  The 
mohi  affords  fairly  good  sport  with 
rod  and  line  in  March  and  April, 
and  will  take  worms  freely;  another 
favourite  bait  is  the  chilwa,  a  species 
of  small  fish  with  which  the  river 
teems. 

The  success  that  attends  the  efforts 
of  the  country  angler  armed  with  his 
rude  implements,  must  be  attributed 
to  his  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
habits  of  the  fishes  to  be  found  in 
the  rivers  and  lakes  of  the  district 
in  which  he  lives.  He  will  saunter 
up  to  the  river-side  where  you  have 
been  spending  hours  unsuccessfully, 
armed  with  the  best  apparatus  obtain- 
able in  the  country,  bringing  with 
him  a  stout  bamboo  that  looks  more 
adapted  for  a  barge-pole  than  a 
fishing-rod.  Nevertheless,  it  is  his 
fishing-rod,  and  to  one  end  of  it  he 
has  fastened  a  coarse  black  line,  from 
which,  without  any  intervening  gut 
or  gimp,  dangles  a  large  iron  hook. 
His  float  is  a  piece  of  the  thick  dry 
stalk  of  the  sarpat  grass,  called  in 
this  state  a  senta.  It  is  about  a  foot 
long,  and  lies  flat  on  the  water.  He 
deftly  baits  his  hook  with  about  six 
live  chilwas,  throws  out  his  line  and 
squats  on  his  haunches,  shading  his 
eyes  with  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  he  keeps  a  light  touch  on  the 
pole.  In  ten  minutes  his  float  is 
hopping  merrily.  He  waits  till  it 
has  quite  disappeared,  makes  a  strong 
stroke  with  the  inflexible  pole,  and 
with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  proceeds 


to  deliberately  haul  up  a  vast  silver 
mohi.  Slinging  his  twenty  pounds  of 
fish  over  his  shoulder  he  trots  home 
contentedly  in  the  shades  of  the 
evening,  humming  nasally  the  refrain 
of  a  country  song,  "  Ye  dunniya  jaisa 
ek  sarai  (This  world  is  but  an  inn 
to  rest  awhile),"  which  is  not  inappro- 
priate to  the  fish's  career  in  the 
generous  waters  of  the  Chota  Sarju. 

The  particular  antipathy  of  all 
fishermen  in  these .  waters  is  the 
tengan.  This  fish  is  as  tantalising 
to  the  angler  as  the  brahminy  duck 
and  the  peewit  are  to  the  gunner. 
He  has  no  scales,  being  clothed  in  a 
tough  skin  like  his  other  predatory 
relatives ;  but  he  differs  from  them  in 
having  a  round  smallish  mouth  with 
thick  leathery  lips,  and  his  teeth,  if 
he  has  any,  are  in  his  palate.  His 
pectoral  and  dorsal  fins  are  armed 
with  sharp  spines,  and  with  these  he 
often  wounds  the  finger  of  any  one 
who,  ignorant  of  his  powerful  weapons, 
attempts  to  disgorge  a  hook  he  has 
taken. 

His  mouth  in  common  with  his 
tribe  is  furnished  with  feelers, — two 
long  and  two  short  ones — and  when 
landed  he  often  emits  a  doleful  squeak- 
ing sound.  The  greed  of  this  fish  is 
phenomenal ;  he  spares  no  bait,  be  it 
chilwa,  worm,  or  paste,  and  calmly 
appropriates  the  most  tempting  colla- 
tions that  have  been  spread  with  a 
view  of  attracting  his  betters.  While 
he  is  feeding  the  carp  keep  aloof, 
not  seeming  to  care  for  his  society. 
It  is  easy  to  tell  when  he  is  at  work, 
for  he  keeps  up  an  annoying  feeble 
tugging  at  the  bait,  and  every  now 
and  then  draws  the  float  quite  under 
water  in  his  attempts  to  carry  the 
booty  to  his  den  to  devour  it  at 
leisure.  As  cunning  as  he  is  greedy 
he  eludes  stroke  after  stroke.  Times 
without  number  he  will  clean  the 
hook,  until  the  angler  wearied  and 
disgusted  quits  the  spot  for  some  other 


rswim  where  he  devoutly  hopes  there 
are  no  tengans.  The  best  plan  is  to 
leave  the  brute  to  his  own  devices 
and  let  him  drag  the  bait  about 
as  much  as  he  likes,  when  he  will 
probably  end  by  hooking  himself. 
^•-y  Feeling  some  slight  resistance  as  he 
circles  ever  deeper  and  deeper  to- 
wards the  mud  the  tengan  fears  the 
tempting  morsel,  held  gingerly  in  his 
tough  lips,  will  escape  him.  He 
makes  a  violent  effort,  and  succeeds 
in  swallowing  the  bait.  On  pulling 
up  the  line  he  will  be  found  dangling 
at  the  end,  often  with  the  barb  of 
the  hook  driven  through  his  head. 
The  greedy  wretch  may  then  be  put 
out  of  pain  at  once,  and  the  angler 
will  find  it  has  paid  him  to  have 
devoted  some  time  to  the  destruction 
of  this  pest. 

The  river  is  going  down  now,  and 
Karim  Bakhsh,  that  pearl  of  fisher- 
men, has  come  to  tell  us  that  the 
weary  days  of  waiting  are  over,  and 
the  vanguard  of  the  fish  has  arrived. 
All  through  the  rains  the  waters  of 
the  river  have  been  turbulent  and 
muddy,  and  the  fish  have  been  spawn- 
ing in  the  shallow  reaches  higher  up. 
•  Our  rods  and  lines  have  lain  idle 
in  our  rooms,  while  we  ourselves  have 
often  gone  down  to  the  ghdt  to  watch 
the  silver-sided  mohi  rolling  in  the 
discoloured  flood.  But  now  the  water 

I  is  clearing  and  falling,  and  as  we  jump 
from  the  dog-cart  and  hurry  to  the 
canoe  waiting  among  the  bulrushes 
and  duckweed  at  the  river's  brink, 
we  can  see  the  rohu  leaping,  and 
visions  of  lusty  twenty-pounders  dance 
before  our  eyes. 

The  Chota  Sarju  has  its  pecu- 
liarities, and  one  of  them  is  that  its 
fish  will  not  take  a  fly.  Bottom- 
fishing  is  the  order  of  the  day,  and 
though  good  results  may  be  obtained 
with  the  rod  and  line,  the  best  bags 
are  made  with  the  hand- line.  The 
bait  used  is  chiefly  earth-worms,  but 


The  Land  of  the  Poppy. 


41 


there   are   certain   fish    that  may  be 
caught  with  paste  made  of  flour. 

Karim  Bakhsh  is  at  the  river-side. 
He  has  been  there  since  morning,  and 
it  is  now  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
He  has  made  a  little  mud-platform 
to  sit  on,  and  fastened  up  a  large 
umbrella  over  it.  Rod  and  line  are 
not  to  his  mind.  He  has  two  hand- 
lines  made  in  the  local  bazaar  and 
rendered  waterproof  by  the  frequent 
application  of  the  pulp  of  the  berries 
of  the  ebony-tree.  Two  iron  hooks, 
that  he  tells  you  with  pride  have  come 
from  Gorakhpur,  are  fastened  near 
the  end  of  each  line,  while  at  the 
extremity  of  each  is  a  lead  sinker  of 
pyramidal  shape,  weighing  about  two 
ounces.  On  the  ground  beside  him 
is  a  small  earthen  pot,  in  which  his 
bait,  a  mass  of  lively  earth-worms,  are 
crawling  about  in  some  wet  mud,  and 
in  front  of  him  are  two  split  sticks, 
in  the  clefts  of  which  he  fixes  his 
lines  after  making  a  cast. 

Karim  Bakhsh  has  the  patience  of 
a  heron  and  knows  that  in  the  waters 
of  the  Chota  Sarju  this  inestimable 
virtue,  together  with  a  hand-line,  will 
produce  the  most  sport.  Instead  of  a 
landing-net  he  carries  a  small  gaff 
shaped  like  a  pick-axe,  and  an  iron 
ring  with  a  number  of  large  iron  hooks 
fastened  to  it.  This  curious  looking 
instrument  he  fastens  to  a  piece  of 
fine  strong  rope  and  employs  to  dis- 
entangle his  line  from  the  weeds  that 
grow  luxuriantly  in  the  shallow  water 
close  to  the  bank.  A  small  peg  has 
been  driven  into  the  ground  close  to 
the  water's  edge  some  feet  to  his  left, 
and  from  this  a  stout  piece  of  twine 
leads  into  the  water.  "  What  is  all 
this,  Karim  Bakhsh  ?  "  we  ask.  For 
answer  he  pulls  at  the  twine,  and 
from  the  black  depths  of  the  water  a 
number  of  ruddy-tinted  fish  slowly 
rise  to  the  surface. 

Several  large  carp  of  various  species, 
weighing   from  three  to  ten   pounds 


42 


The  Land  of  the  Poppy. 


each,  are  threaded  on  this  line.  They 
are  all  alive,  and  it  is  Karim  Bakhsh's 
simple  if  barbarous  method  of  keeping 
his  captures  fresh.  The  catch  is  worth 
examining.  There  are  a  couple  of 
lusty  carp,  with  a  reddish  tinge  on 
each  scale,  called  besra,  three  or  four 
with  pure  silvery  scales  and  greenish 
backs  known  as  naini,  and  one  with  a 
black  back  and  grey  sides  to  which  he 
gives  the  name  of  keunchi  ;  but  there 
are  no  rohus  or  red  carp  proper.  We 
take  up  our  rods,  but  Karim  Bakhsh 
intercepts  us  with  a  deprecating  shake 
of  his  head,  and  the  assurance  that 
they  are  not  of  much  use  yet,  and 
that  the  hand-line  alone  will  give  us 
sport.  So  we  lay  our  rods  down  again 
with  a  sigh  of  resignation,  and  taking 
up  the  hand-lines  essay  a  cast.  The 
sinker  gleams  for  a  moment  in  the 
sun,  then  falls  with  a  splash  into  the 
hurrying  water,  and  is  carried  away 
a  short  distance  by  the  force  of  the 
current. 

As  soon  as  it  touches  bottom  the 
line  slackens,  and  we  haul  in  until 
there  is  just  sufficient  tension  to 
let  us  know  what  is  happening  in 
those  mysterious  depths  below.  Five 
minutes  elapse  and  the  line  shows  no 
signs  of  approach  by  hungry  besra  or 
coy  naini.  Suddenly  a  thrill  runs  up 
it,  a  message  sent  unwittingly  along 
the  cable  by  a  wary  naini  that  is  now 
reconnoitring  the  tempting  lunch  we 
have  spread  for  him.  Two  sharp  tugs 
follow  the  thrill,  and  then  suddenly 
the  line  tautens.  A  deft  backward 
jerk  with  the  right  hand  fixes  the 
hook  firmly  in  the  tough  lips  of  the 
white  carp  who  darts  away  filled  with 
a  sudden  apprehension  that  all  is  not 
as  it  should  be  with  that  tempting 
lunch.  After  one  or  two  futile  at- 
tempts to  shake  himself  free  he  gives 
in,  and  the  line  comes  up  hand  over 
hand,  and  falls  in  glistening  coils  at 
our  feet  till  a  gleam  in  the  water  tells 
that  the  fish  is  close  to  the  surface. 


Suddenly  it  seems  to  dawn  upon  him 
afresh  that  he  is  in  danger.  The 
state  of  bewildered  alarm  in  which 
he  has  been  sunk  for  the  last  few 
moments  gives  way  to  a  sensation  of 
frantic  terror,  and  he  makes  another 
desperate  struggle  to  regain  the  black 
depths  from  which  he  has  been  so 
ruthlessly  dragged.  And  so  we  fight 
it  out,  foot  by  foot,  until  the  landing- 
net  descends  softly  under  him,  and 
rises  the  next  instant  with  a  fine  five 
pound  naini  gasping  in  its  meshes. 

Karim  Bakhsh,  seated  by  our  side, 
initiates  us  into  the  secrets  of  the 
various  bites.  He  understands  the 
telegraphic  code  of  the  Chota  Sarju 
fishes,  and  declares  at  once  who  the 
unwitting  signaller  is. 

Now  a  series  of  sharp  tugs  follow 
in  rapid  succession,  making  the  line 
quiver  and  jar  against  the  index 
finger  of  the  right  hand.  "It  is 
nothing,"  says  Karim  Bakhsh,  "  it  is 
nothing ;  the  small  fry  are  at  the  bait; 
haul  in,  sahib,  and  bait  your  hooks 
again,  for  even  now  they  have  been 
cleaned."  As  he  speaks  the  line  falls 
slack  and  limp  on  the  water's  surface. 
"We  haul  up,  and  find  our  hooks 
innocent  of  bait.  Karim  Bakhsh 
looks  out  a  particularly  attractive 
worm  from  his  collection  in  the 
earthen  pot,  and  fixes  it  on  the 
hooks,  and  the  lead  flies  out  once 
more  with  the  wriggling  invitation  to 
the  carps  as  they  browse  placidly  on 
the  weeds  in  their  favourite  feeding- 
place. 

This  time  there  is  no  hesitation ; 
two  or  three  long  and  strong  pulls 
end  in  a  tautening  of  the  line. 
"  Strike,  sahib,  strike,"  exclaims 
Karim  in  an  excited  whisper,  and 
the  next  moment  we  are  in  the  thick 
of  a  fight  with  a  burly  red  carp 
(rohu).  After  this  there  is  a  long 
interval  during  which  there  is  no 
sign  but  the  annoying  twitching  of 
small  fish.  Yet  all  around  the  line 


The  Land  of  the  Poppy. 


43 


the  water  is  alive  with  big  fellows, — 
splash,  splash  on  each  side,  and  the 
swirl  and  bubbles  tell  us  that  they 
are  all  there ;  why  then  will  they  not 
bite  ?  It  seems  inexplicable  and  cer- 
tainly is  very  tantalising.  Karim 
Bakhsh  says  :  "  /Sahib,  machi  ki  agai 
hai  (Sir,  this  is  but  the  vanguard 
of  the  fish)."  The  explanation  has 
to  be  taken  for  what  it  is  worth  ;  but 
it  is  at  least  evident  that  the  fish 
have  for  the  time  given  up  feeding, 
and  we  must  draw  upon  our  reserves 
of  patience. 

Lighting  a  cigar  I  lean  back  on 
one  elbow  and  watch  the  teeming  life 
in  the  shallow  water  at  my  feet, 
while  my  companion  strolls  a  hun- 
dred yards  down  the  bank  to  try  his 
luck  with  a  rod. 

The  bank  slopes  very  gently  for 
some  distance  under  the  water,  and 
then  takes  a  sudden  dip,  and  the 
water,  which  up  to  this  point  has 
been  as  transparent  as  crystal,  as 
suddenly  becomes  a  greenish  brown 
mass  whose  depths  are  impenetrable 
to  the  sight. 

From  these  gloomy  depths  a  num- 
ber of  elegant  little  fish  suddenly 
make  their  appearance  in  the  lighted 
shallows.  Their  bodies,  which  are 
long  and  tapering,  are  light  green, 
showing  now  and  then  a  gleam  of 
silver  as  they  turn  in  the  light,  and 
their  snouts  are  elongated  to  such  an 
extent  that  they  resemble  miniature 
sword-fish  in  appearance.  They  move 
with  great  rapidity,  now  and  then 
stopping  a  moment  to  bask  in  the 
glorious  warmth,  facing  up  stream 
the  whole  time,  and  never  seeming 
to  eat  anything.  So  delicate  and 
graceful  are  they  that  the  sight  of 
them  calls  up  visions  of  grottoes  in 
the  sea,  and  they  seem  to  want  a 
background  of  corals  and  other 
zoophytes  to  show  their  beauty  to 
perfection.  Yet  catch  one  and 
examine  it,  and  its  delicate  tapering 


jaws  will  be  found  to  be  armed 
with  a  row  of  pointed  fang-like 
teeth,  resembling  in  miniature  the 
teeth  of  the  gharial.  This  delicate 
little  creature  is  known  as  the  kawa 
by  the  natives.  Close  to  the  edge 
of  the  bank  and  quite  on  the  surface 
of  the  water  swims  a  tiny  little  fish 
with  a  round  gleaming  plate  of  what 
looks  like  mother-o'-pearl  on  his  head. 
The  natives  call  him  chandaia  or  the 
moon-fish.  He  is  not  an  inch  in 
length,  but  moves  his  fins  with  an 
easy  grace  and  languor  as  if  con- 
scious of  his  distinguished  appearance. 
Suddenly  a  cloud  of  mud  rises  up 
from  the  russet  carpet,  and  as  it 
settles  one  can  see  that  the  guraya, 
or  murrel,  has  emerged  from  its 
ambush  to  make  a  dash  at  a  tiny 
little  creature  whose  silver  sides  are 
beautifully  mottled  with  black.  There 
is  a  flash  of  silver  across  the  golden 
light,  and  the  tiny  fish  has  escaped 
into  the  dark  depths  beyond,  while 
the  murrel  sneaks  along  to  another 
hiding-place. 

But  all  this  while  the  fish  have  not 
been  biting,  although  their  leaping 
and  splashing  are  as  vigorous  as 
ever.  Suddenly  a  dark  object  ap- 
pears in  the  middle  of  the  pool,  an 
object  that  looks  very  much  like  a 
bit  of  drift-wood. 

If  it  is  drift-wood  it  appears  to 
make  some  unaccountable  movements. 
A  moment  more  and  the  mystery  is 
explained,  and  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  a  ten-foot  gharial  rise  above  the 
water.  The  gharial  is  the  fish-eating 
crocodile  of  India  and  is  distinguish- 
able from  ordinary  crocodiles  by  its 
long  and  slender  jaws,  which  in  the 
case  of  the  male  are  ornamented 
with  a  boss  or  tubercle  at  the  end. 
The  appearance  of  this  most  unwel- 
come visitor  explains  the  lively  move- 
ments of  the  fish  and  their  disin- 
clination to  feed.  The  monster  has 
caught  sight  of  us  in  the  few  mo- 


44 


The  Land  of  the  Poppy. 


ments  for  which  he  thrust  his  sinister 
head  out  of  the  water,  and  has  sunk 
noiselessly  into  the  depths,  leaving  a 
momentarily  vanishing  swirl  to  show 
where  he  had  been  floating.  In  the 
meantime  my  friend  has  joined  me, 
and  snatching  up  his  rifle  runs  a 
hundred  yards  up  stream,  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  gharial  seems  to 
be  moving,  while  I,  who  have  no 
rifle,  remain  where  I  am,  watching 
the  stream  for  any  further  signs  of 
the  poacher.  Karim  Bakhsh  mutters 
curses  on  the  intruder,  and  we  all 
long  for  the  death  of  the  brute  that 
has  completely  spoilt  the  day's  sport. 
For  some  time  he  shows  no  signs  of 
coming  to  the  surface  again  till  in 
the  most  unexpected  manner,  and 
not  twenty  yards  from  where  I  sit, 
he  rises  noiselessly  and  floats  for  a 
minute  or  so  taking  stock  of  the 
angry  faces  gazing  at  him.  Before 
my  friend  can  retrace  his  steps  the 
crocodile  has  disappeared  again.  The 
baffled  sportsman  now  creeps  back 
along  the  bank,  one  eye  fixed  on 
the  river  and  the  other  watching 
for  treacherous  holes,  of  which  there 
are  many  hidden  under  the  thick 
grass.  After  a  long  crawl  he  sights 
the  gharial,  again  this  time  swim- 
ming on  the  surface,  and  apparently 
determined  to  make  his  escape. 
There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,  and 
with  a  spurt  that  does  his  sixteen 
stone  of  solid  flesh  great  credit  the 
hunter  manages  to  get  within  range. 
But  the  quarry  has  seen  or  heard 
him,  and  as  he  raises  the  rifle  to 
his  shoulder  it  subsides  in  the  midst 
of  whirling  eddies  and  is  seen  no 
more  that  day. 

The  evening  is  now  closing  rapidly 
into  the  short  twilight  of  the  tropics, 
and  it  is  too  late  now  to  hope  for  any 
more  sport  with  the  besras  and  nainis. 
We  embark  in  the  canoe  once  more, 
and  are  poled  across  the  stream  in 


the  direction  of  the  pontoon  bridge. 
Jumping  out  we  make  our  way  up 
the  bridge,  and  peer  at  the  darkling 
waters  around  the  pontoons.  Here  a 
fish  every  now  and  then  rises  quietly 
to  the  surface,  and  swims  around  as 
if  questing  for  food.  It  is  furnished 
with  two  long  and  two  short  whiskers 
or  feelers  on  the  upper  jaw,  and  four 
small  barbels  on  the  lower  jaw.  The 
two  long  feelers  are  extended  before 
it  as  it  moves,  and  are  slowly  waved 
from  side  to  side  causing  curious 
half  circles  on  the  water.  This  is 
the  baikri ;  it  is  not  often  caught 
above  three  or  four  pounds'  weight, 
but  it  is  delicious  eating,  is  very 
game,  and  affords  good  sport  at  dusk 
and  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing. In  many  places  it  will  take  a 
fly,  preferring  a  large  white-winged 
one  with  a  red  or  yellow  body,  but 
here  it  is  best  caught  with  paste 
made  of  flour  and  water.  That  is 
soon  ready,  and  we  make  a  cast 
where  a  slight  purl  in  the  water 
betokens  the  presence  of  a  hungry 
baikri.  When  on  the  feed  he  is 
bold  and  fearless,  and  the  bait  has 
scarcely  time  to  sink  before  it  is 
seized  and  the  sensation  of  a  vigo- 
rous tug,  so  delightful  to  the  angler 
worn  out  with  waiting  for  perverse 
fishes  to  change  their  minds,  comes 
trembling  down  the  rod.  A  quick 
stroke  drives  the  hook  home,  and 
the  baikri  with  an  angry  shake  of 
his  head  makes  for  the  bottom. 
But  he  is  soon  checked,  and  in  the 
next  few  minutes  is  gasping  out  his 
life  at  our  feet.  A  few  more  rapid 
casts  with  varying  success  and  the 
sport  is  over.  Darkness  has  settled 
over  the  scene,  and  with  darkness 
has  come  a  silence  that  is  accen- 
tuated by  the  metallic  clicking  of 
our  reels  as  we  roll  up  our  lines 
and  turn  to  leave  the  stream. 

G.  A.  LEVETT-YEATS. 


45 


GOLF. 
(THE   MAN   AND  THE   BOOK). 


THERE  are  as  many  ways  of  play- 
ing golf  as  of  constructing  tribal  lays, 
and  every  single  one  of  them  is  right. 
In  the  brave  days  of  old,  before 
Colonel  Bogey  invaded  the  land,  when 
the  monthly  medal  was  yet  unknown, 
when  golf  was  happy  in  having  no 
history,  no  bibliography  of  which  to 
boast,  it  mattered  nothing  whether 
a  man  drove  off  the  right  leg  or  off 
the  left,  whether  he  took  his  club 
back  slow  or  fast,  whether  his  elbow 
at  the  top  of  the  swing  came  above 
his  shoulder  or  below.  Tom  Morris, 
Alan  Robertson,  and  other  heroes  of 
old  played  by  the  light  of  nature  with 
almost  as  many  methods  as  there  were 
men,  and  surely  they  played  the  game. 
But  the  volume  on  Golf  in  the 
Badminton  Library  and  the  biblio- 
aphy  of  which  it  was  the  pioneer, 
,ve  changed  all  that.  Golf  ceased 
be  a  pastime,  and  became  a  science 
with  its  postulates,  its  axioms,  its 
irmulas.  Every  stroke  was  reduced 
a  dead  uniformity  of  execution, 
perfect  Deuteronomy  of  command- 
ents  was  declared  :  Thou  shalt  not 
o  this,  and  that ;  and  thus  far  shalt 
ou  go  and  no  further.  The  most 
inute  directions  were  given  for  an 
dless  number  of  movements  and 
ons  necessary  for  each  separate 
roke.  Wrist,  elbow,  head,  shoulders, 
t  had  to  be  in  a  definite  place  at  a 
efinite  moment.  One  was  reminded 
the  old  drill-books  of  the  seven- 
mth  and  eighteenth  centuries  with 
heir  forty  or  so  words  of  command 
place  of  the  modern  Rrady,  Present, 
ire.  How  many  a  good  golfer 


solemnly  and  seriously  read  the  Bad- 
minton book,  and  was  plunged  into 
a  sudden  Avernus  of  bunkers  and 
despair,  from  which  it  took  him  many 
a  weary  month  to  recover.  To  win 
one's  way  from  a  bunker  of  sand  is 
no  easy  task,  but  where  is  the  niblick 
that  will  free  the  despondent  golfer 
from  the  bunkers  of  despair  ? 

The  Badminton  Library  bears  a 
great  burden  of  responsibility.  It 
seemed  at  first  such  a  pleasant  and 
useful  task  to  pore  over  scientific 
theories  of  a  game  by  night  with  a 
view  to  putting  them  into  practice 
on  the  following  day.  It  is  not 
everyone  who  can  read  a  book  of  this 
type  with  the  equanimity  of  the  late 
Mr.  Palmer  of  Dirleton,  a  typical 
Scotch  dominie,  and  a  typical  golfer 
of  the  old  school.  In  his  younger 
days,  some  forty  years  or  so  ago,  he 
and  his  son  could  match  any  two 
players  in  the  south  of  Scotland ;  but 
when  one  of  the  younger  generation 
presented  him  with  the  Badminton 
book  on  Golf,  he  was  old  enough  to 
refrain  from  taking  it  seriously.  As 
a  good  Presbyterian  he  was  fond  of 
describing  it  as  the  Thirty -nine 
Articles  of  Golf.  To  the  end  the  old 
man  did  his  round  a  day,  and  when 
he  sent  a  topped  shot  off  the  tee 
would  say  to  the  donor  of  the  book, 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  Bless 
ma  soul,  if  a  didna  forget  rule  27  for 
driving  !" 

Not  every  one,  however,  can  treat 
this  literature  with  so  light  a  heart, 
and  if  at  times  the  experienced  player 
is  distracted  by  it,  what  of  the  poor 


46 


Golf. 


beginner  ?  The  new  golfer,  knowing 
nothing  of  theories  or  of  the  game, 
after  a  successful  preliminary  putt 
with  an  umbrella,  has  a  golf-stick, 
as  he  styles  it,  thrust  into  his  hands 
and  proceeds  to  address  the  ball  in 
the  most  hap-hazard  style.  With  his 
first  shot  he  may  miss  altogether,  but 
the  chances  are  that  his  second  is 
a  fine  though  erratic  drive,  and  in 
cheerful  innocence  he  may  play  a 
reckless  dashing  round  with  many 
a  mistake,  but  for  all  that  a  round 
full  of  hope  and  promise.  Then 
nothing  can  preserve  him  from  the 
advice  of  his  friends.  One  tells  him 
to  put  his  right  foot  forward,  another 
his  left;  one  tells  him  to  grip  more 
with  his  right  hand,  another  with  his 
left  hand,  and  so  forth.  But  the 
fatal  moment  is  when  some  misguided, 
though  well-meaning,  friend  lends  him 
the  Badminton  book  on  Golf. 

Along  with  this  book  he  probably 
studies  instantaneous  photographs  in 
the  BOOK  OF  GOLFERS  or  in  his 
weekly  GOLF  ILLUSTRATED,  which 
makes  a  special  feature  of  instruc- 
tion by  illustration.  Now  there  is 
nothing  more  absolutely  misleading 
than  an  instantaneous  photograph. 
The  photograph  shows  not  the  com- 
plete action,  but  merely  an  arrested 
moment  of  the  whole.  No  one 
would  imagine  that  a  trotting  horse 
has  at  any  moment  one  leg  stiff  as 
a  poker  on  the  ground  and  the  other 
three  in  the  air.  Yet  such  is  in- 
disputably the  case;  and  just  as  it 
is  impossible  to  get  from  photographs 
a  proper  impression  of  how  a  horse 
trots,  so  it  is  impossible  to  learn 
how  to  drive  from  studying  an  in- 
stantaneous photograph  of  Vardon  or 
Braid  at  some  instant  of  their  swing. 
The  victim  of  golf  -  literature  looks 
at  six  photographs  of  professionals 
driving  and  will  tell  you  that, 
"  There  isn't  a  man  in  the  Club  who 
has  his  left  leg  absolutely  straight 


like  that  at  the  top  of  the  swing." 
He  forgets  that  the  human  eye  sees 
things  differently  from  the  camera. 
The  camera  depicts  an  isolated  in- 
stant, whereas  the  eye  takes  in  a 
coherent  impression  of  the  entire 
action. 

The  cheapness  of  reproducing  photo- 
graphs is  responsible  for  much  of  the 
modern  making  of  books,  from  illus- 
trated periodicals  to  Jubilee  books 
of  games.  For  what  applies  to  golf 
applies  equally  to  cricket  and  other 
sports.  The  game  is  treated  as  a 
science  instead  of  a  pastime,  and  the 
instantaneous  photograph  is  employed 
as  a  method  of  instruction.  The 
beginner,  or  indeed  the  practised 
player,  can  learn  nothing  from  an  im- 
possible picture  of  Mr.  Ranjitsinhji 
executing  his  famous  glancing  stroke 
with  bat  held  perpendicularly  in 
front  of  his  silk-clad  breast.  If 
we  must  have  instruction  by  illus- 
tration let  it  be  by  means  of  the 
cinematograph,  which  would  at  least 
display  the  entire  action  involved 
in  each  stroke.  A  cinematograph 
showing  the  final  round  of  the 
Championship  at  St.  Andrews,  or  an 
innings  of  a  hundred  runs  by  Mr. 
Fry,  would  be  a  really  instructive  and 
popular  entertainment  for  a  winter's 
night  at  a  golf  or  cricket  club.  The 
single  photograph  is  useless,  but 
the  public  is  only  a  grown-up  child 
that  still  wants  its  picture-books ; 
and  now  that  process-plates  from 
photographs  are  so  much  more 
speedily  and  cheaply  produced  than 
drawings,  publishers  are  only  too 
ready  to  gratify  the  popular  taste. 
It  must  be  noted,  however,  that  even 
the  modern  draughtsman  has  fallen 
under  the  evil  influence  of  the  in- 
stantaneous photograph.  You  will 
see,  especially  in  the  best  of  the 
American  magazines,  horses  drawn 
in  eccentric  attitudes  absolutely  un- 
known to  the  human  eye,  with  the 


Golf. 


result  that  the  poor  brutes  look  as 
if  they  were  in  a  fit  of  the  staggers 
rather  than  galloping.  The  old  con- 
vention of  drawing  the  galloping 
horse  with  its  legs  spread  wide  out, 
however  false  it  may  have  been,  was 
far  more  satisfactory  and  convinc- 
ing to  the  eye.  Even  the  Royal 
Academy  in  its  Students'  Competi- 
tion a  year  ago  awarded  its  first 
prize  to  a  picture  of  Ladas  falling 
dead  as  he  goes  to  receive  the 
crown  of  victory.  The  dropping 
figure  of  the  athlete  might  well 
have  been  from  a  snap-shot,  but 
worse  than  this  was  the  fact  that 
the  wreath  was  actually  shown  sus- 
pended in  mid  air  as  it  fell  from 
the  judge's  hand  to  the  ground.  To 
such  an  extent  is  our  national  art 
degraded. 

To  return  to  the  golfer,  it  is  surely 
no  wonder  that  under  the  influence  of 
literature  and  photographs  he  becomes 
a  man  of  theory.  Always  playing 
by  the  book  he  rarely  makes  a  natural 
stroke.  He  fidgets  about  as  he 
addresses  the  ball,  seeing  an  imaginary 
diagram  on  the  ground.  He  takes 
his  club  stiffly  and  slowly  back,  pro- 
bably stops  at  the  top  of  his  swing, 
and  then  wonders  if  the  ball  goes  off 
at  a  tangent  to  the  right.  What  is 
worse,  he  often  becomes  a  bore.  To 
sum  up  his  character  after  the  manner 

Theophrastus  : 

Your  theoretical  golfer  is  he  whose 
.uch  reading  hath  made  him  somewhat 
ad.  He  weareth  a  frown,  and  also 
:eth  no  little  both  of  himself  and  of 
golf.  After  he  hath  played  three  rounds 
of  the  links  he  will  set  down  Beven  balls 
some  fifty  yards  from  the  home  green, 
and  strive,  not  without  difficulty,  to 
understand  for  what  reason  he  failed  to 
play  even  such  a  shot  at  the  thirteenth 
and  at  other  greens.  In  this  way  having 
cut  much  turf  he  will  go  homewards  and 
cut  also  his  drawing-room  carpet,  and 
will  make  trial  of  twelve  new  irons  and 
mashies  with  which  Taylor  and  other 
men  can  play  approach-shots  in  deed  and 


not  in  word.  His  handicap  is  15,  and 
both  on  other  occasions  and  when  he 
imbibeth  tea  with  three  scratch  players 
and  a  plus  4  man  will  he  expound  the 
only  correct  method  of  playing  a  half -iron 
shot,  of  putting  due  cut  upon  a  ball,  and 
similar  things. 

Now  if  such  is  the  effect  of  too 
much  theory,  how  is  the  helpless  be- 
ginner or  the  mature  player,  who  is 
"  off  his  game,"  to  find  salvation  ?  The 
answer  lies  in  the  word  imitation,  the 
nlfjurjcris  which  Aristotle  laid  down 
as  the  basis  of  all  artistic  production. 
It  is  a  primitive  and  savage  instinct, 
this  of  imitation,  but  even  in  these 
civilised  days  it  plays  no  unimportant 
part  in  our  lives.  You  see  it  displayed 
in  a  hundred  ways.  Look  at  a  small 
child  with  her  little  frock  scarcely 
below  her  knees,  and  watch  with 
what  an  air  she  gathers  it  up  to 
cross  a  muddy  road,  in  unconscious 
imitation  of  her  elders.  Look  at  a 
lady  who  stands  watching  the  dancers 
in  a  ball-room,  and  note  the  slight 
sway  of  the  body,  the  quick  movement 
of  the  foot.  Or  watch  the  finish  of 
the  high  jump  at  any  athletic  sports, 
and  mark  how  among  the  mass  of  the 
spectators  there  is  a  lift  of  the  foot 
and  a  heave  of  the  head,  as  the  jumper 
rises  from  the  ground.  Even  in  the 
stalls  of  a  London  theatre,  in  spite  of 
the  apathy  and  self-control  of  modern 
society,  you  will  sometimes  see  this 
primitive  instinct  intruding  itself, 
merely  a  frown  on  someone's  brow, 
a  tightened  fist,  a  movement  of  the 
hand,  a  tear  in  an  eye. 

Now  the  way  to  learn  golf  is  to 
forget  yourself  and  your  theories,  and 
to  give  free  flight  to  this  natural  in- 
stinct of  imitation.  Play,  when  you 
can,  with  some  one  better  than  your- 
self, and  absorb  his  style  just  as  the 
child  absorbs  the  grace  with  which 
her  elder  sister  gathers  up  her  skirts. 
If  your  partner  be  a  first-rate  player, 
do  not  stand  with  a  scowl  wondering 


48 


Golf. 


why  you  were  such  a  fool  as  to  waste 
eight  strokes  on  the  last  hole.  Watch 
instead  the  certainty  with  which  he 
takes  his  position.  There  is  no  fidget- 
ing with  the  feet,  the  few  inches  this 
way  or  that  make  no  fatal  difference. 
Watch  his  easy  swing ;  watch  how 
his  eye  remains  fixed  upon  the  ball ; 
above  all,  watch  his  "  follow  through." 
Absorb  the  human  being,  and  not  the 
book.  Give  free  play  to  the  instinct 
of  imitation,  and  you  are  on  the  road 
to  success. 

You  may  go  through  much  tribu- 
lation, but  the  best  of  it  is  that  to 
all  alike,  good  player  or  bad,  the  game 
still  has  its  fascination.  Non  omnia 
possumus  omnes, — we  cannot  all  go 
round  under  eighty  strokes, — but  good 
and  bad,  old  and  young,  each  in  his 
own  way  can  play  the  game.  It  was 
my  fortune  recently  to  be  standing 
near  an  elderly  gentleman  who  was 
playing  with  his  daughter.  The  old 
man  was  slow  and  deliberate  in  every 
movement,  and  some  players  behind 
were  obviously  fretting  at  the  delay 
he  caused.  The  daughter  ventured 
to  suggest  to  her  father  that  they 
should  give  up  the  hole  and  pass  on 
to  the  next  tee.  "  Give  up  the 
hole ! "  was  the  indignant  reply, 
"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort;  I've 
only  played  thirteen ! "  Nor  need 
there  be  any  distinction,  such  as 
was  made  by  a  green-keeper  in  Scot- 
land, who  was  asked  one  day  recently 
how  many  people  were  out  playing. 
His  reply  was  :  "  There's  juist  twa 
gowfers  and  three  meenisters  here 
the  day." 


For  one  and  all,  good  player  and 
bad,  old  and  young,  minister  or  lay- 
man, there  is  the  charm  of  the  fresh 
air  and  exercise  that  the  game  entails. 
The  dweller  in  cities  can  forget  the 
weariness,  the  fever  and  the  fret  of 
business  life.  Surely  it  is  with  pure 
delight,  all  unalloyed  with  party 
spirit,  that  the  politician  surveys  the 
cheerful  landscape  of  Tooting  Bee 
with  his  opponent  of  the  opposite 
bench  two  down  and  one  to  play  in 
the  foreground.  The  world  has  no 
cares  for  the  man  who  is  "  dormie 
two "  with  a  blue  sky  overhead,  the 
green  links  beneath  his  foot,  and  the 
sound  of  the  sea  in  his  ears.  One  can 
appreciate  the  impassioned  cry  coming 
straight  from  a  Scotchman's  heart : 

0  it's  terrible  lang  sin  syne 
Since  I  had  a  sicht  o'  the  sea, 

An'  I'm  wearyin'  sair  for  a  roun' 
O'  the  links  i'  the  North  Countree. 

0  I'm  wearyin'  sair  for  a  roun' 

On  the  links  o'  my  ain  countree, 
For  the  bunkers  o'  saun'  and  the  lone 

green  Ian', 

An'  the  soun'  an'  the  smell  o'  the 
•  sea. 

One  and  all  may  know  this  delight, 
and  one  and  all  may  strive  after  that 
perfection  which  has  been  granted  to 
one  or  two  alone,  to  Vardon  perhaps 
in  the  highest  degree,  a  perfection 
that  never  will  be  attained  by  the 
working  out  of  theories  or  the  estab- 
lishment of  golf  among  the  exact 
sciences.  Golf  is  an  instinct,  an  in- 
spiration, an  art. 

MARTIN  HARDIE. 


49 


DINNERS     AND     DINERS.1 


THE  art  of  dining  has  never  lacked 
criticism  or  panegyric.  Poets  have 
sung  its  praises,  philosophers  have 
analysed  its  pleasures.  The  famous 
banquets  of  the  world  are  as  familiar 
to  us  as  the  famous  battles,  and 
when  the  erudite  Johannes  Stuckius 
set  out  to  compose  his  treatise  DE 
ANTIQUORUM  CONVIVIIS  he  assuredly 
did  not  lack  material.  Already  the 
subject  had  engrossed  the  profound 
intellect  of  Plutarch  ;  already  Athe- 
nseus,  the  king  of  pedants,  had 
obscured  the  gay  science  with  ill- 
digested  knowledge ;  and  the  whole 
literature  of  the  ancients  had  been 
ransacked  for  the  lightest  allusion 
to  the  cooking  of  meat,  upon  which 
the  life  of  man  still  depends.  Mean- 
while the  art  of  cookery  was  remade, 
following  through  all  the  centuries 
the  style  and  taste  which  governed 
the  other  arts.  Barbarous  in  the 
Gothic  age,  it  took  on  a  new  re- 
finement with  the  Renascence,  and 
from  Louis  the  Fourteenth  to  the 
Revolution  it  followed  the  lines  of 
splendour  and  restraint  which  con- 
trolled the  chairs  and  tables  of  the 
feast. 

Nor  did  its  literature  decline  with 
the  years.  Eloquence  grew  with 
ingenuity,  and  a  larger  library  was 
devoted  to  cooking  than  to  all  the 
other  arts  together.  Brillat-Savarin 
was  the  first  of  the  moderns  to  treat 
the  subject  with  a  proper  deference. 
Now,  he  was  gifted  with  the  two 
qualities  of  gay  philosophy  and  grave 
enthusiasm  most  necessary  to  the 

'  DINNEBS  AND  DINERS  ;  by  Colonel 
Newnham-Davis  :  a  new,  enlarged,  and 
revised  edition.  London,  1901. 

No.  505. — VOL.  LXXXV, 


critic  of  the  table.  He  offered  no 
foolish  excuse  for  the  most  legitimate 
of  pleasures,  but  discoursed  of  dining 
as  though  it  were  the  first  duty  of 
the  wise.  "The  Creator,"  said  he, 
"  in  compelling  man  to  eat  that  he 
may  live,  invites  him  to  the  feast 
by  appetite,  and  rewards  him  by 
pleasure."  Thus  he  wrote  with  the 
playful  seriousness  of  his  time, 
making  epigrams  spiced  with  truth, 
as  a  leg  of  mutton  should  be  spiced 
with  garlic,  and  touching  upon  first 
principles  with  the  lightest  of  light 
fingers.  That  the  discovery  of  a  new 
dish  confers  a  greater  happiness  upon 
the  human  race  than  the  discovery 
of  a  new  star  seems  a  paradox,  but 
it  is  the  simple  statement  of  a  fact. 
At  any  rate  M.  Brillat-Savarin 
approached  the  kitchen  in  a  spirit 
of  reverence,  and  if  his  treatise 
is  not  a  sternly  practical  guide, 
at  least  it  teaches  us  how  to  dine 
like  philosophers. 

Brillat-Savarin  somewhere  confesses 
that  in  the  use  of  words  he  was  a 
Romantic.  It  amused  him,  he  said, 
to  uncover  hidden  treasures;  yet 
where  his  own  art  was  concerned  he 
preached  a  gospel  of  stern  classicism. 
Presently  indeed,  the  romantic  move- 
ment was  to  exercise  a  baneful  influence 
upon  the  table,  substituting  orgies  for 
dinners,  and  inventing  dishes,  strange 
and  incongruous  as  Gautier's  waist- 
coats or  as  the  furniture  of  Gerald  de 
Nerval.  Read  Dumas's  treatise,  for 
instance,  and  you  will  note  the  vices 
of  gluttony  and  extravagance.  But 
taste  returned  to  the  paths  of  sanity, 
and  Byzantine  though  our  age  has 
been  styled,  at  any  rate  it  insists  on 

I 


50 


Dinners  and  Diners. 


dining  with  restraint,  and  believes 
with  Brillat-Savarin  that  those  who 
permit  themselves  indigestion  or 
drunkenness  know  neither  how  to  eat 
nor  how  to  drink. 

Nevertheless  he  is  a  bold  man  who 
to-day  instructs  his  fellows  where 
and  how  they  shall  dine.  Though 
we  all  eat,  a  sort  of  cant  persuades 
too  many  of  us  to  preserve  a  silence 
concerning  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 
The  cant,  of  course,  pretends  to  find 
a  justification  in  the  sin  of  gluttony, 
but  no  pleasure  deserves  condemna- 
tion because  it  may  be  abused.  The 
vulgar  man  delights  in  jewels,  chains, 
and  gaudy  ties,  but  his  excesses  are 
no  reproach  to  him  who  is  careful 
to  dress  himself  like  a  gentleman ; 
and  as  the  over-dressed  rascal  is  to 
the  dandy,  so  is  the  glutton  to 
him  who  dines  with  a  wise  modera- 
tion. But  we  would  not  in  our  admi- 
ration of  a  well-composed  dinner  find 
the  smallest  excuse  for  the  glutton 
who  gorges  when  he  should  dine. 
Gluttony,  both  in  practice  and  effect, 
is  the  most  sordid  of  the  vices,  and 
while  he  who  indulges  therein  is  a 
dull  companion,  he  presently  assumes 
the  size  and  habit  of  the  hog.  Use- 
less to  his  friends,  since  he  knows 
not  geniality,  the  glutton  speedily 
becomes  a  torment  to  himself.  "  As 
a  lamp  is  choked  with  a  multitude  of 
oil,"  wrote  a  philosopher  many  years 
ago,  "  or  a  little  fire  with  overmuch 
wood  quite  extinguished,  so  is  the 
natural  heat  with  immoderate  eating 
strangled  in  the  body."  But  it  is 
not  of  the  glutton  that  we  would 
write ;  we  merely  recall  him  because 
his  existence  has  brought  discredit 
upon  a  delicate  art,  and  because  we 
would  give  Colonel  Newnham-Davis, 
whose  DINNERS  AND  DINERS  is 
composed  with  a  proper  enthusiasm, 
credit  not  only  for  knowledge  but 
for  courage  as  well. 

Colonel    Davis,    then,    is   more   of 


a  guide  than  of  a  philosopher.  He 
prefers  practice  to  theory,  and  if  we 
follow  him  through  the  mazes  of 
London,  we  may  now  and  again 
dine  indifferently,  but  we  need  never 
spend  a  dull  evening.  In  London, 
truly,  there  are  many  methods  of 
dining,  and  many  prices.  On  the 
one  hand  is  the  simple  chop,  cooked 
to  a  turn  upon  a  visible  grill ;  on  the 
other  is  a  dinner,  designed  by  Joseph 
or  Paillard,  which  could  not  be 
excelled  upon  the  boulevards.  Yet 
every  man,  with  a  guinea  or  two  in 
his  pocket,  cannot  dine.  He  must 
be  shepherded  to  the  proper  place, 
and  he  must  be  taught  to  order,  or 
at  least  to  control  the  ordering,  of 
a  dinner.  And  here  it  is  that  Colonel 
Davis  comes  to  his  aid,  not  with 
the  philosophy  of  Brillat-Savarin, 
but  with  practical  counsel  and  sound 
information.  To  order  a  dinner  is 
as  difficult  a  task  as  man  is  ever 
called  upon  to  perform ;  and  yet  he 
who  shrinks  from  the  task  has  no 
right  to  entertain  a  guest.  "  To  eat 
a  table  d'hote  dinner,"  says  the 
Colonel,  "  is  like  landing  a  fish 
which  has  been  hooked  and  played 
by  somebody  else ; "  and  we  quite 
agree  with  him. 

Yet  when  the  novice  faces  the 
maitre  d'hdtel,  how  shall  he  conduct 
himself  1  The  dishes  which  go  to 
make  up  a  dinner  are  so  few, 
the  choice  is  so  narrow,  that  the 
giver  of  the  feast  must  be  in- 
genious indeed  if  he  would  give  a 
personal  touch  to  his  performance. 
The  conditions  of  the  game  exclude 
a  wild  originality,  and  originality  is 
always  easier  to  compass  than  a  new 
arrangement  of  existing  materials. 
The  questions  that  suggest  themselves 
are  endless.  What  shall  be  the  hors 
cFceuvre, — caviar  or  oysters  1  That 
depends  on  an  infinity  of  considera- 
tions,— the  time  of  year,  the  dishes 
which  follow,  the  temperament  of  the 


Dinners  and  Diners. 


51 


guests,  and  what  not.  But  it  is  the  very 
difficulty  of  the  problem  which  makes 
it  worth  solving.  Again,  suppose 
yourself  confronted  by  the  manager 
of  a  restaurant,  and  asked  what  soup 
you  will  choose.  Does  not  the  be- 
ginner feel  shamed  into  saying,  "  I 
will  leave  it  all  to  you  "  ?  Yet  if  he 
say  so,  he  will  never  give  a  dinner 
worthy  himself  or  his  friend.  The 
difficulty,  of  course,  is  not  insuper- 
able. If  the  natural  gift  be  there, 
practice  may  speedily  bring  it  out, 
especially  when  the  practice  is  guided 
by  the  wisdom  of  so  highly  accom- 
plished a  mentor  as  Colonel  Davis. 
Yet  now  and  again  we  are  inclined 
to  differ  from  him.  He  is  never  tired 
of  condemning  such  simple  soups 
as  petite  maiinite  or  croilte  au  pot. 
He  finds  them,  says  he,  in  every 
bill  of  fare,  and  he  sternly  reproves 
the  lack  of  imagination  which  pre- 
fers these  homely  soups  to  something 
stranger  and  more  elegant.  But  it 
is  not  lack  of  imagination  which 
chooses  the  simplest  soups.  For  it 
is  in  them  that  fancy  may  most 
eloquently  be  expressed.  The  more 
simple  the  soup,  the  harder  is  it  to 
make,  and  only  the  greatest  cook 
can  compose  a  distinguished  croute 
au  pot,  as  only  the  greatest  poets 
can  fittingly  express  the  common- 
place. Nor  is  Colonel  Davis  sup- 
ported by  M.  Joseph,  the  real  hero 
of  his  book,  since  we  note  with 
pleasure  that  when  this  artist  de- 
signed a  little  dinner  at  the  Savoy, 
he  opened  it  with  a  soup  somewhat 
recklessly  censured  by  his  client. 

The  truth  is  that  a  soup,  like  the 
exordium  of  a  speech,  should  be 
scrupulously  quiet.  No  cook  (nor 
any  orator)  desires  to  reach  his  climax 
at  the  outset,  and  for  this  reason 
bisque  is  apt  to  spoil  a  delicate  re- 
past. Excellent  in  itself,  it  does  not 
always  harmonise  with  what  follows, 
and  often  exhausts  the  palate,  as  an 


epigram   in    the   first   phrase   robs  a 
speech's  peroration  of  its  due  effect. 
Indeed,    the    perfect    dinner    is    an 
assemblage  of  dishes,  each   of  which 
leads    imperceptibly    to    what    comes 
after,    and  it   is    clear  that    the   art 
of  the  diner,  like  all  the  other  arts, 
depends   for   perfection    upon    appro- 
priateness and  simplicity.     To  follow 
a  bisque   by  a  lobster,  or  a  chateau- 
briand  by  a  woodcock,  is  as  violent  a 
fault  of  taste  as  a  lapse  in  grammar 
Yet  simplicity  is  a  greater  virtue  even 
than  appropriateness,  and    simplicity 
never  found  a  more  zealous  champion 
than   Colonel  Davis.     He  upholds  it 
for  our  admiration  on  every  page,  and 
better  still  he  quotes  in  support  the 
opinion    of   M.    Joseph,    than    whom 
Europe   holds  no  sounder   authority. 
Now    M.    Joseph  believes,    with   the 
elder  Pliny,  that  many  dishes  bring 
many    diseases.     "In    England    you 
taste     your    dinners,"    says    the    in- 
comparable artist,    "  you  do  not  eat 
them.     The  artist    who  is   confident 
of  his  art  only  puts  a  small  dinner 
before  his  clients.     It  is  a  bad  work- 
man, who  slurs  over  his  failures  by 
giving   many   dishes."     That   is   per- 
fectly true  ;  the  love  of  size  persuades 
the    new-made    millionaire    to    order 
large  dinners,  large  houses,  and  large 
canvases.     It    persuades    the    newly 
educated  to  demand  large  head-lines, 
vast  sensations,  and  long  novels.    But 
M.  Joseph  practises  what  he  preaches, 
and   he  designed  for   Colonel    Davis 
such  a  dinner  as  rightly  expresses  his 
conviction.     Perhaps   we  may   set  it 
down,  for  it  proves   our  point  more 
clearly  than  would  a  page  of  argument. 
Here,  then,  is  the  little  banquet  offered 
at  the  Savoy  : 

Petite  Marmite. 
Sole  Reichenberg. 

Caneton  &  la  presse.       Salade  de  Saison. 

Fonds  d'artichauts  A  la  Reine. 

Bombe  pralin^e.     Petits  Fours. 

Panier  fleuri. 

K   2 


52 


Dinners  and  Diners. 


After  such  a  dinner  no  man  could  be 
either  hungry  nor  surfeited,  and  to 
think  of  it  is  to  regret  that  London 
knows  M.  Joseph  no  more,  that  to 
contemplate  his  artistry  one  must 
cross  the  Channel,  and  find  in  the 
Rue  Marivaux  what  is  now  denied 
to  the  Savoy. 

But  Colonel  Davis's  treatise  not 
only  tells  us  how  to  dine ;  it  reminds 
us  how  great  a  change  has  come  over 
this  London  of  ours.  Time  was  when 
an  Englishman's  house  was  his  castle, 
when  he  firmly  believed  that  a  mutton 
chop  eaten  at  his  own  fireside  was 
infinitely  better  than  all  the  French 
kickshaws  in  the  world,  when  he 
gaily  quoted  Thackeray's  lines, — 

Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish 
is,— 

I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss  : 
Your  silly  entrees  and  made  dishes 

Were  never  intended  for  us — 

and  thought  that  the  last  word  had 
been  said.  He  ate  vilely ;  he  could 
not  call  it  dining ;  and  he  was  content, 
because  his  patriotism  did  not  suffer. 
But  he  has  learned  a  lesson  in  the 
last  thirty  years,  and  if  economy  still 
keeps  him  at  home,  he  celebrates  as 
many  occasions  as  he  can  by  a  little 
dinner  at  a  restaurant.  The  conse- 
quence is  that  France,  Italy,  and 
Germany  have  invaded  us.  You 
may  now  dine  at  any  price  you  like, 
and  after  the  custom  of  whatever 
country  suits  you  best.  If  you  wish 
to  wash  down  sausage  and  sauerkraut 
with  the  best  Spaten  beer,  you  may 
do  it  at  a  moderate  price ;  if  you 
prefer  macaroni  and  Chianti,  there  is 
no  quarter  of  the  town  in  which 
you  cannot  satisfy  your  desire  ;  and 
"the  High  French  kitchen,"  of 
various  degrees,  may  be  encountered 
wherever  an  hotel  hangs  out  its  sign. 
The  quality  of  the  cooking  is  not 
always  admirable,  but  at  least  there 
is  a  pretence  of  invention,  which  goes 


further  than  an  underdone  joint  and 
boiled  potatoes. 

The  Franco-German  War,  as  if  to 
prove  that  no  disaster  was  without  a 
compensation,  inaugurated  the  newer 
method.  The  poor  exiles,  languish- 
ing for  their  fatherland  and  de- 
pressed by  the  fog  which  they 
detect  in  London  on  the  sunniest 
day,  would  have  perished  miserably 
had  not  the  Cafe  Royal  been  estab- 
lished for  their  benefit.  But  once 
established,  the  Cafe  Royal  attracted 
the  wise  men  of  our  own  race,  and 
thus  it  was  that  the  English  were 
taught  to  dine  after  a  wiser  and 
a  better  fashion.  For  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  there  is  but  one 
art  of  cookery  in  the  world, — the  art 
of  France.  Other  countries  have 
their  own  dishes,  their  own  moments 
of  inspiration.  The  soups  of  Russia 
have  been  honoured  by  adoption  in 
the  capital  of  the  allied  nation,  while 
the  roe  and  sinews  of  sturgeon  are 
universally  esteemed  ;  the  saffron  and 
garlic  of  Spain  are  our  common  pro- 
perty ;  and  the  Swedish  smorgasbrod, 
though  it  has  never  travelled  south, 
is  a  hero's  way  of  beginning  a 
banquet.  But  there  is  no  country 
which  does  not  owe  its  kitchen  to 
France,  whose  very  language  alone 
can  describe  a  dinner  in  adequate 
terms.  And  while  at  the  palaces 
described  by  Colonel  Davis  any 
Englishman  may  eat  a  perfect 
dinner,  he  cannot  taste  the  unalloyed 
pleasure  which  the  same  dinner 
would  give  him  in  Paris.  There 
may  be  something  in  the  atmo- 
sphere ;  there  is  more  in  the  method 
of  presentation.  In  London  the 
matt-re  <f  hotel,  a  Frenchman  of  course, 
is  constrained  to  speak  English,  and 
is  then  hampered  in  the  discharge  of 
a  delicate  duty.  But  it  is  the  manner 
in  which  a  dinner  is  served  that 
puts  upon  it  the  perfect  finish. 
M.  Joseph,  quoted  by  Colonel  Davis, 


Dinners  and  Diners. 


53 


declares  that  "  a  dish  learnedly  pre- 
pared by  an  incomparable  cook  might 
pass  unseen,  or  at  least  unappreciated 
if  the  maitre  d 'hotel,  who  becomes  for 
the  nonce  a  kind  of  stage-manager,  did 
not  know  how  to  present  the  master- 
piece in  such  a  fashion  as  to  make  it 
desirable."  In  other  words,  the  maitre 
cThotel  must  not  only  understand  the 
composition  of  every  dish  which  he 
places  before  his  clients,  he  must  have 
the  suave  diplomacy  which  shall  add 
a  proper  touch  of  intimacy,  and  which 
shall  persuade  the  amateur  that  the 
skill  and  fancy  lavished  upon  the  dish 
has  been  lavished  for  him,  and  for 
him  only.  But  England  has  never 
produced  a  maitre  cThotel.  Head- 
waiters  we  have  innumerable,  and 
excellent  they  are,  shrewd,  con- 
fidential, quick  of  memory,  admir- 
able gossips,  even  witty.  Yet  they 
lack  the  air  of  distinction,  of  smiling 
dignity,  which  enables  such  a  maitre 
d'hotel  as  M.  Joseph  to  persuade  the 
diner  that  he  is  eating  a  dinner  pre- 
pared for  his  peculiar  palate. 

But,  if  Englishmen  cannot  set  a 
dinner  upon  the  table  with  the 
delicate  skill  of  a  Frenchman,  what 
shall  we  say  of  our  English  kitchen? 
Nothing,  save  that  it  is  simplex 
munditiis,  plain  in  its  neatness.  It 
is,  moreover,  dying  in  the  restaurants 
of  London.  It  lingers  in  old-fashioned 
clubs  and  in  old-fashioned  taverns. 
There  are  haunts  in  which  you  may 
find  a  beef-steak  pudding  unrivalled, 
and  if  you  are  very  hungry  you 
may  eat  it  with  pleasure.  But 
France  and  Italy  have  carried  away 
the  palm,  and  of  the  innumerable 
restaurants  mentioned  by  Colonel 
Davis  there  are  but  half-a-dozen 
which  respect  the  traditions  of  the 
old  English  kitchen.  The  patriot 
will  find  it  a  sorrowful  confession, 
and  it  is  the  more  sorrowful,  because 
the  raw  materials  of  a  banquet  are 
better  and  cheaper  in  London  than 


in  Paris.  But  we  need  not  take  our 
inferiority  to  heart-  We  can  eat  the 
best  of  French  dinners  in  London, 
although  they  do  not  taste  quite  the 
same  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  as 
on  the  boulevards  and  quays  of 
Paris  ;  and  we  may  soothe  our  vanity 
by  the  reflection  that  the  heroes  of 
Homer  understood  not  the  art  of 
cooking,  that  Ulysses  and  Achilles 
and  the  rest  were  quite  content  with 
beef,  if  only  there  were  enough  of  it. 

There  is  yet  another  reason  why 
the  English  cannot  taste  their  dinner 
as  they  should.  They  are  careless  of 
their  appetite,  for  not  content  with 
dulling  their  palate  with  tea  in  the 
afternoon,  they  lunch  so  late  that 
hunger  appeased  often  shrinks  from 
the  task  of  dinner.  Burton  in  his 
ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY  complained 
that  the  colleges  of  Oxford  did  not 
allow  seven  hours  to  elapse  between 
dinner  and  supper,  and  the  epicure 
who  lunches  at  two  is  hardly  ready  to 
dine  at  eight.  The  French  arrange 
their  life  with  a  wiser  forethought. 
He  who  breakfasts  at  twelve  may 
dine  at  half-past  seven  ;  and  not  only 
is  he  prepared  for  the  climax  of  the 
day,  his  dinner,  but  to  balance  it 
he  must  needs  invent  another  delicate 
work  of  art, — the  breakfast,  which 
might  well  suggest  an  interesting 
treatise  to  Colonel  Davis. 

However,  there  is  one  ingredient 
common  to  every  meal,  French  or 
English,  and  that  is  conversation. 
The  Colonel,  we  think,  treats  this 
branch  of  his  subject  somewhat  care- 
lessly ;  his  humour  too  often  de- 
generates to  an  idle  levity.  It  is 
well  to  know  where  to  dine ;  it  is  also 
important  to  understand  with  whom 
to  dine.  We  have  no  right  to  choose 
our  company  without  thought.  At 
dinner  a  man  should  be  in  his  best 
humour,  since  his  work  is  finished, 
and  he  lives  only  to  please  his  senna. 
Fatigue  has  not  overtaken  him  ;  ex- 


54 


Dinners  and  Diners. 


citement  has  not  dulled  his  wits  nor 
turned  them  to  hysteria.  He  has  no 
right  to  frolic,  as  at  supper,  nor  to 
be  dumb  as  at  an  early  breakfast. 
He  must  pay  his  shot  by  a  due  inter- 
change of  talk.  What  shall  he  talk 
about  ?  Plutarch  once  discussed  at 
considerable  length  the  question 
whether  men  should  discourse  of  phil- 
osophy at  table,  and  he  decided,  if 
we  remember  rightly,  that  there  was 
no  objection  so  long  as  philosophy 
was  treated  in  the  spirit  of  gaiety. 
And  the  decision  is  wise  enough.  All 
things  are  fit  food  for  converse,  so 
long  as  they  are  handled  with  a  light- 
ness proper  to  the  occasion,  philosophy, 
gossip,  letters,  or  sport.  But  two 
reservations  may  be  made  :  no  man 
should  be  held  to  an  opinion  flung 
across  the  dinner-table,  nor  should  he 
ever  be  reminded  of  a  thoughtless  jest 
uttered  under  the  genial  influence  of 
a  French  cook.  Otherwise,  talk  is 
imperative,  the  quick  talk  which 
pierces  like  a  sword-thrust  and  is  as 
easily  parried.  For  this  reason,  only 
a  savage  would  dine  to  the  music  of  a 


band.  There  is  more  than  one  res- 
taurant in  London  in  which  conver- 
sation is  silenced  by  the  noisy  rattle 
of  worn-out  tunes.  We  have  even 
heard  diners  so  lost  to  shame  that 
they  added  their  chorus  to  the  noise 
of  the  Hungarians,  green,  blue,  or 
yellow.  Now,  this  outrage  may  cover 
the  imbecility  of  those  who  dine  with- 
out thought  or  without  joy ;  it  cannot 
be  resented  too  bitterly  by  men  of 
sense.  And  after  the  dinner  comes 
the  bill,  as  Colonel  Davis  reminds 
us,  heavy  most  often  and  (let  us  hope) 
always  cheerfully  paid.  But  even 
when  it  is  paid,  there  remains  some- 
thing still.  "  The  thought  that  a 
great  chef  had  given  to  composing 
a  dish,"  we  quote  the  Colonel's  own 
words,  "  the  minute  care  with  which 
the  dinner  had  been  prepared  and 
served,  could  not  be  put  down  in 
money  value  ;  they  are  the  courtesies 
that  the  professors  of  an  art  pay  to 
an  enthusiastic  student."  With  which 
expression  of  proper  gratitude  we  take 
leave  of  an  intelligent  and  entertain- 
ing book. 


55 


OVER     THE     SLEEPING     CITY. 


AN  hour  before  midnight  the  west 
of  London  even  in  the  summer-time 
is  quieting  down  rapidly.  The  main 
thoroughfares  still  rumble  with  traffic 
and  the  omnibuses  still  continue  to 
ply,  but  in  lesser  numbers,  rattling 
past  with  few  passengers  at  a  brisker 
pace  than  would  be  possible,  or  pru- 
dent, in  daylight.  It  was  on  the 
roof  of  one  of  these,  following 
the  route  of  Knightsbridge  and  the 
Fulham  road,  that  on  an  evening  in 
last  August  I  travelled  four  pleasant 
miles,  easily  and  with  enjoyment  of 
the  cool  fresh  air,  from  crowded  St. 
James's  to  the  far  side  of  the  bridge 
at  Chelsea  station  where  the  suburb 
of  Fulham  begins. 

As  I  alighted,  the  giant  voice  of 
Westminster  was  tolling  out  the  hour 
with  a  distant  solemn  roar  unknown 
in  busy  hours.  A  hush  was  fast 
settling  down  on  the  great  city.  The 
darkening  of  the  shop-fronts  had 
already  thrown  the  streets  into  partial 
gloom.  Little  groups  of  men  stood  at 
the  street-corners  where  tavern-lights 
still  flared,  but  these  were  thinning 
rapidly.  A  hundred  yards  back  from 
the  roadway  on  the  northern  side,  out 
on  the  quiet  turf  of  the  athletic 
ground,  you  are  away  from  the 
glare  of  lamps  and  the  concourse 
of  man,  and  for  all  that  can  be  seen 
or  heard  London  is  not.  Three 
hours  previously  I  had  stood  on  the 
same  spot  in  broad  daylight  anxiously 
watching,  sprawled  on  the  turf  and 
surrounded  by  a  busy  crowd,  a 
writhing  mass  of  parti-coloured  silk 
and  netting  within  whose  folds  gas 
had  just  been  turned  on  from  a 
large  main.  On  the  same  spot  now, 


deserted,  solemn,  majestic,  uprose  a 
huge  shapely  globe  blotting  out  the 
sky. 

Presently  comrades  came  dropping 
in  by  twos  and  threes,  and  the  talk 
was  of  the  venture  in  hand ;  for  in 
the  small  hours  there  was  to  be  a 
balloon-ascent,  and  probabilities  and 
possibilities  were  being  keenly  dis- 
cussed. After  another  three  hours 
would  there  be  sufficient  lifting-power 
without  the  introduction  of  more  live 
gas?  This  was  an  important  ques- 
tion, since  the  gas-man  had  gone 
home  to  bed  an  hour  ago  taking  his 
key  with  him.  Would  the  night-dew 
condense  too  heavily  on  the  cold 
silk  ?  Would  the  wind  rise  or  veer, 
or,  worse,  would  it  die  out  altogether 
with  midnight?  A  sky- voyage  on 
a  moonless  night  was  not  to  be  too 
lightly  embarked  on  with  miles  on 
miles  of  house-tops  around  and  a 
winding  river  broad  and  black  to 
leeward.  Then  again  the  speed  of 
the  upper  currents  was  unknown,  and 
the  sea  lay  across  Kent  only  sixty 
miles  away.  Indeed,  should  our 
course  be  for  the  Hope  Light-house 
the  water  we  should  reach  in  less 
than  thirty  miles  would,  for  all  the 
efforts  to  escape  that  we  could  make, 
be  practically  the  open  sea  for  us. 
But  auguries  were  favourable  and 
satisfied  at  last  the  little  band  quit 
the  wet  grass, — the  three  aeronauts 
to  simulate  sleep  stretched  on  the 
benches  of  the  grand  stand  beneath 
improvised  coverlets,  the  rest  to  dis- 
appear mysteriously  somewhere.  Two 
hours  later  we  found  them  (having 
by  that  time  sated  ourselves  with 
the  pleasing  delusion  that  wo  had 


56 


Over  the  Sleeping  City. 


been  resting)  congregated  in  a  shed 
dimly  lit  with  candles  stuck  in  niches 
round  the  walls,  telling  stories  and 
singing  songs, — just  as  you  will  find 
true  English  spirits  the  world  over, 
and  more  particularly  such  genuine 
comrades,  willing  volunteers  all,  as 
had  come  to  aid  in  launching  us 
skyward  and  see  us  well  away. 
And  it  was,  already  time  for  action. 
The  night,  though  dark,  was  clear, 
and  away  in  the  north-north-east  the 
sun,  with  its  shallow  dip  below  the 
horizon  somewhere  behind  the  neigh- 
bouring great  wheel  in  Earl's  Court, 
was  brightening  the  sky-line  ruled 
level  with  far  roof- ridges.  In  two 
hours  the  dawn  would  be  breaking 
to  those  who  should  be  sailing  above 
the  clouds. 

Once  in  the  car  you  seem  to  belong 
already  to  another  element,  while 
your  craft  resents  all  connection  with 
earth.  But  lately  a  tumbled  mass 
twisted  and  wrinkled,  it  is  now 
shapely  as  a  bird,  a  thing  of  beauty, 
nobly  proportioned,  and  like  a  true 
creature  of  the  air  is  struggling  for 
release,  sweeping  and  writhing,  but 
with  perfect  grace,  as  a  score  of  men 
hold  her  in  check.  At  last  she  is  free, 
but  for  one  restraining  rope,  when 
her  motion  is  closely  watched.  How 
does  she  take  her  flight?  Of  this 
only  those  who  stand  without  can  well 
judge.  From  within  you  lose  sight 
of  the  earth  in  the  darkness,  and 
are  unconscious  of  any  motion  up- 
wards or  downwards.  There  is  no 
sensation,  but  the  occasional  tugging 
and  quivering  of  the  rope.  Thus  it  is 
an  unwelcome  surprise  to  find  oneself 
returned  to  earth  with  an  unpleasing 
jolt.  When  this  has  been  repeated  a 
few  times  the  desire  is  not  to  avoid 
it  by  getting  out,  but  with  all  speed  to 
be  rid  of  rude  earth  altogether.  And 
the  moment  has  now  come.  We  rise 
once  more,  still  a  trifle  too  reluctantly ; 
so  a  bag  is  dropped  entire,  and  a  long 


second  elapses  before  its  thud  is  heard 
on  the  turf,  showing  us  that  the  earth 
is  at  last  being  left  for  good.  And  so 
at  last  we  slip  our  cable,  amid  the 
cheers  of  the  little  crowd  below. 

The  enclosure  we  are  quitting  does 
not  exceed  the  limits  of  an  ordinary 
foot-ball  ground,  but  its  black  area  is 
doubled  by  the  night,  and  we  seem  to 
be  rising  out  of  some  vast  chasm  into 
the  lesser  darkness  of  the  sky.  But 
our  motion,  though  upward,  is  slanting 
with  the  wind,  and  in  another  moment 
out  of  the  gloom  the  maze  of  street- 
lamps  bursts  upon  us,  for  we  have 
cleared  the  nearest  houses,  and  stand 
away  over  the  Fulham  Road,  rising 
yet  and  quickening  our  speed  as  we 
catch  the  currents  of  the  upper  air. 
And  now  (the  first  duty  of  the 
careful  aeronaut)  we  can  guess  at 
our  direction.  The  Fulham  Road  lies, 
toward  the  north-east,  and  we  have 
crossed  it  at  so  broad  an  angle  as  to 
make  it  morally  certain  that  we  shall 
land  in  Kent.  The  river,  however, 
should  be  another  guide,  since  at 
our  reckoning  we  should  traverse  it 
directly, .  nearly  at  right  angles,  and 
but  little  above  Battersea  Bridge. 
And  we  are  not  without  further 
guidance.  From  some  street  far  down 
a  voice  reaches  us ;  a  foot-passenger 
has  sighted  our  dark  mass  against  the 
starlight,  and  a  short  colloquy  ensues, 
cast  in  hasty  sentences,  as  to  our 
direction. 

But  our  friend  is  already  behind  us, 
cut  off  by  blocks  of  houses,  for  we  are 
rising  in  the  faster  currents,  and  are 
skimming  over  the  roofs  and  road- 
ways briskly.  Turning  now  and  look- 
ing ahead,  the  houses  below  have 
come  to  an  end,  and  the  lines  of  stars 
in  the  streets  have  left  a  broad  blank 
in  which  all  is  darkness,  save  for 
bright  or  coloured  gleams  here  and 
there,  spreading  a  rippling  glare 
around  ;  save  too  for  certain  narrow 
double  lines  dotted  in  with  brilliant 


Over  the  Sleeping  City. 


57 


crossing  the  dark  channel  and 
repeating  themselves  at  almost  regular 
intervals  again  and  again  away  into 
dim  distance.  We  are  about  to  cross 
the  river,  which  thus  betrays  itself 
together  with  its  various  craft  bear- 
ing signal-lamps,  and  its  bridges 
brilliantly  lighted.  Soon  we  are  out 
over  mid-stream  floating  high  aloft, 
where  not  a  plash  or  murmur  makes 
itself  heard.  A  river  in  flood  appeals 
to  us  by  its  wild  grandeur  and  the 
uproar  of  tossing  waters ;  yet  even 
so  it  can  hardly  impress  one  more 
than  does  this  night  view  of  Thames 
with  its  solemn  sweep  through  silent 
London. 

When  the  far  bank  is  reached,  and 
houses  are  under  us  once  more,  there 
is  an  altered  aspect  of  the  streets, 
due  probably  to  our  increased  altitude. 
The  roadways  lie  in  dark  lines  along 
their  length,  but  having  an  ill-defined 
fringe  on  either  side  as  of  frosted 
silver.  The  explanation  is  not  hard 
to  find.  The  surface  of  smooth  flag- 
stones is  more  reflective  than  that  of 
the  trodden  road,  and  the  beams  of 
street-lamps  are  faintly  thrown  back 
to  us  off  the  pavements.  But  speedily, 
as  we  look  sheer  down,  the  illumined 
town  has  once  more  terminated 
abruptly  in  a  vacant  space  of  large 
dimensions  with  straight  and  clean- 
cut  boundaries.  We  are  crossing  an 
angle  of  Battersea  Park,  and  this  is 
no  sooner  passed  than  there  opens  out 
on  our  right  another  large  dark  gap 
whose  curious  figure,  an  elongated 
triangle,  puzzles  us.  It  can  hardly 
be  a  reservoir,  for  the  familiar  tanks 
of  Battersea  are  on  our  left ;  neither 
is  there  any  recreation-ground  nearer 
than  Kennington ;  nor  in  this  part 
of  London  is  there  any  burial-plot 
save  the  huge  oblong  of  Brompton 
far  behind.  We  are  not  long  left 
in  perplexity.  Trailing  through  the 
black  gap  is  seen  a  lurid  flare  fringed 
with  silver,  and  a  shriek  comes  up 


breaking  the  silence  painfully.  One 
is  apt  to  forget  how  much  open  space 
a  railway  claims,  especially  near  a 
busy  terminus. 

The  engine  puffing  below  us  in  the 
delta  of  the  London  and  South- 
western Railway  is  doing  shunting 
work,  and  now  blows  a  familiar  call, 
not  a  sustained  hooting  but  a  toot-a-too 
in  broken  blasts.  Some  impulse 
moved  me  to  imitate  the  signal  with 
a  powerful  reed  horn  which  I  carried, 
and  this  provoked  such  a  prompt 
response  from  below  us  to  make  it 
clear  that  we  were  sighted  by  the 
engine-driver,  and  were  being  chal- 
lenged to  a  competition  which  indeed 
straightway  ensued.  Then  some 
driver  down  the  line  joined  in,  and 
next  a  bargeman  on  the  river  caught 
the  inspiration,  and  contributed  a 
dismal  piping  on  a  wheezy  whistle. 
And  in  a  minute's  space,  up  and  down 
the  stream,  a  score  of  vessels  swelled 
the  chorus,  answering  each  toot  from 
the  sky  with  a  fiendish  discord.  The 
very  sensible  interval  between  the 
challenge  and  the  response  was  an 
indication  of  our  distance  from  the 
earth.  A  still  better  measure  of 
altitude,  up  to  a  thousand  feet  or 
more,  is  to  be  found  in  echo  off  the 
surface  of  the  ground  below,  and 
practically  any  surface  will  serve  if 
proper  appliances  are  used.  An 
aneroid  can  at  best  only  tell  the 
height  a  balloon  may  be  riding  at  as 
compared  with  that  of  the  place  of 
departure.  It  can  take  no  account 
of  hills  or  depressions,  nor  can  these 
be  judged  otherwise  from  above,  since 
to  the  eye  the  earth  presents  only  a 
dead  level.  On  the  other  hand  the 
interval  occupied  by  echo  carefully 
noted  supplies  a  true  measure  of  the 
gulf  between  the  observer  and  the 
ground  below  him.  An  outlying 
reservoir  of  the  Southwark  and  Vaux- 
hall  water-works  is  beneath  us,  and 
a  blast  of  the  horn  brings  back  an 


58 


Over  the  Sleeping  City. 


echo  of  astounding  strength  and 
volume ;  for  no  better  reflecting  sur- 
face for  sound  exists  than  that  of  a 
sheet  of  unruffled  water, — a  fact  ob- 
viously only  confided  to  the  aeronaut. 
We  are  beyond  the  range  of  voice 
now  and  it  is  a  favourable  opportunity 
for  testing  by  means  of  echo  the 
quality  of  the  night  air  over  London 
as  a  vehicle  for  sound.  The  myriad 
chimneys  below  are  innocent  of  smoke, 
and  in  the  small  dead  hours  the  air 
around  is  equable.  With  what  ears 
then  will  the  silent  city  receive  a 
summons  from  the  sky  ? 

A  horn  is  used,  so  constructed  as 
to  concentrate  its  sound  in  one  path, 
and    leaning   well   over   the  car  one 
blows  a  blast  perpendicularly  down- 
wards, while  another  listens  with  an 
ear-trumpet.     We  are  upwards  of  a 
thousand  feet  high,  a  distance  greater 
than  between  the  shores  of  the  river 
at  Westminster  Bridge  ;  yet  the  echo 
comes  back  with  a  burst,  quickly  end- 
ing but  painful  to  the  ear  by  its  very 
intensity.     Roofs  and  roadways  lying 
square  to  the  blast  have  all  replied  in 
one  united  recoil.     The  horn  is  now 
directed  at  an  angle  slanting  down- 
wards, with  a  result  strikingly  changed 
and  beautiful.    The  note  is  prolonged, 
continuous,  and  always  true.     It   is 
like  the  long-drawn-out  note  of  some 
wild  harp-string  slowly  dying.     Later 
in  the  same  night,  when  we  were  far 
out  in  the  open  country,  a  remarkable 
effect  was  observed  for  which  I  can 
obtain    no   explanation.     Held    at    a 
certain  angle  the  horn  awoke  a  near 
full  echo  of  its  true  note  ;  then  fol- 
lowed  a  slight   interval  after   which 
a  second  echo  came  back,    not    only 
fainter    but     appreciably    raised     in 
pitch. 

We  have  been  in  the  sky  now  for 
some  twenty  minutes  and  our  sensa- 
tions bid  us  believe  that  we  are  in  a 
warm  and  genial  atmosphere.  An 
hour  ago  thermometers,  suspended  a 


few  feet  above  the  ground,  registered 
57°   in    the    enclosure    of    Stamford 
Bridge,  yet  the  night  felt  raw  and, 
clinging  to  our  wraps,  we  were  glad 
to  keep  ourselves   in  motion.     Now, 
though   unsheltered  on  all  sides  and 
without    the   power   of    exercise,   an 
overcoat  is  almost  a  burden.     It  be- 
comes  interesting  to  test  accurately 
the    actual   temperature    of    the   air 
around  us,  that  is,  of  the  strata  lying 
over  Clapham  at,  say,  twice  the  height 
of  St.  Paul's  at  half-past  three  on  a 
morning   in    the   middle   of    August. 
A    bare    thermometer-tube,    divested 
of  any  mounting  and  merely  tied  at 
its  upper  end  to  a  piece  of  string,  is 
whirled  round  at  arm's  length  outside 
the  car  for  an  interval  of  time  suffi- 
cient to  allow  the  slender  instrument 
to  be  brought  to  the  same  temperature 
as  that  of   the  air  with  which  it  is 
thus  brought  in  rapid  contact.     The 
result  shows  that  despite  the  evidence 
of   our  senses  the  night  air  remains 
precisely  the    same   as  when  we  left 
the  earth.     The  feeling  of   increased 
warmth  is  partly  due  to  our   travel- 
ling  with    the   wind    and    thus   en- 
countering no  draught;   but  it   may 
be  attributed  yet  more  to  our  being 
removed    from    the    low-lying    layers 
of   moisture, — a  strong  argument   in 
favour  of  elevated  situations.     At  a 
higher  altitude   we   should    probably 
meet  with  yet  warmer  strata,  for  the 
baking    heat    of    the    previous    day, 
stored  up  to  our  discomfort  through 
long  hours  in  the  pavements  and  walls 
and  roofs  of  our  dwellings,  has  now 
risen  above  the  housetops,  tempering 
the  upper  air.     A  striking  proof  of 
this  awaits  us,    for,  though  we  have 
thrown  out  no  ballast,  our  balloon  is 
now  ascending.     The  huge  silk  globe 
above  us,  exposing  its  large  surface  to 
the  air,  is  becoming  sensibly  warmed 
and  dried. 

Instinctively    drawing     deep     and 
invigorating  breaths  as   we  soar  up- 


Over  the  Sleeping  City. 


59 


wards,  and  with  that  indefinable 
exhilaration  which  no  one  knows 
save  the  mountaineer,  we  enter  a 
new  world,  for  we  have  climbed  into 
the  early  light  of  dawn,  while  the 
face  of  earth,  though  still  in  gloom, 
begins  to  wear  an  altered  aspect. 
We  are  fast  bidding  farewell  to 
London,  passing  out  beyond  Peck- 
ham  and  Forest  Hill  into  the  open 
fields  and  gardens  of  Kent.  The 
spangled  floor  below  is  frayed  and 
fretted  out  in  lines  and  patches  of 
fading  lights.  To  the  north  and  west 
stretches  the  whole  extent  of  London, 
a  broad  tract  of  tiny  stars  massed 
together  and  fading  into  distance, 
remotely  resembling  some  portion  of 
the  Milky  Way  when  brought  to 
closer  range  in  the  field  of  a  large 
telescope.  Here  and  there  are  vacan- 
cies, the  rifts  and  coal-sacks,  as  it 
were ;  elsewhere  are  brighter  regions, 
throwing  a  nebulous  haze  into  the 
sky,  where  street-lamps  cluster  in 
some  busy  centre.  To  the  right 
and  left,  outside  the  limits  of  the 
city,  bright  patches  of  light  gleam 
out  in  the  lower  darkness,  showing 
where  distant  towns  are  sleeping. 
These  patches  are  ruddy  or  white, 
doubtless  according  as  the  light  pro- 
ceeds from  burning  gas  or  the  glow 
of  electric  current. 

And  to  our  vision  there  is  another 
light  already  in  the  sky.  On  the 
north-east  horizon  a  low  level  bank 
of  slate  shows  up  with  sharp  outline 
against  a  brightening  background. 
Above  it  stretches  a  ribbon  of  dull 
red  shading  off  into  a  fringe  of  orange, 
which  broadens  and  brightens  as  we 
watch.  We  have  occupied  perhaps 
five  minntes  in  gazing  on  this  new 
feature  when,  turning,  we  see  a  fresh 
and  greater  beauty  born  within  the 
brief  interval.  High  in  the  opposite 
quarter  of  the  heavens  the  cloud- 
wreaths  of  broad  stratus  have  caught 
the  first  flush  of  dawn,  and  show  rose- 


red  billowy  crests  with  deep  purple 
hollows. 

There  is  a  curious  chill  about  the 
dawn,  which  must  be  partly  accounted 
for  on  physical  grounds.  Those  who 
have  been  abroad  through  the  night 
experience  shortly  before  the  sun 
rises  a  marked  accession  of  cold,  a 
searching  cold, — never  more  notice- 
able than  in  summer — which  belongs 
to  no  other  period  of  the  night.  The 
same  may  be  noticed,  more  particularly 
in  special  climates,  at  the  period  when 
the  sun  has  recently  set,  and  again 
during  the  moments  of  total  eclipse. 
Though  that  interval  is  too  brief  to 
allow  any  great  diminution  of  tem- 
perature to  be  shown  on  recording 
instruments,  yet  observers  will  agree 
as  to  a  sudden  sensation  of  chilliness 
as  strange  as  it  is  real.  I  think  this 
feeling  is  less  marked  in  the  sky, 
unless  indeed,  as  I  have  known,  you 
chance  to  be  in  the  upper  margin  of 
cloud  which  is  evaporating  into  the 
warmer  air  above,  in  which  case  the 
cold  is  intense. 

Nevertheless  our  balloon  (always 
a  most  delicate  air-thermometer)  re- 
corded a  fall  of  temperature  as  the 
dawn  was  breaking  in  a  most  palpable 
manner.  It  climbed  down  rapidly, 
putting  back  the  dawn,  and  almost 
before  we  had  time  to  realise  it,  we 
were  within  five  hundred  feet  of  dark 
green  fields  below,  and  dusky  woods  to 
right  and  left.  And  at  that  moment 
the  air  became  full  of  a  twittering 
sound  so  widespread  and  so  intense  as 
to  produce  a  most  singular  and  strik- 
ing effect.  It  was  the  noise  we  were 
accustomed  to  hear  in  summer  when 
the  day  begins  to  break  and  the  wak- 
ing birds  are  preluding  their  morning 
song.  But  evidently  we  had  caused 
consternation  in  the  woods,  and 
moreover  in  our  quiet  but  lofty  re- 
treat the  subdued  sound  was  gathered 
in  from  over  wide  areas. 

Directly  afterwards    we  had  occa- 


60 


Over  the  Sleeping  City. 


sion  to  note  the  same  wide-spread 
calling  among  another  family  of  the 
bird-creation.  A  cock  was  crowing 
in  some  farmyard  hard  by,  the  chal- 
lenge being  of  course  answered  by 
another  in  another  direction,  but  not 
by  one  only.  Two  or  three  would 
be  answering  at  once  from  different 
points ;  further  and  fainter,  and  fur- 
ther yet  and  all  around,  came  the 
chorus  from  homesteads  unseen  and 
hard  to  number.  Regarding  the  un- 
broken stretch  of  country  before  us 
it  was  impossible  to  conceive  any 
point  within  the  far  horizon  where 
the  impetuous  uproar  just  arisen 
would  cease.  Rather  one  must  sup- 
pose that  the  whole  country-side,  a 
district,  a  county,  nay  some  large 
division  of  England,  must  be  in  full 
crow  at  that  moment.  In  which  case 
are  there  any  privileged  roosts  which 
have  a  claim  to  precedence  1 

An  interesting  fact  relating  to  the 
birds  was  now  noticed.  A  flock, 
seemingly  of  wild  fowl,  was  flying 
at  some  distance  but  well  above  us, 
and  afforded  a  rare  opportunity  of 
testing  the  height  at  which  birds  will 
fly.  Almost  invariably  high-flying 
birds  shun  a  balloon,  and  are  nowhere 
to  be  seen  during  a  free  voyage 
through  the  sky.  These  too  were 
giving  us  a  wide  berth,  but  held  their 
course,  apparently  a  long  one,  which 
lay  out  over  the  Medway.  Their 
flight  must  have  been  at  the  level  of 
not  less  than  six  hundred  feet.  Misty 
grey  light  was  flooding  the  country, 
growing  rapidly  and  showing  objects 
dimly  out  to  the  far  horizon  ;  and  now 


for  a  brief  moment  a  coppery  limb  of 
the  sun  peered  through  a  rift  in  the 
bank  of  slate,  only  to  retire  quickly 
again.  Here  and  there  were  signs  of 
rustic  life  ;  a  small  group  of  figures 
watching  us  from  a  rick-yard ;  a 
matron  at  her  cottage  door ;  a 
labourer  trudging  heavily  to  his  early 
toil  and  showing  little  interest  in  our 
approach.  No  wonted  shouting  came 
from  fields  and  lanes ;  there  was  a 
general  apathy  everywhere,  save  in- 
deed among  the  flocks  and  herds.  In 
a  sheep-fold  below  us  there  is  the 
wildest  confusion  and  alarm ;  horses 
gallop  madly  round  their  enclosures  ; 
a  neighbouring  farmstead  is  demoral- 
ised, even  the  poultry  flying  to  hide 
themselves. 

With  the  return  of  day  the  task 
assigned  to  us,  which  had  been  of  an 
experimental  nature,  terminated,  and, 
reserving  our  ballast  to  break  the 
final  fall,  we  allowed  our  balloon  to 
wander  through  the  skies  and  settle 
earthwards  at  its  will.  So  we  sped 
on  with  the  freshening  breeze  of 
sunrise,  over  the  Cobham  commons, 
across  the  Medway,  looking  down 
upon  noble  Leeds  Castle  with  its 
ancient  towers  and  broad  waters, 
passing  on  over  the  King's  Woods 
till  green  pastures  and  ripe  cornfields 
gave  place  to  gardens  of  hops,  a 
ground  which  the  aeronaut  does  well 
to  shun.  Here,  hard  by  a  peaceful 
village  church,  in  a  small  rich  pas- 
ture heavy  with  morning  dew,  we 
regretfully  reached  our  haven. 

JOHN  M.  BACON. 


61 


TOM     D'URFEY. 


LET  us  glance  for  a  moment  at 
the  face  that  looks  amiably  out  on  us 
from  its  mighty  periwig  in  a  por- 
trait by  a  certain  E.  Gouge,  that 
Sir  John  Hawkins  included  in  his 
HISTORY  OF  Music.  It  is  a  face 
handsome  enough  in  its  way,  the 
nose  a  trifle  too  long  perhaps  for 
regularity  of  features  ;  shrewdness 
and  good  temper  are  mingled  in  the 
humorous  mouth  ready  to  break  into 
a  smile,  and  the  eyes  twinkle  merrily. 
It  may  be  that  to  divert  the  tedium 
of  posing  the  sitter  entertained  the 
artist  with  his  wealth  of  song  and 
anecdote,  and  that  the  latter  caught 
mouth  and  eyes  at  the  moment  of 
some  new  quip  or  rhyme  being 
evolved.  Certainly  E.  Gouge  was 
not  unappreciative  of  his  subject's 
qualities  ;  indeed,  like  Mr.  Wegg, 
he  dropped  into  poetry  over  them 
and  inscribed  beneath  the  portrait 
the  lines  that  follow  : 

Whilst  D'Urfey's  voice  his  verse  does 

raise, 

When  D'Urfey  sings  his  tuneful  lays, 
Give  D'Urfey's  Lyric  Muse  the  bays. 

These  bays  have  withered  sadly 
since  then,  and  the  tuneful  lays  are 
as  dead  as  the  voice  that  trolled 
them  ;  poor  Tom's  a-cold  these  many 
years  for  lack  of  interest  to  warm 
his  memory.  He  is  but  a  name  to 
the  generality  of  readers,  vaguely 
associated  with  English  music  by 
some,  as  vaguely  associated  with 
English  quack  medicine  by  others,  a 
kind  of  shadowy  Holloway  of  the 
past.  "  D'Urfey,— D'Urfey,"  said 
somebody  to  me,  "  didn't  he  invent 
some  sort  of  pills  ?  "  "  He  did,"  was 


the  reply,  "  and  an  excellent  specific 
they  were  deemed  in  his  time,  but 
for  our  squeamish  modern  digestions 
they  are  found  a  little  too  strong." 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  PILLS  TO 
PURGE  MELANCHOLY  have  only  once 
been  reprinted  since  1720,  an  example 
of  a  lack  of  enterprise  in  publishers 
that  cannot  be  condoned. 

But  to  return  to  the  compiler  of 
that  joyous  compendium  of  lyrics. 
Grandpapa  D'Urfe,  a  keen  Huguenot, 
not  without  aristocratic  pretensions 
(witness  his  de),  found  means  to 
escape  from  La  Rochelle,  where  the 
siege  was  then  raging,  and  took 
refuge  in  England,  at  that  time  in 
a  sympathetic  mood  with  distressed 
Protestants  and  busy  with  preparing 
Buckingham's  expedition  for  the  relief 
of  the  beleaguered  city.  It  was  to 
Devonshire  that  Monsieur  D'Urf^ 
made  his  way,  settling  in  Exeter 
with  his  wife  and  son,  afterwards 
to  be  Tom's  father.  That  blameless 
pastoral  poet  and  warrior,  Honore* 
D'Urfe,  Comte  de  Chateauneuf, 
Marquis  de  Valeomery,  Baron  de 
Chateau-Morand,  whose  lengthy  ro- 
mance ASTREE  gave  so  much  plea- 
sure to  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu,  was  apparently  a  brother 
of  the  Huguenot  refugee  and  there- 
fore Tom's  grand-uncle,  not  his 
uncle  as  stated  in  THE  DICTIONARY 
OP  NATIONAL  BIOGRAPHY.  Whatever 
the  relationship,  Tom  was  proud  of 
this  distinguished  relative  in  par- 
ticular and  of  his  noble  ancestry 
in  general,  a  pardonable  weakness 
that  brought  him  some  banter  from 
his  contemporaries.  Somehow  our 
English  insularity  never  permits  us 


62 


Tom  D'Urfey. 


to  take  foreign  aristocracies  quite 
seriously.  Tom's  father  married  into 
a  good  English  family,  taking  to 
wife  one  of  the  Marmions  of  Hunt- 
ingdonshire, from  which  race  sprang 
also  Shackerley  Marmion  the  drama- 
tist, one  of  Ben  Jonson's  "  sons " ; 
and  in  1653  Mrs.  D'Urfey  (by 
this  time  apparently  the  name  had 
assumed  its  English  form)  presented 
her  husband  with  the  future  song- 
writer. 

Of  his  boyhood  and  youth  no 
particulars  have  survived.  If  the 
anonymous  author  of  the  squib,  WIT 
FOR  MONEY  OR  POET  STUTTER,  is  to 
be  trusted,  his  classical  attainments 
in  later  life  were  of  the  slightest,  and 
we  might  infer  from  this  that  his 
education  was  neglected.  But,  after 
all,  pamphleteers  need  not  be  believed 
implicitly,  and  we  know  that  some- 
where between  1660  and  1670  Tom 
was  entered  at  one  of  the  Inns  of 
Court,  a  process  requiring  some 
acquaintance  at  least  with  polite 
learning.  Behold  him  then,  a  gawky 
provincial  youth,  launched  from  his 
distant  home  in  the  drowsy  old  epis- 
copal city  of  the  West  on  the  world 
of  London, — the  gay  London  of  the 
Restoration,  making  up  for  time  lost 
under  the  blight  of  the  Common- 
wealth, its  ordeal  by  fire  and  plague 
past,  fervent  in  the  business  of  plea- 
sure, serving  a  King  who  from  years 
of  dull  exile  had  come  into  his  own 
again,  to  be  (perhaps  in  too  literal  a 
sense)  the  father  of  his  people,  and 
to  show  them  by  royal  example  the 
most  witty  and  amusing  fashions  of 
prodigality.  For  a  young  man  of 
Mr.  D'Urfey's  presence  and  accom- 
plishments such  a  new  environment 
must  have  had  considerable  fascina- 
tion and  influence,  so  much  indeed 
that  he  at  first  grievously  neglected 
the  study  of  the  law,  and  finally  for- 
sook it  altogether.  To  blame  him 
would  be  unduly  censorious.  When 


you  are  a  good-looking  young  fellow 
with  a  pretty  taste  in  wine,  women, 
and  dress,  literary  gifts  sufficient  for 
the  production  of  plays  for  the  con- 
temporary stage,  and  the  power  of 
writing  popular  songs  in  unlimited 
quantities  and  singing  them  yourself, 
— when  you  are  all  this,  is  it  to  be 
expected  that  you  should  spend  your 
youth  poring  over  musty  law-books 
and  waiting  for  a  first  brief  that  tarries 
sadly  by  the  way  ?  By  no  means, 
thought  Mr.  D'Urfey,  who  was  quick 
to  realise  his  true  business.  "  Let 
me,"  he  might  have  said,  anticipating 
Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  "  let  me  make 
the  songs  of  my  country,  and  I  care 
not  who  makes  the  laws."  What  he 
did  say  was :  "  My  good  or  ill  stars 
ordain'd  me  to  be  a  knight-errant  in 
the  fairy  field  of  poesy." 

What  fruits  the  fairy  field  bore  the 
knight-errant  it  is  difficult  to  say.  If 
he  did  not  make  money  rapidly,  it 
was  not  for  lack  of  industry.  In 
POET  STUTTER  the  alarming  statement 
is  put  into  his  mouth  that  he  has 
written  seven  thousand  nine  hundred 
and  fifty-three  songs,  two  thousand 
two  hundred  and  fifty  ballads,  and 
nineteen  hundred  and  fifty-six  catches, 
besides  madrigals,  odes,  and  other 
lyrical  pieces  ad  infinitum.  There  is, 
of  course,  no  necessity  to  accept  this, 
save  in  so  far  as  it  serves  to  indicate 
Tom's  amazing  fertility.  In  another 
place  he  confesses  to  having  composed 
more  odes  than  Horace  and  about  four 
times  as  many  comedies  as  Terence. 
Probably  the  odes  and  political  songs 
were  the  most  profitable  of  his  pro- 
ductions. The  period  was  in  some 
respects  a  propitious  one  for  the 
impecunious  minor  poet.  It  was  the 
aristocratic  fashion  to  dabble  in  letters 
and  the  patronage  of  letters,  and 
professional  writers  turned  the  dabb- 
ling to  account.  If  it  meant  nothing 
more,  it  meant  dinners.  My  Lord 
Leicester  received  Parnassus  every 


Tom  UTJrfey, 


63 


Saturday  evening  when  in  town. 
Leicester  House  was  a  good  place 
to  go  to,  but  Lord  Dorset's  establish- 
ment was  still  better,  for  he  had  a 
pleasant  way,  when  in  generous  mood, 
of  putting  new  minted  guineas  be- 
neath the  plates  of  his  literary  guests. 
Tom  tasted  of  these  graceful  hospi- 
talities with  the  rest,  and  with  the 
rest  repaid  them  in  dedications  and 
ceremonial  Pindarics  ;  thus  in  one  of 
his  songs  he  celebrates  the  excellent 
strong  ale  on  tap  at  Dorset's  country 
seat  of  Knole.  But  the  patron  of 
all  patrons  for  him  was  the  Duke  of 
Wharton ;  at  Winchendon  he  could 
always  depend  on  a  welcome.  It  was 
in  his  honour,  so  tradition  says,  that 
His  Grace  built  in  his  grounds  that 
temple  of  conviviality,  appropriately 
named  Brimmer  Hall : 

Fam'd    Brimmer    Hall,    for    Beauty, 

Music,  Wit 
New  form'd,  and  only  for  thy  Godhead 

fit. 

The  godhead,  I  must  explain,  is 
Wharton's.  The  couplet  comes  from 
one  of  Tom's  dedications,  and  the 
compliment  gives  some  idea  of  the 
kind  of  thing  patrons  had  to  stomach 
in  those  days,  though,  judging  by  the 
guineas  and  dinners  and  convivial 
temples,  they  rather  liked  it  than 
otherwise. 

But  Tom  D'Urfey  had  other  patrons 
to  applaud  him,  and,  what  was  more 
important  to  a  poor  poet,  to  signify  the 
same  in  the  manner  usual  in  patrons. 
It  says  much  for  his  personal  charm 
that  he  was  able  to  keep  on  good 
terms  with  no  less  than  four  mon- 
archs,  Charles  the  Second,  James  the 
Second,  William  of  Orange,  and 
Queen  Anne,  without  once  swerving 
from  the  Protestant  faith.  Perhaps 
none  of  them  took  Tom  sufficiently 
seriously  to  trouble  about  his  religion. 
With  the  first  he  was  evidently  on 
a  friendly  footing.  Pardonably  proud 


of  the  incident,  he  remarks  in  a  note 
to  one  of  his  political  ditties  :  "  I  had 
the  honour  to  sing  it  with  King 
Charles  at  Whitehall  :  he  holding 
one  part  of  the  paper  with  me."  For 
James  he  perpetrated  one  of  his 
terrible  Pindaric  panegyrics  in  1685  ; 
for  William  he  composed  on  the  death 
of  Queen  Mary  a  funeral  ode,  also 
in  the  inevitable  Pindarics,  entitled 
GLORIANA,  which  must  have  had,  I 
imagine,  the  effect  of  deepening  the 
royal  widower's  gloom ;  while  on  one 
occasion  ,  he  so  enraptured  Queen 
Anne  by  singing  some  rather  ribald 
verses  about  the  Electress  Sophia, 
next  heir  to  the  throne,  that  in  the 
moment's  enthusiasm  the  good  Queen 
handed  him  fifty  guineas. 

If  Tom  was  thus  the  delight  of 
kings  and  the  great  ones  of  the  land, 
his  muse  was  no  less  beloved  by  a 
wider  public.  As  he  phrased  the 
matter  himself,  in  that  engaging 
stammer  of  his  which  links  him  with 
another  of  the  good  fellows  of  English 
literature,  a  later  and  greater  orna- 
ment of  its  history :  "  The  town  may 
da-da-damn  me  for  a  poet,  but  they 
si-si-sing  my  songs  for  all  that." 
They  did  sing  his  songs.  It  would 
have  been  strange  had  such  tuneful 
numbers,  with  sentiments  so  admir- 
ably adapted  to  the  taste  of  the  time, 
not  won  instant  popularity.  Tom 
himself  sang  them,  and  by  all  accounts 
sang  them  well ;  his  impediment  of 
speech  disappeared  when  he  wedded 
his  words  to  music.  In  this  connec- 
tion Oldys,  the  antiquarian,  tells  a 
story  of  him  that  reminds  one  of  the 
episode  of  the  sailor  and  the  admiral's 
pig  in  Michael  Scott's  romance,  THE 
CRUISE  OP  THE  MIDGE.  He  was  in 
Clare  Market  one  day  haggling  for 
a  shoulder  of  mutton.  Tom  was  per- 
tinacious, the  butcher  obdurate.  Fin- 
ally, to  get  rid  of  so  unprofitable  a 
customer,  the  latter  said  he  could 
have  the  joint  for  nothing  if  he  would 


64 


Tom  D'Urfey. 


only  ask  for  it  without  stammering. 
Whereupon  our  poet,  with  his  ready 
command  of  words  and  melody,  burst 
into  extempore  song  which  came  with- 
out slip  or  pause,  and  the  mutton  was 
duly  handed  over. 

Tom,  as  a  genial  fellow  always 
ready  to  oblige  a  company  with  a 
song  of  his  own  making,  was  by  way 
of  being  an  idol  of  gay  society.  So 
we  may  infer  from  Addison's  words  : 
"  Many  an  honest  gentleman  has  got 
a  reputation  in  his  country  by  pre- 
tending to  have  been  in  company 
with  Tom  D'Urfey."  It  is,  observe, 
as  Tom  D'Urfey,  not  as  Thomas 
D'Urfey,  that  this  delight  of  royalty, 
nobility,  and  honest  country  gentle- 
men has  come  down  to  us.  That  lot 
he  shares  with  certain  others,  whom 
the  historic  tradition,  dropping  for- 
mality, presents  to  us  with  the  easy 
familiarity  of  the  diminutive  Chris- 
tian name.  It  is  not  every  one  that 
bears  such  unceremonious  handling ; 
who  has  ever  heard  of  Frank  Bacon, 
or  Jack  Milton,  or  Bill  Wordsworth  ? 
Even  the  intimates  of  these  eminent 
persons,  I  feel,  would  have  hesitated 
so  to  take  their  names  in  vain.  But 
it  is  not  a  mere  question  of  eminence  : 

Mellifluous  Shakespeare,  whose  en- 
chanting quill 

Commanded  mirth  or  passion,  was  but 
Will. 

And  famous  Jonson,  though  his  learned 
pen 

Be  dipt  in  Castaly,  is  still  but  Ben. 

Rather  is  this  question  of  familiar 
nomenclature  to  be  explained  by  the 
personal  popularity  of  the  subject 
with  his  friends  and  contemporaries  ; 
he  was  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  to  them, 
and  as  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  he  has 
reached  us. 

Tom,  then,  we  may  assume,  was 
a  welcome  guest  at  any  table,  and 
his  songs  found  their  way  to  many 
a  jovial  board  at  which  he  never  sat. 


Thus  writes  Alexander  Pope  from 
a  country  house  to  his  friend  Crom- 
well, under  date  April  10th,  1710. 

I  have  not  quoted  one  Latin  author 
since  I  came  down,  but  have  learned 
without  book  a  song  of  Mr.  Thomas 
D'Urfey's,  who  is  your  only  poet  of 
tolerable  reputation  in  this  country.  He 
makes  all  the  merriment  in  our  enter- 
tainments, and  but  for  him  there  would 
be  so  miserable  a  dearth  of  catches  that 
I  fear  they  would  sans  ceremonie  put 
either  the  parson  or  me  upon  making 
some  for  them.  Any  man,  of  any  quality, 
is  heartily  welcome  to  the  best  toping- 
table  of  our  gentry,  who  can  roundly 
hum  out  some  fragments  or  rhapsodies 
of  his  works  ;  so  that,  in  the  same  manner 
as  it  was  said  of  Homer  to  his  detractors 
— What !  dares  any  one  despise  him  who 
has  given  so  many  men  to  eat  ?  —  [mean- 
ing the  rhapsodists  who  lived  by  repeat- 
ing his  verses]  so  may  it  be  said  of  Mr. 
D'Urfey  to  his  detractors — Dares  any  one 
despise  him  who  has  made  so  many  men 
drink  ?  Alas,  sir  1  this  is  a  glory  which 
neither  you  nor  I  must  ever  pretend  to. 
Neither  you,  with  your  Ovid,  nor  I,  with 
my  Statius,  can  amuse  a  whole  Board 
of  justices  and  extraordinary  squires,  or 
gain  one  hum  of  approbation,  or  laugh  of 
admiration.  These  things,  they  would 
say,  are  too  studious ;  they  may  do  well 
enough  with  such  as  love  reading,  but 
give  us  your  ancient  poet  Mr.  D'Urfey. 

In  their  ancient  poet  these  rural 
worthies  certainly  had  one  who  could 
tune  his  supple  song  to  every  emotion 
of  which  they  were  capable.  Few  of 
his  lyrics  are  indeed  of  any  literary 
merit ;  but  they  have  a  verve  and  an 
inextinguishable  gaiety  that  make 
them  excellent  as  songs,  if  not  as 
poetry.  Tom,  honest  soul,  was  no 
poet ;  a  verse  or  two  here  and  there 
amid  his  multifarious  outpourings  are 
but  exceptions  that  prove  the  rule. 
But  let  us  not  too  greatly  disparage 
him.  If  he  is  not  with  the  singers 
of  genius,  he  takes  rank  with  that 
secondary  group  of  which  Be"ranger 
is  the  leading  figure.  The  astonishing 
fertility  of  the  man  is  in  itself  im- 
pressive. Hum  an  air  to  him,  then 


Tom  D'Urfey. 


65 


give  him  a  scrap  of  papsr  and  a  bottle 
of  wine,  and  you  shall  have  your.- song 
while  you  wait.  It  was  to  his  advan- 
tage that,  in  addition  to  his  knack  of 
versification,  he  had  an  excellent  ear 
for  music  and  some  acquaintance 
with  it.  In  the  dedication  to  the 
PILLS  TO  PURGE  MELANCHOLY  he 
speaks  with  complacency  of  his  double 
genius  for  poetry  and  music.  In  the 
case  of  many,  if  not  most,  of  his 
songs  the  melody  was  there  before  the 
words.  Such  musical  inspirations 
came  from  all  sources ;  sometimes  it 
was  an  old  traditional  tune,  some- 
times an  Italian  aria  wedded  to  bar- 
barous Italian  words  which  no  honest 
country  gentleman  could  be  expected 
to  understand.  In  a  sense,  indeed, 
he  got  the  better  of  the  Italians : 
"  He  has,"  remarks  Addison  with  dry 
humour,  "  made  use  of  Italian  tunes 
and  sonatas  for  promoting  the  Pro- 
testant interest  and  turned  a  con- 
siderable part  of  the  Pope's  music 
against  himself."  While  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  music  of  D'Urfey's  songs, 
it  should  be  said,  in  passing,  that  not 
a  few  of  them  had  the  honour  of  being 
set  by  no  less  a  composer  than  Henry 
Purcell. 

The  famous  WIT  AND  MIRTH,  OR 
PILLS  TO  PURGE  MELANCHOLY,  is  a 
vast  collection  that  includes  not  only 
many  of  the  compiler's  own  composi- 
tions, but  also  traditional  songs  and 
songs  by  other  authors.  One  or  two 
examples  of  the  former  may  be  quoted 
to  exhibit  Tom's  range  and  skill. 
Here  is  one,  "The  Saint  in  Saint 
James's  Chapel,"  which  will  serve  as 
specimen  of  his  vers  de  soc%6t6  manner. 

One  Sunday  at  St.  James's  prayers, 

The  Prince  and  Princess  by, 
I,  dress'd  with  all  my  whalebone  airs, 

Sate  in  the  closet  nigh. 
I  bent  my  knees,  I  held  my  book, 

I  read  the  answers  o'er, 
But  was  perverted  by  a  look 

That  pierc'd  me  from  the  door. 

No.  505. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


High  thoughts  of  heaven  I  came  to  use 

And  blest  devotion  there, 
Which  gay  young  Strephon  made  me 
lose 

And  other  raptures  share. 
He  watch'd  to  lead  me  to  my  chair 

And  bow'd  with  courtly  grace, 
But  whisper'd  love  into  my  ear 

Too  warm  for  that  grave  place. 

"  Love,  love,"  cried  he,  "  by  all  ador'd 

My  fervent  heart  has  won !  " 
But  I,  grown  peevish  at  that  word, 

Desir'd  he  would  be  gone : 
He  went,  whilst  I  that  looked  his  way  - 

A  kinder  answer  meant, 
And  did  for  all  my  sins  that  day 

Not  half  so  much  repent. 

The  next,  by  way  of  contrast,  repre- 
sents the  rural  ditties  which  form  so 
large  a  proportion  of  the  collection, 
though  its  excellent  moral  is  perhaps 
unusual. 

Dear  Jemmy  when  he  sees  me  upon  a 

holiday, 
When  bonny  lads  are  easy  and  all 

a-dancing  be, 
When  tiptoes  are  in  fashion  and  loons 

will  jump  and  play, 
Then  he  too  takes  occasion  to  leer 

and  ogle  me, 

He'll   kiss    my   hand    with    squeezing 
whene'er  he  takes  my  part, 
But  with  each  kiss 
He  crowns  my  bliss, 
I  feel  him  at  my  heart. 

But  Jockey  with  his  cattle  and  pam- 

per'd  bags  of  coin 
Oft   gave    poor  Jemmy  battle,  whom, 

faith,  I  wish,  were  mine  ; 
He  tells  me  he  is  richer   and  I  shall 

ride  his  mare, 
That  Jemmy's  but  a  ditcher  and  can 

no  money  spare ; 

But,  welladay,  my  fancy  thinks  more 
of  Jemmy's  suit, 

I  take  no  pride 
To  kirk  to  ride, 
I'll  gang  with  him  a-foot. 

It  is  fitting  to  conclude  these  citations 
with  a  couple  of  verses  that  in  their 
amiable  optimism  embody,  we  may 
imagine,  Tom  D'Urfey's  philosophy  of 
life. 


66 


Tom  D'Urfey. 


The   famous   old   prophet,  who  thirty 

years  toil'd 
To    write    us    the    Psalms    that    Dan 

Hopkins  hath  spoil'd, 
In  giving  account  of  the  ages  of  men 
Has    strangely   confined   us   to   three 

score  and  ten, 
And  tells  us,  to  scare  us,  his  last  hour 

is  near 
Who  enters  the  sad  climacterical  year. 

Then  well  is  the  man  who,  inspired  by 

good  wine, 
Cares  neither   for   seventy  nor   seven 

times  nine, 
Whose  jolly  brisk  humour  adds  sands 

to  his  glass, 
Who,  standing  upright,  can  look  fate 

in  the  face, 
Who  makes   much  of  life,  and  when 

nature  is  due 
Declines  like  a  flower  as  sweet  as  it 

grew! 

To  sum  up :  what  can  be  said  of 
the  PILLS  TO  PURGE  MELANCHOLY? 
They  are  little  like  to  cure  the  melan- 
choly of  the  moralist,  if  they  do  not 
rather  aggravate  his  distemper.  The 
gossip  Chamfort  tells  us  how  M. 
de  Conflans  was  once  entertaining 
some  young  courtiers  at  supper.  The 
first  song  of  the  evening  was  broad 
but  not  too  improper.  Thereupon, 
however,  a  certain  M.  de  Fronsac 
got  on  his  legs  and  sang  a  ditty  that 
amazed  the  company,  gay  as  it  was. 
There  was  an  awkward  silence  at  the 
end,  broken  by  the  host  who  ex- 
claimed :  "  Fronsac,  you  surprise  me  ! 
There  are  ten  bottles  of  champagne 
between  that  song  and  the  first."  It 
must  be  confessed  that  not  a  few  of 
the  lyrics  with  which  Mr.  D'Urfey 
charmed  his  king  and  countrymen 
were  of  what  we  may  call  the  ten- 
bottle  variety.  Perhaps  it  was  one 
of  them,  lingering  on  after  a  hundred 
years  of  life,  that  raised  the  ire  of 
Colonel  Newcome  on  the  occasion  of 
his  visit  to  the  Cave  of  Harmony. 
They  were  for  an  age  those  songs, 
an  age  when  the  grosser  pleasures  of 
life  as  well  as  the  finer  had  literary 
celebration ;  they  were  not  for  all 


time.  We  banish  them  to  the  top 
shelf  to  keep  congenial  company  with 
the  too  candid  chronicler  of  the 
DAMES  GALANTES  and"  the  garrulous 
mentor  who  taught  LE  MOYEN  DE 
PARVENIR. 

Even  when  we  turn  to  D'TJrfey's 
dramatic  works,  we  are  still  haunted 
by  his  lyrical  facility,  for  the  best 
things,  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say 
the  only  good  things,  in  the  score  of 
plays  he  fathered  are  the  incidental 
songs.  One  would  like  to  say  some- 
thing pleasant  of  Tom's  playhouse 
efforts,  but  common  honesty  forbids 
it.  His  gibes,  his  gambols,  his  flashes 
of  merriment  are  dull  as  ditch-water 
now,  even  to  a  reader  conscientious 
in  his  quest  of  some  spark  of  the 
wit  that  makes  the  work  of  some  of 
Tom's  contemporaries,  —  Congreve, 
Wycherley,  Vanburgh,  Farquhar, 
even  poor  forgotten  Mrs.  Behn — so 
entertaining  to  a  modern  reader. 
Construction,  study  of  character, 
dialogue,  in  none  of  these  is  Tom 
successful.  As  acting  plays  even, 
his  productions  seem  to  have  achieved 
very  moderate  popularity,  though  his 
staunch  patron  Charles  is  said  to 
have  attended  three  of  the  first  five 
nights  of  THE  PLOTTING  SISTERS,  a 
record  to  turn  our  contemporary 
dramatists  green  with  envy.  But  if 
the  King  admired  Tom's  stage-work, 
the  same  cannot  be  said  of  one 
of  his  most  distinguished  subjects. 
Coming  from  a  first  night,  somebody 
remarked  to  Dryden  :  "  Was  there 
ever  such  stuff!  I  did  not  think 
that  even  this  author  could  have 
written  so  ill."  "  Oh  sir,"  responded 
Dryden,  "  you  don't  know  my  friend 
Tom ;  I'll  answer  for  him,  he  shall 
write  worse  yet."  Dryden's  friend 
Tom  was  not  even  given  the  credit 
of  originality.  Gerard  Langbaine, 
our  chief  contemporary  authority  on 
the  Restoration  drama,  thus  causti- 
cally dismisses  him : 


Tom  D'Urfey. 


67 


A  person  now  living,  who  was  first 
bred  to  the  law,  but  left  that  rugged  way 
for  the  flowery  fields  of  Poetry.  He  is 
accounted  by  some  for  an  admirable  poet, 
but  it  is  by  those  who  are  not  acquainted 
much  with  authors  and  therefore  are 
deceived  by  appearances,  taking  that  for 
his  own  wit,  which  he  only  borrows  from 
others  :  for  Mr.  D'Urfey,  like  the  cuckoo, 
makes  it  his  business  to  suck  other  birds' 


The  cuckoo-like  propensities  are 
then  demonstrated  by  Langbaine,  who 
amply  justifies  Dr.  Johnson's  descrip- 
tion of  him  as  "  the  great  detector 
of  plagiarism,"  with  a  cruel  minute- 
ness which  must  have  been  painful 
to  his  victim. 

Tom  had  a  good  deal  of  other 
criticism  and  satire  to  put  up  with. 
There  is  the  inevitable  reference  in 
THE  DUNCIAD  :  he  is  mockingly 
described  as  "a  poet  of  vast  compre- 
hension, a  universal  genius  and  most 
profound  learning "  in  the  Epistle 
Dedicatory  to  THE  TALE  OP  A  TUB; 
and  his  good  friend  Richard  Steele 
made  fun  of  his  aristocratic  pre- 
tensions in  the  pages  of  THE 
LOVER.  But  Steele's  fun  was  always 
good-natured.  Tom  Brown,  who,  for 
all  his  cleverness  as  rhymester, 
essayist,  and  translator,  now  shares 
D'Urfey's  oblivion,  speaks  of  him  in 
no  amiable  fashion.  "  Thou  cur, 
half-French,  half-English  breed,"  is 
his  urbane  manner  of  address  in  one 
place ;  elsewhere  he  satirically  cele- 
brates a  bloodless  duel  fought  by  our 
poet  at  Epsom  with  a  musician  called 
Bell: 

I  sing  of  a  duel  in  Epsom  befell 
'Twixt  Fa-sol-la  D'Urfey  and  Sol-la-mi 
Bell. 

The  anonymous  dialogue,  WIT  FOR 
MONEY,  OR  POET  STUTTER,  is  the  most 
elaborate  satire  he  had  to  endure, 
and  it  is  amusing  in  its  way  though 
ill-humoured.  There  are  three  inter- 
locutors, Johnson,  Smith  and  Stutter 
(D'Urfey).  A  move  is  proposed  to 


the  Cross  Keys  tavern,  but  Stutter 
objects.  "  There's  such  a  noise  there 
always,"  says  he ;  "  the  pit  on  my 
first  day,  or  Billingsgate  itself,  might 
pass  for  quiet  places  to  it."  "  Nay," 
retorts  Smith,  "one  of  your  similes 
will  serve,  for  I  think  the  Playhouse 
was  a  Billingsgate  then."  Johnson, 
for  his  part,  promises  Stutter  a  bad 
time  when  he  reaches  the  Elysian 
Fields  and  encounters  the  great  men 
from  whom  he  has  plagiarised  :  "  If 
in  this  world  he  were  well  served 
like  -<?Esop's  Jay  and  every  bird 
should  claim  their  feathers,  how 
naked  he  would  be." 

It  was  on  other  grounds  than 
plagiarism  that  Tom  received  his 
trouncing  at  the  hands  of  the 
Reverend  Jeremy  Collier.  As  every- 
body knows,  that  redoubtable  eccle- 
siastic startled  the  dramatic  world 
by  bursting  into  its  midst,  brandish- 
ing a  bludgeon  of  morality  with 
which  he  belaboured  half  a  dozen 
great  reputations.  On  Tom  he  be- 
stowed some  of  his  most  resounding 
thwacks,  devoting  indeed  a  whole 
chapter  of  his  SHORT  VIEW  OP  THE 
ENGLISH  STAGE  to  an  examination 
of  the  former's  play  of  DON  QUIXOTE. 
The  indictment  is  drawn  up  under 
three  heads :  the  author's  profanity, 
his  abuse  of  the  clergy,  and  his 
immodesty;  and  through  about  ten 
pages  of  close  print  the  divine  dogs 
the  dramatist  with  eager  nose.  Cold 
controversy  is  an  uninviting  topic, 
but  I  must  quote  one  instance  of 
Dr.  Collier's  critical  method,  since 
it  introduces  the  verses  in  which 
Tom  D'Urfey  reached  his  highest 
level.  "  Drolling  on  the  Resurrec- 
tion "  was  the  critic's  severe  comment 
on  the  lines : 

Sleep  and  indulge  thyself  with  rest, 
Nor  dream  thou  e'er  shalt  rise  again. 

Tom's  natural  affability  was  turned 
to  indignation  by  Collier's  animadver- 

p  2 


68 


Tom  D'Urfetj 


sions,  and,  like  Congreve  and  others, 
he  adventured  in  print  to  confute  the 
apostle  of  religion  and  purity.  In 
the  case  in  point  he  had  little  diffi- 
culty. The  "  horrible,  severe,  and 
rigid  critic,"  he  points  out,  has  prac- 
tised the  old  stratagem  of  removing 
lines  from  their  context.  The  com- 
plete song  in  DON  QUIXOTE  from 
which  they  are  quoted  is  as  follows  : 

Sleep,  sleep,  poor  youth,  sleep,  sleep 
in  peace, 

Reliev'd  from  love  and  mortal  care, 
Whilst  we,  that  pine  in  life's  disease, 

Uncertain  blest,  less  happy  are. 

Couch'd  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
No  ills  of  Fate  thou  now  canst  fear ; 

No  more  shall  tyrant  power  enslave, 
Or  scornful  beauty  be  severe. 

Wars,  that  do  fatal  storms  disperse, 
Far  from  thy  happy  mansion  keep  ; 

Earthquakes  that  shake  the  universe 
Can't  rock  thee  into  sounder  sleep. 

With  all  the  charms  of  peace  possest, 
Secur'd  from  life's  tormentor,  pain, 

Sleep  and  indulge  thyself  with  rest, 
Nor  dream  thou  e'er  shalt  rise  again. 

Past  are  the  pangs  of  fear  and  doubt, 
The  sun  is  from  the  dial  gone, 

The  sands  are  sunk,  the  glass  is  out, 
The  folly  of  the  farce  is  done. 

It  seems  to  me,  I  confess,  that  this 
elegy  on  a  youth  dead  for  love  of  his 
mistress  has  a  certain  noble  gravity 
and  pathos,  admittedly  not  character- 
istic of  D'Urfey,  which  might  have 
saved  it  from  Dr.  Collier's  onslaught 
and  that  its  author's  complaint  is  not 
unjustified.  "  Now  will  I  be  judg'd," 
he  says,  "  by  any  reasonable  man,  if 
these  words  comparatively  are  not 
fitter  for  an  anthem  than  a  droll, 
but  the  Reformer's  way  of  doing  me 
justice  is  to  take  bits  and  morsels  out 
of  things,  that  for  want  of  the  con- 
nexion they  may  consequently  appear 
ridiculous." 

From  the  diatribes  of  a  Collier  it 


is  pleasant  to  turn  to  the  gracious 
amenities  of  Addison,  who  came  to 
Tom's  assistance  when  the  latter  had 
more  years  than  guineas.  For  he 
had  fallen  on  evil  days  in  the  year 
of  grace  1713.  If  money  had  come 
to  him  easily,  it  had  with  equal  or 
greater  ease  flown  away,  He  was,  I 
fear,  of  an  extravagant  habit  of  life ; 
the  society  he  kept  was  expensive ; 
he  had  a  taste  for  fine  clothes  and 
the  elegancies  of  existence, — he  was, 
we  are  told,  the  last  English  poet  to 
appear  in  the  streets  followed  by  a 
page — and  he  may  have  done  a  little 
gaming.  Certainly  he  was  fond  of 
the  turf  and  a  familiar  figure  at  New- 
market. Moreover  he  was  a  bachelor, 
which  in  his  case  probably  meant 
that,  instead  of  spending  his  money 
on  one  woman,  he  spent  it  on  a  score. 
Whatever  the  causes,  Tom  was  in  the 
result  sore  put  to  it  for  a  living  and 
much  troubled  by  the  importunities 
of  duns.  Some  persons,  however,  laid 
their  heads  together  and  induced  the 
management  of  Drury  Lane  to  give 
a  performance  of  his  play  THE  PLOT- 
TING SISTERS  for  his  benefit.  What 
was  more,  Addison,  a  fortnight  pre- 
viously had  devoted  a  number  of  THE 
GUARDIAN  to  a  charming  plea  for 
public  support,  which  concludes  with 
hearty  eulogy. 

After  what  I  have  said,  and  much  more 
that  I  might  say,  on  this  subject,  I  ques- 
tion not  but  the  world  will  think  that  my 
old  friend  ought  not  to  pass  the  remainder 
of  his  life  in  a  cage  like  a  singing  bird, 
but  enjoy  all  that  Pindaric  liberty  which 
is  suitable  to  a  man  of  his  genius.  He 
has  made  the  world  merry,  and  I  hope 
they  will  make  him  easy  so  long  as  he 
stays  among  us.  This  I  will  take  upon 
me  to  say,  they  cannot  do  a  kindness  to 
a  more  diverting  companion,  or  a  more 
cheerful,  honest  and  good-natured  man. 

Apparently  Tom  did  enjoy  a  mea- 
sure of  Pindaric  liberty  during  the 
rest  of  his  life,  for  when  he  died  in 


Tom  D'Urfey. 


69 


1723  he  possessed  a  gold  watch  and 
a  diamond  ring,  which  he  bequeathed 
to  Steele  to  defray  his  funeral  ex- 
penses. He  was  buried  at  St.  James's 
Church,  Piccadilly,  where  the  tablet 
to  his  memory  with  the  simple  in- 
scription, Tom  D'Urfey,  Dyed  Febry 
ye  26th,  1723,  may  still  be  read. 
Nor  did  he  lack  fit  epitaph.  Some 
anonymous  friend,  probably  a  fellow- 
toper  at  the  Queen's  Arms  in  New- 
gate Street,  Tom's  favourite  tavern, 
gave  voice  to  his  sorrow  in  the 
following  lines,  which  were  pub- 
lished in  a  volume  of  miscellaneous 
verses  by  various  hands  in  1726. 

Here    lies  the  Lyric,  who,  with  tale 

and  song, 
Did  life  to  three  score  years  and  ten 

prolong ; 
His  tale  was  pleasant  and  his  song  was 

sweet, 
His  heart  was  cheerful — but  his  thirst 

was  great. 
Grieve,  reader,  grieve,  that  he  too  soon 

grew  old : 
His  song  has  ended  and  his  tale  is  told. 

With  this  tribute  to  Tom  D'Urfey's 
sweetness  of  song,  cheerfulness  of 
heart,  and  greatness  of  thirst,  we  may 


leave  him.  He  had  a  place  to  fill 
in  the  world,  and  he  filled  it  to  the 
satisfaction  of  his  fellows.  The  worst 
wasted  of  all  days,  it  has  been  said, 
is  that  during  which  we  have  not 
laughed.  In  history  the  maker  of 
laughter  deserves  honour,  as  well  as 
the  metaphysician  who  gives  us  a 
headache  and  the  epic  poet  who  sends 
us  to  sleep.  Tom  amused  his  genera- 
tion, and  we  cannot  doubt  that  his 
generation  was  the  better  for  it. 
He  enjoyed  the  patronage  of  the  one 
monarch  in  English  history  who  could 
claim  to  be  a  connoisseur  in  pleasure 
and  an  amateur  of  wit ;  he  had  the 
kindly  hand  of  the  gentle  and  subtle 
humourist  of  THE  SPECTATOR  and  THE 
GUARDIAN  to  help  him  over  stiles  in 
his  declining  years  ;  he  lived,  one  can 
conjecture,  a  happy  if  vagabond  exist- 
ence, with  few  to  say  a  hard  word 
of  him ;  his  songs  delighted  his 
contemporaries.  He  was  of  no  par- 
ticular importance  as  a  literary  figure, 
he  left  no  enduring  work,  and  yet 
honest  Tom  did  well.  "The  town 
may  da-da-damn  me  for  a  poet,  but 
they  si-si-sing  my  songs  for  all  that !  " 
WILLIAM  G.  HUTCHISON. 


70 


THE     MYSTERY     OF     COLLABORATION. 


(A  PRACTICAL  EXPERIMENT.) 


THE  Minerva  Literary  Society  was 
languishing ;  indeed  for  some  time 
past  more  than  one  of  the  members 
had  been  expressing  their  intention 
of  resigning.  There  was  perhaps  not 
much  danger  of  their  really  doing  so, 
but  the  secretary,  in  the  innocence 
of  her  heart,  had  asked  the  vicar  to 
read  a  paper  on  Christian  antiquities, 
on  which  he  conceived  himself  to  be 
an  authority.  Of  course  the  worthy 
old  gentleman  welcomed  his  oppor- 
tunity with  joy,  and  for  two  hours 
and  a  half  the  unhappy  society  sat 
and  listened  to  a  learned,  though  con- 
tumacious, discourse  on  early  methods 
of  christening,  marrying,  and  burying. 
But  after  it  was  over  they  fell  upon 
the  secretary  with  one  accord,  and 
promised  that  at  the  next  nieeting 
she  should  be  severely  censured,  and 
another  appointed  in  her  stead. 

It  should  perhaps  be  explained 
what  the  Minerva  Literary  Society 
was.  It  consisted  of  seven  young 
ladies  who  had  banded  themselves 
together  for  the  purpose  of  improving 
their  minds  on  Thursday  afternoons, 
and  had  been  founded  by  the  present 
secretary,  Miss  Delabere.  This  young 
lady  had  a  cousin  at  Girton  who  had 
inspired  her  with  an  ardent  desire  for 
the  higher,  indeed  for  the  highest, 
culture.  Accordingly,  when  dispens- 
ing tea  one  day  to  three  of  her 
dearest  friends,  she  suggested  that 
they  should  form  some  society  which 
might  be  of  mental  benefit  to  them. 
They  were  enraptured  with  the  idea, 
and  agreed  that  a  literary  society  of 
some  kind  was  what  they  had  most 


desired.  The  first  and,  as  they 
naturally  considered  it,  the  most  im- 
portant question  to  be  considered  was 
the  number  of  members.  On  a  large 
sheet  of  paper  they  forthwith  wrote 
down  the  names  of  all  their  acquaint- 
ances ;  and  then  they  proceeded  to 
eliminate  them  one  by  one  according 
to  their  various  disqualifications. 
Agnes,  for  instance,  would  always 
be  wanting  to  introduce  male  visitors, 
and  Isabel  would  be  opposed  to  ad- 
mitting any  at  all.  Ethel  had  too 
good  an  opinion  of  herself,  and  May 
had  too  bad  an  opinion  of  other 
people.  Finally  they  discovered  that 
only  three  names  on  the  list  had 
nothing  against  them,  and  accord- 
ingly these  three  were  duly  elected. 
Seven  was  a  highly  fortunate  number 
Miss  Delabere  explained  ;  it  recalled 
the  Seven  Sleepers  and  the  Muses 
and  lots  of  other  literary  things. 

At  this  point  Miss  Gray  interposed : 
she  could  not  be  quite  sure,  she 
said,  how  many  Muses  there  were, 
but  she  knew  it  was  not  seven ; 
it  was  more  probably  eight.  This 
provoked  a  discussion.  Miss  Dela- 
bere was  certain  it  was  seven. 
She  remembered  them  when  she 
was  at  school,  and  proceeded  to 
explain  that  they  presided  over  the 
various  branches  of  education  which 
she  had  there  studied.  There  were 
the  Muses  of  mathematics,  music, 
drawing,  dancing,  French,  and  Ger- 
man :  that  was  six ;  what  was  the 
other  ?  Oh  yes,  the  Muse  of  callis- 
thenics. Besides,  had  not  Horatia 
told  her  so  when  she  came  back  from 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


71 


Girton?  The  others,  though  not 
convinced,  allowed  that  Horatia's 
opinion  carried  a  good  deal  of  weight. 
Miss  Paley  ventured  to  suggest  that, 
with  all  due  deference  to  the  learned 
cousin,  she  had  heard,  or  read  some- 
where, that  there  were  nine  Muses. 
Miss  Delabere  did  not  dispute  the 
fact  that  there  might  have  been  nine 
Muses  once,  but  she  was  of  opinion 
that  the  other  two  were  dead.  Her 
grandmother  used  to  work  samplers 
at  school,  she  said,  so  there  might 
have  been  a  Muse  of  samplers,  and 
perhaps  another  of  deportment ;  but 
lawn-tennis  and  bicycles  had  killed 
them  both.  So  it  was  decided  that 
for  present  purposes  seven  Muses 
would  do  very  well. 

Then  arose  the  next  important 
question  of  a  name  for  the  Society. 
Miss  Gray  thought  that  it  ought  to 
be  something  classical,  as  they  were 
following  in  the  track  of  the  Muses. 
How  would  the  Venus  Literary 
Society  do1?  Miss  Carter  objected 
to  Venus ;  it  did  not  sound  literary 
enough,  she  thought ;  it  was  more 
like  a  dancing-class.  Having  herself 
been  educated  at  the  Minerva  Col- 
lege, she  offered  Minerva  as  a  name 
suitable  for  consideration.  Minerva 
was  much  approved,  and  forthwith 
adopted.  They  next  proceeded  to 
the  election  of  officers  and  a  com- 
mittee. Miss  Delabere's  offer  to  act 
as  secretary  was  gratefully  accepted, 
Miss  Gray  was  chosen  president, 
while  Miss  Paley  and  Miss  Carter 
occupied  the  less  important  (and  less 
laborious)  position  of  committee- 
women.  The  other  three  were  to 
be  ordinary  members. 

Invested  with  their  new  honours 
the  friends  felt  better  able  to  discuss 
the  objects  of  the  Society,  and  the 
lines  on  which  it  was  to  be  managed. 
Miss  Carter  supposed  that  they  ought 
to  read  some  Shakespeare,  and  the 
others  accepted  the  prospect  as  a 


duty.     Miss  Delabere's  suggestion  of 
a    monthly    debate    to    relieve     the 
tedium     of     perpetual    reading    was 
welcomed  much  more  enthusiastically. 
Miss  Paley  also  suggested  that  they 
should  have  a  monthly  paper  dealing 
with  events  of  national  importance  ; 
she  herself  would  be  pleased  to  con- 
tribute   an  essay  on  the   Origin  and 
Evolution  of  the  Toque.     This  happy 
proposal    was    universally  applauded, 
and  a  note  of  Miss  Paley's  offer  was 
made    by   the   secretary.       Then  the 
minor  details  of  subscriptions  and  so 
forth  were  decided,  and  the  Minerva 
Literary  Society  was  finally  launched. 
The   great   scheme  was   of   course 
discussed    at    large    by    the    outside 
world.     The  mothers  of  the  members 
warmly  approved  of  it,  although  their 
brothers  and  fathers  were  rather  in- 
clined to  scoff.     Harry  Delabere,   in 
particular,  said  that  they  were  a  lot 
of   owls.     The  name  caught,  and    in 
many   quarters   they   were   generally 
known  as  Minerva's  Owls.     However, 
they  paid  no  attention  to  the  scoffers, 
and   their    weekly    meetings    proved 
most  successful.     Miss  Paley's  paper 
on   the  Toque  was  said,  by  all  who 
heard  it,  to  be  quite  consummate,  and 
the  Society   seriously   considered   the 
advisability  of  publishing  Miss  Baxter's 
essay  on  the  Woes  of  Woman  and  the 
Mastery  of   Man.      Occasionally    too 
they   had    visitors.     Miss    Delabere's 
renowned  cousin  Horatia  read  a  very 
able  paper  on  the  future  of  Women's 
Colleges,  describing  in  graphic  terms 
how  women  were  gradually  crowding 
men  out  of  the  great  universities,  and 
giving   a   striking  picture   of   Trinity 
College  as    it  is   to   be  in    the  next 
century   under    female    management. 
But  by  far  the  most  famous  meeting 
was     when     the     long-haired     Cyril 
Augustus     Featherquill,      author      of 
LYRICAL   LAMENTS,    gave  the    society 
a   paper  on  modern    English   poetry, 
illustrated     by    long     and     frequent 


72 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


quotations  from  his  own  works.  The 
members  agreed  afterwards  that  it 
was  the  finest  thing  they  had  ever 
heard,  and  even  the  guests  invited 
for  the  occasion  were  full  of  praises. 
Thus  the  Society  had  prospered 
exceedingly  for  more  than  a  year. 
Then  there  came  a  relapse.  It  was 
Shakespeare  that  did  it.  In  the 
annual  report  the  secretary  announced 
that  in  the  course  of  the  year  there 
had  been  fifty  meetings.  At  these 
meetings  there  had  been  thirty  papers 
read,  ten  debates,  five  conversaziones 
with  music  and  guests,  and  five  read- 
ings ;  and  of  these  five  four  had  been 
given  to  Miss  Marie  Corelli  and  only 
one  to  Shakespeare.  She  ventured  to 
point  out  to  the  Society,  that  they 
had  not  adhered  quite  strictly  to  the 
original  plan,  and  in  particular  that 
Shakespeare  had  been  somewhat  neg- 
lected. The  Society  quite  saw  it,  and 
in  their  anxiety  to  amend  their  ways 
passed  a  rash  resolution  to  read  six  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  right  off !  They 
did  it,  but  their  patience  was  severely 
tried.  It  was  just  when  they  had 
finished  the  sixth  play  that  the  secre- 
tary asked  the  vicar  to  read  his  paper 
on  Christian  antiquities,  with  the 
result  which  we  have  seen.  The  next 
meeting  was  a  scene  of  anarchy; 
every  member  rose  in  turn  and  made 
a  long  personal  explanation,  the  sub- 
stance of  which  was  that  the  secre- 
tary ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself, 
and  that  the  Society  met  for  pleasure 
and  not  to  hear  long  dull  sermons. 
There  was  no  business  done  in  the 
way  of  a  vote  of  censure,  as,  long 
before  the  usual  time,  the  meeting 
had  to  break  up,  because  the  members 
were  weeping  too  much  to  make  any 
proposition  at  all.  Tears  are  infec- 
tious, and  the  secretary  went  home  and 
cried  all  night.  Next  day  she  was 
very  pessimistic  and  opined  that  the 
Society  had  better  cease ;  she  had  done 
her  best  for  it  and  could  do  no  more. 


She  was  explaining  this  and  other 
things  to  her  mother,  when  her  brother 
Harry  came  in.  He  regarded  the 
thing  as  an  excellent  joke,  and  made 
sundry  ill-advised  remarks  about  hav- 
ing heard  the  hooting  of  innumerable 
owls  in  the  night.  Seeing,  however, 
that  his  sister  really  took  the  matter 
very  much  to  heart,  he  repented,  and 
condescended  to  offer  her  some  advice 
in  a  lordly  way.  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is,"  said  he  ;  "  the  owls  are  sighing 
for  honour  and  glory,  imperishable 
fame  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Why 
don't  you  make  them  write  something 
and  then  get  it  printed  1  There's 
nothing  like  seeing  yourself  in  print 
to  put  you  in  a  good  temper."  Miss 
Delabere  admitted,  between  her  sobs, 
that  the  Society  would  like  it,  but 
was  afraid  that  the  friction  was  too 
great  to  permit  of  their  listening  to 
any  proposal  she  might  make.  "  Rot ! " 
said  Harry.  "  Go  and  make  a  cabal 
with  Alice  Carter,  and  get  her  to  back 
you  up  ;  there's  nothing  like  a  cabal." 
His  sister  said  that  she  would  con- 
sider the  matter,  and  finally  resolved 
upon  taking  his  advice. 

In  the  afternoon-  accordingly  she 
called  on  Miss  Carter,  and  found  that 
she,  after  a  tearful  night,  was  rather 
ashamed  of  herself,  and  not  unwilling 
to  listen  to  overtures  of  peace.  So  they 
kissed  and  made  it  up,  with  a  few  more 
tears  to  seal  the  compact,  and  then 
Miss  Delabere  divulged  her  plan. 
Miss  Carter  was  delighted,  and  they 
settled  at  once  on  the  cover  of  the 
book, — pale  mauve,  with  swallows  and 
daisies  stamped  in  gold  all  over  it. 
"  But  what  are  we  to  write  ? "  she 
asked.  Miss  Delabere  was  not  sure 
on  this  point.  POEMS  BY  SEVEN 
MUSES,  or  DREAMS  BY  SEVEN  SLEEPERS 
would  be  rather  nice,  she  thought. 
Miss  Carter  doubted  whether  the 
Society  would  write  very  good  poetry, 
and  was  quite  sure  it  could  not  write 
dreams.  "  But  what  do  people  write, 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


73 


when  they  want  to  write  something 
and  don't  know  what  1 "  said  Miss 
Delabere.  "  Novels,  I  suppose," 
answered  her  friend.  Then  they  went 
into  the  subject  of  novels.  Miss 
Carter  had  an  aunt  who  wrote  them, 
and  knew,  of  course,  how  it  was  done. 
"It  is  quite  easy,"  she  said  with  con- 
viction. "  Aunt  Emma  just  thinks 
out  a  title  and  then  writes  her  book 
straight  away.  She  does  four  or  five 
every  year  and  makes  a  lot  of  money 
out  of  them.  If  she  can  do  them  as 
quickly  as  that,  seven  of  us  ought  to 
be  able  to  write  one  a  month."  "But 
how  are  we  to  manage  about  it  ?  And 
how  about  a  plot  ?  "  "  Oh,  it  doesn't 
matter  about  a  plot.  Study  of  cha- 
racter is  the  main  thing  in  a  novel 
nowadays.  We  must  do  it  in  this 
way.  It  must  be  in  seven  parts,  and 
each  of  us  must  write  a  part.  Then 
all  we  have  to  do  is  to  add  the  parts 
together  and  the  novel  will  be  ready." 
"  But  don't  you  have  any  plot  at  all, 
or  any  hero  or  heroine,  or  any  thing  ? " 
"  Oh  yes,  we  must  have  the  same 
hero  and  heroine,  and  a  sort  of  main 
plot  which  runs  through  all  the  parts, 
but  we  needn't  worry  too  much  about 
it ;  modern  novels  never  do." 

The  plan  sounded  simple  and  in- 
viting, and  Miss  Delabere  finally 
agreed  to  propose  at  the  next  meet- 
ing that  the  Society  should  write  a 
novel. 

Next  Thursday  the  Minerva  Society 
met  again.  They  were  all  rather 
silent  and  ashamed,  and  no  one  asked 
questions  of  the  officers  or  displayed 
any  interest  in  the  business  of  the 
evening,  until  Miss  Delabere  asked 
permission  of  the  President  to  intro- 
duce a  motion.  Having  received  it, 
she  rose  and  spoke  :  "  Miss  President 
and  ladies,  I  cannot  help  feeling 
that  the  honourable  House  is  growing 
beyond  itself ;  I  mean,  that  it  needs 
rather  a  wider  scope  for  its  energies 
than  it  has  at  present.  You,  Madam, 


will  doubtless  agree  with  me,  that 
the  talent  of  honourable  members,  if 
properly  directed,  is  capable  of  creating 
literary  work  which  would  be  highly 
appreciated.  (Members  tvake  up  and 
applaud.)  Therefore  it  appears  to 
me,  and  without  doubt  to  you, 
Madam,  that  it  would  be  little  short 
of  wrong  for  this  House  not  to  be 
handed  down  to  posterity,  as  the 
creator  of  some  literary  monument. 
(Loud  applause.)  I  therefore,  with 
all  due  submission  to  the  opinion  of 
honourable  members,  propose  that  the 
Minerva  Literary  Society  do  write, 
and  hereafter  cause  to  be  printed,  a 
novel." 

The  members  positively  shrieked 
with  delight,  and  of  course  the 
motion  was  carried  by  acclamation. 
Afterwards  they  showed  their  appre- 
ciation by  passing  a  vote  of  con- 
fidence in  their  valued  secretary. 
They  then  appointed  a  special  com- 
mittee of  four,  with  Miss  Delabere 
as  chairwoman,  to  draw  up  a  scheme 
for  the  writing  of  the  novel,  which 
scheme  was  to  be  presented  at  the 
next  meeting.  The  Society  broke  up 
in  the  best  of  tempers,  and  it  was 
a  proud  and  happy  secretary  that 
went  home  that  evening.  She  even 
went  so  far  as  to  thank  her  brother 
for  his  advice,  telling  him  that  it 
had  worked  like  a  charm.  He  asked 
what  they  had  decided  on  writing  ; 
was  it  a  book  of  fashions  1  "  No  in- 
deed," she  said  proudly ;  "  we  are 
going  to  embark  on  a  work  of 
fiction."  At  first  he  was  incredulous, 
but  when  she  assured  him  that  it 
was  really  the  case,  he  laughed  im- 
moderately and  said  with  brotherly 
candour :  "  Well,  all  I  can  say  is, 
you'll  make  bigger  fools  of  yourselves 
than  you  did  before." 

During  the  next  week  the  special 
committee  met  four  times  to  discuss 
the  novel  and  to  draw  up  plans  for 
its  construction.  The  first  meeting 


74 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


was  taken  up  with  settling  the  title, 
on  which  point  the  committee  found 
itself  somewhat  at  variance.  Miss 
Delabere  and  Miss  Carter  were 
minded  to  have  a  peaceful  title 
which  should  give  promise  of  tender 
love-scenes  in  the  book,  while  the 
other  two  desired  a  title  of  a  robuster 
order,  presaging  ghosts  and  deeds  of 
darkness.  Finally  they  had  to  settle 
on  a  compromise, — AGLIONE'S  SWEET- 
HEART, OR  THE  WEIRD  OF  DEADLY 
GRANGE.  Miss  Evans  reconciled  them 
to  the  double  title  by  pointing  out 
that  it  offered  a  wide  field  to  the 
members  ;  if  they  chose  to  indulge  in 
the  mysteries  of  love-making,  with  all 
its  attendant  joys  and  pains,  the  title 
sanctioned  it,  whereas  for  those  who, 
like  herself,  desired  to  write  in 
sterner  vein,  nothing  could  be  more 
suitable  than  THE  WEIRD  OF  DEADLY 
GRANGE. 

At  the  next  meeting  they  discussed 
the  shape  and  length  of  the  book. 
They  agreed  that  it  should  be  in 
seven  parts,  so  that  each  member 
might  have  a  freer  hand.  The  length 
was  a  more  difficult  question.  Miss 
Delabere,  who  had  been  making  re- 
searches, thought  that  about  seventy 
thousand  words  would  be  the  proper 
length.  Miss  Baxter  was  afraid  it 
would  not  be  long  enough,  and  it 
was  absurd  to  limit  seven  people  to 
almost  as  few  words ;  she  thought 
a  hundred  and  forty  thousand  was 
the  least  estimate  that  the  Society 
would  entertain.  The  other  two  had 
still  larger  views.  Finally  they  had 
to  leave  the  matter  to  the  discretion 
of  the  members,  saying  that,  within 
limits  (but  they  did  not  state  the 
limits)  each  member  might  write  as 
many  words  as  she  pleased. 

The  last  two  meetings  were  occupied 
with  the  plot,  which  really  seemed 
fairly  easy  to  evolve.  The  heroine 
was  of  course  to  be  called  Aglione, 
with  Middleditch  for  a  surname.  The 


hero  was  to  be  named  Cyril  Augustus, 
suggested  by  the  chairwoman  with 
just  the  suspicion  of  a  blush,  and  his 
surname  was  Ponsonby.  He  was  to 
have  a  wicked  uncle  living  at  Deadly 
Grange,  and  two  wicked  friends  from 
Oxford,  with  one  good  uncle  and  two 
good  friends  from  Cambridge  as  a 
compensation.  His  parents  were  to 
be  recalcitrant,  as  Miss  Baxter  sug- 
gested with  relish.  The  heroine 
should  have  a  wicked  aunt  and  a 
good  aunt,  two  wicked  friends  and 
two  good  ones,  and  her  parents  were 
also  to  be  recalcitrant.  The  main 
idea  of  the  story  was  to  be  the  en- 
deavours of  the  hero  and  heroine  to 
get  married,  and  the  efforts  made  by 
the  wicked  people  to  prevent  them, 
partly  counteracted  by  the  influence 
of  the  good  people.  Minor  characters 
such  as  men-servants  and  maid-ser- 
vants, policemen  and  hired  villains, 
might  be  left  to  the  discretion  of  the 
members.  Deadly  Grange  was  to  be 
an  old  red  brick  mansion  with  a  moat, 
and  its  Weird  was  to  be  shrouded  in 
mystery.  The  different  parts  of  the 
novel  were  to  be  drawn  by  lot,  and 
the  member  who  drew  number  one 
should  write  the  first  part  and  the 
member  who  drew  number  seven  the 
last.  Finally,  the  committee  ven- 
tured to  suggest  that  each  member 
should  have  her  part  ready  at  the  end 
of  a  month. 

When  the  special  committee  handed 
in  its  report  on  the  following  Thurs- 
day the  rest  of  the  Society  expressed 
themselves  satisfied,  and  it  was  ac- 
cepted in  toto.  They  also  passed  a 
resolution  that  no  conversation  should 
be  allowed  on  the  subject  of  the  novel 
until  the  various  parts  had  been  sub- 
mitted in  their  complete  form,  and 
had  been  read  aloud  to  the  Society. 
This  appeared  necessary,  for  fear  of 
plagiarism. 

During  the  month  that  followed 
the  young  ladies  were  extremely  busy, 


The  Mystery  oj  Collaboration. 


75 


and  their  families  saw  very  little  of 
them.  But  though  they  all  wrote  so 
diligently,  the  prescribed  month  came 
to  an  end  long  before  they  did.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  it  was  not  till 
four  months  were  over  that  they 
professed  themselves  ready  to  send 
in  their  work.  But  at  last  they 
were  all  ready,  and  it  was  decided  to 
hold  an  extraordinary  meeting  at 
which  each  member  should  read  her 
part  aloud.  Miss  Delabere,  who  had 
a  sort  of  consciousness  that  her  own 
part  was  a  trifle  longer  than  it  ought 
to  be,  proposed  that  they  should  meet 
early,  as  it  would  probably  take  some 
considerable  time  to  get  through  the 
whole  book.  The  others  accepted  the 
suggestion  eagerly,  and  it  was  decided 
that  they  should  meet  on  the  follow- 
ing Monday  at  ten  in  the  morning, 
and  read  and  discuss  the  book,  if 
necessary,  all  day.  They  also  decided 
that,  as  it  was  such  an  important 
occasion,  each  member  might  bring 
two  friends. 

When  it  became  generally  known 
throughout  the  neighbourhood  that 
the  novel  was  finished  and  to  be  read 
aloud,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  excite- 
ment about  it,  and  much  competition 
to  be  among  the  favoured  guests. 
The  result  was  that  when  Monday 
arrived  each  member  brought,  not 
two,  but  four  or  five  friends  all  eager 
to  listen  to  the  great  work.  The 
members  themselves,  it  was  noticed, 
looked  a  little  flustered  and  uneasy, 
as  though  they  were  doubtful  of  the 
success  of  the  entertainment.  How- 
ever, they  arranged  their  guests  in 
rows  and  took  their  own  seats  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  Then  the  President 
rose  and  opened  the  meeting  in  a 
graceful  little  speech.  She  was 
gratified,  she  said,  to  see  so  many 
friends  present,  and  she  trusted  that 
the  Society  was  going  to  give  a  good 
account  of  itself.  Not  to  waste  time, 
she  would  call  upon  Miss  Trevor,  who 


had  the  honour  of  opening  the  book, 
to  begin.  Miss  Trevor,  blushing  a 
good  deal  and  obviously  very  excited, 
extracted  from  some  recess  a  sheaf  of 
manuscript  (which  looked  portentously 
large)  and  began. 

She  opened  with  a  masterly  account 
of  Deadly  Grange,  giving  a  thrilling 
description  of  the  moat,  "  Whose 
glassy  translucent  waves  allowed  the 
eye  to  penetrate  into  the  realms  of 
nothingness,  a  dark  abyss,  whose 
gloomy  depths  concealed  the  unending 
tortures  of  lost  souls."  She  occupied 
several  pages  with  a  description  of 
the  garden,  which  was  remarkable  for 
the  care  and  taste  displayed  in  its 
arrangement,  with  its  clipped  yew 
hedges,  its  sloping  terraces,  and  smooth 
lawns.  Then  she  introduced  the  hero 
busily  employed  in  playing  lawn- 
tennis  with  the  heroine  and  two  of 
their  respective  friends.  He  was 
"  rather  above  middle  stature,  with 
fair  hair  curling  crisply  all  over  his 
head  ; "  she  was  "  tall,  dark,  and 
Juno-like,  and  her  glossy  locks  shone 
like  a  raven's  wing."  A  pretty  love- 
scene  followed  the  lawn-tennis,  in 
which  the  hero  incidentally  gave  the 
heroine  some  account  of  his  uncle, 
whose  heir  he  imagined  himself  to  be, 
and  also  of  the  Grange  and  of  its 
Weird ;  the  latter  he  did  not  allude 
to  very  circumstantially,  but  allowed 
it  to  be  supposed  that  it  was  a  grey- 
clad  monk  of  malevolent  temper. 
Finally  the  two  young  people  engaged 
themselves,  and  the  chapter  ended  in 
kisses.  The  next  was  a  description  of  a 
dinner-party  at  the  house  of  Aglione's 
father,  in  which  the  various  characters 
of  the  book  were  severally  introduced 
to  the  reader.  The  owner  of  Deadly 
Grange  was  a  "  sinister  dark-looking 
man  with  thin  lips,  whose  age  might 
be  anything  from  thirty  to  sixty." 
Aglione's  wicked  aunt,  who  sat  next 
to  him,  was  older  than  she  looked, 
"  and  it  was  only  by  the  use  of  cos- 


76 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


metics  that  she  had  retained  the 
reputation  of  being  a  handsome 
woman."  Aglione's  parents  were 
commonplace,  and  Cyril  Augustus's 
were  not  there.  All  their  friends 
were  there,  however,  and  received  a 
careful  description,  especially  the 
wicked  ones ;  the  good  uncle  and  the 
good  aunt  were  also  present.  Then 
the  writer  proceeded  to  give  a  short 
but  clear  account  of  the  various  rela- 
tions of  all  these  people.  The  hero 
and  heroine  of  course  only  wanted  to 
marry  each  other.  Her  wicked  aunt 
wanted  to  marry  his  wicked  uncle, 
whereas  he  wanted  and  intended  to 
marry  Aglione.  Aglione's  wicked 
friends  both  wanted  to  marry  Cyril 
Augustus,  and  his  wicked  friends 
both  wanted  to  marry  her.  The 
good  friends  wanted  to  marry  each 
other,  as  did  the  good  uncle  and  aunt, 
and  this  simplified  in  some  measure 
the  action  of  the  story. 

It  would  be  too  long  a  task  to  give 
the  contents  of  each  chapter  in  detail, 
but  in  brief  the  story  ran  thus.  At 
this  eventful  dinner-party  the  wicked 
uncle  discovered  that  his  nephew  was 
also  his  rival  in  Aglione's  affections, 
and  the  wicked  aunt  also  discovered 
that  her  niece  was  her  rival  in  the 
affections  of  the  wicked  uncle.  In- 
spired by  this  knowledge  they  both 
determined  on  dark  deeds.  Aunt 
Emily  (for  that  was  her  wicked 
name)  conspired  with  Aglione's  false 
friends  to  get  the  maiden  out  of  their 
path.  They  tried  several  methods : 
first,  they  endeavoured  to  poison 
Cyril  Augustus's  mind  against  his 
love,  but  without  success ;  next  they 
hired  a  villain  to  kidnap  her  and,  for 
a  pecuniary  consideration,  to  marry 
her.  The  villain  made  the  attempt 
one  evening,  but  Aglione's  screams 
reached  the  ears  of  the  hero's  two 
friends,  who  stepped  in  and  gave  the 
villain  a  severe  beating.  Finally 
Aunt  Emily  in  desperation  made  up 


her  mind  to  poison  her  niece.  In 
the  meantime  the  wicked  uncle  had 
been  making  attempts  on  his  nephew. 
He  tried  first  to  marry  him  to  an 
ugly  heiress  of  prodigious  expecta- 
tions, whom  Cyril  Augustus  in- 
dignantly refused.  Then  he  cut 
him  off  with  a  shilling,  at  which 
Cyril  Augustus  laughed.  Then  he 
sent  out  against  him  certain  bravos 
with  bludgeons,  and  Cyril  Augustus 
knocked  them  down.  Finally  he 
resolved  to  sacrifice  him  to  the  family 
Weird. 

Matters  had  reached  this  pitch, 
when  the  bell  rang  for  refreshments, 
as  it  was  already  one  o'clock. 
Everybody  congratulated  Miss  Trevor 
on  her  exciting  story,  especially 
Harry  Delabere,  who  asked  her  how 
many  more  chapters  there  were. 
Only  five  more,  she  told  him,  at 
which  Harry  smiled  enigmatically 
and  retired. 

After  the  interval  Miss  Trevor  re- 
sumed her  task.  She  extricated  the 
hero  and  heroine  from  their  diffi- 
culties. The  wicked  aunt  tried  to 
put  poison  into  Aglione's  cup  of  tea, 
but  by  mistake  put  it  into  her  own, 
and  died  in  awful  agonies.  The 
wicked  uncle  enticed  Cyril  Augustus 
into  the  haunted  room  at  Deadly 
Grange  and  locked  him  in  there,  to 
be  the  prey  of  the  Weird.  Cyril 
Augustus,  however,  by  dint  of  brave 
words  and  a  revolver  baffled  the 
Weird  and  got  out  again,  and  when 
the  wicked  uncle  returned,  to  see  how 
it  had  fared  with  his  nephew,  he 
somehow  shut  himself  in  and  could 
not  get  out.  Next  morning  he  was 
discovered  dead  in  a  corner,  with  his 
hair  as  white  as  snow.  After  this 
there  was  little  left  for  the  author 
to  do,  except  to  marry  off  the  differ- 
ent people  in  the  story,  and  this  she 
did.  The  hero  married  the  heroine, 
the  good  people  married  the  good 
people,  and,  as  a  mutual  punishment, 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


77 


the  wicked  people  married  the  wicked 
people.  And  then,  amid  great  ap- 
plause, Miss  Trevor  sat  down. 

There  was  silence  for  some  time, 
and  none  of  the  members  saw  fit  to 
make  any  remark,  until  the  President 
collected  her  faculties  and  eventually 
rose.  "  We  all,  I  am  sure,"  she 
began,  "  are  very  grateful  to  Miss 
Trevor  for  her  clever  story,  but  of 
course  she  herself  will  be  the  first  to 
realise  that  it  will  need  a  good  deal 
of  alteration  if  it  is  to  be  in  harmony 
with  the  rest  of  the  work."  Miss 
Trevor  rose  indignantly,  but  was  re- 
quested to  defer  her  remarks  until 
the  debate  on  the  subject.  Then  the 
President  called  on  Miss  Delabere  to 
whom  the  second  part  had  been  en- 
trusted. She  had  kept  to  her  original 
idea  of  seventy  thousand  words,  only 
modifying  it  in  so  far  that  she  had 
written  them  all  herself.  Therefore 
it  was  considerably  after  tea-time 
when  she  had  finished  reading.  She 
too  received  much  applause,  but  the 
President  had  again  to  give  a  warning 
about  the  length  and  lack  of  cohesion 
of  her  effort.  It  was  agreed  that  it 
was  too  late  to  listen  to  the  third 
part  that  evening  and  they  decided 
to  meet  again  on  the  morrow,  and 
voted  that  any  of  the  guests  who 
cared  to  come  would  be  welcome ;  but 
there  was  an  atmosphere  of  mutual 
suspicion  about  the  members  and  they 
parted  in  silence.  Harry  Delabere, 
who  had  been  taking  notes  in  his 
pocket  book,  was  the  most  cheerful 
person  in  the  room  ;  he  said  that  he 
would  certainly  come  to-morrow,  and 
every  day  for  a  week  if  necessary,  at 
which  the  members  looked  at  him 
doubtfully. 

The  morrow  dawned  and  the 
Society  again  met  to  finish  off  the 
novel,  before  another  large  and  appre- 
ciative audience.  They  found,  how- 
ever, that  they  could  only  get  through 
two  more  parts,  as  Miss  Paley  and 


Miss  Evans,  who  had  to  read  them, 
had  taken  full  advantage  of  the 
generous  limits  allowed  by  the  Society. 
It  was  decided  that  they  must  take 
another  day,  which  extended  itself  to 
two,  as  Miss  Baxter  occupied  the 
whole  of  the  third  day ;  in  her  part 
there  were  thirty-three  love-scenes, 
all  of  some  length. 

In  the  meantime  all  the  members 
felt  rather  as  if  they  were  sitting 
upon  a  volcano,  which  might  begin 
operations  at  any  moment.  At  the 
end  of  the  fourth  day,  when  Miss 
Gray  had  finished  reading  her  part, 
which  was  the  seventh  and  last,  they 
sat  and  looked  at  each  other  in  stony 
silence.  The  visitors  were  rather 
alarmed,  and  their  alarm  was  in  no 
way  diminished  when  at  last  Miss 
Baxter  said  defiantly  :  "  Well,  at  any 
rate  /  sha'n't  alter  or  cut  down  my 
part  a  bit  ;  I've  taken  too  much 
trouble  about  it."  The  other  members 
looked  as  if  they  privately  held  the 
same  opinion  about  their  own  work, 
but  still  it  was  their  duty  to  crush 
Miss  Baxter,  and  they  were  just  open- 
ing their  mouths  to  do  so  when  the 
President  with  a  great  effort  saved 
the  situation  temporarily.  "  Ladies," 
she  said,  "  it  is  rather  late  ;  perhaps 
we  had  better  defer  the  discussion 
till  next  Thursday.  Let  us  now  have 
tea."  So  they  had  tea,  and  then  went 
home. 

For  the  account  of  the  transactions 
at  the  last,  and  in  many  respects 
the  greatest,  meeting  of  the  Minerva 
Literary  Society  we  are  indebted  to 
the  courtesy  of  Harry  Delabere,  who 
in  some  unexplained  manner  contrived 
to  be  present,  and  moreover  to  take 
mirfutes  (impartial  not  secretarial 
minutes)  which  he  has  kindly  put  at 
our  disposal.  Thus  we  have  been 
enabled  to  arrive  at  a  fairly  clear  idea 
of  what  happened  and  of  what  the 
members  said  when  it  came  to  the 
point ;  and  we  think  it  is  due  to  our 


78 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


readers  to  put  it  before  them  as  well 
as  we  can. 

The  novelists  had  had  a  week  in 
which  to  think  things  over,  but  if 
they  had  had  a  month  we  doubt 
whether  it  would  have  made  much 
difference  to  the  ultimate  issue,  for  it 
was  obvious  that  from  the  first  each 
one  had  steeled  her  heart  against  any 
weak  compromise  so  far  as  she  herself 
was  concerned,  and  had  determined 
that  if  any  concessions  were  to  be 
made,  they  must  be  made  by  the 
others.  Bearing  this  in  mind,  then, 
we  can  hardly  be  surprised  at  the 
violence  of  the  discussion.  One  thing 
we  admit  did  surprise  us :  no  one 
shed  any  tears  at  all ;  this  at  least 
is  what  our  informant  says,  and  he 
should  know,  as  he  is  a  person  who 
is  quick  to  notice  matters  of  this 
sort.  The  explanation  may  lie  in 
the  fact  that  the  subject  was  too 
serious  for  weeping,  and  it  may  be 
that  the  consciousness  that  they 
were  now  authoresses  in  their  own 
right  sustained  them  in  the  hour  of 
trial. 

They  were  all  assembled  on  the 
following  Thursday  by  half-past  two 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  President 
opened  the  meeting  without  delay. 
She  made  use  of  the  privilege  of  the 
chair  to  get  in  the  first  words,  which 
from  her  own  point  of  view  was  wise. 
"  Ladies,"  she  began,  "  it  is  no  good 
preambling ;  we  all  know  why  we  are 
here,  and  it  will  be  as  well  to  get  to 
the  subject  at  once.  As  it  stands  at 
present  the  Society's  novel  will  not 
do.  I  am  not  going  to  mince  matters, 
and  I  must  say  what  I  think  candidly. 
It  is  really  absurd  that  you  should 
all  have  made  your  parts  so  long. 
One  honourable  member  has  written 
at  least  a  hundred  and  forty  thousand 
words."  Here  five  of  the  members 
applauded  and  cast  glances  of  indigna- 
tion at  Miss  Baxter.  "But  the  rest 
of  you  are  every  bit  as  much  in  error. 


None  of  you  has  written  less  than 
seventy  thousand,  and  some  more,  and 
for  purposes  of  collaboration  this  is 
just  as  foolish."  Here  Miss  Baxter 
applauded  and  cast  glances  of  wither- 
ing scorn  at  the  five  members.  "  I 
myself  have  written  about  seventy 
thousand,  but  I  maintain  that  it  is 
the  duty  of  the  President  to  give  a 
lead  to  the  Society  in  a  matter  of  this 
sort  [here  all  six  members  murmured 
loudly]  and  therefore  that  I  should 
have  done  so  is  not  excessive.  But 
each  of  you  should  have  been  con- 
tented with  at  most  ten  thousand 
words.  As  it  is  the  total  number  of 
words  written  must  be  nearly  seven 
hundred  thousand,  and  who  on  earth 
would  read  a  book  of  that  length  1 
I  shall  now  be  glad  to  hear  any 
explanations  or  propositions  that  the 
members  may  have  to  offer." 

Miss  Gray's  not  over-conciliatory 
speech  was  received  without  favour, 
and  for  several  minutes  the  members, 
so  many  at  least  as  were  not  inarticu- 
late with  rage,  cried  shame,  nonsense, 
and  other  things.  At  length  weari- 
ness produced  a  lull  and  Miss  Dela- 
bere  arose  to  say  a  few  words.  "  I 
do  not  in  the  least  agree  with  you," 
she  said  to  the  President.  "  You 
ought  to  have  written  less  than  any- 
body, being  President.  But  I  want 
to  call  attention  to  another  thing. 
I  came  second  on  the  list,  and  one 
would  think  that  the  first  person 
would  have  left  me  something  to 
write.  But  she  didn't.  She  married 
Aglione  to  Cyril  Augustus  and  every- 
body else  to  somebody  else,  and  she 
killed  the  wicked  uncle  and  aunt,  so 
of  course  my  part  is  nonsense,  as  I 
have  married  them  all  over  again  and 
brought  the  wicked  uncle  and  aunt 
to  life  again  and  sent  them  to  penal 
servitude.  I  want  to  move  a  vote  of 
censure  on  Miss  Trevor." 

\ 

Down  she  sat  breathless,  to  be 
succeeded  by  Miss  Paley.  "I  want 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


79 


to  say  something,  too,"  she  cried. 
"  It  is  all  very  well  for  Miss  Dela- 
bere  to  talk  like  that.  I  should  like 
to  know  what  she  thought  she  was 
leaving  for  me  !  If  Miss  Trevor  has 
made  nonsense  of  her  part,  she  has 
made  mine  even  worse,  because  when 
my  turn  came  I  had  to  marry  lots  of 
people  for  the  third  time.  And  what 
right  had  she  to  send  the  wicked  uncle 
and  aunt  to  penal  servitude  when  I 
wanted  them  to  use  again  ?  It  seems 
so  silly  to  have  to  use  people  who  have 
been  killed  once  and  afterwards  sent 
to  penal  servitude,  and  it  makes  my 
last  chapter,  where  they  die,  quite 
worthless.  I  beg  to  second  the  vote 
of  censure  on  Miss  Trevor  and  to 
move  another  on  Miss  Delabere." 

Thus  spoke  Miss  Paley,  and  after 
her  came  Miss  Evans  with  a  long 
catalogue  of  woe ;  but  her  cry  for 
vengeance  came  first.  "  I  beg  to 
second  the  vote  of  censure  on  Miss 
Delabere,  and  to  move  another  on 
Miss  Paley.  She  has  done  just  the 
same  for  me  as  the  others  did  for  her. 
She  has  killed  the  wicked  uncle  and 
aunt  just  when  I  wanted  them  for 
Botany  Bay.  It  was  bad  enough 
that  the  hero  and  heroine  should 
have  been  married  twice  before,  but 
after  her  marrying  them  my  doing 
so  makes  it  the  fourth  time.  What 
authority  had  she  for  putting  Deadly 
Grange  in  Yorkshire  on  the  top  of  a 
mountain  ?  It  ought  to  be  in  Hamp- 
shire where  I  have  put  it."  Here 
there  was  a  slight  diversion  owing 
to  Miss  Trevor  and  Miss  Delabere 
rising  and  saying  that  Deadly  Grange 
was  in  Cornwall  and  Kent  respec- 
tively. "  I  do  not  agree  with  the 
objections  of  the  honourable  members  ; 
it  is  in  Hampshire.  I  thought  it  was 
arranged  that  the  Weird  should  be 
shrouded  in  mystery.  Why  then  did 
Miss  Paley  make  so  substantial  a 
thing  of  it  as  a  black  coach  with 
four  black  horses  which  drives  up  to 


the  front  door  at  midnight?  I  say 
nothing  about  Miss  Trevor's  making 
a  grey  monk  of  it,  or  Miss  Delabere's 
turning  it  into  a  mail-clad  figure 
without  a  head,  clanking  spurs  and 
things  in  the  corridor.  The  coach 
is  what  I  object  to.  How  can  one 
make  a  coach  and  four  extract  faint 
strains  of  music  from  a  ghostly  spinet, 
which  is  what  the  Weird  does  in 
my  part  ?  It  is  all  nonsense  !  "  And 
with  this  parting  shot  down  sat  Miss 
Evans. 

She  was  followed  by  Miss  Baxter, 
who  was  somewhat  incoherent  with 
indignation.  "  I  think  it  is  a  great 
shame,  and  I  haven't  written  so  very 
much  more  than  the  rest  of  you,  and 
why  you  should  all  have  combined 
to  make  nonsense  of  my  part  I  can't 
think.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
I  have  done  to  offend  you,  and  there 
are  all  my  beautiful  love  scenes  wasted 
because  you've  married  them  all,  and 
people  can't  make  love  after  they're 
married,  and  I  beg  to  second  the  vote 
of  censure  on  Miss  Paley  and  to  move 
another  on  Miss  Evans,  and  I  shall 
publish  my  part  by  itself." 

To  her  succeeded  Miss  Carter  who 
complained  in  much  the  same  style, 
seconded  the  vote  of  censure  on  Miss 
Evans  and  moved  another  on  Miss 
Baxter. 

Last  of  all  Miss  Gray  spoke  again. 
She  was  in  a  state  of  subdued  fury, 
both  because  as  President  she  felt 
that  she  was  to  some  extent  respon- 
sible for  the  mistakes  of  the  Society, 
and  also  because  she  had  had  the  last 
part  and  so  had  suffered  from  them 
more.  She  spoke  quietly,  but  with 
a  sarcastic  bitterness  that  was  far 
more  impressive  than  the  outbursts 
of  the  others.  "You  are  all  very 
full  of  your  own  wrongs  but  you 
don't  give  a  thought  to  me,  your 
President,  of  whom  you  have  made 
a  complete  fool.  I  took  an  infinity 
of  trouble  to  write  my  part  so  that 


80 


The  Mystery  of  Collaboration. 


it  should  do  the  Society  credit,  and 
what  is  the  result  ?  I  shall  be  made 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole 
county.  I  will  point  out  a  few  of 
your  absurdities  to  you,  that  you 
may  realise  the  silliness  of  it  all, — if 
you  can.  Look  what  you  have  done 
to  Thomas  Brown,  Cyril  Augustus's 
wicked  friend.  Miss  Trevor  goes  and 
marries  him  to  May  Smith,  Aglione's 
wicked  friend;  Miss  Delabere  marries 
him  to  Aglione's  Aunt  Mary  ;  Miss 
Paley  marries  him  to  the  kitchen- 
maid  ;  Miss  Evans  to  Aglione's  other 
wicked  friend  ;  Miss  Baxter  to  one  of 
her  good  friends;  Miss  Carter  to  the 
house- maid ;  and  it  seems  to  lack 
point  when  at  last  my  turn  comes 
and  I  marry  him  to  Aglione's  Aunt 
Emily.  Then  look  at  Aglione  and 
Cyril  Augustus.  Every  one  of  you 
marries  them  at  the  end  of  your 
parts,  and  how  can  I  leave  them  to 
pine  in  single  wretchedness  when 
they  have  been  married  six  times  1 
It  isn't  decent !  And  then  Aunt 
Emily  and  Uncle  Henry  !  Three  of 
you  send  them  to  Botany  Bay  and 
three  of  you  kill  them.  Where  do  I 
come  in  ?  How  can  I  leave  them 
alive  and  well  and  enjoying  the 
fruits  of  their  crimes  after  that?  It 
spoils  one  of  my  most  powerful  bits. 
As  for  your  ghosts,  I've  no  patience 
with  them.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  the  ones  Miss  Evans  talked 
about,  and  Miss  Baxter's  little  old 
lady,  and  Miss  Carter's  banshee  are 
the  same  as  my  gentleman  in  even- 
ing-dress who  shoots  himself  in  the 
library  every  night  when  the  clock 
strikes  twelve  ?  I  did  think  you  had 
more  sense  than  that  !  The  only 
words  of  sense  you  have  spoken  to- 
day have  been  when  you  moved  votes 
of  censure  on  each  other,  which  I  now 
declare  carried.  As  for  you  others, 
you  may  do  as  you  like;  I  shall  send 


my  part  off  to  a  publisher  to-morrow. 
I  don't  suppose  any  of  you  will  get 
yours  accepted,  but  you  might  publish 
at  your  own  expense.  I  declare  this 
meeting  closed." 

Miss  Gray's  speech  had  been 
punctuated  by  angry  cries  and  ob- 
jections, as  might  be  expected,  and 
the  babel  that  arose  when  she  finished 
was,  so  our  informant  says,  absolutely 
deafening.  But  she  had  left  her  seat 
and  had  gained  the  door,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  request 
Miss  Delabere  to  take  the  chair,  and 
this  she  emphatically  declined  to  do. 
So  amid  indescribable  confusion  the 
meeting  broke  up  for  the  last  time. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  Minerva 
Literary  Society  ceased  to  be,  and 
this  is  why  none  of  those  who 
formerly  composed  it  are  now  on 
speaking-terms.  On  the  whole,  how- 
ever, the  world  is  a  gainer,  for  had 
it  not  been  for  the  dissolution  of 
the  Society,  Messrs.  Type  and  Forme 
might  never  have  been  able  to  an- 
nounce the  batch  of  important  new 
novels  which  has  recently  gladdened 
our  eyes. 

AIGLE,  a  tale  of  England  ;  by  Paolo 
Trevorski. 

CYRIL  AUGUSTUS'S  SWEETHEART  ;  by 
D.  L.  Burton. 

THE  GRANGE  WEIRD  ;  by  Horace 
Palast. 

AGLIONE,  a  tale  of  Horror  ;  by  Evan 
Evans. 

DEADLY  MOAT  ;  by  Hermann 
Bagster. 

THE  UNCLE,  OR  TRUE  LOVE;  by 
Francis  Cartaret. 

THE  AUNT'S  CURSE;  by  Lambert 
Grayling. 

The  same  publishers,  by  the  way, 
also  announce  a  book  of  some  im- 
portance to  literary  amateurs  :  THE 
WHOLE  ART  OF  NOVEL- WRITING,  A 
Manual  for  Beginners  ;  by  H.  D. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


DECEMBER,    1901. 


PRINCESS   PUCK. 


CHAPTEE    XXVII. 

POLLY  said  it  was  quite  unneces- 
sary for  Bill  to  go  to  old  Mr.  Har- 
borough's  funeral,  though  the  wish 
to  do  so  showed  a  nice  feeling  on 
her  part;  and  since  she  did  wish  it 
(and  had  a  black  dress)  there  really 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
go,  more  especially  as  she  was  leaving 
for  London  the  next  day  and  would 
thus  escape  Miss  Minchin's  cross- 
questioning.  But  Gilchrist  had  other 
opinions ;  he  strongly  disapproved  of 
Bill's  going,  seeing  no  reason  for  it 
and  a  great  many  against  it.  He 
himself  had  never  claimed  any  con- 
nection with  the  Harboroughs  during 
the  old  man's  life  and  did  not  intend 
to  do  so  at  his  death,  except  through 
the  medium  of  the  law.  He  said  he 
should  consider  it  an  impertinence  on 
his  own  part  to  go  to  the  funeral. 
Bill  agreed  with  him  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  his  staying  away,  but 
persisted  in  going  herself.  Gilchrist 
became  really  angry,  and  told  her  it 
was  absurd  to  go  simply  because  Mr. 
Harborough  had  given  her  the  dia- 
mond shoe-buckles  ;  people  who  did 
not  know  the  circumstances  might 
put  another  construction  on  her 
actions.  Bill  said  she  did  not  mind 
that,  and  also  that  the  shoe-buckles 
were  only  part  of  her  reason  for  going. 

"  What  other  reason  is  there  1 "  he 
asked. 

No.  506. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


"  I  want  to  speak — "  she  began 
and  then  broke  off.  "Oh,  I  can't 
tell  you,"  she  said  impatiently.  "I 
don't  mind  your  knowing  if  only  I 
had  not  the  bother  of  explaining ;  as 
it  is,  I  really  can't  go  into  it.  You 
say  so  much  about  things,  ask  so 
many  questions,  see  so  many  motives, 
and  foresee  so  many  consequences, 
that  I  really  shall  be  obliged  to  give 
up  telling  you.  I  don't  mind  your 
knowing,  and  up  till  now  I  have  told 
you  things ;  but  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
have  to  begin  taking  you  in  to  save 
trouble." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying  ?  "  was  the  beginning  of  Gil- 
christ's  not  unnaturally  severe  answer ; 
the  end  was  less  pacific.  However, 
there  was  no  quarrel  between  them, 
but  he  was  exceedingly  angry  with 
her  sayings  then,  and  even  more  so 
with  her  doings  later  on,  for  she 
went  to  the  funeral  in  spite  of  him. 
It  was  not  easy  to  quarrel  with  Bill, 
as  she  did  not  retaliate  and  did  not 
mind  ;  but  also,  as  Polly  knew,  she 
could  not  be  moved,  quietly  taking 
her  own  course  unless  you  could  con- 
vince her  it  was  wrong  ;  "  and  Gil- 
christ can't  convince  her,"  Polly  said 
after  the  affair  of  the  funeral.  She 
herself  advised  Bill  not  to  go  when 
she  found  how  strong  was  Gilchrist's 
opposition ;  but  it  did  not  make  the 
slightest  difference.  Bill  had  pro- 
mised Kit  she  would  go,  and  she  went. 

o 


82 


Princess  Puck. 


It  was  soon  after  five  on  the  after- 
noon when  old  Mr.  Harborough  died 
that  Kit  found  the  girl  in  the  wood ; 
yet  it  was  nearly  nine  when  she 
reached  Haylands.  The  intervening 
time  was  not  entirely  occupied  in 
the  drive  home,  nor  yet  in  the  con- 
versation concerning  the  reason  for 
Bill's  tears.  Most  of  that  conversa- 
tion was  carried  on  while  she  was 
half  buried  in  the  ferns  ;  but  there 
was  another  and  a  longer  one  when 
she  faced  the  facts  of  the  case  in  the 
old  library.  Indeed,  after  a  while 
her  position  and  Kit's  were  to  a 
certain  extent  reversed  ;  it  was  she 
who  comforted  and  planned,  array- 
ing the  future  in  its  best  colours,  he 
who  at  first  declined  to  see  hope 
anywhere,  even  though  he  faced  that 
future  with  much  apparent  indif- 
ference. 

Truly,  as  Bill  was  forced  to  admit, 
the  future  did  not  look  promising. 
Both  from  what  she  had  learned  from 
Gilchrist, — and  she  had  made  many 
inquiries  of  late — and  from  what  Kit 
had  heard  from  the  solicitor  and  con- 
fided to  her  now,  she  could  not  help 
seeing  that  the  case  looked  bad  against 
him.  Even  if  a  will  existed, — and  Kit 
seemed  to  think  that  by  no  means 
likely — it  would  do  little  more  than 
complicate  the  case  without  giving 
him  a  title  to  the  estates,  unless  he 
could  make  good  his  uncle's  title  first. 
He  told  her  all  he  knew  about  it, 
and  she  returned  the  compliment  ; 
but  they  cannot  be  said  to  have 
advanced  matters  very  much  or  come 
to  any  resolution.  Of  course,  Kit 
was  going  to  win  the  lawsuit, — that 
was  a  foregone  conclusion — but  Bill, 
whose  universe  was  always  con- 
structed with  a  convenient  backdoor 
for  use  when  foregone  conclusions 
failed,  strongly  recommended  him  to 
consider  how  he  would  stand  if  the 
impossible  were  to  happen.  And  it 
must  be  admitted  that,  if  the  cata- 


strophe really  took  place,  he  would 
not  stand  very  well,  for  with  Wood 
Hall  and  all  it  entailed  gone  there 
was  not  a  great  deal  left ;  briefly,  a 
hundred  a  year  inherited  from  his 
mother,  a  liberal  education  and 
studious  tastes  which  together  had 
enabled  him  to  take  a  good  classical 
degree  at  Oxford  in  the  previous 
summer,  and  had  further  allowed  him 
to  study  modern  languages  and  litera- 
ture with  rather  more  than  usual 
thoroughness.  These,  besides  youth 
and  health,  were  the  only  passably 
serviceable  possessions  he  could  claim. 
There  was  a  taste  for  writing  poetry 
and  an  aptitude  for  translating  Greek 
verse,  but  neither  was  any  use  ;  there 
were  several  other  tastes  which  were 
no  use,  and  yet  others  which  were 
positively  detrimental. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  find  it 
awfully  hard,"  Bill  said  once.  She 
felt  a  compassion  which  was  almost 
motherly  for  him  in  his  ignorance  of 
the  shifts  and  turns  of  the  genteel 
poverty  in  which  she  had  been  reared. 

"  No  harder  than  other  people," 
he  answered  rather  curtly. 

Bill  knew  better.  A  hundred  a 
year  would  have  been  wealth  to  her 
and  Polly;  sixty  between  Bella  and 
Theresa  seemed  almost  a  fortune ; 
however,  she  did  not  say  so,  but 
talked  of  small  privations  instead. 

"  You  would  not  be  able  to  have  a 
clean  shirt  every  day,"  she  said,  and 
Kit  winced  at  the  mention  of  such 
sordid  trifles.  "  Washing  costs  such 
a  lot,"  the  girl  went  on;  "besides  it 
wears  things  out.  You  would  not  be 
able  to  have  an  evening  paper  if  you 
had  a  morning  one,  and  you  certainly 
would  not  be  able  to  have  many  new 
books ;  you  would  have  to  have  your 
boots  mended  over  and  over  again, 
and  think  what  tips  you  would  give 
the  porters.  Saving  in  big  things  is 
not  so  hard  ;  it  is  the  little  things  you 
would  hate,  filing  the  edges, — you 


Princess  Puck. 


83 


have  to  file  the  edges  when  you  are 
making  money  or  saving  it  either — it 
would  set  your  teeth  on  edge  horribly, 
I'm  afraid." 

"Not  more  than  it  does  yours," 
Kit  retorted. 

But  Bill  did  not  agree  with  him. 
"  It  does  not  hurt  me,"  she  said  ; 
I'm  used  to  it  and  my  people  have 
been  used  to  it ;  we  have  been  poor 
long  enough  not  to  mind  about  these 
things.  Besides,  I  love  work ;  I 
don't  care  much  what  it  is  ;  I  like  to 
do  things,  and  I  don't  care  what  I  do. 
I  am  afraid,  too,  I  am  not  so  very 
refined  ;  things  that  would  hurt  you 
don't  hurt  me  ;  I  don't  believe  I  have 
got  very  ladylike  tastes." 

But  Kit  turned  on  her  here :  in  his 
opinion  she  was  the  most  perfect  lady 
living,  not  even  she  herself  should 
question  it  in  his  hearing;  and  for 
a  time  the  conversation  became  per- 
sonal, but  eventually  it  returned  to 
the  original  subject.  Bill  learned  a 
good  deal  of  Kit's  history  that  day, — 
of  his  mother,  dead  rather  more  than 
a  year  but  beloved  and  tenderly  re- 
vered, as  indeed  she  deserved  to  be 
seeing  that  he  owed  to  her  all  the 
better  part  of  himself, — of  the  quiet 
life  at  Bybridge,  the  red  Queen  Anne 
house  with  the  walled  garden,  the 
pleasant  homecomings  there  to  the 
widowed  mother, — the  student's  days 
at  Oxford,  the  travels  in  continental 
cities,  tales  of  times  and  sights  which 
fired  Bill's  ready  imagination  and  set 
her  gipsy  blood  aflame  to  be  free  to 
wander  and  to  see  and  learn.  In  their 
interest  in  these  tales  both  listener 
and  narrator  almost  forgot  the  graver 
matters  before  them.  But  there  were 
other  tilings,  memories  of  still  earlier 
days  which  brought  them  back,  the 
recollection  c  f  boyish  days  spent  at 
Wood  Hall,  holidays  when  the  parents 
were  abroad  and  silently  and  uncon- 
sciously there  grew  in  the  young  mind 
that  love  of  the  old  place  which  is  as 


an   entail  binding  one  generation  to 
the  next. 

Bill  listened  greedily,  forgetting  all 
about  home  and  Gilchrist  who  was 
waiting  for  her  there.  At  last,  how- 
ever, she  did  remember  and  somewhat 
hastily  departed,  feeling  that  in  this 
talk  of  the  past  they  had  rather 
neglected  considerations  of  the  future. 
Before  she  went  she  promised  she 
would  come  to  the  funeral,  partly  to 
remedy  the  omission  of  that  evening, 
and  partly  to  do  honour  to  the  old 
man  who  would  not  have  many  real 
mourners. 

In  one  respect,  however,  Bill  made 
something  of  a  mistake,  for  she  had 
that  day  without  knowing  it  helped 
Kit  Harborough  for  the  future. 
Unconsciously  she  had  preached  to 
him  the  gospel  which  was  so  com- 
pletely incorporated  into  her  own 
nature  that  she  did  not  even  know 
she  believed  it, — the  gospel  of  work  ; 
— the  delight  and  satisfaction  in  work 
for  its  own  sake  irrespective  of  kind 
or  place,  just  doing  for  the  sake  of 
doing,  and  doing  now,  not  waiting  the 
time  and  opportunity  for  a  great 
work,  but  setting  to  at  once  on  the 
nearest  thing  that  offered.  Not 
lamenting  because  the  beautiful  edifice 
of  faith  or  hope  has  tottered  and 
fallen,  but  taking,  instead,  stones 
from  the  ruin  to  build  a  shelter  while 
the  plans  for  some  greater  work  are 
maturing. 

Bill  did  not  think  these  things ; 
she  did  not  even  know  she  believed 
them  ;  only  she  unconsciously  trans- 
lated them  into  action,  and  as  uncon- 
sciously, by  her  words  and  by  her 
attitude  of  mind,  preached  them  to 
Kit. 

She  went  to  the  funeral  and  stood 
respectfully  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
group  which  gathered  in  the  little 
churchyard  in  Wood  Hall  park.  She 
did  not  attach  herself  to  the  party, 
feeling  herself  an  alien,  but  Kit,  who 

Q  2 


84 


Princess  Puck. 


as  recognised  heir  was  chief  mourner, 
saw  her  though  he  could  not  come  to 
her  till  a  good  deal  later  in  the  after- 
noon. She  had  said  she  would  wait 
for  him  among  the  beeches,  and  she 
did  wait,  for  a  time  almost  forgetting 
him  in  the  exquisite  perfection  of  the 
silent  October  wood.  When  at  last 
he  came  they  finished  the  conversa- 
tion begun  the  other  day,  and  they 
did  not  hurry  over  it  unduly.  Bill 
knew  that  Gilchrist  and  the  cousins 
would  be  angry  with  her  late  return, 
but  so  angry  that  half  an  hour  one 
way  or  the  other  would  make  no 
difference. 

Before  the  interrupted  conversation 
was  resumed  Kit  told  her  a  piece  of 
news  which  at  first  seemed  of  great 
importance  to  her,  though  afterwards 
she  was  obliged  to  agree  with  him  in 
not  attaching  too  much  value  to  it. 
It  appeared  that  old  Mr.  Harborough 
had  made  a  will  after  all,  and  by  the 
terms  of  it  Kit  would,  were  it  not  for 
the  Australian,  succeed  to  the  property 
exactly  as  he  used  to  anticipate. 

Bill  clasped  her  hands  with  excite- 
ment. "  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,"  she 
said. 

"So  am  I,  although  I  don't  think 
it  will  make  much  difference  to  the 
case." 

"You  don't?" 

He  shook  his  head  but  repeated 
that  he  was  glad,  and  there  was  a 
few  moments'  silence  before  Bill  said 
softly  :  "I  am  so  glad  you  did  not 
speak  about  the  will ;  it  has  happened 
without  your  speaking ;  you  were  right 
and  I  was  wrong." 

Kit  did  not  agree  with  her  there, 
thinking  they  had  been  of  one  mind 
on  the  subject  of  the  will ;  but  they 
did  not  discuss  the  point  at  length, 
turning  instead  to  the  consideration 
of  Kit's  future,  should  the  case  be 
decided  against  him. 

Doubtless  if  this  really  occurred 
his  friends  and  relations  would  find 


or  do  something  for  him ;  but  he  and 
Bill  planned,  curiously  though  prac- 
tically, without  considering  the  rela- 
tions at  all.  Bill's  plans  seldom 
depended  on  outside  help,  and  usually, 
however  absurd,  had  the  merit  of 
being  such  that  they  could  start 
working  at  once.  She  was  rather 
anxious  that  Kit  should  start  at  once, 
for,  as  she  said,  if  he  could  earn  any- 
thing the  money  would  be  no  dis- 
advantage should  the  case  go  in  his 
favour,  and  a  decided  advantage 
should  it  go  against  him.  The  only 
difficulty  was  to  find  anything  he 
could  do  in  his  present  circumstances 
and  with  his  modest  talents. 

"  You  could  teach,"  Bill  said  doubt- 
fully, having  but  a  poor  opinion  of 
that  refuge  of  the  destitute ;  "  with 
your  degree  you  could  get  a  master- 
ship, but  then  I  suppose  your  people 
would  not  like  it ;  besides,  it  would 
be  rather  awkward  for  other  reasons. 
You  might  get  some  translating  to 
do,  as  you  know  languages  pretty 
well.  I  believe  it  is  awfully  hard 
to  get,  and  not  well  paid ;  still  it 
would  be  better  than  nothing,  and 
if  it  is  really  so  difficult  to  get,  it 
would  be  just  as  well  to  see  after  it 
before  the  need  comes ;  you  would  be 
ready  then  if  it  did  come.  You  said 
it  might  take  as  long  as  two  years 
to  settle  about  Wood  Hall  it  In  two 
years  you  ought  to  be  able  to  get  a 
little  translating,  I  should  think." 

Kit  thought  so  too,  and  they  talked 
over  ways  and  means,  he  telling  her 
sundry  youthful  dreams,  she  listening 
with  admiring  sympathy  not  untouched 
with  practical  common-sense.  Even- 
tually he  did  make  a  start  as  she  sug- 
gested, and  finding,  as  they  feared, 
that  such  work  as  he  could  do  was 
almost  impossible  to  obtain,  he  turned, 
till  it  came,  to  one  of  the  youthful 
dreams  and  translated  some  of  the 
lesser  known  dialogues  of  Lucian  into 
sound  scholarly  English.  And  though 


Princess  Puck. 


85 


even  his  inexperience  could  not  but 
tell  him  that  the  work,  when  done, 
would  not  be  a  marketable  com- 
modity, the  doing  of  it  was  a  great 
satisfaction  to  him.  Later,  through 
the  good  offices  of  a  college  friend,  he 
got  a  German  book  on  botany  to 
translate,  and  very  uninteresting  work 
he  found  it.  Nevertheless,  because 
it  was  the  first  work  he  had  ever 
been  paid  for,  he  was  pleased  with 
it,  and  so  pleased  with  the  small  sum 
he  received  for  it  that  he  invested  the 
whole  in  a  large  crystal  of  rough 
amethyst,  remembering  how  raptu- 
rous Bill  had  been  in  her  admiration 
of  the  small  crystal  he  had  shown 
her  in  the  collection  of  such  specimens 
at  Wood  Hall.  When,  however,  it 
came  to  the  point  of  sending  his 
crystal  to  the  girl  his  courage  failed ; 
afraid  of  displeasing  her  he  put  the 
amethyst  away,  and  no  one  knew  of 
its  existence  for  a  long  time. 

CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

BUT  all  this  happened  later  and 
had  no  part  in  the  conversation  on 
that  October  afternoon.  It  must  be 
admitted,  however,  that  if  the  con- 
versation had  entirely  confined  itself 
to  plans  for  the  future,  Bill  would 
have  reached  home  earlier  than  she 
did.  Some  chance  reference  to  the 
shoe-buckles  and  the  value  Polly  put 
upon  them  brought  Peter  Harborough 
to  her  mind,  and  with  him  the  recol- 
lection of  the  grave-stone  at  Sandover 
and  its  record  of  his  tragic  death. 
Who  Peter  Harborough  was,  and  how 
he  died,  were  questions  which  per- 
plexed her  on  the  Sunday  afternoon 
when  she  saw  his  grave ;  they  re- 
turned to  her  with  redoubled  interest 
now  that  his  buckles  had  come  into 
her  possession  ;  and  she  sought  infor- 
mation of  Kit. 

He  could  tell  her  little  more  than 
that  the  man  was  the  younger 


brother  of  old  Mr.  Harborough's 
grandfather,  and  as  such  should  have 
succeeded  to  the  property  if  death 
had  not  intervened.  "  He  was  great 
friends  with  the  Corbys;  it  was 
at  Corby  Dean  he  was  shot,"  Kit 
concluded. 

"  I  know,  but  who  shot  him  1  Was 
it  one  of  the  Corbys,  or  did  he  do  it 
himself  ? " 

"  No  one  knows,  but  his  brother 
apparently  was  satisfied  that  it  watf 
all  right ;  he  asked  no  questions,  took 
the  property,  and  said  nothing." 

Bill  pondered  the  matter  for  a 
minute.  "  Which  Corby  was  it  ? " 
she  asked.  "  I  mean  with  which  one 
was  he  friendly  and  played  cards  ? 
What  relation  was  he  to  Roger  Corby, 
the  old  Squire  ? " 

"  It  was  Roger  Corby  himself,"  Kit 
told  her  ;  "  Roger,  the  last  of  them." 

"Roger  Corby,  himself,"  Bill  re- 
peated. It  was  curious  how  she 
seemed  to  stumble  upon  fragments  of 
this  man's  history.  She  tried  vainly 
to  piece  out  his  life,  but  she  had  so 
little  to  go  on.  At  length  she  said  : 
"  But  he  was  not  the  last  of  them ; 
he  had  a  granddaughter  who  out- 
lived him." 

"  She  can  hardly  be  counted." 

"  But  why  ?  I  suppose  she  could 
have  taken  the  property  if  there  was 
any,  even  if  she  did  marry  and 
change  her  name." 

"  There  was  nothing  to  take ;  in 
fact  the  old  squire  was  so  much  in 
debt  at  his  death  that,  although  they 
sold  all  that  was  left  of  the  property, 
it  was  little  more  than  enough  to 
pay  everything  off.  Of  course  there 
was  not  much  to  sell  then;  there  was 
little  about  here ;  Corby  Dean,  the 
house  near  Bybridge,  was  heavily 
mortgaged  and  nearly  tumbling 
down,  and  most  of  the  land  near 
Sandover  and  Bybridge  had  already 
been  disposed  of." 

"  You  mean  where  Sandover   now 


86 


Princess  Puck. 


stands  1  It  belongs  to  Mr.  Briant 
now,  doesn't  itl  By  the  way,  you 
must  have  been  staying  with  him  at 
Bymouth,  for  you  were  staying  at  the 
River  House  and  that  is  where  he 
lives.  Polly  found  out ;  she  always 
asks  about  the  people  who  live  in  the 
big  houses." 

Kit  said  he  had  been  staying  with 
Mr.  Briant  and  added  :  "  It  was  the 
grandfather  of  that  man  who  first  had 
the  land  from  Roger  Corby.  It  was 
not  worth  much  then,  the  present 
owner  being  the  one  who  has  de- 
veloped it  so  tremendously ;  still  even 
at  that  time  it  was  a  good  lot  for  a 
man  with  the  old  squire's  income  to 
give  to  his  steward." 

"  His  steward  ?  Was  Mr.  Brian t's 
grandfather  Roger  Corby's  steward  ? " 
"  Yes ;  steward  or  bailiff  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort ;  at  least  he  was  at 
one  time,  but  he  left  his  service  and 
went  abroad,  I  think  soon  after  Peter 
Harborough  was  shot." 

Bill  considered  the  matter  a 
moment.  "And  Roger  gave  him 
the  land  1 "  she  asked  at  length. 

"  Something  very  like  it ;  he 
granted  it  to  him  absolutely  subject 
only  to  some  nominal  rental  payable 
if  demanded,  and  that  practically 
amounts  to  a  gift,  at  least  to  the  first 
owner  if  not  to  his  children." 

"Roger  Corby  must  have  had 
some  reason,"  Bill  said  with  con- 
viction. 

Kit  agreed  with  her,  though  he 
could  not  say  for  certain  what  it  may 
have  been.  "  Briant  was  steward  at 
Corby  Dean  when  Peter  Harborough 
was  shot,"  he  said ;  "  that  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  But 
whether  he  knew  something  about  it 
and  threatened  to  speak,  or  whether 
he  did  not  know  and  only  threatened  to 
make  a  charge  which  Roger  Corby  could 
not  disprove  because  of  the  secrecy 
of  the  affair,  I  could  never  find  out. 
Of  course  it  is  all  very  long  ago  now, 


and  people  do  not  seem  to  take  much 
interest  in  such  things  as  a  rule." 

This  was  said  almost  apologetically, 
as  if  the  speaker  were  ashamed  of  his 
own  interest ;  but  he  need  not  have 
apologised  to  Bill,  who  was  herself 
more  fascinated  by  these  tales  of  the 
past  than  he  was. 

"  It  was  an  awful  lot  to  give,"  she 
said  at  last,  "but  I  suppose  he  had 
no  choice.  I  wonder  why  he  put  in 
the  nominal  rental ;  has  it  ever  been 
demanded,  do  you  know  ?  " 

"I  should  not  think  so;  there  has 
been  no  one  to  demand  it.  I  expect 
that  it  was  put  in  so  that  it  might 
be  possible  for  the  Corbys  eventually 
to  recover  the  land  at  the  end  of  the 
time  for  which  it  was  granted.  But 
it  does  not  matter  much  now,  for 
there  are  no  more  Corbys." 

"But  the  granddaughter,"  Bill 
asked,  "what  became  of  her?  Did 
she  not  marry  and  have  children  ?  " 

"  She  married  but  had  no  children  ; 
I  don't  think  anybody  knows  what 
became  of  her." 

"Did  she  run  away?"  Bill 
thought  it  just  possible,  considering 
what  was  told  of  her  childhood,  that 
this  last  of  the  Corbys  might  have 
run  away  if  her  fate  demanded  that 
solution  of  a  difficulty. 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  Kit  said;  "she 
ran  away  from  her  husband.  I  don't 
know  the  name  of  the  man  she  went 
with,  but  they  say  she  was  never 
very  fond  of  her  husband,  and  I 
should  think  she  must  have  been 
rather  difficult  to  deal  with  ;  my  uncle 
knew  her,  and  he  always  spoke  as  if 
she  were.  The  man  she  married  was 
younger  than  she,  a  clergyman — but 
you  know  him,  I  expect  you  know 
all  this ;  at  least  you  must  have 
heard  something  of  Mr.  Dane's  wife  1 " 
"  Mr.  Dane  !  "  Bill  exclaimed,  her 
eyes  growing  wide,  "  Was  she  his 
wife  1  His  wife — and  he  would  have 
loved  her  so  !  Oh,  Monseigneur,  poor 


Princess  Puck. 


87 


Monseigneur ! "  and  her  voice  took 
the  almost  tender  wail  of  a  primi- 
tive woman  who  mourns  her  loved 
ones. 

"  Did  you  not  know  1 "  Kit  asked, 
trying  to  remember  if  she  had  ex- 
pressed pity  for  his  troubles  in  that 
tone. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  knew  he 
had  been  married,"  she  said,  "  though 
people  at  Ashelton  usually  speak  as  if 
he  had  not ;  perhaps  they  don't  know. 
He  never  speaks  about  his  wife,  so 
I  thought  she  must  have  died  very 
long  ago." 

"  She  did,  or  rather  she  left  him 
long  ago,  forty  years  or  more.  I  am 
surprised  you  did  not  know,  though 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  people 
about  here  hardly  would  ;  it  did  not 
happen  here,  and  Mr.  Dane  did  not 
come  to  Ashelton  till  some  time  after- 
wards. Wilhelmina  Corby  had  not 
lived  here  since  she  was  quite  a 
young  girl,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
connect  Mr.  Dane  with  her  in  people's 
minds." 

"  Was  her  name  Wilhelmina  1  Then 
I  wonder  he  puts  up  with  me  !  I  am 
Wilhelmina;  he  ought  to  hate  me. 
He  ought  to  do  that  for  several 
things  ;  I  asked  him  something  yes- 
terday I  would  never  have  asked  had 
I  known  this." 

"What  was  it?  Will  you  tell 
me?" 

Bill  hesitated  a  moment  before  she 
said  :  "  Yes,  if  you  like.  I  asked 
him  what  he  did  when  things  went 
utterly  wrong  with  his  life,  when" — 
the  girl's  tone  had  taken  a  passionate 
ring  as  if  the  occasion  were  not  en- 
tirely impersonal  —  "  when  he  felt 
like  Job's  wife  and  wanted  to  curse 
God  and  die  because  things  were  so 
hopelessly,  incurably  wrong." 

"  Why  did  you  ask  1 " 

The  words  were  uttered  almost 
before  Kit  knew  what  he  said. 
When  they  were  once  spoken,  he 


would  sooner  have  bitten  his  tongue 
through  than  that  they  should  have 
been  said. 

She  sat  silent  for  a  long  moment 
pulling  the  fern  to  pieces  in  her 
hands ;  when  at  last  she  did  speak 
it  was  to  repeat  to  him,  with  a  curious 
quietness,  Mr.  Dane's  words  to  herself. 

"  He  said,"  so  she  told  him,  " '  on 
such  a  day  as  you  speak  of  I  shut 
a  door  in  my  mind  and  went  away 
without  speaking  or  looking  back; 
afterwards  I  played  cricket  at  the 
school-treat,  and  I  think  I  played  as 
well  as  usual.'  " 

That  was  all  she  said ;  after  she 
had  spoken  there  was  a  great  silence 
in  the  yellow  wood,  except  when  the 
beech-nuts  fell  pattering  on  the  dead 
leaves,  and  the  robins,  the  year's 
grandchildren,  sang  shrill  and  sweet 
in  the  branches. 

At  last  she  spoke  again,  scarcely 
above  a  whisper  now  :  "  I  think  I  am 
going  to  try  to  do  that." 

Kit  turned  and  faced  her;  there 
was  a  faint  flush  on  his  cheek,  but 
his  eyes  met  hers  unflinchingly — 
"  And  I  too,"  he  said ;  and  then 
they  walked  on  in  silence. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IT  is  an  old  saying,  and  doubtless 
a  good  one,  that  two  is  company  and 
three  none;  yet  the  presence  of  a 
third  person  who  stands  somewhat 
apart  from  the  other  two  is  fre- 
quently a  great  assistance  to  domestic 
happiness  and  a  great  preventive  of 
domestic  friction.  Polly  took  Bill  to 
London  during  the  first  week  in 
October  and  Theresa  missed  her  at 
every  turn.  There  was  no  one  to 
play  bezique  with  Robert  in  the  long 
dull  evenings;  Theresa  hated  cards, 
and  though  she  tried  to  play  from  a 
sense  of  duty  her  skill  was  so  small 
that  her  efforts  were  a  failure.  There 
was  no  one  to  talk  and  amuse  him 


88 


Princess  Puck. 


when  he  came  in  at  odd  times ; 
Theresa  was  somewhat  silent  by 
nature,  and  she  did  not  seem  to  have 
grasped  the  details  of  his  work.  She 
could  not  remember  the  points  of  his 
horses  or  the  names  of  his  dogs  ;  it 
all  came  natural  to  Bill  who,  Theresa 
reflected,  had  less  on  her  mind  and 
so  of  course  might  be  expected  to 
remember  better.  She  missed  the 
girl  herself,  too,  in  the  dairy  and 
store-room,  in  the  house  and  orchard 
and  garden.  She  missed  her  when 
the  late  apples  fell,  and  when  the 
dead  leaves  gathered  thick  in  the 
garden:  she  missed  the  all-pervading 
sunshine  of  her  nature,  and  she 
missed  the  regular  visits  Gilchrist  Har- 
borough  used  to  pay  on  Bill's  account. 

Of  course  she  had  nothing  but  the 
most  impersonal  interest  in  Gilchrist, 
— no  one,  not  even  Polly  had  sug- 
gested otherwise,  though  Theresa 
flushed  as  she  remembered  what  Polly 
had  suggested — still  it  was  pleasanter 
when  he  used  to  come.  If  Bill  had 
been  here  he  would  have  come  to- 
night ;  it  was  one  of  his  evenings. 
Robert  had  gone  to  a  political  meet- 
ing at  Wrugglesby  and  would  not  be 
home  till  late,  and  Theresa  sighed  a 
little,  to  think  of  the  weary  number 
of  hours  before  her.  She  wondered  a 
little,  over  her  sewing,  if  Gilchrist  had 
gone  too. 

But  Gilchrist  had  not  gone  to  the 
political  meeting;  he  did  not  even 
know  Robert  had  gone,  for  he  came 
to  Hay  lands  that  evening  to  speak 
to  him,  and  finding  he  was  not  at 
home,  came  in  to  leave  a  message  with 
Theresa.  She  was  sincerely  glad  to 
see  him,  and  he,  to  judge  from  his 
manner,  was  sincerely  glad  to  be  there 
again.  To  tell  the  truth  he  too  missed 
those  pleasant  evenings  at  Haylands, 
the  refinement  and  indescribable 
femininity  of  the  house  appealing  to 
him  in  a  way  that  surprised  even 
himself. 


"One  needs  a  woman  about  a 
place,"  he  reflected  that  evening  when 
he  went  once  more  to  the  house  and 
found  that  though  Bill  was  gone,  the 
femininity  remained, — flowers,  needle- 
work, delicate  womanly  atmosphere, 
all  as  before,  all  as  attractive.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  he  did  not 
expect  otherwise,  for  to  him  Bill  did 
not  suggest  such  things;  she  could 
arrange  flowers  as  well  as  grow  them, 
and  she  often  sat  at  needlework  when 
he  saw  her,  sewing  very  strongly,  very 
intently ;  yet  to  him  there  was  some- 
thing unfeminine  in  the  very  energy 
with  which  she  did  the  smallest 
things.  Theresa, — he  did  not  think 
much  about  Theresa,  except  to  decide 
that  it  was  an  advantage  to  be  sure 
what  a  woman  meant,  and  sometimes 
what  she  thought,  advantages  he  did 
not  feel  he  possessed  with  regard  to 
Bill. 

She,  it  is  true,  had  been  surprisingly 
docile  of  late,  but  her  docility  was 
flat  and  uninteresting,  and  there  was 
besides  an  uneasy  feeling  in  Gilchrist's 
mind  that  he  did  not  know  what  lay 
behind.  He  did  not  feel  that  he  had 
grasped  Bill  at  all.  He  had  been  ex- 
ceedingly angry  on  the  occasion  of  Mr. 
Harborough's  funeral,  and  there  had 
followed  an  interview  with  Bill  which 
should  have  been  stormy.  It  was  not, 
however ;  Bill  was  truly  sorry  for 
having  annoyed  him  so  much,  con- 
fessed her  sins,  and  promised  more 
respect  for  his  wishes  in  future.  She 
was  honestly  trying  to  do  her  duty 
now,  and  to  behave  in  the  way  she 
ought.  Gilchrist  did  not  altogether 
believe  in  her  repentance,  which  was 
perhaps  not  unnatural ;  and  when  she 
confessed  herself  wrong,  he  agreed 
with  her  and  accepted  her  self-accusa- 
tions as  a  matter  of  course.  It  is 
sometimes  a  pity  to  accept  another's 
self-accusations  so  readily ;  just  it 
may  be,  but  it  is  not  always  encourag- 
ing. Fortunately  it  mattered  less  to 


Princess  Puck. 


89 


Bill  than  to  most  people  and  peace 
was  patched  up  between  them,  though 
things  were  not  perhaps  in  the  most 
satisfactory  state  when  she  left  for 
London.  Had  the  engagement  not 
rested  on  something  more  reliable 
than  mutual  affection  it  would  hardly 
have  been  wise  of  Polly  to  take  the 
girl  to  London,  for  in  spite  of  her 
faults,  she  had  a  species  of  fascina- 
tion for  Gilchrist  when  she  was  pre- 
sent, and  when  she  was  absent  there 
was  Theresa  to  consider. 

However,  about  that  time  Gil- 
christ did  not  give  much  attention  to 
either  Theresa  or  Bill,  for  the  opening 
of  the  Harborough  lawsuit  occupied 
most  of  his  thoughts.  It  also  occu- 
pied the  thoughts  of  his  neighbours, 
and  was  looked  upon  as  a  matter  of 
tremendous  local  interest;  Ashelton 
even  split  into  factions  over  the  ques- 
tion of  the  justice  or  injustice  of  the 
claim,  of  which,  in  fact,  very  little 
was  generally  known.  Mr.  Stevens 
was  much  pressed  for  information,  or 
at  least  for  his  opinion  as  to  the 
probable  issue,  but  though  he  had 
no  professional  connection  with  either 
party  he  maintained  a  discreet  silence. 
He  once  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  a 
lot  of  good  money  would  be  wasted 
by  two  young  men  who  could  ill 
afford  it,  and  that  without  knowing 
a  great  deal  more  than  he  now  knew 
he  should  be  sorry  to  bet  on  either. 
This  discreet  opinion  was  more 
moderate  than  those  held  by  most  of 
his  neighbours. 

Theresa  knew  little  more  than  the 
rest  of  the  village  on  the  great  sub- 
ject of  the  Harborough  claim,  for 
Gilchrist  had  not  had  time  to  explain 
it  to  her  since  the  case  opened,  and 
before  that  time  he  had  thought  it 
wiser  to  keep  silence  even  with 
members  of  Bill's  family. 

"Not  that  I  minded  you  knowing," 
he  said  to  Theresa  the  night  Robert 
went  to  the  political  meeting.  "  I  had 


not  the  least  objection  to  that,  only  I 
was  afraid  if  Bill  told  you  she  would 
also  tell  Miss  Haines,  and  she,  you 
know,  is  perhaps  not  quite  so  discreet. 
I  am  sure  she  would  not  mean  to 
betray  a  confidence,  but  she  talks  a 
good  deal,  and  people  who  do  that 
often  say  more  than  they  intend." 

In  this  he  scarcely  did  Polly  jus- 
tice, for  though  she  might  betray  a 
secret  it  was  not  by  accident  nor 
through  foolishness.  But  Theresa 
said  she  understood,  and  led  him  to 
talk  of  his  chances  of  success.  He 
was  very  cautious  and  would  not 
commit  himself  at  all,  but  she  per- 
sisted in  speaking  as  if  a  favourable 
issue  were  certain. 

"Fancy  little  Bill  mistress  of  such 
a  place  as  Wood  Hall ! "  she  said, 
when  at  last  she  had  in  her  own 
mind  brought  all  to  a  satisfactory 
conclusion.  She  was  evidently  de- 
lighted with  the  idea,  but  this  par- 
ticular side  of  the  termination  was 
exactly  what  Gilchrist  did  not  fancy ; 
however,  he  only  replied  to  Theresa 
by  saying  with  a  smile :  "  Things 
have  not  quite  reached  that  point 
yet,  and  I  almost  doubt  if  Bill  ex- 
pects them  to  do  so  ;  she  hardly 
seems  to  quite  realise  what  the  posi- 
tion would  be  if  they  did." 

"  I  expect  not.  She  little  thought 
when  once  or  twice  she  went  to  see 
old  Mr.  Harborough  that  she  herself 
might  one  day  live  at  Wood  Hall. 
It  will  take  her  a  long  time  to  get 
used  to  the  idea ;  she  is  such  a  child." 

That  was  not  her  worst  complaint 
in  Gilchrist's  eyes,  but  he  only  said, 
"  Time  will  cure  that." 

It  was  just  then  that  there  came 
the  sound  of  a  stumble  in  the  passage. 
Theresa  started  from  her  chair.  "I 
did  not  hear  Robert's  horse,"  she 
exclaimed.  "I — you — I'm  afraid — " 

Gilchrist  had  heard  that  heavy 
stumble,  that  muttered  oath  before; 
he  had  reached  the  door  as  soon  as 


90 


Princess  Puck. 


she  and  put  out  his  hand  to  open  it 
first. 

"  I  am  afraid  Robert  is  not  well ;  " 
she  faced  him  unflinchingly  with  the 
lie.  "  Will  you  excuse  me  ?  I  must 
go  to  him — good-night ;  "  and  she 
passed  out  leaving  him  alone. 

Bill  had  been  right ;  she  had  found 
him  out,  and  she  stood  between  him 
and  all  the  world,  hiding  his  fall 
with  her  pitiful  little  pretence.  And 
he — Gilchrist  ground  his  teeth  in 
impotent  rage  as  he  walked  home 
through  the  darkness  that  night — 
what  was  he  to  receive  such  loyalty, 
such  service  ! 

It  was  perhaps  fortunate  for  Gil- 
christ Harborough  that  he  had  a 
good  deal  to  think  of  just  now ;  the 
lawsuit  absorbed  a  large  proportion 
of  his  time  and  interests,  and  it  was 
just  as  well  that  it  did,  for,  although 
it  prevented  him  from  paying  much 
attention  to  Bill,  it  also  prevented 
him  from  paying  much  to  other  sub- 
jects which  were  better  let  alone. 
After  the  evening  when  he  saw 
Theresa  he  devoted  himself  more 
assiduously  than  ever  to  the  matter 
of  the  suit,  and  so  really  absorbing 
did  he  find  it  that,  though  he  was 
in  town  pretty  often  that  autumn, 
he  was  not  once  able  to  spare  an 
hour  to  go  to  Bayswater  to  see  Bill. 
However,  about  the  beginning  of 
December  he  fancied  he  should  be 
able  to  manage  it,  and  wrote  to  tell 
her  that  he  hoped  to  come. 

Bill  and  Polly  had  been  well 
established  now  for  some  time,  for 
they  did  not  take  long  settling  down, 
though  the  process  had  not  been  all 
that  Polly  had  anticipated.  If  the 
truth  must  be  known,  her  position 
now  was  not  altogether  unlike  that 
of  the  old  magician  who,  having 
raised  a  spirit  to  help  him  in  his 
schemes,  finds  the  obliging  goblin  to 
be  of  such  unexpected  magnitude 
that  it  proves  not  only  embarrassing 


but  likely  to  constitute  itself  master 
instead  of  servant.  Polly's  spirit, 
very  obliging,  very  hard-working  and 
even-tempered,  presented  one  serious 
drawback, — it  would  rule.  It  was 
useless  for  Polly  to  attempt  any  of 
the  little  shifts  dear  to  her  heart; 
Bill,  who  knew  her,  was  equal  to 
them  all,  and  forestalled  her  in  the 
pleasantest  but  completest  way  pos- 
sible. Once  or  twice  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  partnership  Polly 
threatened  to  turn  her  all  too  active 
partner  out,  but  she  never  did  it. 
Probably  she  never  seriously  thought 
of  it,  for  Bill  was  very  useful ;  there 
was  no  need  to  employ  a  girl  with 
Bill  in  the  house,  no  need  to  have 
either  a  boot-boy  or  a  charwoman  ; 
no  need  for  Polly  herself  to  do  more 
than  a  very  moderate  share  of  the 
work.  Bill  also  got  on  well  with  the 
lodgers  and  with  the  tradespeople, 
and,  when  once  they  two  had  got 
to  understand  their  relative  positions, 
excellently  well  with  Polly  herself. 

Bill  had  altered  in  several  ways 
besides  in  this  development  of  the 
ruling  spirit.  Polly  found  her  quieter 
than  she  used  to  be,  on  the  whole 
more  a  woman  and  less  a  child, 
though  she  occasionally  lapsed  into 
her  old  ways.  She  had  shut  a  door 
in  her  mind,  and  was  trying  hard  to 
do  well  the  thing  which  came  next. 
It  was  easy  enough  when  it  was 
housework  or  cooking ;  she  did  them 
to  the  best  of  her  ability,  too  well,  in 
fact,  according  to  Polly,  who  was  no 
advocate  for  superfluous  thoroughness. 
But  there  were  other  things  she  tried 
to  do  which  were  not  easy ;  she  was 
trying  in  somewhat  adverse  circum- 
stances to  be  more  of  a  lady,  more 
like  Theresa  to  please  Gilchrist,  more 
like  the  gentlewoman  of  Mr.  Dane's 
definition  to  please  herself. 

On  the  whole  the  cousins  lived 
happily  and  let  their  rooms  with  a 
fair  amount  of  success.  Polly's  lot 


Princess  Puck. 


91 


was  occasionally  brightened  by  a 
hamper  from  Haylands,  occasionally 
also  shaded  by  the  loss  of  a  paying 
lodger  or  the  all  too  previous  depar- 
ture of  one  who  had  not  paid.  But 
in  the  beginning  of  December  when 
Gilchrist  came  to  town  things  were 
not  very  prosperous ;  the  rooms  had 
been  empty  some  time,  the  cold 
weather  had  set  in  early,  and  the 
fog,  which  preceded  and  sometimes 
accompanied  the  frost,  was  both  de- 
pressing and  likely  to  be  expensive 
in  gas.  Polly  economised  in  candle- 
ends,  bemoaning  her  fate,  and  then 
indulged  in  buttered  muffins  "  to 
cheer  us  up."  It  was  on  the  occasion 
of  the  muffins  that  Bill  received 
Gilchrist's  letter. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  is  going  home 
again  the  same  night,"  Polly  specu- 
lated. "  He  had  much  better  stay 
here, — there  is  plenty  of  room.  I 
shall  ask  him  ;  it  will  be  more  correct 
for  me  to  do  it  than  for  you." 

Bill  did  not  know  why  it  was  more 
correct,  but  knowing  Polly  liked  these 
small  details  she  raised  no  objection, 
and  in  due  time  the  invitation  was 
given  and  accepted.  Polly  was  much 
pleased,  being  genuinely  hospitable 
and  moreover  very  proud  of  her 
dingy  little  house  ;  she  also  thought 
a  great  deal  of  Gilchrist  since  the 
matter  of  Wood  Hall  had  come  to 
her  knowledge,  and  she  prepared  for 
his  reception  accordingly.  The  best 
bed-room  was  made  ready,  the  best 
sitting-room  set  in  order.  Bill  did 
most  of  that,  but  Polly,  with  an  eye 
to  effect,  brought  their  work-baskets 
and  books  from  the  kitchen,  where 
they  were  usually  kept. 

"We  must  make  it  look  as  if  we 
sat  here  always,"  she  said,  as  she 
put  a  reel  of  cotton  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

"  Then  we  must  bring  the  cat," 
Bill  replied,  "  for  he  always  sits  with 
us.  But  it  is  rather  nonsense ;  why 


should  not  Gilchrist  know  we  live  in 
the  kitchen?  He  knows  that  some- 
body must  do  the  work,  and  he  won't 
think  the  worse  of  us  for  doing  it." 

But  Polly  thought  otherwise.  "  It 
was  different  when  he  was  only  a 
working  farmer,"  she  said.  "Now, 
since  all  this  about  Wood  Hall  has 
happened,  he  won't  look  at  it  in  quite 
the  same  way." 

"I  don't  see  any  reason  for  pre- 
tending, when  he  knows  that  we 
work." 

"He  knows  it  in  a  general  way, 
but  it  is  one  thing  to  know  it  and 
quite  another  to  see  it  being  done." 

With  which  incontestable  opinion 
Polly  closed  her  remarks  and  carried 
her  point,  and  when  Gilchrist  came 
soon  after  six  o'clock  the  best  sitting- 
room  looked  as  snug  as  though  it 
were  the  family's  habitual  living-room. 
Bill  had  on  her  best  frock  and  her 
best  manners,  and  everything  was  as 
pleasant  as  possible.  Polly  was  de- 
lighted ;  she  had  been  a  little  afraid 
that  Gilchrist,  in  his  position  of 
claimant  to  the  Wood  Hall  estate, 
might  wish  to  make  a  more  advan- 
tageous marriage  than  the  one  in 
prospect.  She  was  very  much  afraid 
that  he  might  use  the  private  and  not 
very  binding  nature  of  the  engage- 
ment as  an  excuse  to  repudiate  it,  or 
to  induce  Bill  to  release  him.  But 
on  that  December  evening  she  was 
perfectly  satisfied,  he  and  Bill  evi- 
dently understanding  one  another, 
and  Bill  behaving  beautifully ;  she 
was  so  gentle  and  submissive,  she 
might  almost  have  been  anybody. 

Polly,  in  spite  of  her  low  financial 
ebb,  had  prepared  what  she  called  a 
"  tasty  supper "  in  honour  of  the 
guest.  It  was  not  altogether  unlike 
her  millinery — an  ingenious  makeshift 
finished  off  with  a  few  new  trimmings, 
but  it  was  undeniably  successful. 
She  was  very  gratified  by  its  success 
and  by  things  in  general,  and  it  was 


92 


Princess  Puck. 


with  a  cheerful  countenance  that  she 
withdrew  after  the  meal. 

"  I  know  you  must  have  a  lot  to 
talk  about,"  she  said,  beaming  upon 
the  other  two  ;  "  and  as  I  have  some 
letters  to  write,  I  think  I  will  go  and 
do  them  down-stairs." 

So  she  went,  though  the  letters 
resolved  themselves  into  the  supper- 
things  which  she  washed,  while  up- 
stairs Gilchrist  told  Bill  all  about 
Wood  Hall  and  the  progress  of  the 
case,  which  was  not  rapid,  and  his 
opinion  of  the  rival  claimant,  which 
was  not  enthusiastic.  Bill  listened 
and  answered  as  sympathetically  as 
she  could,  though  it  is  possible  she 
would  rather  have  been  washing 
dishes  in  the  kitchen.  Still  she  did 
her  share  in  the  conversation  admi- 
rably, and  when  they  spoke  of  things 
other  than  those  concerning  Wood 
Hall  she  was  really  splendid  in  her 
efforts  to  be  like  Theresa.  Neverthe- 
less Gilchrist  did  not  commend  her 
improvement ;  perhaps  he  was  not 
satisfied  with  it,  nor  with  the  sub- 
missive girl  who  was  trying  so  hard 
to  please  him. 

Bill  felt  the  failure  when  she  went 
to  bed  that  night.  "  I  expect  it  did 
not  ring  true,"  she  thought ;  "  I  must 
try  to  feel  like  Theresa  as  well  as 
behave  like  her.  I'll  do  it  in  time; 
I  believe  I  could  be  anything  if  I 
tried  long  enough."  And  so  she  fell 
asleep,  resolutely  trying  to  school 
herself  to  what  she  conceived  to  be 
Theresa's  attitude  of  mind.  She  woke 
next  morning  with  the  same  thought 
uppermost  and  continued  her  practice 
of  what  she  called  "  Theresaing  "  her 
mind  while  she  cleaned  the  guest's 
boots  in  the  basement. 

CHAPTER   XXX. 

AT  breakfast  that  morning  Gil- 
christ said  he  should  not  leave  for 
Wrugglesby  until  the  six  o'clock  train. 


Bill  felt  a  pleasurable  expectancy ; 
perhaps  he  would  suggest  that  they 
two  should  go  for  a  walk  somewhere ; 
she  knew  where  they  would  go,  the 
British  Museum  was  free  to  all  comers 
and  they  would  go  there  and  look  at 
all  the  mummies.  There  was  so  little 
work  to  do  now,  Polly  would  not 
mind,  and  it  would  be  very  nice. 

Gilchrist  said  he  had  business 
which  would  occupy  him  during  the 
morning.  That  was  natural,  but  the 
afternoon — Polly  supposed,  with  an 
affable  smile,  that  he  "  would  want 
her  to  spare  Bill  part  of  the  after- 
noon." But  Gilchrist,  looking  out 
of  the  window,  said  it  did  not  pro- 
mise to  be  a  very  nice  day,  adding 
that  he  probably  would  not  be  back 
before  four  when  it  would  be  quite 
dark. 

"Just  as  if  it  is  not  possible  to 
go  out  after  dark  and  enjoy  it  too  !  " 
Polly  observed  indignantly  later  on 
in  the  day.  The  cousins  were  clear- 
ing up  after  their  mid-day  dinner  and 
Polly  slammed  the  plates  into  the 
rack  in  a  dangerous  manner  as  she 
spoke,  her  .disgust  with  Gilchrist  hav- 
ing been  simmering  all  the  morning. 

But  Bill  hardly  glanced  round.  "  I 
don't  care,"  she  said  indifferently ;  "  I 
did  not  want  to  go  so  very  much." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  ! "  Polly  snorted 
indignantly.  "  He  ought  to  have 
taken  you  all  the  same ;  I  don't  think 
it  is  at  all  nice  behaviour  on  his  part. 
He  has  not  brought  you  a  present  or 
anything,  in  spite  of  all  his  fuss  about 
Wood  Hall." 

"  I  don't  want  presents.  He  is  no 
richer  than  he  was,  and  he  has  no 
time  to  think  of  it,  and — and — I 
don't  want  things." 

Bill's  face  was  rosy  and  her  tone 
hurt,  but  Polly  went  on  volubly : 
"  Look  at  Jack  Dawson ;  besides  a 
lovely  engagement-ring  (which  you 
have  not  got  through  Theresa's  non- 
sense) he  has  given  Bella — " 


Princess    Puck. 


93 


"I  tell  you,  Polly,  I  don't  want 
pi-esents ;  I  won't  have  you  say  any 
more  about  it  !  " 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  I  can  quite 
understand  you  don't  like  to  have  it 
mentioned,  but  I  must  say  I  don't 
think  it  is  at  all  nice  of  him.  You 
haven't  cost  him  much,  in  fact  nothing 
at  all ;  I  suppose  he  thought,  as  he 
could  have  you  for  the  asking,  he 
need  not  trouble,  but  it  isn't  very 
flattering.  I  do  think  he  might  have 
taken  you  out  —  might  have  taken 
us  both  out — after  all  the  trouble 
we  have  had  too,  that  lovely  supper 
last  night,  and  fried  bacon  for  break- 
fast this  morning,  and  all." 

Bill  laughed.  "  A  truly  commer- 
cial mind  ! "  she  said.  "  But  per- 
haps Gilchrist  will  leave  a  tip  for 
our  invisible  servant  ;  if  so,  you 
could  take  that  in  payment  for  the 
supper." 

But  Polly  was  much  annoyed  with 
the  guest,  more  than  was  just,  for 
the  man  was  really  too  busy  to  think 
of  anything  at  present,  and  he  cer- 
tainly had  not  intended  to  slight  or 
wound  either  of  the  cousins.  Never- 
theless he  had  wounded  Polly's  pride ; 
as  for  Bill,  no  one  knew  what  she 
thought,  for  which  reason,  if  for  no 
other,  Polly  reflected  that  she  had 
done  very  -foolishly  to  speak  as  she 
had  done.  She  was  herself  dressing 
to  go  out  now  because  she  "felt  so 
upset  that  she  could  not  stay  in." 
While  she  dressed  she  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  she  had  been  most 
indiscreet,  for  if  it  were  true  that 
Gilchrist  had  been  neglectful  it  was 
her  place  to  pour  balm  on  Bill's 
wounds,  not  to  point  out  Gilchrist's 
misdemeanours.  She  had  certainly 
been  foolish,  and  accordingly,  before 
going  out,  she  went  to  the  kitchen 
and  apologised  for  what  she  had 
said. 

11 1  didn't  mean  anything,"  she  ex- 
plained.    "  I    was    annoyed    by    that 


butcher  sending  in  his  bill  as  he  did, 
and  I  was  put  out  and  cross  alto- 
gether. Of  course  I  would  not  say 
a  word  against  Gilchrist.  You  know 
what  a  lot  I  think  of  him  ;  he's  worth 
twenty  of  Jack  Dawson ;  nobody 
would  expect  him  to  waste  his  money 
on  silly  presents." 

Bill  said  it  was  "  all  right,"  and 
Polly  went  out  leaving  her  young 
cousin  cleaning  the  kitchen-hearth. 
And  possibly  it  would  have  been  .all 
right  but  for  what  followed.  Bill 
had  not  thought  of  receiving  presents 
from  Gilchrist,  nor  yet  of  going  out 
with  him  ;  she  did  not  expect  either, 
and  though  she  was  disappointed 
about  the  mummies,  she  did  not  re- 
gard his  actions  as  an  index  of  his 
affections. 

It  was  when  she  had  almost  finished 
the  hearth  that  there  came  a  ring  at 
the  front  door.  It  was  not  much 
after  three  yet,  and  Polly  had  said 
she  would  be  home  at  half-past  so  as 
to  be  ready  by  the  time  Gilchrist 
returned  at  four.  Bill  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  must  be  the  baker 
who  rang,  and,  since  the  summons 
sounded  peremptory,  she  went  up- 
stairs without  waiting  to  take  off 
the  sacking  apron  she  had  put  on 
for  cleaning  the  hearth.  She  wore 
her  oldest  frock,  which  she  had  put 
on  as  soon  as  their  visitor  went  out ; 
it  was  short  as  well  as  old,  and  her  dis- 
reputable shoes  showed  well  below  it. 
It  was  not  wonderful  that  Gilchrist 
looked  at  her  blankly  for  a  moment 
when  she  opened  the  door  to  him  and 
his  friend  Ferguson.  Only  for  a  mo- 
ment he  looked,  and  then  Bill,  with- 
drawing herself  behind  the  door  after 
the  manner  of  maids-of-all-work,  spoke  : 
"  Miss  'Ains  is  out,"  she  said ;  "  but 
walk  in,  won't  yer,  sir  ?  " 

Gilchrist  walked  in,  half  paused, 
and  then  went  on  without  speaking. 
It  was  impossible  to  present  her  to 
Ferguson  as  his  future  wife,  more 


94 


Princess  Puck. 


especially  impossible  in  the  light  of 
her  stupidly  unrecognising  look ;  she 
herself  made  the  introduction  im- 
possible by  the  very  perfection  with 
which  she  had  assumed  her  part. 
So  the  introduction  was  not  made, 
and  the  two  men  went  up  to  the 
sitting-room  to  examine  a  document 
Gilchrist  had  left  there,  while  Bill, 
with  a  clatter  of  ill-shod  feet,  went 
back  to  the  kitchen. 

By-and-bye  the  street  door  was 
closed,  and  soon  after,  the  work 
being  done,  Bill  went  up-stairs  to 
change  her  dress.  She  thought  Gil- 
christ had  gone  out  without  his 
friend,  but  she  was  mistaken.  As 
she  passed  the  half  open  door  of 
the  sitting-room  she  saw  him  stand- 
ing before  the  fireplace,  where,  for 
economy's  sake,  the  fire  had  been 
allowed  to  go  out  after  he  had  left 
that  morning.  Bill  paused ;  Polly 
had  told  her  to  re-light  the  fire  be- 
fore half-past  three.  It  must  be 
done  ;  moreover,  she  in  her  own 
character  never  hesitated  about  go- 
ing through  with  any  difficulty  into 
which  she  might  have  blundered ; 
in  the  character  of  Theresa  it  was 
impossible  to  know  how  to  act, 
for  Theresa  never  got  into  these  diffi- 
culties. Consequently  the  character 
of  Theresa  was  forgotten,  and  it  was 
the  original  Bill  who  walked  into  the 
room  with  genuine  regret  for  what 
had  occurred,  but  not  entirely  with- 
out a  little  amusement  too. 

"  I'll  light  the  fire,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing back  the  hearth-rug  before  she 
knelt  down  and  beginning  to  arrange 
paper  in  the  grate.  "I  am  very 
sorry,  Gilchrist,"  she  went  on  peni- 
tently as  she  glanced  up  at  the  young 
man's  gloomy  face.  "  I  never  ex- 
pected you  back  so  early ;  I  thought 
it  was  the  baker." 

"  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  going  to 
the  baker  like  that  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sometimes,  if  I  am  in  a 


hurry  or  he  is.  I  thought  the  ring 
sounded  like  a  hurry.  I  really  am 
sorry,  but  Mr.  Ferguson  didn't  know 
me,  so  there's  not  much  harm  done." 

"  I  think  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
harm  done."  Gilchrist's  face  did  not 
relax.  "  Don't  trouble  about  the  fire 
just  now,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Tell 
me,  is  it  necessary  for  you  to  get  in 
this  condition  1 " 

Bill  obediently  left  laying  the  fire 
and  answered  apologetically  :  "I  am 
afraid  I  am  a  dirty  worker." 

"  But  surely  it  is  hardly  necessary 
to  do  this  work.  What  have  you 
been  doing  ?  What  do  you  do  1 " 

"  I  was  cleaning  the  kitchen-stove 
when  you  rang,"  Bill  answered 
meekly,  though  something  in  the 
masterfulness  of  his  tone  was  rousing 
the  old  Bill  whom  it  was  not  easy 
to  drive.  "Perhaps,"  she  went  on 
with  a  spark  of  fun  in  her  eyes,  "  it 
was  hardly  necessary  to  do  the  stove, 
but  I  don't  know  ;  it  is  a  point  open 
to  discussion ;  the  same  with  the 
knives  which  I  have  cleaned  since; 
but  your  boots,  which  I  did  earlier  in 
the  day,  really  were  necessary,  don't 
you  think  so  ? " 

"  Did  you  clean  my  boots  ? " 

"  I  cleaned  your  honour's  noble 
boots,"  and  she  swept  him  a  courtesy 
and  then  looked  up  with  a  dawning 
smile. 

But  he  did  not  smile.  "  You 
ought  not  to  have  done  it,"  he  said. 

"Why?     I  did  not  mind." 

"  I  mind." 

Yet  his  tone  somehow  told  her  that 
he  minded  because  she  was  his  future 
wife  and  the  possible  mistress  of 
Wood  Hall,  rather  than  because  she 
was  herself. 

"  I  told  you  I  should  be  a  general 
servant,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber that  night  we  went  to  the  Dawsons 
and  Miss  Dawson  was  so  contemp- 
tuous 1"  and  she  set  her  mobile  face 
into  Miss  Dawson's  supercilious  stare. 


Princess  Puck. 


95 


But  Gilchrist  did  not  seem  pleased 
by  the  recollection,  and  the  imp  in 
Bill  getting  the  upper  hand,  she  went 
on  somewhat  recklessly.  "  Well,  I 
am  a  general  servant  now,  though 
not  a  very  good  one.  What  a  queer 
little  slavey  you've  got  here,  Har- 
borough,"  and  her  change  of  tone 
made  the  man  start  and  for  a  moment 
almost  think  Ferguson  was  back. 
"  Who  the  devil  is  she  ?  I  believe 
I  know  her  face — by  Jove,  she's  like 
the  plum  girl  I  met  near  your  place 
last  summer.  But  I  don't  think 
Gilchrist  told  her  name." 

"  No " — his  tone  was  cold  with 
suppressed  anger — "  I  did  not  tell 
your  name ;  I  was  not  exactly  proud 
of  my  future  wife." 

The  smile  died  out  of  her  face.  "  I 
am  very  sorry,"  she  said  penitently, 
and  the  penitence  was  genuine,  but 
Gilchrist  was  not  mollified. 

"  You  do  not  show  it,"  he  said  ; 
"mimicking  my  friends  and  making 
fun  of  what  you  have  done  hardly 
suggests  regret.  I  think  in  the  cir- 
cumstances it  were  as  well  if  we  said 
no  more  about  it.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  go  and  change  your  dress ; 
talking  will  not  make  matters  any 
better." 

She  began  to  move  towards  the 
door  humbled  by  his  words,  but  half 
turned  before  she  opened  it.  "  Are 
matters  very  bad?"  she  asked  wistfully. 

"  Can  you  think  them  very  good  1 
Do  you  think  your  life,  or  ways,  or, 
— or  anything  at  all  fitting  to  the 
position  you  may  have  to  occupy  ?  I 
don't  mean  to  blame  you,  but  things 
do  not  promise  to  be  quite  the  same 
as  they  were,  and  I  wish  you  would 
try  to  remember  the  difference." 

She  turned  fully  now,  and  uncon- 
sciously both  tone  and  manner  had 
changed,  becoming  quiet  and  firm. 
"  You  mean,"  she  said,  "  that  what 
was  fitting  for  your  wife  when  you 
were  only  Harborough  of  "Crows' 


Farm  is  not  fitting  now  ?     You  are 
quite  right ;  I  agree  with  you." 

"  Then  I  wish  you  would  act  upon 
it." 

"  I  cannot,  the  unfitness  goes  too 
deep,  for  it  is  I  myself  who  was  fit 
to  be  your  wife  then  but  am  not 
now." 

"  Bill !  What  nonsense  is  this  ? 
I  am  no  different  from  what  I  was  : 
the  case  is  not  decided,  may  never  be 
decided  in  my  favour  ;  and  if  it  were 
it  would  make  no  difference.  I  have 
never  suggested  such  a  thing,  and  I 
never  meant  it." 

"  You  did  not  say  it,  but  I  do ;  it 
is  true.  Listen  a  minute — I  have 
tried  to  be  ladylike,  as  I  thought  you 
would  wish  me  to  be,  and  sometimes 
I  think  I  succeed  a  little, — this  after- 
noon doesn't  count,  it  was  an  accident 
— but  my  ladylikeness,  even  if  it  were 
more  successful,  is  not  what  is  wanted. 
It  is  I,  my  real  self,  who  am  unfit  to 
be  your  wife  in  the  present  circum- 
stances." 

"I  don't  know  what  right  you 
have  to  say  such  a  thing ;  I  suppose 
you  are  angry  because  of  what  I  said 
about  this  afternoon."  If  she  were 
angry  the  young  man  could  not  help 
thinking  she  had  a  strange  way  of 
showing  it,  for  her  whole  manner 
suggested  clear-sighted  calmness  ;  the 
excitement  was  his.  "  I  own  I  spoke 
sharply,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  am 
sorry  for  it,  but  I  was  annoyed." 

"  You  had  a  right  to  be,"  she  told 
him ;  "  I  deserved  it  and  I  am  not 
angry  at  all.  It  is  not  what  you 
said  just  now  that  makes  me  say  this, 
it  is  the  whole  thing  ;  I  cannot  help 
seeing  I  am  not  fit  for  you  now." 

"  Yes,  you  are ;  the  position  has 
not  altered,  and  if  it  did  you  are  as 
fit  for  the  new  as  the  old  if  you 
choose  to  be." 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head. 
"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not.  I  was 
fit  for  Crows'  Farm ;  that  life  would 


96 


Princess  Puck. 


have  drawn  out  a  good  side  of  me, 
just  as  it  drew  out  a  side  of  you 
which  wanted  me.  Wood  Hall  acts 
differently.  Oh,  I  know  you  have 
not  got  it  yet,  may  never  have  it ; 
but  the  fact  that  you  have  claimed 
it,  that  you  have  a  close  acknowledged 
connection  with  the  other  Harboroughs 
has  altered  your  position,  has  altered 
you  and  your  ideas.  No  matter 
what  happens  now,  you  cannot  be 
only  the  working  farmer  of  Crows' 
Farm  who  wants  a  working  wife." 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  believe  I 
don't  think  you  good  enough  ?  " 

"  No,  oh  no ;  it  is  not  that 
exactly ;  I  think  it  is  that  we  don't 
fit  now." 

*•  Do  you  want  to  fit  ? "  Gilchrist 
eyed  her  sternly  as  he  asked  the 
question. 

"  I  did  want  to,"  she  told  him. 
"  I  tried  hard  to  be  what  you  would 
like  while  I  thought  you  wanted  to 
marry  me —  " 

"  You  think  I  don't  want  to  marry 
you  now  1 " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  simply,  and 
her  school  companions  Carrie  and 
Alice  would  have  told  her  that  she 
had  not  yet  acquired  a  sense  of 
decency,  for  she  certainly  did  not 
know  how  to  mince  matters.  "  You 
did  want  to  marry  me,"  she  said, 
"and  I  would  have  married  you  ;  but 
the  new  position  makes  you  and  your 
wants  different  and  would  make  me 
different  too.  The  whole  thing  had 
better  end." 

"In  plain  terms,  you  won't  marry 
me  now  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  she  said  meeting 
his  eyes  bravely.  "  I  will  marry  you 
if  you  can  truthfully  say  you  still 
wish  it." 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Of 
course  I  do,"  he  answered. 

But  that  was  not  what  Bill  meant 
and  she  said  so. 

"  You  don't  believe  me  ?  "  he  said 


rather  stiffly.  "  You  must  please 
yourself  about  that,  but  if  you  wish 
to  be  free  of  course  you  can  be ;  our 
engagement  was  on  those  terms  ;  you 
are  not  bound." 

"  I  am  bound  by  my  own  word," 
she  answered ;  "so  long  as  you  want 
me  I  am  bound.  But  you  don't  really 
want  me.  Look  at  me  ;  am  I  suited 
to  be  your  wife?  Tell  me — you  know 
me  now — do  you  wish  it  1 " 

She  stood  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
the  murky  light  of  the  winter  dusk 
falling  upon  her,  intensifying  not 
concealing  the  faults  in  her  dress, 
her  shoes,  her  sacking  apron.  A 
small,  odd,  shabby  figure  she  looked 
in  that  cheerless  little  parlour  with 
its  empty  grate,  small  and  odd,  not 
alluring  at  all  in  the  gloom.  The 
man  saw  each  detail,  and  seeing, 
wondered  how  she  had  ever  bewitched 
him. 

He  could  not  but  look  at  her,  and 
as  he  looked  he  moved  slightly. 
"  You  are  talking  nonsense,"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  empty  grate ;  "  to- 
morrow you  will  think  better  of  all 
this." 

He  glanced  at  her  as  he  ceased 
speaking,  but  it  was  too  late.  He 
should  have  met  her  eyes  before  if  he 
wished  to  convince  her. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  simply ; 
"  now  you  have  told  me." 

"  I— told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  you  need  not  mind,  you 
did  it  quite  honourably.  Don't  mind. 
See  here,  I  will  square  it  with  Polly 
and  Theresa ;  it  will  be  better  so ; 
they  will  only  think  I  have  changed 
my  mind.  Theresa  will  be  sorry  and 
Polly  angry,  but  they  won't  say  any- 
thing to  you  ;  they  won't  know  about 
you ;  they  will  think  it  is  all  me." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  con- 
sider our  engagement  at  an  end  and 
you  will  tell  your  cousins  so  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  shall  do  no  such  thing  !  " 


Princess  Puck. 


97 


;  I  shall  tell  Polly  to-day  ;  she  is 
lot  in  yet,  but  she  will  be  soon.  I 
shall  tell  her  as  soon  as  she  comes." 

"Then  you  do  it  against  my 
will." 

"Yes,"  — Bill  spoke  doubtfully— 
"  telling  is  against  the  grain  I  dare 
say,  but  the  breaking  off  is  not.  It 
is  no  good,  Theo ;  don't  let  us  pre- 
tend any  more.  I  know  you  would 
have  honourably  gone  through  with 
it  because  you  gave  your  word,  and 
I  would  have  honourably  done  the 
same  because  I  gave  mine  and  .be- 
lieved you  wished  it ;  and  we  should 
have  both  done  what  we  could  to 
make  the  best  of  it  afterwards.  But 
all  through  me  getting  so  grubby  this 
afternoon  I  have  found  out  the  truth, 
and  you  are  freed  from  your  word, 


and  it  is  all  over ;  so  let  us  say  so, 
and  be  friends." 

Five  minutes  later  Polly  found  the 
street  door  ajar  and  entered  the  house 
mentally  abusing  Bill's  carelessness. 
She  went  up-stairs  and  seeing  the 
sitting-room  door  open,  she  looked 
into  the  room.  Neither  fire  nor  gas 
was  lighted ;  in  the  cold  twilight  she 
saw  the  ^mall  figure  by  the  window. 

"  Bill,"  she  exclaimed,  "  not  dressed 
yet !  And  the  fire  not  laid,  nothing 
done  and  Gilchrist  will  be  here 
directly.  This  is  nice  !  " 

"  Gilchrist  is  not  coming ;  he  has 
gone  away  altogether." 

"  Not  coming  !  Not  coming  back, 
do  you  mean?  And  I  have  bought 
two  lovely  tea-cakes  and  half-a-pound 
of  fresh  butter  !  " 


(To  be  continued.) 


No.  500. — VOL    LXXXV. 


98 


DR.     JOHNSON     AMONG     THE     POETS. 


"  THIS  way,  sir,  I  think—" 

"  Sir,  you  are  officious.  Sir,  a  man 
may  be  trusted  to  discover  the  locality 
of  his  birth,  without  a  terrier  to  smell 
it  out  for  him, — least  of  all  a  Scotch 
one." 

The  voices  were  strange  to  me,  but 
the  words  and  manner  of  the  rejoinder 
stirred  a  dormant  memory.  I  turned 
myself  about  in  the  crowd  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  speaker.  As  I  did  so, 
I  heard  again  the  tones  of  his  com- 
panion. 

"  Very  true,  sir  ;  no  offence,  I  beg. 
But  do  you  not  find  it  gratifying  that 
this  crowd  of  worthy  citizens  is 
assembled  in  your  honour  1 " 

In  your  honour  !  Could  I  believe 
my  ears  ?  For  the  place  was  Lich- 
field  and  the  time  a  July  morning  of 
this  present  year.  The  big  man  and 
the  little  man  at  my  elbow, — how 
curiously  familiar  were  their  features  ! 
Their  dress,  also, — that  shabby  brown 
coat  with  its  metal  buttons — but  the 
wearer  of  the  coat  was  speaking 
again,  and  my  speculations  were 
interrupted. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "I  was  never  one 
that  would  give  a  farthing  for  the 
favour  of  the  mob.  The  mob  is 
brutish  and  its  judgment  is  con- 
temptible. Your  question  is  a  paltry 
one." 

Again  that  sledge-hammer  style ! 
I  waited  instinctively  for  a  depre- 
cating rejoinder  from  the  little  man, 
and  sure  enough  it  came. 

"  Well  sir,"  said  he,  "I  hope  you 
will  at  least  approve  the  action  of  the 
good  alderman  of  this  city,  who  has 
presented  the  nation  with  the  house 
where  you  were  born,  in  order  that  it 


may  be  associated  with  your  memory 
for  ever." 

There  was  no  more  i*oom  for  doubt ! 
The  railway-train  that  had  brought 
a  learned  Society  from  London,  the 
tall-hattedness  (so  to  say)  of  the 
Society's  learned  members, — in  short, 
the  twentieth  century  had  vanished, 
and  here  was  I,  all  other  faculties 
except  attention  suspended,  listening 
to  the  utterances  of  Lichfield's  greatest 
son. 

The  big  man  frowned  and  rolled 
his  majestic  body  to  and  fro,  before 
he  answered. 

"  Sir,"  said  he  at  last,  "  the  alder- 
man is  vastly  obliging.  I  do  not 
deny  that  his  munificence  affords 
me  a  posthumous  satisfaction.  The 
ancients  would  have  discerned  in  this 
gift  an  instance  of  poetic  justice. 
Ah,  sir,  they  give  me  the  shelter  of  a 
roof  now  in  perpetuity,  who  many  a 
time  had  none  other  than  the  sky  ! 
But  let  us  not  talk  of  those  days." 

"No,  indeed,  sir,"  said  the  little 
man.  "  Why  should  we  ?  Pray  sir, 
do  you  not  consider  this  a  very  pious 
age  ?  We  have  seen  the  dwellings 
of  Wordsworth,  Carlyle,  and  Cowper 
rescued  from  profanation  and  decay, 
and  now  here  is  your  own  similarly 
treated." 

"  Sir,"  said  Johnson  —  for  why 
should  I  longer  withhold  his  name  ? — 
"  Sir,  I  hope  it  may  be.  At  the  same 
time,  I  would  point  out  to  you  that 
to  build  the  sepulchres  of  the  prophets 
has  not  always  been  considered  a  mark 
of  genuine  piety.  Nevertheless,  it 
behoves  us,  in  this  imperfect  state  of 
being,  not  to  inquire  too  curiously 
into  the  springs  of  human  conduct." 


Dr.  Johnson  among  the  Poets. 


99 


"  Very  true,"  said  Bos  well — for  I 
was  certain  it  was  he — "  and  you  are 
at  least  in  excellent  company." 

Again  Johnson  frowned  upon  his 
companion.  "  Pray,  sir,"  said  he  with 
some  acerbity,  "  to  whom  do  you 
refer  ? " 

"  Why,  sir,"  Boswell  answered,  "  to 
Wordsworth  and  Carlyle,  and — " 

"  Sir,"  interrupted  Johnson  in  tones 
of  thunder,  "  I  would  have  you  know 
that  it  has  ever  been  my  practice  to 
frequent  excellent  company,  as  you 
call  it.  Sir,  if  I  have  been  in  inferior 
company, — and  I  may  have  been — 
that  company  has  thrust  itself  upon 
me." 

"  But  surely,  sir,"  said  Boswell, 
"  Wordsworth,  Cowper — " 

Again  Johnson  interrupted.  "  Sir, 
I  was  not  alluding  to  those  gentle- 
men ;  but  I  am  glad  that  their  habi- 
tations should  be  set  apart,  if  it  gives 
them  any  pleasure.  And  I  make  no 
doubt  it  does.  For  though,  as  the 
learned  Grecian  said,  the  whole  earth 
is  the  tomb  of  famous  men,  yet  there 
is  something  appropriate  in  dedicat- 
ing to  posterity  that  peculiar  corner 
of  it  where  each  passed  his  days. 
Specially  is  this  so  in  the  case  of 
Wordsworth,  who  cherished  an  un- 
wonted affection  for  his  own  fireside. 
Indeed,  what  I  find  hardest  to  forgive 
in  Wordsworth  is  that  he  was  not  a 
clubbable  man.  He  repented  of  the 
Whig  professions  of  his  youth,  but 
this  fault  he  never  amended." 

"  Pray  sir,"  Boswell  inquired, 
"  what  is  your  opinion  of  his 
poetry  1 " 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  have 
none.  Sir,  his  poetical  principles 
were  mischievous  and  revolutionary, 
and  therefore  I  decline  to  recognise 
his  poetry.  Indeed,  I  question  if  it 
be  poetry  at  all.  I  am  no  friend  to 
long  poems  in  blank  verse,  such  as 
I  understand  Mr.  Wordsworth  writ. 
Why  could  not  the  rascal  rhyme? 


He  should  have  taken  Pope's  MORAL 
ESSAYS  for  his  pattern." 

"  Or  THE  VANITY  OP  HUMAN 
WISHES,"  Boswell  interjected. 

"  Nay,  sir,"  said  Johnson,  "  that 
theme  had  over-much  disheartened 
him.  Poets  carry  enough  discourage- 
ment of  their  own  about  with  them 
without  borrowing  elsewhere.  We 
have  seen  that  in  Cowper's  case." 

"  But,"  said  Boswell,  "  was  not 
Cowper  out  of  his  mind  1  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Johnson. 
"  The  world  is  ever  ready  to  say 
that  of  poets.  There  was  Kit  Smart, 
now,  my  old  acquaintance.  People 
said  he  was  mad,  because  he  did  not 
love  clean  linen,  but  I,  sir,  as  you 
know,  have  no  passion  for  it.  As 
for  Cowper,  he  was  a  good  man,  an 
inoffensive  man,  and  I  am  glad  that 
his  countrymen  appreciate  him." 

"  And  as  a  writer,  sir,"  said  Boswell, 
"  what  think  you  of  him  as  a  writer  ?  " 
"  Sir,"  answered  Johnson,  "  Cowper 
had  a  pretty  wit  and  a  ready  knack 
of  expression.     Sir,  Cowper  is  toler- 
able when   he    rhymes.       His    topics 
are   sometimes  insignificant    and    his 
language    is    occasionally    grovelling, 
but    there  is   in   his  writings  a  sub- 
stratum of  good  sense,  wit,  and  piety." 
"  His  piety  preyed  upon  his  mind, 
so  I  have  heard,"  Boswell  remarked. 
"Sir,"    said    the  Sage,  "if  it  did, 
it  was  a  false  and  a  misguided  piety. 
Religion  was   intended  to  console    a 
man,  not  to  afflict  him.     And    such 
I  take  to  be  the  opinion  of  Carlyle, 
who  is  like  yourself  a  Scotchman ;  so 
far,  that  is,  as  I  have   been  able   to 
understand  him." 

Boswell  walked  straight  into  the 
trap.  "  Does  he  not  express  himself 
with  clearness  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sir,"  replied  Johnson,  "  I  am  not 
aware  that  perspicuity  is  a  character- 
istic of  your  nation.  Sir,  his  paren- 
theses infold  one  another  like  those 
Indian  boxes  we  have  seen.  You 

H  2 


100 


Dr.  Johnson  among  the  Poets. 


open  one  box  and  you  find  another 
within  it ;  you  open  that  and  you 
find  another,  and  so  on  until  you 
arrive  at  emptiness.'' 

Boswell  inquired,  with  humility, 
whether  there  was  not  a  meaning 
wrapped  up  in  these  parentheses  ? 

"  I  do  not  say  there  is  none,"  said 
Johnson,  "  but  the  meaning  is,  in  my 
judgment,  obscured.  Sir,  a  writer 
has  no  business  to  be  obscure.  It  is 
his  business  to  say  what  he  has  to 
say  with  lucidity,  or  else  to  hold  his 
tongue." 

Boswell  took  up  the  cudgels  for 
his  country.  "  This  Carlyle,"  said  he, 
"  is,  as  I  have  heard,  a  great  admirer 
of  silence." 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  Johnson,  "so  he 
pretends,  but  I  notice  some  score  of 
volumes  to  his  credit.  But,"  con- 
tinued he,  in  high  good  humour,  "  if 
he  be  a  lover  of  silence,  so  am  not  I. 
It  is  by  speech  that  we  learn  from 
one  another.  It  is  discourse  that 
raises  us  above  the  level  of  the  brutes. 
He  who  is  negligent  of  social  in- 
tercourse is  in  the  way  to  qualify 
himself  for  the  company  of  the  mis- 
anthropic Athenian.  And  now,  with 
your  good  pleasure,  we  will  mingle 
with  the  human  tide  which  is  flowing 
in  the  direction  of  my  earliest,  and 
latest,  home." 

Boswell  acquiesced.  "And  later," 
he  said,  "  we  will  resume  our  journey, 
I  suppose,  in  the  chaise  and  pair. 
You  have  said,  you  remember,  that 
there  is  no  more  delightful  method  of 
progression." 

"  Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "  you  have 
misquoted  me.  I  said  that  nothing 
is  more  exhilarating  than  to  travel 
in  a  chaise  and  pair  with  a  pretty 
woman  beside  one." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Boswell,  in  a 
somewhat  aggrieved  tone,  "  I  am  not 
a  pretty  woman,  but  I  cannot  help 
it." 

A    wonderful     look     of     affection 


flashed  across  Johnson's  rugged 
features.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  both 
those  observations  are  just ;  but  you 
are  a  most  faithful  fellow  upon  whose 
arm  I  now  propose  to  lean.  Shall 
we  go?" 

Pride  and  gratification  were  written 
on  every  line  of  Boswell's  face  as  he 
offered  his  arm  to  his  illustrious 
friend.  My  gaze  followed  them  wist- 
fully as  they  mingled  with  the  throng 
of  wayfarers.  I  was  beginning  to 
wonder  how  it  was  that  the  pair 
attracted  no  attention  except  mine, 
when  I  was  startled  by  a  voice  at 
my  elbow. 

"  When  you've  quite  done  staring 
at  Johnson's  statue,"  said  the  voice, 
"  we  may  as  well  go  into  Johnson's 
house,  or  we  shall  miss  the  opening 
ceremony." 

So  it  was  but  a  day-dream  after 
all,  and  now  the  spell  was  broken. 
I  am  afraid  I  did  scant  justice  to  the 
excellent  speeches  that  were  made, 
and  the  papers  that  were  read  that 
day,  so  haunted  was  I  with  the  visible 
presence  of  the  great  man  and  the 
great  biographer,  and  with  that  frag- 
ment of  their  talk  that  I  seemed  to 
have  overheard. 

What    would    one     not    give    for 
Johnson's  criticisms  on  the  great  poets 
of  the  revolutionary  and  the  Victorian 
eras  !     Interesting  they  could  not  fail 
to  be,  though  we  should  probably  dis- 
agree with  them.     The  views  of  the 
eighteenth  century  on  poetry  and  criti- 
cism are  not  ours,  and  Johnson  is  the 
spokesman  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
A  new  era  was  at  hand  before  death 
came  to  him ;    already  the   sap  was 
stirring,  already  Coleridge  and  Words- 
worth were  born.      But  he  does  not 
seem  to  have  foreseen  it,  nor  would 
he  have  welcomed  it  if  he  had.     He 
viewed  with  suspicion   the   romantic 
element  in  the  poetry  of  Thomson  and 
of  Gray.     He  held  that  a  poem,  to  be 
really  great,  should  have  the  classic 


Dr.  Johnson  among  the  Poets. 


101 


regularity  of  a  Greek  temple.  Sense 
must  prevail  over  imagination.  The 
thoughts  must  be  reasoned,  the  style 
precise,  the  diction  uniform.  There 
must  be  no  deviation  from  the  avowed 
purpose  of  a  poem.  He  was  capable 
of  saying,  in  perfect  good  faith,  that 
Shakespeare  seemed  to  write  without 
moral  purpose.  In  an  excellent  com- 
parison he  has  likened  Shakespeare  to 
the  forest  and  Pope  to  the  garden. 
If  he  was  true  to  his  principles,  he 
preferred  the  garden.  Of  course  not 
even  his  classical  prejudices  could 
blind  him  to  the  merits  of  Shake- 
speare. Indeed,  much  of  his  Shake- 
spearian criticism  is  in  advance  of 
his  time.  He  defended  the  poet 
against  "  the  brilliant  Frenchman," 
but  then,  Voltaire  ivas  a  Frenchman. 
"  Addison,"  he  said,  "  speaks  the 
language  of  poets,  and  Shakespeare 
of  men."  He  protested  against  a 
too  servile  respect  for  the  unities  ;  he 
justified  the  inclusion  of  comic  scenes 
in  tragedy.  Yet  full  of  good  sense 
and  good  criticism  as  his  commentary 
on  Shakespeare  is,  he  showed  little 
genuine  sympathy  with  the  greatest 
of  romantic  poets. 

No  doubt  this  is  partially  to  be 
explained  by  his  preference  of  the 
epic  to  tragedy.  It  is  unfortunate 
that  the  great  epic  poet  of  England 
was  one  whose  political  tenets  he 
abhorred.  Macaulay  said  of  Johnson's 
criticisms  that  "  at  the  very  worst 
they  mean  something."  It  is  hard 
perhaps  to  detect  a  meaning  in  his 
criticism  on  Gray,  unless  it  be  personal 
antipathy  ;  but  for  his  onslaught  on 
LYCIDAS  there  is  a  possible  explana- 
tion however  far  the  "  something  "  it 
may  mean  be  removed  from  the  true 
purpose  of  criticism.  There  is  a  passage 
in  it  which  reflects  upon  the  clergy  of 
the  Established  Church,  and  this  must 
have  set  Johnson  against  the  entire 
poem.  Nor  can  he  be  said  to  have 
made  full  atonement  by  his  some- 


what patronising  commendation  of 
L' ALLEGRO  and  IL  PENSEROSO. 

Very  different  is  his  treatment  of 
PARADISE  LOST.  Here  he  had  no 
quarrel  with  the  subject  of  the  poem, 
and  could  examine  it  with  a  free 
mind.  True,  he  finds  certain  faults 
in  the  conduct  of  the  narrative,  but 
this  arises  from  his  conception  of  the 
critic's  function.  "The  defects  and 
faults  of  PARADISE  LOST,"  he  wrote, 
"  it  is  the  business  of  impartial  criti- 
cism to  discover."  But  for  the  epic  as  a 
whole  he  has  the  highest  possible  praise. 
"  Sublimity,"  to  quote  his  words,  "  is 
the  general  and  prevailing  quality  of 
this  poem ; "  and  of  Milton  he  said 
"His  natural  port  is  gigantic  loftiness." 
Nor  does  he  quarrel  with  the  form 
of  PARADISE  LOST  for  running  counter 
to  one  of  his  favourite  principles,  that 
of  all  metres  the  heroic  couplet  is  the 
most  admirable.  Descended  through 
Waller  and  Denham,  a  power  in  the 
hand  of  Dryden,  perfected  by  Pope,  in 
Johnson's  opinion  it  had  no  rival. 
"Poetry,"  says  he,  "may  subsist  with- 
out rhyme,  but  English  poetry  will  not 
often  please.  .  .  .  Blank  verse  .  .  . 
has  neither  the  easiness  of  prose  nor 
the  melody  of  numbers,  and  therefore 
tires  by  long  continuance.  Of  the 
Italian  writers  without  rhyme,  whom 
Milton  alleges  as  precedents,  not  one 
is  popular."  Such  was  the  strength 
of  his  prejudice ;  mark  now  the 
sublimity  of  his  surrender :  "  But 
whatever  be  the  advantage  of  rhyme, 
I  cannot  prevail  on  myself  to  wish 
that  Milton  had  been  a  rhymer,  for 
I  cannot  wish  his  work  to  be  other 
than  it  is." 

Johnson  was  already  an  old  man 
when  he  undertook  to  write  the  lives 
of  the  English  Poets.  The  task  was 
not  so  vast  as  at  first  appears,  for 
the  earliest  poet  with  whom  he  had 
to  deal  was  Cowley,  and  the  drama 
did  not  come  within  his  scope.  The 
range  to  be  covered  was  little  more 


102 


Dr.  Johnson  among  the  Poets. 


than  a  century.  For  such  a  task  he 
was  peculiarly  fitted,  for  he  probably 
knew  more  about  the  poets  and  poetry 
of  that  age  than  any  other  man  then 
living.  Much  of  his  knowledge  was 
first-hand,  while  during  his  long  life 
as  a  man  of  letters  he  had  gathered 
no  small  store  of  tradition  on  matters 
literary  and  poetical.  He  seems  to 
have  taken  real  pleasure  in  this  under- 
taking, and  was  repaid  by  its  un- 
qualified success.  THE  LIVES  OP  THE 
POETS  won  for  Johnson  many  admirers 
and  some  assailants.  To-day  it  is  the 
most  popular  of  all  his  works.  The 
DICTIONARY  is  an  undying  monument 
to  its  author,  but  one  cannot  sit  down 
to  read  a  dictionary.  In  Johnson's 
own  lifetime  THE  RAMBLER  had  a 
great  vogue,  but  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  the  "weighty  and  magnificent 
eloquence,"  the  "  solemn  yet  pleasing 
humour "  which  Macaulay  has  com- 
memorated would  escape  the  notice  of 
most  modern  readers.  In  the  domain 
of  the  essay  Addison  held  the  field,  as 
Johnson  recognised.  "  He  who  would 
make  himself  master  of  the  English 
language,"  said  he,  "  must  devote  his 
days  and  his  nights  to  the  study  of 
Addison ; "  and  elsewhere  he  has  called 
Addison  "the  Raphael  of  essay 
writers."  He  sought,  in  THE  RAM- 
BLER, to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  THE 
SPECTATOR  ;  but  as  Lady  Mary  Mon- 
tagu wittily  said,  Johnson's  papers 
followed  Addison's  much  as  "  a  pack- 
horse  would  follow  a  hunter."  This 
verdict  comes,  it  must  be  owned, 
nearer  the  truth  than  that  of  an  early 
editor  of  THE  RAMBLER,  who  main- 
tained "that  Johnson  united  more  than 
the  vigour  of  Dryden  with  more  than 
the  polish  of  Addison."  Posterity 
sides  with  Lady  Mary,  and  Johnson 
would  himself  have  scouted  his  editor's 
opinion.  He  seems  to  have  been  con- 
scious of  his  own  heavier  paces : 
"  When  I  say  a  good  thing,"  he 
owned,  "  I  seem  to  labour."  Like 


a  certain  expletive,  according  to  Bob 
Acres,  THE  RAMBLER  has  had  its  day  ; 
and  THE  ADVENTURER  and  THE  IDLER 
have  followed  it  into  limbo. 

The  truth  is  that  an  essay,  like  an 
omelette,  requires  a  very  light  hand. 
It  is  when  Johnson  touches  fact  that 
his  excellence  appears.  He  said,  and 
finely,  of  Milton,  "  Reality  was  a  scene 
too  narrow  for  his  mind  " ;  but  in  that 
scene  his  own  genius  most  loved  to 
expatiate.  Few  narratives  are  more 
enthralling  than  his  account  of  the 
unhappy  Savage.  Sir  Joshua  told 
Boswell  that  the  book,  though  he 
knew  nothing  of  its  author,  seized  his 
attention  so  strongly  that  he  could  not 
lay  it  down  till  he  had  finished  it. 
The  fascination  of  THE  LIFE  OP 
SAVAGE  is  as  strong  as  ever.  The 
theme  was  congenial  to  Johnson,  and 
he  was  completely  master  of  it,  for  he 
had  shared  the  penury  and  enjoyed 
the  confidence  of  Savage.  It  is  the 
earliest  of  THE  LIVES  OF  THE  POETS, 
and  it  is  the  best.  Indeed,  the  for- 
tunes of  poets  had  a  special  charm  for 
Johnson,  and  in  tracing  their  vicissi- 
tudes his  prose  reaches  its  high-water 
mark. 

But  how  far  is  he  among  the  poets 
in  the  sense  that  he  is  a  poet  himself  ? 
The  bulk  of  his  verse  is  not  great,  and 
we  know  that  he  gave  to  its  composi- 
tion a  very  small  portion  of  his  time 
and  energy.  His  DICTIONARY,  his 
LIVES  OP  THE  POETS,  and,  above  all, 
his  conversation,  have  overshadowed 
it.  Nor,  indeed,  has  Johnson's  poetry 
that  "  right  Promethean  fire  "  which 
burns  and  glows  in  the  genius  of 
Shelley,  of  Byron,  of  all  such  as  are 
poets  born.  In  Johnson  the  poetic 
impulse  was  occasional,  and  not  in- 
sistent. When  Boswell  asked  him  if 
he  would  not  give  the  world  some 
more  of  Juvenal's  satires,  he  replied 
that  he  would  probably  do  so,  for  he 
had  them  all  in  his  head.  There, 
however,  he  allowed  them  to  remain. 


Dr.  Johnson  among  the  Poets. 


103 


"  I  am  not  obliged  to  do  any  more," 
he  said.  "  No  man  is  obliged  to  do 
as  much  as  he  can  do.  A  man  is 
to  have  part  of  his  life  to  himself." 
"  But  I  wonder,  sir,"  said  Boswell, 
"you  have  not  more  pleasure  in  writ- 
ing than  in  not  writing."  "  Sir,"  said 
Johnson,  "  you  may  wonder." 

Melpomene  did  not  brood  over  his 
cradle.  Reflection,  observation  of 
mankind,  personal  experience, — of 
these,  rather  than  of  imagination,  the 
stuff  of  his  verse  is  woven.  Yet 
verse  has  never  been  refused  the  title 
of  poetry  because  it  is  didactic  ;  the 
treatment  is  the  thing ;  and  the 
candid  reader  of  Johnson's  satires  must 
admit  that  the  vigour  and  the  occa- 
sional splendour  of  their  diction  exalts 
them  far  above  what  is  merely  verse. 

As  in  his  prose,  so  in  his  poetry ; 
it  is  where  Johnson  touches  fact  that 
he  is  excellent.  His  tragedy,  IRENE, 
which  not  all  Garrick's  efforts  could 
save  from  failure,  is  only  by  accident 
in  poetic  form.  Irene  herself  is, 
indeed,  a  female  Rambler.  His  occa- 
sional pieces  are,  with  a  few  happy 
exceptions,  nothing  more  than  those 
excursions  in  rhyme  which  are  the 
almost  inevitable  interludes  in  the 
real  work  of  any  man  of  letters. 
The  Ode  to  Friendship  appeared  to 
Boswell  "  exquisitely  beautiful "  ;  to  us 
the  lines  are  cold  and  stilted.  There 
is  a  series  of  poems  addressed  to 
Stella,  which  are  equally  conventional ; 
they  stir  our  hearts  as  little  as  they 
stirred,  one  supposes,  their  writer's. 
Stella  appears  to  have  been  a  Miss 
Hickman,  who  married  in  1734. 
Johnson  himself  married  two  years 
later,  and  the  poems  appeared  sub- 
sequent to  that  event.  It  is  known 
that  he  never  wavered  in  his  devotion 
to  his  wife,  so  we  may  infer  that  the 
heroics  to  Stella  are  perfunctory. 
They  wholly  lack  the  sincerity  of  his 
lines  to  Mrs.  Thrale,  to  whom  he  was 
genuinely  attached. 


And  all  who  wisely  wish  to  wive 
Must  look  on  Thrale  at  thirty-five. 

The  compliment  is  sincere,  if  not 
exactly  elegant.  Equally  sincere  is 
the  tribute  with  which  he  honoured 
the  memory  of  Robert  Levet,  one  of 
those  humble  friends  who  found  a 
home  beneath  his  charitable  roof. 

Well  tried    through  many  a  varying 
year, 

See  Levet  to  the  grave  descend, 
Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

When  fainting  Nature  call'd  for  aid, 
And    hov'ring    death    prepared    the 
blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  display'd 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery's  darkest  caverns  known, 

His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 
Where    hopeless    anguish    pour'd    his 

groan, 

And  lonely  want  retir'd  to  die. 
*  *  * 

His  virtues  walked  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  th'  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employ'd. 

These  are  lines  that  require  no 
commendation.  The  epitaph  on  the 
poor  travelling  fiddler,  Claude  Phillips, 
deserves  a  place  beside  them.  One 
day,  when  Johnson  and  Garrick  were 
sitting  together,  the  latter  repeated 
an  epitaph  which  a  Dr.  Wilkes  had 
composed  upon  Phillips.  Johnson  was 
dissatisfied  with  the  "  commonplace 
funereal  lines,"  as  Boswell  justly  calls 
them,  and  said  to  Garrick,  "I  think, 
Davy,  I  can  make  a  better."  "  Then," 
the  biographer  adds,  "  stirring  about 
his  tea  for  a  little  while,  in  a  state  of 
meditation  he  almost  extempore  pro- 
duced the  following  verses  : 

'  Phillips,     whose    touch     harmonious 

could  remove 
The  pangs  of  guilty  power  and  hapless 

love, 
Best   here,    distress'd  by  poverty  no 

more, 


104 


Dr.  Johnson  among  the  Poets. 


Find  here  that  calm  thou  gav'st  so  oft 

before ; 
Sleep  undisturb'd  within  this  peaceful 

shrine, 
Till  angels  wake  thee  with  a  note  like 

thine.'  " 


Any  musician  might  covet  such  an 
epitaph  ;  any  poet  might  be  proud  to 
have  written  it. 

But  it  is  in  his  longer  poems  that 
Johnson's  personality  naturally  finds 
its  fullest  expression.  It  is  to  the 
two  great  satires  that  we  must  look 
for  the  moralist,  the  patriot,  the  foe 
of  oppression.  There  may  be  read, 
between  the  lines,  his  dogged  persis- 
tence, his  integrity,  his  reverence,  as 
well  as  the  kindliness  and  pity  that 
underlay  his  rough  exterior.  It  was 
his  LONDON,  as  Boswell  says,  which, 
morally  as  well  as  intellectually,  first 
"  gave  the  world  assurance  of  the 
man."  Eleven  years  later  the  publi- 
cation of  THE  VANITY  OP  HUMAN 
WISHES  confirmed  that  assurance. 

We  cannot  read  LONDON  with  the 
eyes  of  its  author's  contemporaries. 
Its  political  complexion  has  lost  all 
its  colour  for  us ;  we  cannot  feel 
either  Johnson's  Tory  fervour,  or  the 
Whig  antipathy  which  it  no  doubt 
evoked.  But  if  party  politics  had 
alone  made  the  poem's  reputation,  it 
would  have  been  long  since  as  dead 
as  its  author.  There  beats  through 
it  a  man's  heart,  not  passionately, 
rebelliously,  least  of  all  querulously, 
but  solemnly,  mournfully,  with  in- 
finite pity  for  the  suffering  he  knew, 
yet  with  a  manly  endurance  of  his 
share  in  it.  It  shows  us  the  feel- 
ings of  one  who  had  come  to  the 
capital  in  search  of  fortune,  and  as 
yet  had  searched  in  vain.  London, 
in  those  early  years,  was  a  hard  step- 
mother to  Johnson,  and  it  must  be 
owned  that  he  shows  in  this  satire 
no  trace  of  his  subsequent  devotion. 
The  city  is  "  the  needy  villain's 
general  home,"  a  place  where  "  surly 


Virtue  "  cannot  "hope  to  fix  a  friend." 
But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
during  the  long  years  of  struggle 
Johnson  endured  very  real  priva- 
tions, and  rebuffs  that  were  even 
harder  to  bear. 

Of    all    the     griefs   that    harass    the 

distress'd, 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest. 

These  words  bear  the  stamp  of  genuine 
indignation ;  and  it  was  no  assumed 
bitterness  that  caused  him  to  print  in 
capital  letters  the  second  line  of  the 
best  known  couplet : 

This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere 
confess'd : 

SLOW  RISES  WORTH,  BY  POV- 
ERTY DEPRESS'D. 

Yet,  fine  as  LONDON  is,  Garrick  was 
unquestionably  wrong  when  he  ranked 
it  above  THE  VANITY  OP  HUMAN 
WISHES.  The  second  satire  excels 
the  first  in  weight,  in  philosophic 
dignity,  and  in  the  splendour  of  its 
illustrations ;  it  is  also  less  political, 
and  therefore  more  interesting.  Both 
Scott  and  Byron  have  left  on  record 
their  admiration  for  it.  Scott  told 
James  Ballantyne  that  he  derived 
more  pleasure  from  reading  LONDON 
and  THE  VANITY  OP  HUMAN  WISHES 
than  any  other  poetical  composition 
he  could  mention ;  and,  adds  Ballan- 
tyne, "  I  think  I  never  saw  his 
countenance  more  indicative  of  high 
admiration  than  while  reciting  aloud 
from  these  productions."  Byron 
thought  "  the  examples  and  modes 
of  giving  them  sublime,"  and  the 
whole  poem,  "  with  the  exception  of 
an  occasional  couplet,"  grand,  "and 
so  true — true  as  the  10th  of  Juvenal 
himself."  Macaulay  confessed  to  a 
difficulty  in  deciding  which  had  done 
best,  the  ancient  or  the  modern  poet. 
The  fall  of  Wolsey  he  put  below  the 
fall  of  Sejanus,  and  considered  that  in 


Dr.  Johnson  among  the  Poets. 


105 


the  concluding  passage  "the  Christian 
moralist  has  fallen  decidedly  short 
of  the  sublimity  of  his  Pagan  model." 
But,  "  Juvenal's  Hannibal  must  yield 
to  Johnson's  Charles ;  and  Johnson's 
vigorous  and  pathetic  enumeration  of 
the  miseries  of  a  literary  life  must  be 
allowed  to  be  superior  to  Juvenal's 
lamentation  over  the  fate  of  Demos- 
thenes and  Cicero."  The  miseries  of 
a  literary  life  were  a  favourite  theme 
with  Johnson. 

There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life 

assail, 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the 

gaol. 
See  nations,  slowly  wise  and  meanly 

just, 
To  buried  merit  raise  the  tardy  bust. 

But  would  Johnson  himself  have 
been  the  happier  if  he  had  fled  from 
these  evils  to  preside  over  that  little 
school  in  Shropshire,  the  mastership 
of  which  he  desired  to  obtain,  in 
order,  says  Boswell,  to  have  a  sure 
though  moderate  income  for  his  life  1 
What  a  mercy  that  Earl  Gower's 
"  respectable  application "  to  Dean 
Swift,  to  obtain  for  Johnson  the 
required  degree  from  Dublin,  proved 
a  failure  !  Far  from  his  beloved  city 
Johnson's  genius  would  have  lan- 
guished. Immersed  in  uncongenial 
labour  he  would  assuredly  have  felt 
the  vanity  of  human  wishes,  but 
would  have  lacked  the  spirit  to  ex- 


press it.  That  famous  picture  of  the 
warrior's  pride  and  of  the  fate  that 
overtook  it  might  never  have  been 
painted.  We  should  have  lost  the 
tremendous  peroration  on  Charles  of 
Sweden. 

But  did  not  chance  at  length  her  error 

mend  ? 
Did    no   subverted  empire    mark   his 

end? 
Did    rival    monarchs    give    the    fatal 

wound  ? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the 

ground  ? 

His  fall  was  destin'd  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  ; 
He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world 

grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 

Nil  ergo  optabunt  homines  ?  Shall 
we  mortals  wish  for  nothing  ?  That  is 
not  Johnson's  conclusion,  any  more 
than  it  is  Juvenal's.  Ask,  says 
Juvenal,  for  a  sound  mind  in  a 
sound  body,  for  a  spirit  at  once 
brave  and  resigned.  And  Johnson 
bids  us  hope  for  these  blessings,  and 
for  love  and  faith  as  well. 

These    goods    for    man    the    laws    of 

Heav'ii  ordain, 
These  goods  He  grants,  who  grants  the 

pow'r  to  gain ; 
With  these  celestial  wisdom  calms  the 

mind, 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not 

find. 

H.    C.    MlNCHIN 


106 


THE  ART  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


"  THERE  were  giants  in  those  days," 
is  the  Pessimist's  favourite  quotation, 
for  invariably  he  sees  giants  in  the 
days  behind  us,  and  pigmies  in  the 
days  before.  In  the  past  there  were 
picturesque  romance,  the  clash  of 
swords,  the  flash  of  shields,  the  glory 
of  resplendent  doublets  ;  in  the  present 
there  are  dust  and  grime  and  pettiness 
and  monotony,  the  dull  sable  sameness 
of  civilised  life.  In  the  past  there 
were  Raphael  and  Correggio;  in  the 
present  there  is  the  cinematograph. 
In  the  past  there  were  the  harpsichord 
and  the  viol,  and  the  lute  of  the 
troubadour  ;  in  the  present  there  is 
the  patent  paper-wound  automaton 
which  groans  out  our  music  for  us.  In 
the  past  there  were  Homer  and  Virgil 
and  Petrarch ;  in  the  present  there 
is  the  omniscient  encyclopaedia-laden 
journalist.  In  the  past  there  was  the 
love  of  Isaac  for  the  daughter  of 
Bethuel,  the  love  of  Angelo  for 
Vittoria,  the  love  of  Dante  for 
Beatrice;  in  the  present  there  are 
the  convenient  marriages  of  princes 
and  princesses,  ill-imitated  by  the 
proletariat,  who  seek  not  a  bride  but 
the  capital  for  a  small  shop,  not  a 
woman  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  but 
a  sordid  partner  in  a  domestic  estab- 
lishment where  liability  is  unlimited. 
In  the  past  there  was  the  friendship 
of  David  and  Jonathan,  of  Orestes 
and  Pylades,  of  Pliny  and  Tacitus,  of 
Anthony  and  Csesar,  of  Locke  and 
Molineux,  of  Swift  and  Pope ;  in  the 
present  there  is  the  large  circle  of 
acquaintances,  as  the  funeral  para- 
graph invariably  describes  it. 

It  can  probably  be  said  for  the 
Pessimist  that,  often  as  he  is  wrong, 


in  respect  to  friendship  he  is  nearest 
to  the  truth.  There  is  reason  for  a 
suspicion,  if  not  more  than  a  suspicion, 
that  the  art  of  friendship  is  dead 
amongst  us.  The  friendship  of  the 
ancients,  both  of  Greece  and  of  Rome, 
was  very  exacting.  In  modern  times 
we  should  look  a  long  day  for  such 
mutual  regard  as  that  of  Damon 
and  Pythias,  which  softened  the 
heart  of  Dionysius  himself.  Friend- 
ship, in  our  crowded  days,  covers 
a  wider  area,  but  as  in  the  case 
of  all  extensive  developments  it  has 
lost  intensively.  It  has  become,  as 
Swift  described  it,  "  the  friendship  of 
the  middling  kind."  But  rarely  do 
we  see  the  stubborn,  stoical,  mutual 
regard  which  Cicero  describes,  self- 
annihilatory,  seeking  for  excellence, 
priceless-rich  in  trust  and  confidence. 
Much  of  our  friendship  is  wrecked,  as 
Lysander  says  of  love  in  THE  MID- 
SUMMER NIGHT'S  DREAM,  by  running 
"  upon  the  choice  of  friends."  Polonius 
bade  Laertes  to  be  deliberate,  that  is, 
to  choose  cautiously  ere  he  grappled 
his  friends  to  his  soul  "  with  hoops  of 
steel."  Herein  we  have  the  normal 
advice  on  the  subject,  distorted  usually 
to  such  an  extent  that  the  kindly 
chamberlain  would  repudiate  respon- 
sibility for  our  interpretation.  Since 
our  school-days  it  has  been  dinned 
into  our  ears.  We  were  whipped  for 
swapping  peg-tops  with  the  boy  from 
the  house  beyond  the  hill,  not  that 
the  bargain  was  a  bad  one,  nor  that 
our  regard  for  him  lacked  sincerity, 
but  that  someone  else  regarded  him 
as  an  undesirable  companion.  It  may 
be  that  his  father  once  sold  pork,  by 
the  pound  and  not  by  the  pig ;  it  may 


The  Art  of  Friendship 


107 


be  that  his  mother  on  one  occasion 
herself  wiped  the  dust  from  her  own 
window.  Whatever  might  be  the 
ostensible  reason  we  were  compelled 
to  return  the  peg-top,  which  we  did 
with  an  ill  grace,  for  bitter  is  the  first 
lesson  in  conventional  friendship.  It 
was  an  initiation  into  the  lesson,  the 
valuable  lesson,  that  for  the  future 
our  friends  must  not  shake  hands  over 
the  social  barriers.  Many  hands  have 
been  torn  by  the  broken  bottles  on 
the  walls  of  social  difference. 

The  emphasis  of  the  element  of 
choice  in  friendship,  with  its  concomi- 
tant, the  banishment  of  the  element 
of  spontaneous  affection,  has  done 
much  to  render  true  friendship  im- 
possible and  to  bring  about  the 
present  decay  of  the  art.  It  is  un- 
fortunate in  a  utilitarian  day  that 
we  cannot  likewise  choose  our  parents. 
Friendship  is  fallen  from  its  ideal. 
The  friendship  described  by  Bishop 
Hall  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago 
as  "diffusing  its  odour  through  the 
season  of  absence "  is  exchanged  for 
the  slenderest  of  acquaintanceships 
whose  value  is  duly  marked  by  our 
indifferent  nods  of  greeting.  So 
ready  are  we  to  say  that  John  Smith 
and  William  Brown  are  unsuitable 
friends,  because  we  cannot  see  the 
tie  which  binds  them,  that  the  simple 
quality  of  affection  is  left  out  of  the 
reckoning  altogether.  Were  we  to 
choose  a  friend  for  John  Smith,  there 
is  Thomas  Robinson  who  could  assist 
him  in  business,  or  Joseph  Jones  who 
would  be  that  priceless  of  friends,  in 
the  modern  computation,  the  friend 
at  court.  We  forget  the  primary  neces- 
sity that  John  Smith  must  love  his 
friend  ;  we  overlook  the  fact  that  as 
yet  science  has  not  discovered  a  pro- 
cess of  vaccination  whereby  affection 
may  be  transplanted  or  infused. 
John  Smith  may  choose  a  valet  or  a 
private  secretary,  and  if  by  the  same 
process  he  chooses  a  friend,  that  friend 


will  be,  in  greater  or  less  degree,  an 
employ^.  Hence  it  is  that  the  wide 
preaching  of  the  doctrine  of  choice 
has  ousted  friendship  from  the  cate- 
gory of  tender  relationships.  In  its 
stead  we  have  visiting-lists.  Not 
those  whom  we  love,  but  those  whom 
we  would  propitiate  do  we  invite  to 
dinner.  Those  who  would  propitiate 
us  invite  us  in  turn,  and  permit  us 
to  eat  their  food,  air  our  views,  and 
even,  by  incredible  patience,  to  sing 
our  songs,  not  for  their  but  for  our 
own  satisfaction.  We  have  banished 
from  our  lives  the  tender  confidence 
and  the  sweet  counsel,  of  which 
Cicero  spoke :  "  Where  would  be  the 
great  enjoyment  in  prosperity,  if  you 
had  not  one  to  rejoice  in  it  equally 
with  yourself  1  And  adversity  would 
indeed  be  difficult  to  endure,  without 
some  one  to  bear  it  even  with  greater 
regret  than  yourself."  So  far  has  the 
axiom  of  splendid  isolation  infected 
not  merely  national  but  personal 
affairs  that  the  Stoic  who  does  not 
even  confide  in  his  wife  is  rapidly 
coming  to  be  regarded  as  the  hero 
instead  of  as  the  Turk,  which  really  he 
is.  The  morning  train  finds  us  ready 
to  cast  our  pearls  of  wisdom  before — 
fellow-travellers,  who  see  us  morning 
by  morning  and  scarcely  know  our 
names  and  could  not  spell  them  if 
they  did.  A  solicitor  gives  us  advice 
on  law,  a  stockbroker  on  finance,  a 
medicine-man  on  ailments,  each  for  a 
convenient  fee,  until  we  have  dissem- 
inated the  whole  of  friendship  into 
several  professional  acts.  The  morn- 
ing, midday,  and  evening  newspapers 
bring  to  us  the  influence  of  humanity, 
where  once  tender  and  confidential 
personal  intercourse  would  mould  our 
lives  into  a  true  image  with  a  clear 
superscription  of  loftier  ideals.  So 
far  have  we  gone  in  our  scorn  for 
intimate,  day-by-day,  personal  contact, 
that  we  roundly  declare  we  have  no 
leisure  for  it,  just  as  the  American 


108 


The  Art  of  Friendship. 


speculator  impetuously,  but  not  un- 
truthfully, groaned  that  he  had  not 
the  "  durned  time  to  live."  Accord- 
ingly when  we  hear  of  Carlyle  and 
Tennyson  smoking  together  in  silence 
for  hours,  we  smile  our  lack  of  com- 
prehension, since  the  unattainable  is 
always  a  laughing  matter.  Thus  do 
dogs  bay  at  the  moon. 

It  was  said  by  a  fluent  orator,  and 
fluent  orators  are  usually  very  dan- 
gerous guides,  that  the  post-card,  the 
telegraph,  and  the  telephone  make 
every  man  every  man's  friend.  He 
even  quoted  Puck  who  declared  that 
he  would  "  put  a  girdle  round  about 
the  earth  in  forty  minutes,"  from 
which  he  deduced  that  two-thirds  of 
an  hour  would  accomplish  universal 
friendship.  But  these  three  imple- 
ments have  done  much  to  destroy 
intimate  friendly  intercourse.  Obvi- 
ously the  post-card,  while  it  saves 
a  halfpenny,  closes  one's  soul  lest  the 
expression  of  finer  emotions  should 
give  occasion  for  ribaldry  to  those 
who  regard  post-cards  as  quasi-public 
documents.  The  telephone  enables 
us  to  hold  men  safely  at  a  distance 
while  we  converse  hurriedly  with 
them.  The  telegraph  flashes  a  pur- 
chase, sometimes  accurately,  but  even 
the  novelist  has  not  yet  arisen  to 
make  it  flash  a  proposal  or  an  expres- 
sion of  regard.  The  triumph  of 
electricity  has  achieved  less  than  a 
warm  grasp  of  the  hand,  for  its 
triumph  is  to  cut  out  the  sweet 
superfluous  words,  and  superfluous 
words  are  worth  more  than  a  half- 
penny each.  The  cynic  who  asked 
a  pair  of  lovers  what  subjects  they 
found  for  eternal  discussion  was 
meetly  answered  when  the  maiden 
said,  "Only  one,  sir  —  everything." 
Of  course  the  cynic  did  not  under- 
stand. He  would  be  able  to  estimate 
the  influence  of  Saturn  on  the  ripen- 
ing of  pomegranates,  but  a  discussion 
on  the  one  subject  which  wakes  life 


into  radiancy  was  to  him, — super- 
fluous words.  Amid  all  the  waste 
of  to-day  we  waste  no  words.  We 
ask  for  crisp  paragraphs  in  our  news- 
papers, spicy  paragraphs  for  jaded 
palates.  We  wish  to  buy  and  sell, 
to  ask  for  food,  and  to  express  our 
contentment  or  otherwise,  but  rarely 
do  we  wish  to  declare  our  simple 
regard  for  a  fellow  unit  of  humanity. 
Ask  him  to  dinner,  lament  to  him 
the  weakness  of  the  Government,  but 
keep  him  safely  without  the  veil 
which  hides  our  little  Holy  of  Holies. 
We  live,  alas,  in  the  suburbs  of  each 
other's  hearts. 

Hence  we  establish  clubs  and 
societies ;  clubs,  where  we  eat  in 
accord  ;  societies,  where  we  speak  in 
accord.  These  represent  our  modern 
individual  weakness,  while  friend- 
ship, in  which  men  think  in  accord, 
would  represent  individual  strength. 
Could  anyone  imagine  Daniel  founding 
a  society  for  opening  wide  the  windows 
and  praying  towards  the  East  ? 
Daniel,  says  the  hymn,  "dared  to 
stand  alone."  Now-a-days  he  would 
have  been  chairman  of  an  Executive 
Committee  with  five  to  form  a 
quorum,  for  we  seek  a  corporate 
metamorphosis  to  hide  a  cowardice 
which  we  are  too  cowardly  to  admit. 
Every  propaganda  has  its  cult,  and 
even  eating  and  drinking,  which  are 
essentially  personal  affairs,  are  made 
into  matters  for  mutual  pledge  and 
association.  Egotism  is  evil,  no 
doubt ;  the  everlasting  I  of  a  self- 
assertive  man  is  more  than  objection- 
able. Yet  there  is  this  to  be  said  of 
him  ;  if  he  is  criticised  he  himself 
receives  the  thrust,  whereas  in  clubs 
and  societies  it  is  always  possible  to 
put  the  blame  on  the  committee. 
Judging  by  present  tendencies,  many 
men  expect  the  Judgment  Day  to 
divide,  not  the  goats  from  the  sheep, 
but  the  committees  from  the  members, 
for  only  societies  do  wrong. 


The  Art  of  Friendship. 


109 


This  associationist  tendency  is 
symptomatic  of  the  decay  of  true 
friendship.  "  Man  is  not  good  if 
alone,"  is  a  convenient  distortion  of 
a  Biblical  text  which  referred  par- 
ticularly to  the  married  state.  Men 
fly  to  societies,  clubs,  institutions, 
and  associations  to  find  a  companion- 
ship which  friendship,  if  there  were 
such,  would  readily  furnish,  and  upon 
a  sounder  basis  than  the  blackballing 
of  undesirables.  Birds  of  a  feather 
should  not  need  the  guardianship  of 
a  committee  and  an  exclusive  sub- 
scription to  enable  them  to  flock 
together  without  danger. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  decay  of 
the  art  of  friendship  is  characteristic 
of  the  male  genus  only ;  that  women 
are  still  as  ready  for  affectionate 
friendship  with  their  own  kind  as 
ever  they  were.  It  is  true  that 
women  have  less  temptations  from 
the  narrow  path  of  friendship.  After- 
noon tea  allures  less  subtly  than  the 
morning  train,  and  the  effects  of  the 
postcard  are  outweighed  by  the  neces- 
sities of  the  postscript.  The  tele- 
graph and  the  telephone,  for  obvious 
reasons,  do  not  interrupt  women's 
friendships  as  they  do  men's,  for 
unhappily  these  devices  can  only  be 
used  intermittently  and  briefly ;  and 
brevity  is  the  destroying  angel  of  a 
woman's  wit.  But  it  is  still  true 
that  acquaintanceship  has  taken  the 
place  of  friendship  in  the  woman's 
world,  though  there  is  a  greater 
display  of  affection  in  the  mere 
acquaintanceship  of  women  than  there 
is  in  the  case  of  the  less  demonstra- 
tive and  more  demonstrable  sex.  It 
is  well  for  women  that  the  cynic 
who  watches  their  farewell  and  greet- 
ing kisses  is  forced  to  admit  that 
the  historic  kiss  of  betrayal  was 
masculine.  Women  have  less  to  gain 
than  have  men  by  the  utilitarian 
choice  of  acquaintances.  Ulterior 
motives  may  tempt  an  American 


heiress  to  charter  a  duchess  as  a 
chaperone,  but  possibly  no  ulterior 
motive  would  suffice  to  bid  her  seek 
similarly  a  friend.  And  it  is  to  the 
glory  of  womanhood  that  with  women 
there  has  remained  such  of  the  old 
notion  of  friendliness  as  still  exists 
in  the  world.  It  is  better  to  be 
conservative  of  emotions  than  of 
constitutions. 

Of  course,  there  is  a  third  and  a 
very   important  class   of    friendship, 
the   friendship    between    members  of 
the   opposite,    or,    as   the   misogynist 
would  say,  the  opposed  sexes.    Friend- 
ship is  usually  said  to  be  impossible 
across    the    curious    barrier  which    is 
alleged   to  divide  man  from  woman. 
Plato    regarded    such    friendship    as 
perfect,  being  ideal   sympathy.     "  It 
now  means,"  said  Mr.  G.  H.   Lewes, 
"  the   love    of    a   sentimental   young 
gentleman   for   a    woman    he    cannot 
or  will  not  marry."     Thus  what  we 
call  Platonic  friendship  is  the  merest 
shadow  of  that  which  Plato  described, 
It  is  a  curious  development  that  we 
should    so   sneer    at    friendship    that 
the  most  perfect  friendship  is  tacitly 
regarded  as  impossible.     Unless  love 
be    regarded     as     an     instantaneous 
vision,  knowing  no  premonitions  and 
having  no  preludes,  there  is  nothing 
from  which  love  can  grow  but  true 
Platonic,  or  perfect  friendship.    There 
must  surely  be  some  crumbs  of  esteem 
and  admiration  which  fall  for  others 
from  our  table  of  love.     At  once  we 
have   the  hint   of  jealousy.      But   a 
jealous  husband   is  one  who  has  not 
come  into  his  kingdom,  and  a  jealous 
wife  is  a  woman  who  sees  the  charm  of 
other  women  and  hates  those  charms 
rather  than  learns  their  worth.     And 
it    must   of    necessity    be    disastrous 
that    women    can    influence    women, 
and    no  woman    influence   men    save 
through    the  channel  of    matrimony. 
There     is     a    deep     truth     in     the 
Russian    proverb   that   he  who   loves 


110 


The  Art  of  Friendship. 


one  woman  has  some  love  for  all 
women. 

Ruskin  advised  every  girl  to  have 
six  sweethearts  coincidently.  It  was 
excellent  advice.  That  misjudged 
person,  the  flirt,  is  most  frequently 
a  woman  whose  heart  aches  for  friend- 
ship, but  who  keeps  the  richest  store 
hidden  for  her  king  when  he  shall 
come.  Those  who  were  never  her 
king,  who  never  could  be  her  king, 
call  her  names  by  way  of  rejoinder. 
They  overlook  the  salient  fact  that 
all  she  gave  them  was  friendly  interest, 
and  that  was  all  she  pretended  to  give 
them,  for  a  conscious  flirt, — that  is, 
a  woman  who  consciously  pretends  to 
love — is  as  impossible  as  a  conscious 
hypocrite.  In  fact  the  flirt  is  the 
only  remaining  artist  in  friendship, 
and  a  world  which  knows  not  what 
friendship  is  makes  good  the  de- 
ficiency by  maligning  her.  We  ask 
in  love's  forest  that  there  be  only  the 
giant  oak  of  love ;  as  a  matter  of  fact 
there  are  the  many  dwarfed  ever- 
greens of  friendship  and  the  under- 
growth of  mere  mutual  esteem,  and 
these  shrubs  can  never  grow  to  be 
other  than  they  are.  It  is  folly, 
because  we  have  not  the  oak,  to  burn 
to  the  roots  the  other  trees  and  leave 
the  brown  place  bare. 

"  Let  all  our  intervals  be  employed 
in  prayers,  charity,  friendliness  and 
neighbourhood," — thus  wrote  the 
saintly  Jeremy  Taylor.  It  is  a  far 
different  sentiment  from  the  mere 
choice  of  useful  friends  on  the  one 
hand,  or  the  choice  of  wife  or  hus- 
band on  the  other.  Copybooks 
may  bid  us  choose  our  friends  care- 
fully; the  Uncopied  Book  bids  us 


love  them  diligently.  Mr.  Gilbert's 
magnet  sought  the  silver  churn,  and 
alas  for  its  disappointment !  And  we 
so  often  choose  and  seek  the  response- 
less  silver  churns,  when  the  steel 
would  fly  to  us  at  our  attraction.  He 
who  sets  out  to  make  friends  is  a 
sycophant,  and  Dr.  Johnson  knew 
what  a  sycophant  was  :  "  He  that  is 
too  desirous  to  be  loved  will  soon 
learn  to  flatter."  He  who  desires  to 
love  will  gain  friends,  if  he  does  not 
set  out  to  gain  them ;  and  they  will 
love  him,  if  not  too  apparently  he 
seeks  their  love.  No  choice,  no  fitness, 
no  power  to  confer  gifts,  no  mutual 
interest  of  acquaintanceship  will  take 
the  place  of  simple  spontaneous  affec- 
tion. The  bees  of  infinitely  numerous 
affectionate  impulses  produce  the  honey 
of  goodly  counsel,  and  goodly  counsel 
is  the  evidence  of  friendship.  It  was 
of  love  in  this  wider  sense  that 
William  Morris,  the  singer  of  friend- 
ship and  fellowship,  wrote  these  great 
lines ;  it  was  to  arouse  a  world,  som- 
nolent and  self-satisfied,  to  the  truth 
which  a  life  of  hurry,  skimming  across 
the  superficies,  of  things,  fails  to  per- 
ceive in  the  cavernous  depths. 

Love  is  enough ;  though  the  World  be 

a-waning, 

And  the  woods  have  no  voice  but  the 
voice  of  complaining, 

Though  the   sky  be  too  dark  for 

dim  eyes  to  discover. 
Yet  their  eyes  shall  not  tremble,  their 

feet  shall  not  falter, 
The  void  shall  not  weary,  the  fear  shall 
shall  not  alter 

These  lips  and  these  eyes  of  the 
Loved  and  the  Lover. 

J.  G.  L. 


in 


WARDS     OF   GOD. 


THE  race  of  half-witted  mendicants 
and  privileged  eccentrics,  once  so 
numerous  in  Ireland,  is  now  rapidly 
dying  out ;  chiefly,  no  doubt,  because 
of  the  utilitarian  spirit  which,  for 
better  or  for  worse,  has  begun  to 
transform  the  conditions  of  the 
Irish  peasant's  life.  Before  long  the 
picturesque  naturals,  who  wandered  at 
will  from  house  to  house,  welcomed, 
or  at  least  tolerated,  everywhere,  will 
be  as  extinct  as  the  daoine  sidhe, 
the  gentle  fairy-folk,  with  whom  they 
so  frequently  claimed  kinship.  But 
some  few  years  ago  things  were 
different,  and  there  was  scarcely  a 
parish  in  Ireland  which  did  not  shelter 
one  or  more  of  these  Wards  of  God, 
as  the  old  monkish  annalist  calls 
them. 

The  village  which  I  will  here  style 
Ballycomer  was  particularly  favoured 
in  this  respect,  for  no  less  than  three 
of  the  strange  beings  made  it  their 
home,  or  place  of  frequent  sojourn. 
Each  of  the  three  belonged  to 
a  distinct  type  of  natural;  and 
they  had  nought  in  common  save 
the  facts  that  they  subsisted  upon 
charity,  and  were  more  or  less  men- 
tally affected. 

First  of  the  three,  let  us  take  Matt 
'Kinerney.  He  was  a  man  of  about 
thirty  years,  with  a  face  of  the 
Spanish  sort,  long,  oval,  and  olive- 
hued,  hung  about  with  wisps  of  blue- 
black  hair.  A  handsome  man  he  was 
in  so  far  as  the  outline  of  his  features 
went,  with  great  brown  eyes  fixed  in 
an  everlasting  stare,  as  though  some 
dreadful  apparition  were  ever  before 
them.  He  was  tall  too,  was  Matt, 
possessing  great  sinewy  limbs,  and  a 


splendid  breadth  of  shoulders  ;  but  he 
held  himself  loosely,  and  his  long 
neck  was  ever  thrust  forward,  till  his 
matted  black  beard  drooped  far  over 
his  breast.  In  rags  was  he  clad, 
strange,  motley  rags  of  many  colours, 
sewn  or  pinned  together,  sometimes 
tied  together  with  twine,  or  even 
fastened  with  thorns  from  the  hedge- 
row-briar. A  coat,  or  upper  garment, 
and  a  pair  of  trousers  formed  his 
sole  attire  in  spring,  summer,  and 
autumn.  During  the  winter  months 
he  appeared  in  coarse  flannel  shirts, 
gifts  of  the  charitable ;  but  these  were 
torn  up  on  the  approach  of  warmer 
weather,  and  used  as  patches  to  hang 
on  "  patron  bushes,"  *  or  else  to  em- 
bellish the  all-important  "jacket  an' 
throwsers."  A  hat  he  owned,  rimless 
and  green  with  age;  but  this  was 
borne  for  the  most  part  over  his 
hairy  breast,  where,  together  with  a 
red  cotton  handkerchief,  it  served  to 
hold  valuables.  In  winter  and  sum- 
mer alike  Matt  went  barefoot;  and 
his  feet,  although  large  and  sorely 
calloused,  were  invariably  clean,  for 
he  made  a  point  of  washing  them 
carefully  at  every  stream  and  pond 
which  he  passed.  At  odd  times  he 
carried  a  bundle ;  but  this  was  usually 
stolen  from  him  by  tramping  tinkers, 
if  not  hurled  by  himself  at  the  heads 
of  mischievous  boys.  These  gorsoons, 
in  truth,  were  poor  Matt's  worst 
enemies;  kinndts,  he  called  them,  a 

1  Bushes  beside  holy  wells,  and  spots 
dedicated  to  patron  saints,  were  (and  still 
are  in  certain  parts)  hung  about  with 
shreds  of  cloth  left  there  by  those  who  oanio 
to  pray.  The  custom,  according  to  O'Curry, 
is  older  than  Christianity,  like  the  Bel-fire 
and  the  Wake. 


112 


Wards  of  God. 


term  of  opprobrium,  the  exact  meaning 
.of  which  is  a  mystery  to  me.  They 
did  him  no  actual  harm,  but  followed 
at  a  safe  distance,  driving  him  frantic 
with  taunt  and  jeer.  This  cruelty  to 
the  helpless  or  weak-minded  is  un- 
fortunately a  common  trait  of  thought- 
less urchins,  and  by  no  means  peculiar 
to  those  of  Ballycomer.  But  Matt 
'Kinerney  could  hardly  be  expected 
to  make  allowances  for  juvenile 
wantonness ;  and  so  between  the 
gorsoons  and  himself  there  raged  a 
bitter  feud. 

Matt  generally  tried  to  slip  into 
the  village  while  the  boys  were  at 
school ;  but  his  confused  methods  of 
reckoning  time  proved  a  bar  to  the 
success  of  this  manoeuvre,  and,  his 
presence  becoming  known,  he  was 
speedily  surrounded.  There  was  one 
subject  upon  which  he  was  peculiarly 
sensitive,  and  which  supplied  his  foes 
with  unfailing  matter  for  their  jibes. 
He  had  a  craze  for  purchasing  leaden 
spoons,  not  for  use,  but  solely  in 
order  that  he  might  retire  to  some 
quiet  spot  and  spend  a  happy  half- 
hour  in  twisting  off  the  heads.  This 
occupation  appeared  to  fill  him  with 
pleasure  (perhaps  he  fancied  himself 
twisting  in  effigy  the  necks  of  black- 
guard boys)  ;  and  many  a  time  have 
I  come  upon  him,  seated,  like  Ophelia, 

Where  a  green  willow  grows  aslant  a 
brook, 

laughing  luxuriously  to  himself  as  he 
sundered  the  soft  lead,  and  flung  the 
heads  at  the  skurrying  minnows. 
It  was  useless  to  give  Matt  money, 
for  he  invariably  spent  it  in  buying 
spoons.  "  Morrow  to  ye  Matt ! "  the 
boys  would  cry.  "Will  ye  have 
a  spoon  to  twist1?  .  .  .  Lock 
up  your  spoons,  widow  dear ;  here 
comes  Matt  'Kinerney !  "  Or  else, 
obtaining  a  great  wooden  spoon,  which 
might  not  be  twisted,  they  would 


shake  it  mockingly  at  the  poor  fellow. 
Then  Matt,  with  rage  in  his  heart, 
turned  upon  and  anathematised  his 
tormentors.  "  G'wan  now,  ye  kin- 
ndts  I "  cried  he  in  his  deep,  musical 
voice.  "  G'wan  now,  an'  larn  your 
cadychism,  or  I'll  set  my  curse  on 
some  o'  ye  ! "  But  he  never  really 
cursed  them  after  all,  for  he  was  a 
gentle  soul,  even  when  angry, — a  very 
different  creature  from  the  malevo- 
lent Bett  Mellon,  another  of  our 
Ballycomer  naturals. 

When  Matt  had  made  his  rounds 
in  the  village,  and  arranged  for  some 
sleeping  place  for  the  night  (a  clean 
hay-loft  or  stable  suited  him  best, 
and  this  he  had  little  difficulty  in 
securing,  for  he  was  thoroughly 
honest  and  civil-spoken),  his  first 
call  was  upon  the  priest,  his  next 
upon  the  good  people  at  Ballycomer 
House.  The  parish  priest  in  those 
days  was  a  character  in  his  way,  a 
venerable  scholar  educated  at  Lou- 
vain  and  Rome,  who  spoke  Irish, 
English,  French,  and  Latin  with  ease, 
but  perhaps  Irish  best.  Father  Pur- 
cell  (so  was  he  called)  treated  Matt 
with  a  brusque  kindness,  made  him 
repeat  a  pater  and  ave  in  the  mother 
tongue,  gave  him  his  blessing,  and 
bade  him  "  go  away  now,  and  be  a 
good  boy."  If  any  boy  made  mock 
of  Matt  while  the  Reverend  Philip 
Purcell,  S.T.P.,  was  within  earshot, 
the  imp  was  apt  to  feel  the  weight 
of  the  *>™Q<jt's  holly  staff  across  his 
shoulders. 

Dismissed  by  Father  Philip,  off 
went  Matt  to  the  big  house,  as  he 
termed  it.  He  never  knocked  at  the 
front  door,  but  took  up  his  position 
on  the  gravel  sweep  before  the 
windows,  or  else  squatted  comfort- 
ably down  upon  the  lawn.  Then  in 
a  monotonous  (but  still  musical) 
chant  he  began  his  familiar  appeal, 
which  was  at  once  a  prayer  for  the 
repose  of  the  departed,  and  a  notifi- 


Wards  of  God. 


113 


cation  to  the  survivors  that  Matt 
'Kinerney  had  coine  to  dinner.  "Lord 
ha'  mercy  on  the  ould  Masther  that's 
gone,  an'  on  the  ould  Misthress," — 
in  such  wise  ran  his  orisons ;  "  an' 
Lord  ha'  mercy  on  Masther  Terence 
that  was  kilt  in  the  wars,  an'  poor 
Miss  Sheela  that  married  the  English- 
man (sure  I  forget  his  name),  an' 
Masther  Pierce  (he  was  the  best  o' 
them  all),  an'  Masther  Maurice,  an' 
all  their  sowls.  An'  Lord  ha'  mercy 
on  the  sowls  of  all  the  family,  that's 
dead  an'  gone.  May  they  rest  in 
peace — amen  !  " 

Here  there  was  a  pause,  as   Matt 
waited  to  see  if  his  prayers  had  been 
heard  (not  above,  of  course,  but  by 
any  listening  members  of  the  family). 
Heard  he  usually  was,  for  his  voice, 
while  never  unduly  raised,  and  in  no 
sense  the  whine  of  the  ordinary  beggar, 
had  in  it  an  extraordinarily  penetrat- 
ing  quality.      If,  however,  as    some- 
times happened,  his  first  appeal  passed 
unheeded,   he   began   all    over  again, 
and   continued  patiently   until  some- 
one appeared.     A  trifle  of  alms  and 
a  plentiful   supply  of    food  were  his 
invariable  rewards  ;  and,  if  any  event 
had  occurred  in  the  household  (such 
as    a   birth,  a  wedding,  or  a  death) 
since   his   last  visit,   Matt  was   duly 
informed  of  the  fact  by  the  servant 
who   brought   him    his    dinner.     The 
meal  dispatched  (it  was  eaten  in  full 
view  of  the  household,  for  Matt  would 
not  enter  the  servants'  quarters,)  and 
the  remnants  stowed  away  in  his  hand- 
kerchief,  a  second    series  of   prayers 
began.     These  dealt  with  the  living, 
rather    than   the  dead.     "God    bless 
the    Masther   an'  the    Misthress    an' 
the     young    ladies     an'    gentlemen," 
sonorously   declaimed    the    wanderer. 
"  An'  God   send  Masther  Geoffrey  a 
fine   wife    an'    a    nate    fortune."      If 
Masther    Geoffrey    (the     prospective 
bridegroom)  happened  to  be  at  home, 
this    meant  a  coin  of  the  realm   for 
No.  506. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


Matt,  who  received  the  gift  as  a  fee 
duly  earned,  and,  muttering  further 
prayers  as  he  went,  hurried  away  to 
the  village,  intent  upon  a  grand  orgie 
in  spoon-twisting. 

Next  morning  at  daybreak  he  was 
gone  from  Ballycomer,  and  brushing 
the  dew  from  the  upland  heather 
many  a  mile  away.  As  he  sped 
onward  with  mighty  strides,  he 
crooned  to  himself  some  old  Irish 
Gome-cdl-ye,  as  the  queer  monotonous 
ballads  of  penal  days  are  called,  from 
the  fact  that  they  nearly  always 
begin  with  those  three  words.  Work- 
house towns  and  cities  he  avoided 
like  the  plague,  and  he  never  re- 
turned to  the  same  locality  oftener 
than  once  a  month.  His  relatives 
were  said  to  be  decent  farmers  some- 
where in  the  Slieve  Bloom  moun- 
tains ;  and  they  tried  unavailingly  to 
keep  Matt  at  home.  As  to  his  curious 
patronymic  'Kinerney,  I  believe  it 
to  be  a  corruption  of  the  Irish 
name  Maclnerney.  Such  contrac- 
tions were  common  in  the  Ballycomer 
district,  MacGrath  becoming  Crd, 
and  O'Faelen  Whalen.  In  the  winter, 
Matt  was  often  overcome  by  exposure 
to  the  elements,  and  rumours  periodi- 
cally reached  us  that  the  Ward  of 
God  had  gone  to  his  great  Guardian. 
But  with  the  return  of  spring  came 
Matt  in  his  rags  again,  quarrelling  as 
bitterly  as  ever  with  new  generations 
of  gorsoons,  twisting  the  heads  of  new 
spoons,  and  praying  new  prayers  for 
"  the  sowls  of  the  Family." 

Allusion  has  been  made  to  Bett 
Mellon,  another  of  our  naturals.  If 
Matt  'Kinerney  had  a  reputation  for 
harmlessness,  not  so  Bett.  She  was 
a  little  hunched-up  atomy,  wrapped 
from  head  to  foot  in  a  patched  shawl, 
with  only  her  face  showing  through 
the  folds, — and  such  a  face  !  Had 
she  dwelt  in  merry  England  in  the 
time  of  Matthew  Hopkins,  she  would 
assuredly  have  been  pricked  for  a 


114 


Wards  of  God. 


witch  on  the  evidence  of  her  coun- 
tenance alone.  Nose  and  chin  almost 
met,  and  resembled  in  shape,  colour, 
and  sharpness  the  nippers  of  a  lobster. 
Her  gaze  was  for  the  most  part  bent 
upon  the  ground  ;  but  when  she  did 
look  up,  it  was  seen  that  her  eyes 
were  greenish  and  threatening  like 
those  of  a  spiteful  cat,  and  in  size 
but  little  larger.  She  had  no  eye- 
brows whatsoever ;  but  other  parts  of 
her  face  were  tufted  with  hair,  and 
a  glibbe,  or  coarse  lock  of  the  grey 
which  had  once  been  red,  hung  over 
her  forehead.  Children  feared  Bett 
instinctively,  thinking  of  certain  pic- 
tures of  witches  in  their  story-books. 
She  was  of  mixed  Irish  and  French 
parentage;  her  father  having  gone 
from  Ballycomer  to  fight  under  Count 
Henry  Shee1,  in  the  army  of  the  great 
Napoleon,  while  her  mother  was  a 
Picard  peasant.  As  to  her  age,  we  set 
it  down  as  little  short  of  a  hundred. 
Count  Shee  (who  died  in  1820)  had 
sent  her,  a  well-grown  child,  to  Ire- 
land, not  long  after  her  father  had 
fallen  at  Waterloo.  She  lived  all 
alone  in  a  little  house,  near  the  fair- 
green  of  Ballycomer,  subsisting  on 
alms  and  on  letting  lodgings  to 
itinerant  blind  men.  Mad  she  cer- 
tainly was,  but  not  dangerously  so, 
unless  roused  to  anger.  In  such  cases 
her  fury  was  dreadful  to  witness. 
Could  she  seize  upon  the  object  of 
her  wrath,  her  sharp  claws  were  cer- 
tain to  leave  their  marks  upon  him; 
her  eyes  would  flash  balefully,  and 
she  would  bite  and  scratch  in  tigerish 
fashion.  A  great  yellow  cat  shared 
her  hut,  and  with  this  beast  she  was 
wont  to  fall  out  frequently.  Then  a 
strange  sight  was  witnessed  by  the 
neighbours.  Bett  Mellon,  throwing 


1  Count  Henry  Shee,  like  his  nephew 
Clarke,  Marechal  Due  de  Feltre,  was  art 
Irishman  from  the  Nore  Valley.  Count 
D'Alton-Shee,  the  well-known  legitimist, 
was  his  grandson. 


herself  upon  her  hands  and  knees, 
would  arch  her  back  exactly  in  the 
fashion  of  her  familiar  ;  and  the  two 
would  spit,  growl,  and  finally  spring 
at  each  other  in  the  true  spirit 
of  feline  warfare, — fighting  savagely, 
and  rolling  over  and  over  upon  the 
earthen  floor,  until  some  venturesome 
neighbour  came  to  tear  them  apart. 

Bett  Mellon's  daily  occupation  con- 
sisted in  gathering  brestlin  (bundles  of 
firewood) ;  and  she  was  constantly  in 
trouble  with  the  farmers  because  of 
her  habit  of  appropriating  growing 
timber  to  which  she  had  no  right. 
Magistrates,  however,  refused  to  issue 
a  summons  against  her  on  account  of 
her  mental  infirmity  ;  and  the  farmers, 
to  tell  the  truth,  were  afraid  of  her  as 
a  witch.  Shortly  after  her  husband's 
death  (this  must  have  been  some  sixty 
years  ago)  she  had  disappeared  from 
Ballycomer  for  seven  years,  nor  was 
any  trace  of  her  ever  discovered.  The 
whisper  arose,  and  became  a  fixed 
tradition,  that  Bett  had  spent  those 
seven  years  in  the  land  of  Faery. 
When  next  seen  by  Ballycomer  eyes, 
she  was  coming  out  of  the  old  haunted 
earthen  fortress  of  Rathmore,  which 
was  famous  throughout  Nore  valley 
as  one  of  the  gates  of  the  fairy-people. 
After  her  return,  Bett  took  possession 
of  a  deserted  hut.  She  affected  ex- 
treme deafness,  and  for  thirty  years 
was  said  never  to  have  spoken  an 
articulate  word.  Yet  her  curse  was 
dreaded  throughout  the  parish.  Chil- 
dren did  not  dare  to  tease  her  as  they 
did  poor  Matt  'Kinerney,  for  she  had 
a  method  of  dealing  with  them  which 
struck  terror  to  their  souls.  Once  I 
was  witness  to  a  specimen  of  her  un- 
spoken witchery.  She  had  strayed 
beyond  her  accustomed  paths,  and  was 
hobbling  with  a  load  of  firewood  down 
a  lonely  valley  in  the  neighbouring 
parish  of  Castledowney,  mumbling  to 
herself  as  she  went.  Some  boys, 
knowing  her  not,  danced  across  the 


Wards  of  God. 


115 


lane,  shouting  in  derision.  Bett 
motioned  them  away  with  a  skinny 
hand ;  but  they  continued  to  mock 
her,  crying  out  that  she  was  the  hag 
in  the  chap-book  story  of  TEAGUE  AND 
THE  OULD  WITCH.  Instantly  Bett 
Mellon  threw  down  her  bundle,  se- 
lected from  it  two  sticks,  laid  them 
cross-wise  in  the  road,  and  stooping 
down  breathed  upon  them.  The  chil- 
dren ceased  their  outcry,  and  gazed 
open-mouthed.  Fixing  them  with  her 
vindictive  eyes,  Bett  commenced  a 
noise  resembling  the  growl  of  a  cat 
in  anger.  No  words  could  be  distin- 
guished, but  the  urchins  knew  that 
they  were  being  cursed,  and  fled 
helter-skelter  from  the  spot.  For 
weeks  their  anxious  mothers  would 
not  permit  them  to  go  abroad  ;  and 
the  death  of  one  of  them  a  year  later 
was  unquestioningly  set  down  to  the 
evil  agency  of  Bett  Mellon. 

Every  week  Bett  came  to  Bally- 
comer  House  to  beg.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  stood  silently  before  the 
door,  waiting  for  alms.  At  such 
times  obstreperous  children  were 
hushed  with  the  dread  tidings  that 
"  Bett  Mellon  had  come  for  them 
with  her  bag."  She  wasted  no  time 
on  prayers  ;  and,  when  she  had  re- 
ceived, went  her  way  without  thanks 
or  acknowledgment.  Poor  wretch  ! 
Hers  was  a  miserable  lot,  unlike  the 
careless  open-air  life  of  Matt  'Kiner- 
ney,  or  of  yet  another  of  our  naturals, 
the  man  called  Count-the-Farmers. 

This  Count-the-Farmers  was  a 
merry  rogue,  a  fool  of  such  cunning, 
that  some  thought  his  folly  merely  a 
cloak  for  idleness.  He  wore  a  vener- 
able coat,  which  had  once  been  scarlet, 
and  a  velvet  cap,  erstwhile  the  pro- 
perty of  some  mighty  hunter  of  those 
parts.  Old-fashioned  corduroy  knee- 
breeches,  and  blue  stockings  (in  a 
chronically  ungartered  state)  com- 
pleted his  costume.  A  pair  of  top- 
boots  he  also  owned  ;  but  these  were 


carried,  save  on  very  grand  occasions, 
slung  over  his  back.  If  memory  does 
not  err,  his  real  name  was  Freyney, 
of  the  ancient  Norman-Irish  race  of 
De  La  Freyne,  but  more  recently 
related  to  the  notorious  highway- 
man, James  Freyney.  He  travelled 
as  he  pleased  from  place  to  place, 
frequenting  from  choice  fairs,  wakes, 
weddings,  and  christenings.  The  so- 
briquet Count-the-Farmers  was  given 
to  him  because  he  knew,  or  was  sup- 
posed to  know,  the  name,  descent,  and 
character  of  every  farmer,  as  well  as 
of  all  the  gentlemen  of  Irish  blood  in 
the  southern  half  of  the  province  of 
Leinster.  This  knowledge  he  used  to 
his  own  advantage  ;  and  he  had  com- 
posed a  long  doggrel  poem,  to  which 
additions  and  emendations  were  made 
from  time  to  time,  and  in  which  the 
facts  gathered  in  his  wanderings  were 
quaintly  set  forth.  Wherever  he  had 
been  well  treated  Count-the-Farmers 
had  nought  but  pleasant  things  to 
record  concerning  his  hosts  ;  but  woe 
betide  the  householder  who  refused 
him  sustenance,  or  wounded  his  self- 
respect.  The  unfortunate  was  straight- 
way gibbetted  in  Freyney's  uncouth 
rhymes,  and  the  demerits  of  himself, 
his  lands  and,  above  all,  his  ancestry 
(for  ancestry  was  our  satirist's  strong 
point)  proclaimed  aloud  from  the  Liffey 
to  the  Suir. 

As  an  example  of  Freyney's  rhymed 
invective,  the  following  (taken  down 
as  accurately  as  possible  from  his  own 
lips)  may  be  quoted  here. 

A  miser  is  yellow  Tim  Murphy  that 

lives  at  Aghanour — 
(May  the  rats  ate  up  his  corn  an'  the 

milk  of  his  cows  go  sour  I) 
He  turns  the  poor  away  wid  a  notish 

on  his  gate : 
(When  he  comes  to  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

'tis  him  that'll  have  to  wait !) 
Sure  his  grandfather  was  a  traitor  in 

the  days  o'  'Ninety-Eight ; 
His  mother  come  o'   the   Kavanaghs 

that  brought  the  Saxon  o'er ; 

i  2 


116 


Wards  of  God. 


His    father    robbed    the    orphan    an' 

grabbed  the  widow's  store. 
Bad  cess  to  his  cross-eyed  daughter, 

before  I'd  have  her  for  wife, 
Begob  I  would  want  six  farms  an'  tin 

thousand  a  year  for  life  ! 
His  sheep  is  half-kilt  wid  the  hunger, 

an'  the  crows  themselves  would  die 
If  they  flew   over   Aghanour,  that  is 

always  barren  an'  dhry  1 

But  Count-the-Farmers  could  praise 
as  vigorously  as  he  blamed.  Here 
is  a  verse  descriptive  of  a  certain 
respected  family  of  those  parts. 

The  shoneens  that  came  wid  Cromwell, 
an'  the  Saxon  lords  wid  their  gold, 

Sure  there's  none  o'  them  matches  the 
's,  that  was  famous  chiefs  of  old  1 

Good  luck  to  ye, of ;  'tis  a 

Prince  ye  are  by  rights  ; 

An'  your  ancesthors  leathered  the 
English  in  a  hundred  bloody  fights ! 

They  cheated  ye  wid  their  lawyers, 
that  darsn't  face  your  sword ; 

But  ye  kept  the  old  house  standin',  an' 
yours  is  a  plentiful  board. 

Your  daughters  are  straight  an'  hand- 
some, the  poor  they  never  mock  ; 

An'  your  sons  are  open-handed,  for 
they  come  of  the  grand  old  stock  1 

And  here  again  is  the  strolling  bard 
upon  a  farmer  who  had  befriended 
him. 

Big  Ned  Eyan  o'  Finnan,  'tis  himself  is 

the  full  of  a  door  ; 
An'  honest  man,  an'  a  sportsman,  an' 

a  kindly  man  to  the  poor ; 
His  father,  Shawn  o'  the  greyhounds, 

could  leap  as  far  as  a  deer, 
An'  he'd  drive   a  ball  wid  his  hurley, 

out  over  the  hills  from  here  ! 
There's  grass  for  the  cows  o'  the  world 

on  the  slopes  o'  Finnan  hill ; 
An'   the  buttermilk's  fine  as  silk,  an' 

the  whiskey  is  finer  still ! 
My  blessings  on  Mary  Ryan  1 — herself 

has  the  eyes  o'  blue  : 
An' the  daughters  take  after  the  mother, 

for  they're  handsome  heifers  too  1 

The  word  heifers,  as  applied  to 
Edmund  Ryan's  daughters,  was  used 
in  no  derogatory  sense ;  "A  fine 


young  heifer"  is  a  term  frequently 
applied  to  a  peasant  girl  in  pastoral 
Ireland. 

Count-the-Farmer's  doggrel  was 
eagerly  listened  to  both  by  the  friends 
and  the  enemies  of  those  of  whom  he 
sang.  He  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a 
warm  corner,  a  good  dinner,  or  a 
"  drop  o'  the  crathur."  When  re- 
citing his  verses,  with  appropriate 
gestures,  he  seemed  rational  enough ; 
but  take  him  away  from  his  favourite 
theme,  strive  to  converse  with  him 
upon  other  topics,  and  his  mind 
seemed  as  blank  as  that  of  poor  Matt 
'Kinerney.  Politics  of  a  period  later 
than  the  days  of  O'Connell  he  could 
not  understand  ;  and,  when  political 
matters  were  discussed  in  his  presence, 
he  displayed  all  the  fretfulness  of  a 
child  forced  to  listen  to  a  dry  subject, 
nor  was  he  happy  again,  until  invited 
to  give  a  specimen  of  his  farmer- 
counting.  He  spoke  the  Irish  lan- 
guage freely  ;  and  his  metrical  com- 
positions in  that  tongue  were  said  to 
have  been  far  better  than  those  which 
he  delivered  in  English.  He  loved 
to  follow  the  hounds  (on  foot,  of 
course)  and  knew  all  the  stiff  fences, 
as  well  as  all  the  short  cuts,  in  the 
country-side.  For  some  years  he  was 
confined  in  a  lunatic  asylum  (through 
the  spite,  it  was  reported,  of  an  in- 
fluential person  whom  he  had  handled 
none  too  gently) ;  but  the  authorities 
finally  released  him  as  harmless. 

Harmless  he  assuredly  was,  just 
as  gentle  Matt  'Kinerney,  and  even 
crabbed  old  Bett  Mellon,  were  harm- 
less ;  indeed  he  was  in  some  respects 
a  benefactor  to  the  community,  for 
his  rough  rhymings  did  much  to  keep 
bad  neighbours  in  order,  and  to  pre- 
serve intact  the  generous  spirit  of 
old.  Let  us  leave  him,  and  the  other 
Wards  of  God,  to  the  kindly  remem- 
brance of  the  newer  Ireland. 

GERALD  BRENAN. 


117 


A    SONG    OF    DARTMOOR. 

RICH  is  the  red  earth  country,  and  fair  beneath  the  sun 
Her  orchards  in  their  whiteness  show  when  April  waters  run ; 
Fair  show  they  in  their  autumn  green  when  red  the  apples  glow,— 
And  yet  a  lovelier  country  is  that  I'm  wisht  to  know. 

The  country  has  no  borders,  the  country  has  no  name  ; 

Its  people  are  as  homeless  as  any  marish-flame ; 

But  kind  they  are,  and  beautiful,  and  in  their  golden  eyes 

Their  lovers  see  the  gleam  that  drew  forth  Eve  from  Paradise. 

Oh  happy  Pixy-people  that  dance  and  pass  away, 

That  hope  not  for  to-morrow  nor  grieve  for  yesterday  ! 

Oh  happy  Pixy-people,  would  that  I  went  with  you, 

The  way  the  red  leaves  travel  when  the  harvest  moon  is  new  ! 

You  fear  no  blight  in  summer  that  kills  the  growing  corn  ; 
Your  hearts  have  never  sunk  to  see  the  sun  rise  red  at  morn  ; 
The  brown  spate  in  the  river,  the  drowned  face  in  the  Dart, 
Have  never  dulled  a  Pixy's  eye  or  hurt  a  Pixy's  heart. 

But  I  have  seen  the  river  rise  and  draw  my  lover  down  ; 

And  since  the  Dart  has  shrunken  now  too  low  to  let  me  drown 

And  be  at  peace  beside  him,  why,  I  would  lose  this  soul 

That  makes  the  daylight  dusk  to  me,  since  last  Dart  took  her  toll. 

Oh  Pixies,  take  this  heavy  soul  and  make  me  light  as  you  ! 
I  care  not  though  one  day  I  pass  away  like  drying  dew — 
I  only  care  to  sleep  no  more,  to  dream  no  more,  but  go 
Far  from  the  red  earth  country,  and  the  cruel  streams  I  know. 


118 


THE    STORY    OF    EVANGELINE. 


IN  other  years  my  eyes  had  rested 
with  desire  on  that  long  straggling 
mass  of  cold  grey  homestead  and  barns 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  valley,  with 
the  cabbage-headed  sycamores  on  the 
seaward  side  of  it,  the  three  Scotch 
firs  on  the  green  hillock  in  front  and 
the  knotted  crags  pressing  it  closely 
behind.  A  brawling  river  severed 
the  farm's  lower  grazing-lands  length- 
wise. Up  stream  two  miles  of  stony 
desolation  led  to  the  solemn  grey  pre- 
cincts of  Cumberland's  highest  peaks ; 
and  Bow  Fell  closed  the  avenue  of 
screes  and  fragments  of  blue  rock 
among  the  bracken  as  precisely  as  a 
door.  Down  stream  the  hills  grew 
beautifully  less  towards  the  sea,  which 
on  bright  days  sparkled  against  the 
yellow  sands  of  the  shore  twelve  rough 
miles  from  this  lonely  house.  The 
woods  and  meadows  of  the  lower 
end  of  the  valley  seemed  to  laugh 
with  cheerfulness  in  comparison  with 
the  savage  barrenness  of  the  other 
end,  where  one  shattered  old  yew  tree, 
fastened  in  the  southern  screes,  lorded 
it  dismally  over  the  pent  landscape 
amid  the  eternal  roar  or  querulous 
whisper  of  the  waters.  The  wonder 
is  that  Wordsworth  missed  this  yew ; 
it  seems  to  exist  only  to  inspire  a 
sonnet. 

And  now  my  opportunity  had  come. 
Strolling  from  the  inn  one  May  morn- 
ing, when  the  cuckoos  were  at  call  in 
the  larch  coppice  across  the  beck, 
I  found  nut-coloured  Peter  Tyson 
nestled  among  the  hyacinths  of  the 
hedge-sward,  where  the  first  of  the 
gates  of  the  road  that  climbs  toward 
the  farm  tells  of  diminishing  popula- 
tion and  sheep  and  cattle  to  be 


kept  to  their  own  pastures,  the  public 
ease  notwithstanding.  The  man  was 
enjoying  his  Sunday's  rest  as  they  do 
in  these  parts,  without  heed  of  the 
patches  they  exhibit  to  the  critical 
stranger.  I  had  seen  five  others  like 
him  in  a  row  nearer  the  inn,  with 
their  knees  to  their  chins,  silent  and 
absorbed  as  if  they  were  there  to  hear 
the  cuckoo  instead  of  going  to  the 
little  one-belled  church  a  mile  down 
the  dale,  where  they  bury  their  dead 
at  the  age  of  a  hundred  and  indulge 
the  living  with  but  a  single  service 
weekly,  and  that  at  an  hour  con- 
veniently inconvenient  to  many.  But 
Tyson  was  not  of  a  gregarious  turn  ; 
he  was  a  bachelor,  lodging  with  a  deaf 
and  dumb  labourer  in  the  village  of 
ten  houses  nearest  the  church.  There 
were  times  when  he  was  chary  even 
of  nodding  a  salutation.  On  week 
days  he  worked  in  a  mine,  and  the 
curse  of  his  employment  in  such  a 
spot  seemed  to  join  hands  with  the 
curse  upon  his  unfortunate  landlord 
to  throw  a  shadow  over  him  also. 
To-day,  however  he  gave  me  good-day 
quite  blithely,  and  shot  his  news  :  "I'm 
telt  they're  crackt  oop  at  Swinside." 

"  Cracked  up  1 " 

"Ay.  By  Gor,  it  caps  me  how 
e'er  a  one  of  'em  meks  farming  pay  in 
these  parts,  wi'  sic  a  muck  o'  stones 
about.  But  it's  all  over  at  Swinside." 

Swinside  was  the  name  of  the  farm 
set  thus  in  the  raw  sanctuary  of  the 
mountains.  My  sun-burned  friend 
became  so  gleefully  garrulous  about 
his  topic  that  I  soon  had  enough  of 
him.  I  walked  on  up  the  valley, 
through  gate  after  gate,  past  the 
square  white  cot  of  Bow  House,  with 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


119 


the  strong  splashes  of  colour  from 
its  rhododendrons  in  front,  and  in 
another  mile  past  Steep  Crag,  the  last 
or  first  farm  in  the  valley,  save  Swin- 
side  itself.  Both  Bow  House  and 
Steep  Crag,  like  Swinside,  wore  their 
screen  of  sycamore  on  the  exposed 
quarter.  They  had  something  else  in 
common.  The  old  yeoman  of  Bow 
House  had,  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
recently  married  his  housekeeper ;  the 
tenant  of  Steep  Crag  had  done  the 
like  thoughtful  deed  a  dozen  years 
before.  These  chances  seem  to  be 
taken  deeply  into  consideration  in  the 
rate  of  wages  at  the  half-yearly  hirings 
of  Cockermouth  and  Ulverston ;  a 
muscular  and  vivacious  young  woman, 
engaged  to  work  about  fourteen  hours 
every  week-day  and  six  or  eight  on 
the  Sunday,  goes  gaily  to  her  doom 
in  the  remotest  parts  of  the  dales  for 
eight  or  ten  pounds  a  year  ;  whereas 
a  farm-hand  of  eighteen  or  nineteen 
gets  nearly  a  pound  a  week  with  his 
board,  and  does  not  then  think  him- 
self over-paid.  How  matters  might 
be  in  this  respect  at  Swinside  I  did 
not  know,  nor  did  it  concern  me ;  but 
I  purposed  looking  at  the  place,  and 
then  roaming  on  towards  the  Falls, 
which  make  a  little  white  score  at  the 
end  of  the  valley,  visible  from  afar, 
and  especially  so  when  black  clouds 
darkened  the  scree-sides  and  spread 
their  pall  over  Bow  Fell  behind. 

A  barricade  of  gates  guards  the 
approach  to  Swinside.  There  is  the 
one  which  writes  finis  on  the  road 
itself,  as  a  scratch  to  be  glorified  by 
record  on  the  Ordnance  survey  ;  that 
is  on  the  near  side  of  a  beck  which 
bustles  into  the  river  through  a  brake 
of  alders,  birch,  and  mountain-ash. 
Another  one,  just  across  the  bridge, 
helps  to  form  a  curious  little  enclosure 
on  the  bridge  itself,  useful  for  sheep. 
Yet  a  third  secures  the  courtyard  in 
front  of  the  farm.  Having  past  this 
ultimate  barrier,  I  was  prepared  for 


the  charge  of  dogs  that  met  me  on 
the  cobbled  area  sacred  to  the  flocks 
and  herds  of  generations,  and  over 
which  many  a  dead  yeoman  has  been 
carried  for  the  business  of  burial, — so 
long  a  business  still  in  these  secluded 
nooks  that  it  is  quite  in  order  for  the 
funeral-cards  to  bear  the  line  Refresh- 
ments at  the  Fox  and  Fiddle  after  the 
interment  just  beneath  the  mournful 
stanza  beginning 

He  has  gone,  he  has  gone  to  his  home 
in  the  sky. 

I  counted  eight  dogs  in  this  attack, 
including  one  with  the  mange,  and  one 
with  such  an  amiable  tail  that  it  was 
plain  he  was  following  the  leaders 
against  real  inclination.  But  Evan- 
geline  Walters  soon  settled  all  the 
rascals.  They  went  fawning  about 
the  cobbles  in  remarkable  obedience 
to  her  voice,  and  she  herself  soon 
gave  me  every  encouragement  in  the 
matter  of  my  wish. 

The  men-folks,  as  she  called  them, 
were  all  on  the  fells ;  Sunday  or  no 
Sunday,  work  had  to  be  done,  at 
sheep-cleaning  time.  But  first  of  all 
she  laughed  to  scorn  that  nut-coloured 
man's  grievous  report.  "  Crackt  oop  " 
indeed  !  It  would  be  many  a  year 
before  the  Swinside  Postlethwaites 
would,  she  hoped,  come  within  whis- 
per of  such  calamity.  The  accommo- 
dation of  a  lodger  was  a  subject  that 
interested  her.  "  I've  never  thought 
of  doing  it  myself,"  she  said,  "but 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  shouldn't 
mind  it.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  see 
our  spare  rooms  1  Master  and  his 
brother  they've  two  beds  together,  and 
master's  son  he  has  his.  There's  the 
servant-lad's  room  and  there's  mine. 
But  the  other's  the  best ;  I  clapped 
three  coats  of  whitewash  on  it  when 
I  did  the  house  in  March."  I  was 
shown  this  room,  and  also  the  parlour, 
with  its  one  window  of  four  and 


120 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


twenty  panes  never  designed  to  open, 
and  instantly  pressed  my  suit.  "  Come 
round  in  the  morning  and  I'll  let  you 
know,"  said  she  ;  "  but  I  declare  I'm 
quite  disposed  to  take  you.  It's  a 
lonesome  life,  you  ken." 

In  this  way  was  I  installed  at 
Swinside,  for  I  lost  no  time  on  the 
morrow  and  caught  the  Swinside 
housekeeper  ere  she  had  finished  that 
morning's  gossip  with  the  postman 
which  was  the  one  assured  daily  dis- 
traction of  her  life.  He  too  had  his 
finger  in  the  pie.  "  I'm  telling  her," 
he  said,  "  that  you'd  best  order  some 
tinned  things  from  our  store,  if  you 
settle  down  here.  You'd  be  tired  of 
their  eggs  and  bacon."  This  to  me 
seemed  so  unimportant  a  detail  that 
I  put  the  thought  aside.  If  the 
weather  held  so  fair  as  at  present,  I 
did  not  propose  to  tire  of  anything  at 
Swinside.  There  were  the  mountains 
at  my  very  door,  and  at  the  worst  it 
was  not  more  than  nine  miles  over  two 
passes  to  a  hotel  visited  daily  by  coach- 
loads of  excursionists  who  required 
full  tables  to  satisfy  their  appetites 
for  the  picturesque.  An  occasional 
luncheon  there  in  the  week  would 
fortify  me  for  severer  trials  than  the 
constant  eggs  and  bacon  with  which 
I  was  menaced.  The  postman  de- 
parted with  a  final  quip  for  Evan- 
geline. She  then  formally  addressed 
herself  to  me.  "  What  folks  want  to 
come  up  here  into  the  mountains  for 
beats  me.  I've  had  my  stomach-full 
of  them,  I  can  tell  you.  But  you'll 
like  to  see  the  bed  now  it's  made ; 
and  then  I'll  go  and  do  my  churning." 

I  admired  the  bed,  since  she  seemed 
to  expect  such  notice,  though  in  truth 
it  was  rather  commonplace,  even  to 
the  patchwork  quilt  on  it,  with  bits  in 
the  pattern  that  looked  suspiciously 
like  well-frayed  corduroy.  There  was 
nothing  else  in  the  room  to  admire. 
The  only  decorations  on  its  walls  were 
four  solemn  funeral-cards  in  black  and 


silver  set  in  dark  maple  frames,  which 
showed  up  strongly  against  the  white- 
wash of  Evangeline's  own  laying  on. 
The  most  ornate  of  them  commemo- 
rated Elizabeth  Ann  Postlethwaite, 
who  had  died  in  1891,  aged  forty-nine. 
"  That,"  said  Evangeline,  pointing  to 
it,  "  was  my  master's  first  wife." 
"First? "said  I.  "Well,  then,  only 
one,  since  you're  so  particular."  She 
added,  with  a  silvery  laugh  :  "  There's 
no  missus  in  the  house  now,  I  reckon, 
or  else  it's  not  me  that  would  be  here 
slaving.  What  do  you  think  I  could 
have  got  at  Ulverston  fair  last  Thurs- 
day at  the  first  of  the  hirings  1 "  My 
suggestion  of  gingerbread  was  per- 
fectly inadequate.  She  referred  to 
wages,  and  flung  it  at  me  that  though 
a  dozen  men  were  after  her,  knowing 
her  butter  for  one  thing  and  her 
capacities  for  labour  and  cheerfulness 
under  the  most  trying  conditions  for 
others,  she  just  heard  their  offers  and 
smiled  at  them,  refused  their  ten, 
twelve,  and  even  fourteen  pounds  a 
year  and  returned  to  Swinside  at 
a  mere  eight  pounds  fifteen.  "  My 
mother  said  I  was  a  little  fool,  getting 
so  thin  and  all  with  hard  work ;  but 
I  came  back  to  the  end  of  the  world 
for  the  old  money  and  that's  how  I'm 
here.  The  master  said  I  could  please 
myself  about  having  you,  and  I  only 
hope  you'll  be  satisfied." 

With  that  she  ran  down  to  her 
cream,  and  for  the  next  hour  I  was 
free  to  settle  myself  and  belongings 
without  close  comments  of  any  kind 
from  Evangeline  Walters.  She  sang 
while  she  churned ;  at  one  time  Sun 
of  my  soul,  and  then,  immediately 
afterwards,  the  once  popular  song 
about  the  lady  who  found  herself  in 
Crewe  against  her  wish  and  required 
advice  from  the  railway-porter.  All 
the  men-folks  were  "  wa'ing  gaps/' — 
that  is,  mending  those  apparently 
purposeless  and  very  tiresome  walls 
which  confront  one  in  the  mountains 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


121 


in  places  where  it  is  particularly 
awkward  to  get  over  them — and  I 
saw  none  of  them  until  the  evening. 
Evangeline  finished  her  butter,  and 
ere  I  went  up  the  valley  with  my 
fishing-rod  called  me  to  look  at  the 
two-score  speckless  pound-pats  of  it 
on  the  slate  slabs  in  the  dairy.  "  I 
canna  think  how  I  do  it  so  well,"  she 
said,  "for  I've  hot  hands.  But  the 
grocers  at  Seaton  say  they  have  no 
butter  like  mine.  I  got  a  commended 
for  it  at  the  last  show,  and  should 
have  took  a  prize  if  they'd  judged 
fair.  So  they  all  telled  me.  I'm 
never  showing  again,  for  certain." 

Such  was  my  introduction  to  this 
old  farmstead  with  the  pannelled 
kitchen  and  the  rafters  so  low  across 
it  that  anyone  more  than  five  feet 
nine  high  was  in  constant  danger  of 
concussion  of  the  brain.  The  river 
murmured  softly  this  first  day,  and 
was  so  clear  that  you  could  see  the 
moving  shadows  of  the  trouts'  tails 
on  its  stones  easier  than  the  trout 
themselves.  A  dry  north-east  breeze 
was  in  the  dale,  at  the  end  of  which 
Bow  Fell  towered  purple,  its  riven 
crags  like  a  frown  upon  it.  With 
little  hope  of  fish  I  tramped  in  its 
direction,  above  the  Falls,  to  the 
headwaters  of  the  river,  where  alone 
I  thought  the  trouts'  simplicity  might 
exceed  my  own.  And  here,  among 
Cumberland's  grey  giants,  I  stayed 
until  the  evening.  There  were  fish 
to  be  taken  after  all,  but  they  were 
of  secondary  value  to  the  tonic  calm 
and  beauty  of  this  mountainous  nook, 
the  calm  broken  only  by  the  cry  of 
lambs  and  the  softly-echoed  voices  of 
the  trickling  streams,  cold  from  the 
green  springs  nearly  a  thousand  feet 
above  the  hollow. 

When  I  returned  to  the  Swinside 
farm  and  its  dogs,  it  was  to  find  four 
stolid  men  at  the  long  deal  table 
between  the  kitchen-fire  and  the 
window,  with  bacon  and  bread  before 


them,  and  Evangeline  Walters,  the 
housekeeper,  with  her  hands  on  her 
sides  standing  and  encouraging  them 
to  eat :  "  There's  plenty  more  in  the 
pan,"  she  was  saying.  She  made  me 
known  to  her  masters  with  some 
eagerness,  falling  into  the  background 
to  see  the  result.  But  the  result  was 
meagre,  for  the  brothers  Postlethwaite 
were  evidently  perturbed  by  the 
domestic  innovation.  The  elder  was 
a  prematurely  grey  and  worn  man, 
steady  of  eye  and  slow  of  speech. 
His  brother  also  was  grey,  though, 
still  in  the  thirties,  but  of  the  tough, 
wiry,  russet-cheeked  kind  of  men 
familiar  to  Cumberland.  Young 
Dick,  as  Evangeline  called  him,  to 
distinguish  him  from  his  uncle,  also 
Dick,  was  a  splendid  specimen  of  the 
mountain-breed,  twenty  years  old,  big 
and  broad  and  stolid,  though,  like  the 
others,  with  his  head  on  a  slight  curve, 
due  no  doubt  to  the  eternal  discipline 
of  the  rafters.  The  servant-lad,  Jock, 
two  years  younger  than  Young  Dick, 
had  a  lively  look,  which  did  not  belie 
him.  A  new-born  lamb  was  wriggling 
its  neck  on  the  hearth,  the  feeding- 
bottle  with  which  they  had  been 
aiding  it  in  its  early  fight  for  life 
lying  by  it.  From  the  other  side  of 
the  hearth  came  the  chirp  of  ex- 
tremely young  chickens  mixed  up 
with  a  blanket  in  a  basket.  A 
cricket,  which  I  had  already  heard 
in  the  morning,  was  now  in  lusty 
voice  from  a  cranny  in  the  yard- 
square  paving-stones  of  the  floor 
between  the  chickens  and  the  lamb. 
The  pallor  of  the  gloaming  was  upon 
the  men  and  their  surroundings. 

"  You'll  be  lonesome  here,"  said 
Reuben  Postlethwaite,  "but  you're 
welcome." 

I  enlarged  on  my  gratitude  for  the 
concession  of  being  admitted  to  Swin- 
side, and  would  have  said  much  more, 
had  not  Evangeline  cut  me  short. 
"  You  can  go  right  through  now,"  she 


122 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


said   dicta  tor  ially.      "Your    supper's 
ready." 

Only  the  servant-lad  smiled  at 
this  command.  He  meant  his  smile 
mainly  for  Young  Dick,  but  Young 
Dick  seemed  to  scowl  in  response  to 
it.  The  elder  Postlethwaite  said, 
"Ay,  you'll  be  hungry,  for  certain." 
And  so  I  went  my  way. 

And  now,  in  the  course  of  the  days 
that  followed,  serene  and  swift,  the 
drama  and  old-fashioned  life  of  this 
sequestered  farmstead  unfolded  itself 
to  me.  To  the  casual  eye  there 
was  no  drama  at  all  here,  just  brute 
existence  like  that  of  the  cows  out- 
side, which  climbed  to  the  fell  tops 
in  the  hot  mornings  and  stood  majes- 
tically outlined  against  the  blue  sky 
by  breakfast-time.  The  occasional 
visitor  who  wandered  to  the  farm  for 
a  glass  of  milk,  or  to  ask  for  guid- 
ance over  the  mountains,  pitied  the 
establishment  for  its  isolation.  One 
could  see  it  in  his  face  as  he  gazed 
over  the  coarse  kitchen,  though  with 
every  nail  and  shelf  of  it  fulfilling 
its  duty,  and  made  the  conventional 
observation,  "This  is  a  very  old 
house."  A  troop  of  holiday  folk  came 
in  thus  one  morning  and  disquieted 
the  Postlethwaites  over  their  tea  and 
bacon.  A  chatterbox  of  a  man,  with 
whiskers  and  the  air  of  an  extremely 
conscientious  churchwarden,  was  at 
the  head  of  them ;  they  may  have 
been  a  Young  Mothers'  Meeting  on 
their  annual  jaunt,  with  a  few  of  the 
husbands  included,  or  they  may  have 
been  a  selection  from  his  more  or 
less  dependent  blood-relations.  Bread 
and  butter  and  milk  were  spread  for 
them,  and  the  chatterbox  plied  the 
Postlethwaites  with  questions  about 
sheep  and  wool  until  even  the  elder 
Reuben  began  to  show  signs  of 
impatience.  To  every  answer  the 
chatterbox  uttered  a  profound  and 
digestive  "  Indeed  ! "  ere  plunging  at 
a  fresh  inquiry.  But  when  the  com- 


pany were  gone,  with  farewells  shrill, 
tender,  and  effusive,  all  Reuben  said 
in  comment  on  his  trial  was  this  : 
"  Yon  man  ought  to  know  something 
by  now,  I'm  thinking."  "Ay,  he 
ought,  for  certain,  with  sic  a  tongue," 
the  younger  Postlethwaite  assented. 
Through  my  open  door  (which  let 
upon  a  sort  of  private  paddock  de- 
voted to  hens,  always,  it  seemed,  in  a 
state  of  violent  joy  about  recent  eggs) 
there  drifted  the  next  minute  the  bass 
voice  of  that  whiskered  inquisitor  as 
he  led  the  way  to  the  easy  fence 
pointed  out  to  him  by  Evangeline  as 
a  short  cut.  "  Poor  creatures,"  he 
exclaimed  loudly,  as  he  viewed  our 
rather  tame  rear  premises,  "  so  remote 
from  all  the  blessings  and  comforts  of 
civilisation  !  " 

Fiddlesticks,  as  a  matter  of  fact ! 
Remote  is  after  all    only  a   relative 
word.       Why,      the      previous     day 
Reuben  Postlethwaite  had  spent  six 
hearty  hours  in   Ulverston,  to  see  if 
he  could  hire  a  little  lad.    Evangeline 
had  pressed  for  a  domestic  auxiliary, 
and  her  master  had  risen  at  four  of 
the  clock,  made  his  tea,  saddled  the 
dappled     galloway,    ridden    fourteen 
miles  over    the   fells  in  the  glorious 
summer  morning  to  the  nearest  rail- 
way-station for  Ulverston,  dined  at  an 
inn  and  got  back  to  his  dear  sheep, 
lambs,  and  household  ere  the  golden 
sunset  light  had  faded  from  the  green 
of  the  dale  and  the  purple  and  grey 
of   the    mountains.       That   was    one 
reason    why   he    breakfasted    rather 
late    the    following    day,    at   a   time 
when    his  brother   had  done  a   good 
spell  of  work  looking  for  "  wicks  "  on 
the  sheep   herded  from  the  Darkdale 
part    of    their   very   extensive    farm. 
Though  a  grey  man,  with  the  mark 
of  his  bereavement  upon  him,  Reuben 
Postlethwaite    was   a   philosopher   as 
well   as    one   of    the   most    practical 
sheep-farmers  in  the  shire.     His  heart 
was  plainly,  and  by  slow   avowal  at 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


123 


suitable  moments  before  the  kitchen- 
fire,  amid  his  ten  thousand  five  hun- 
dred acres  of  Swinside  ;  but  his  mind 
was  ready  at  a  word  to  estimate  the 
markets  of  Whitehaven,  ay  and  even 
Smithfield  itself,  and  the  worth  of 
fat  wethers  and  lambs  a  week  or  two 
ahead. 

That  little  lad,  so  laboriously  en- 
gaged, did  not,  it  may  be  said,  find 
his  way  to  Swinside.  It  was  the 
engrossing  excitement  of  a  week.  The 
young  monster  took  his  retaining  fee 
of  a  shilling  fast  enough,  but  he  did 
not  come.  The  heavy  tax-cart,  used 
more  for  the  conveyance  of  manure 
than  for  such  polite  enterprises,  was 
sent  miles  down  the  dale  to  the 
railway-station  to  fetch  him  and  his 
box.  Jock  returned  with  a  new 
peony  necktie  and  an  astonishing  pin, 
but  no  little  lad.  He  told  a  rather 
moving  tale.  The  guard  of  the  train 
had  set  eyes  on  just  such  a  traveller 
as  this  fourteen-year-old  so  methodi- 
cally secured  for  imprisonment  in  the 
mountains  at  two  pounds  ten  for  the 
six  months.  It  was  at  a  station 
seven  miles  from  the  terminus ;  he 
had  a  brown  tin  box,  and  was  putting 
a  finger  into  a  short  clay  pipe  such 
as  the  Cumberland  juveniles  boldly 
indulge  in  when  they  aspire  to 
become  men.  That  was  all.  Swin- 
side was  left  to  draw  its  inferences. 
Neither  the  little  lad  nor  his  mother 
wrote  to  apologise ;  they  did  not 
even  answer  Reuben  Postlethwaite's 
painful  letter  demanding  either  the 
lad's  presence  immediately  or  the 
return  of  the  shilling.  Evangeline 
was  almost  angry,  but  eventually  she 
consoled  herself.  Her  master  should 
rise  at  four  that  coming  Thurs- 
day also,  make  his  own  tea  again, 
and  see  what  TJlverston  could  yield 
him  on  the  third  and  last  of  its 
hiring-days.  Help  she  must  have,  if 
only  to  peel  the  potatoes.  That  first 
little  lad  had  evidently  been  over- 


taken by  timidity  at  the  thought  of 
banishment  to  "sic  a  spot."  Well, 
she  didn't  wonder ;  she  professed  to 
wonder  why  she  herself  endured  it; 
"  though  I  did  tell  them  in  Ulverston 
there  wasn't  a  one  of  'em  the  equal 
of  my  master,  and  I  say  it  still.  And 
that's  why  I'm  here,  though  my 
mother's  for  ever  blacking  me  about 
it,  and  well  she  may."  In  the  mean- 
time she  made  a  slave  of  Jock,  the 
grown  servant-lad,  who  having  ex- 
pressed his  opinion  that  the  other 
young  reprobate  was  maybe  "  ower 
big  [conceited]  for  his  job,"  conten- 
tedly sat  before  the  heap  of  potatoes, 
or  picked  small  gooseberries  in  the 
weedy  little  garden,  churned  and 
chopped  sticks,  over  and  above  his 
general  work  of  tending  cows  and 
calves.  His  churning  was  not  suc- 
cessful ;  he  would  pause  for  breath 
and  conversation,  and  that  mournful 
disease  called  "  pin-heads  "  straight- 
way broke  out  in  the  churn  and 
doubled  his  toil. 

The  second  Sunday  here  at  Swin- 
side somewhat  startled  me.  They 
were  not  accustomed  to  the  adventure 
of  church-going.  The  incumbent 
of  the  parish  had  the  Swinside 
rabbit- shoo  ting,  and  that  was  really 
the  farm's  most  particular  connec- 
tion with  him.  He  had  a  detest- 
able habit  of  setting  snares  too, 
whereby  one  morning  the  gentle-faced 
black  cat  of  the  establishment  came 
home  from  a  hunting-night  under  the 
moon  with  its  right  fore-foot  in  red 
shreds.  They  did  not  put  poor  puss 
out  of  its  misery,  as  would  have 
seemed  natural  in  a  town.  They 
hoped  a  cat  of  such  gentle  expression 
and  ordinarily  demure  domestic  habits 
would  get  over  even  so  shocking  an 
injury  ;  and  since  that  same  morning 
the  maimed  quadruped  was  as  eager 
as  any  of  its  three  comrades  to  leap 
into  one  of  the  tall  cream  jars  set 
outside  to  be  scalded,  and  as  prompt 


124 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


to  scuttle  away  on  three  legs  when 
Evangeline  ran  out  and  called  them 
names.  No  doubt  they  were  not  too 
sanguine  about  its  constitution;  but 
it  was  not  this  that  startled  me.  It 
was  the  discovery  of  Reuben  Postle- 
thwaite,  the  grey-haired  farmer,  and 
Evangeline  Walters,  the  housekeeper 
just  out  of  her  teens,  sitting  side  by 
side  alone  before  the  kitchen  fire. 
Evangeline  was  in  a  pink  blouse,  wore 
a  fringe,  and  balanced  a  trim  little 
ankle  on  the  tap  of  the  boiler. 

You  see,  the  necessity  of  passing 
through  the  kitchen  from  my  room  to 
get  to  the  front  of  the  house  put  the 
whole  establishment  somewhat  at  my 
mercy,  and  me  at  theirs.  I  had 
heard  no  sound  in  the  kitchen,  and 
thought  it  empty.  Evangeline  looked 
round  and  smiled,  and  Reuben  Postle- 
thwaite  said  quietly,  "  Ye'll  be  going 
out,  I  reckon  1 "  Well,  I  did  go  out. 
The  other  brother  and  his  nephew 
were  leaning  against  a  gate,  looking 
at  sheep  in  a  pen,  calculating  how 
many  would  be  spoiled  by  those  in- 
fernal lustrous  green  flies  which  are 
the  devils  of  the  pasture  in  the  sum- 
mer-time. Jock  was  sprawled  in  the 
washhouse,  gloating  over  a  pink  half- 
penny sheet  of  street  ballads  bought 
at  the  Ulverston  fair,  which  he  also 
had  not  neglected  to  attend,  with  the 
five  pounds  ten  of  his  wages  in  his 
pocket.  But  when  a  shower  sent  me 
back  in  an  hour's  time,  matters  were 
in  exactly  the  same  state  at  Swinside. 
To  be  sure,  the  uncle  and  nephew  had 
gone  to  another  gate,  and  I  dare  say 
Jock  had  turned  a  page,  for  he  was 
tormenting  a  fresh  melody  in  a  low 
Sabbatical  voice.  But  inside  the 
house  the  master  and  his  maid  were 
still  side  by  side  before  the  fire. 

"  There's  nothing,"  Evangeline  ex- 
plained to  me  when  she  brought  me  my 
tea,  "  he  likes  better  than  to  sit  quiet 
like  that,  thinking  of  his  first  wife. 
She  was  a  lot  older  than  he  was,  but 


he's  always  thinking  of  her.  That's 
what  makes  him  look  so  delicate  like, 
though  he's  very  strong  in  the  arms. 
The  other  men-folks  don't  so  much 
care  for  it,  especially  in  winter.  They 
wanted  to  play  cards  last  Christmas, 
but  he  didn't  see  why  they  should. 
It's  more  restful  for  the  strength  to 
just  sit  before  the  fire  doing  nothing, 
when  work's  over." 

I  did  not,  of  course,  ask  for  this 
explanation.  The  girl  volunteered  it, 
when  she  had  seen  that  the  door  was 
shut.  And  then  she  smiled,  in  the 
easy  kittenish  way  which  had  pro- 
cured her  the  nickname  of  Smiler 
from  a  certain  staid  and  white-haired 
farmer,  who  occasionally  climbed  the 
ridge  which  separated  his  sycamores 
from  those  of  Swinside  and  joined 
the  Postlethwaites  by  their  fire  for 
an  hour  or  two  on  Sunday. 

Another  strand  in  the  web  of  life 
in  this  simple  grey  old  house  was  dis- 
played the  very  next  day.  As  usual, 
I  had  the  place  to  myself  at  break- 
fast when  once  the  "  porridges  "  and 
bacon  were  on  the  table.  With  her 
extraordinary  cross-pattern  of  dia- 
lects, to  which  I  cannot  do  justice, 
Evangeline  did  not  surprise  me  by 
giving  my  Quaker  oats  this  Scotch 
plural.  Her  parentage  and  training 
had  been  mixed;  a  Glasgow  father, 
a  Manchester  mother,  and  the  board- 
schools  of  Barrow-in-Furness  had 
between  them  taught  her  tongue 
something,  and  the  Cumberland  dales 
had  added  local  phrases  to  her  store. 
It  was  butter-day  again,  and  the 
sheep  were  being  gathered  three  wild 
miles  from  the  round  weather-worn 
chimneys  of  the  farm.  And  it  was 
with  the  "Scotch  hands, "as she  called 
the  wooden  spades  with  which  she 
manipulated  the  butter, — it  was  with 
these  in  her  hands  that  she  suddenly 
dashed  into  the  kitchen  and  so  to  my 
room,  bearing  an  interesting  expres- 
sion of  mock  alarm  on  her  sprightly 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


125 


face.     "  'Tis  the  old  man  !  "  she  said, 
in  a  whisper. 

"  The  old  man  1 "  I  repeated. 
"  Ay,  it's  him,  my  master's  father. 
He  comes  on  a  surprise  now  and 
again.  He  just  creeps  up  to  see 
what's  going  on ;  maybe  he  says  a 
word  to  Mr.  Postlethwaite  or  his 
brother ;  maybe  he  only  hides  by  the 
hollow  ash  near  the  river  and  goes 
away  again." 

To    the     commonplace     suggestion 
that  she  should  invite  him  in  to  rest, 
Evangeline    gave    a    hot    "  Not  me " 
of  reply.     "I   think  I  see  myself  a 
doing  it,"  she  added.     And  then,  with 
mischievous    chuckles,    she    told    me 
particulars,  some   of   which   I  might 
almost   have   surmised   had    I    taken 
the    trouble     to   weigh     the    human 
nature   of   my  host   and   his  family. 
Reuben    Postlethwaite's    father    had 
had  Swinside  himself  until  about  two 
years  previously  ;  then,  his  wife  dying, 
he  had  retired  to  a  plain-faced  house 
at  a  distance,  leaving  the  care  of  the 
farm   to    his    sufficiently   adult    and 
capable  sons.      Evangeline  had  been 
a  mere  drudge  in  those  days,  at  five 
pounds  the  year ;  but  a  clever  drudge, 
so  that  she  felt  quite  equal    to  the 
entire  charge  of   the   house   and    its 
men-folk  when  Reuben  Postlethwaite 
offered  it  to  her.     "  He  do  so  hate 
strange   faces,   and    his    mother    had 
praised    my  butter  before  taking    to 
her  bed,  poor  creature  ! "     This  was 
the  poison  in  the  cup  of  the  oldest  of 
all  the  Postlethwaites.     "  He've  never 
once  spoke  a  word  to  me  since,  and 
says  he'll  never  set  his  foot  in   the 
house  while  I'm  here.     He  says  I'm 
bent  on  marrying  one  of  his  sons,  he 
doesn't  know  which  ;  and  now  " — she 
laughed    riotously  into    the   palm   of 
her  hand — "  and   now  he  and   those 
that  don't  know  better  have  changed 
their  minds    and    declare  it's  Young 
Dick  as  I'm  after.     You'd  no  idea  of 
all  this  when  you  came,  I  expect  1 " 


It  was  obvious  after  this  that  I 
might  ask  her  what  Mr.  Reuben 
Postlethwaite  said  to  the  vexations  of 
such  a  family  disagreement.  "  Oh, 
he  !  "  said  she.  "  He  sticks  to  me ; 
says  he'll  never  get  such  another  as 
me  and — wonders  at  his  father,  he 
does.  I  do  work,  I'll  allow  :  and  I'm 
cheap.  My  mother  canna  think  why 
I  stop  when  I  could  get  my  eighteen 
pounds  in  Manchester  any  day.  But 
I  tell  her  I'd  just  hate  to  wear  caps, 
and  I'd  rather  do  as  I  like  on  eight 
pounds  fifteen.  I'll  go  and  see  what 
he's  after  now." 

By  and  by,  I  myself  saw  this  com- 
passionable  old  dalesman  with  the 
primitive  hard  pride  in  him.  He  was 
white-haired,  with  heavy  shoulders, 
and  leaned  on  a  stick  as  he  stood  by 
the  river  eyeing  the  fells  mottled  with 
sheep  still  bearing  the  raddled  P  in 
a  circle  which  may  be  found  recorded 
as  his  mark  in  that  indispensable 
work,  Gate's  SHEPHERD'S  GUIDE.  His 
attitude  was  pathetic ;  but  it  became 
darkly  theatrical  as  he  turned  again 
towards  the  house  and  then  slowly 
moved  away.  And  yet  one  could 
not  exactly  blame  Evangeline  Walters 
for  this  sad  little  feud,  seeing  that 
she  declared  she  had  again  and 
again  expressed  her  wish  to  leave,  so 
that  matters  might  be  righted  between 
father  and  son.  "But  the  master 
thinks  differently,"  she  said  on  this 
point.  "  He'd  rather  I  stayed  on, 
and  he's  hoping  the  old  man  will  give 
over  his  softness  in  time." 

On  the  Saturday  before  my  third 
Sunday  at  Swinside  the  postman 
brought  a  parcel  for  Evangeline 
Walters.  Saturday  was  scrubbing- 
day.  The  girl's  sleeves  were  tucked 
up  almost  to  her  shoulders  at  an  early 
hour  on  that  day,  and  my  room  and 
the  kitchen  had  a  rough  time  of  it 
from  her.  My  room  also  had  spacious 
dark  blue  flags  to  its  floor,  which  on 
Saturdays  were  first  scrubbed  and 


126 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


then  sanded.  I  would  rather  by 
much  have  had  a  Turkey  carpet  for 
the  evenings,  which  were  sometimes 
very  chilly  with  damp  and  dew,  but 
robustly  naked  stone  was  the  fashion 
in  the  valley.  It  had  its  advantages, 
of  course  :  a  miry  footmark  could  be 
removed  as  soon  as  made ;  and  after 
nine  o'clock,  when  everyone  except 
myself  went  up  to  bed,  I  found  more 
amusement  in  watching  and  listening 
to  the  frolics  of  the  mice  on  the 
flags  than  deal  boards  would  have 
permitted.  The  room  was  large,  with 
white  walls,  and  its  comfort  all  hinged 
on  a  pair  of  old  rocking-chairs  by  the 
tall  blacked  chimney-piece,  one  hooded 
and  winged,  like  a  porter's  chair,  for 
a  lady  averse  to  draughts,  and  the 
other  with  arms  to  rest  the  tired 
elbows  of  a  man.  Its  lamp  carried 
a  very  small  wick  which  made  a 
light  feeble  save  where  it  was  directly 
focussed,  so  that  even  a  mouse  could 
be  deceived  into  fancying  that  all  the 
corners  were  in  thrall  to  the  tranquil 
opportunities  of  the  night. 

There  is  excuse  coming  for  this 
curt  description  of  the  Swinside 
parlour  with  the  window  of  the 
four  and  twenty  panes.  Local  history 
was  to  be  made  in  it,  and  that  very 
shortly.  Evangeline  came  in  from 
the  postman  with  the  parcel  in  her 
hands.  "  Go  along  with  you,  will 
you ! "  she  had  said  almost  fiercely 
a  moment  or  two  before,  and  he  went. 
She  came  in  with  very  bright  eyes 
and  blushes  on  both  her  cheeks. 

"What  will  you  be  wanting  for 
your  dinner  to-night  1 "  she  asked 
rapidly,  looking  down  on  the  parcel 
and  fingering  its  string. 

Now  this  was  nothing  less  than 
her  humour.  The  house  could  offer 
no  change  from  eggs  and  bacon  until 
the  sheep-killing  time  re-opened  in 
September.  The  one  great  luxury 
of  the  past  week  had  been  a  dish 
of  spring  onions  brought  in  with  the 


cake   and   bread-and-butter  of   after- 
noon tea ;  and  the  girl  had  sorrowed 
over   my  contempt   for  that  innova- 
tion.    But   she    could    not    continue 
to  be  humorous  at  such  a  moment. 
"  I've   something    to   tell    you,"   she 
added,  as  she  shut  the  door  stealthily. 
"  I  don't  want  even  Jock  to  know." 
"  Yes  ?  "  said  I. 
"  Postman's  asked  me." 
"  Asked  you  1 " 

""Wants  me, — says  he's  had  his 
eyes  on  me  ever  since  I've  been  in 
the  dale  and  now  he's — in  love  wi' 
me.  Jabez  Ritson  wants  me  !  Why, 
he  could  have  his  pick  of  the  farmers' 
daughters  from  here  to  Riverside. 
They're  all  after  his  brass  buttons. 
They  don't  wait  for  him  to  come  to 
the  house  of  a  morning,  but  go  meet- 
ing him  to  court  him.  To  save  him 
trouble  going  through  the  gates, — 
that's  what  they  say.  And  such 
dresses  as  they  do  wear !  I  don't 
spend  any  money  to  speak  of  on  my 
clothes.  It  all  goes  to  help  mother 
with  the  other  children.  I've  not 
saved  a  penny  piece.  He — says  I'm 
the  best  of  the  whole  bunch  !  " 

"And  Mr.  Postlethwaite  ? "  I 
suggested. 

"  That's  where  it  is ! "  she  said 
eagerly.  "But  why  doesn't  he 
speak  1  Of  course  he  wants  me  too. 
He's  said  it  all  ways  except  with  his 
tongue ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  slave 
on  here  at  eight  or  nine  pounds  un- 
less I  know  my  prospects.  It's  not 
as  if  it  was  in  a  town.  In  Man- 
chester I  could  have  as  many  lovers 
as  I  wanted,  but  here — well,  you 
know  what  it  is  here.  I'm  wearying 
of  it,  and  that's  the  truth.  These 
are  a  present  from  postman."  She 
displayed  a  pair  of  skittish  brown 
shoes  with  pointed  toes  and  a  blue 
silk  neckerchief.  "They're  from  his 
father's  shop.  He  says  there  are 
heaps  more  where  they  come  from, 
and  the  old  man  is  getting  so  deaf 


The  Story  of  Evangeline. 


127 


he'll  soon  have  to  retire.  Wait  one 
moment ;  I'll  go  and  put  'em  on." 

The  shoes  seemed  to  fit  her  excel- 
lently ;  she  returned  with  her  skirts 
lowered  from  their  workday  elevation 
(a  lofty  one),  to  show  how  daintily 
her  brown  feet  could  peep  from  cover, 
and  she  even  made  a  frolicsome  step 
or  two  in  them,  as  if  to  try  their 
dancing  quality.  I  went  to  the  door 
to  study  the  sky  ;  it  seemed  a  very 
proper  day  for  a  full  meal  at  Dungeon 
Ghyll  or  Coniston.  "  And  so  you'll 
marry  the  postman  ? "  I  said. 

The  girl  started,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  my  experience  of  her  looked 
really  glum.  The  glumness  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  puzzled  expression  almost 
of  appeal.  "  I — don't  know  what  to 
do,"  she  said.  "  Master's  over  old,  I 
know,  but  he's  such  a  kind-hearted 
man.  Only  he  won't  speak  out." 

"  You  haven't  said  yes  to  the 
postman  ? " 

"Said  yes?  The  idea!  And  he 
only  proposed  this  minute.  Not  me. 
Yes  indeed  ! " 

"  But  you  have  accepted  his 
presents." 

She  changed  into  a  little  fury  as 
she  tore  the  blue  thing  from  her  neck 
and  scraped  off  one  shoe  with  the 
other  foot. 

"  Bother  his  presents  !  A  cheeky 
fellow  like  him  !  "  she  cried.  "  And 
it's  the  first  I've  heard  of  his  father 
being  so  deaf  as  all  that." 

It  may  or  may  not  have  been  an 
injudicious  thing  to  do,  but  I  wanted 
to  get  off  to  Coniston  or  Dungeon 
Ghyll  without  loss  of  more  time. 
Also,  on  first  thought,  it  seemed  to 
me  so  plain  a  cure  for  the  half  of 


Evangeline's  dilemma.  I  made  the 
suggestion,  in  short,  which  one  would 
suppose  needed  no  making  to  so  prac- 
tical and  generally  ingenious  a  maiden. 
"  If  I  were  you,"  I  said,  "  I  think  I'd 
tell  Mr.  Postlethwaite  what  the  post- 
man has  done." 

"  Would  you  ? "  she  cried,  all  eyes. 

"  To  be  sure  I  would.     Then  — " 

But  I  declined  to  be  involved 
another  step  in  a  debate  so  parlous 
which  might,  it  seemed,  land  me,  all 
unawares,  in  a  responsibility  larger 
by  much  than  that  of  the  clergyman 
who  was  destined  to  marry  this  girl 
to  somebody.  I  went  over  the  hills 
and  far  away,  past  the  latest  dead 
sheep  of  the  farm,  which  they  had 
incontinently  cast  into  my  private 
paddock  to  cool  in  its  wool.  Nor  did 
I  return  until  the  grass  of  the  cow- 
meadow,  with  the  fringe  of  wild 
hyacinths  by  its  eastern  wall,  was 
sopped  in  dew. 

Evangeline  Walters  brought  me  my 
eggs  and  bacon  and  gooseberry  fool 
with  a  proud  air  that  evening.  She 
couldn't  hold  her  new  secret  any 
better  than  the  other  little  problems 
of  her  industrious  and  bright  young 
life.  "  I'm  to  be  master's  wife  ! "  she 
whispered,  as  she  put  the  cream  by 
the  gooseberries. 

The  next  afternoon,  being  Sunday, 
Mr.  Reuben  Postlethwaite  sat  with 
Evangeline  before  the  kitchen-fire  as 
usual,  with  his  usual  silence,  but  with 
his  arm  round  Evangeline's  waist. 
And  the  two  Dicks,  uncle  and  nephew, 
went  from  gate  to  gate,  moodily,  like 
baffled  conspirators  too  disappointed 
even  to  veil  their  trouble  of  mind. 
CHARLES  EDWARDES. 


128 


THE    ETHNOGRAPHIC    SURVEY    OF    INDIA. 


THE  theories  propounded  from  time 
to  time  as  to  the  best  methods  of  ad- 
ministering the  Indian  Empire  are 
almost  as  numerous  and  diversified 
as  the  peoples  and  castes  who  make 
up  its  vast  population.  One  school 
of  thought  favours  the  wholesale 
adoption  of  autonomous  institutions, 
such  as  have  been  slowly  evolved  in 
the  West,  while  another  considers 
that  we  have  already  gone  too  far 
in  that  direction,  and  that  the  more 
patriarchal  and  benevolently  despotic 
our  system  of  government  is  the  better 
will  it  be  suited  to  the  various  elements 
which  make  up  the  social  fabric.  Be- 
tween these  extremes  there  is  a  wide 
range  for  differences  of  opinion,  and 
it  is  so  well  covered  that  he  who, 
without  the  aid  afforded  by  personal 
knowledge  of  India,  would  arrive  at 
just  conclusions,  is  liable  to  find 
counsel  darkened  in  a  multitude  of 
words,  and  is  tempted  to  seek  escape 
from  the  din  of  contending  factions  by 
adopting  the  doctrine  which  appears 
most  plausible,  or  is  best  put  by  its 
advocates.  This  result  would  be  less 
frequent  if  the  enquirer  would  apply 
to  each  theory  the  elementary  but  all- 
important  considerations  that  India, 
though  an  administrative,  is  not  an 
ethnographic  unit;  that  insuperable 
barriers,  historic,  religious,  and  social, 
stand  in  the  way,  not  only  of  fusion, 
but  of  cohesion  on  the  part  of  com- 
munities occupying  various  stages 
between  the  barbarism  of  the  abori- 
ginals and  the  elaborate  but  stationary 
forms  of  civilisation,  of  which  Brah- 
manism  is  the  chief  example ;  and 
that  in  respect  to  each  stage  know- 
ledge and  sympathy  are  essential 


elements  both  in  the  theory  and  prac- 
tice of  government. 

Defective  as  was  the  rule  of  the 
East  India  Company  in  many  re- 
spects, the  Directors  were  not  un- 
mindful of  this  latter  consideration. 
From  the  time  of  the  earliest  acquisi- 
tion of  inland  territory  they  required 
their  executive  officers  to  collect  accu- 
rate information  regarding  the  ancient 
laws  and  local  usages  of  the  country. 
Sir  William  Jones's  researches  into 
the  literary  theory  of  Indian  caste, 
resulting  in  the  issue  in  1794  of  his 
English  translation  of  the  laws  of 
Manu,  were  carried  out  by  order 
of  Lord  Cornwallis;  and  it  was  by 
direction  of  Lord  Minto  that  in 
1807  Dr.  Francis  Buchanan  under- 
took, at  the  public  cost,  a  survey  of 
"  the  whole  of  the  territories  subject 
to  the  immediate  authority  of  the 
Presidency  of  Fort  William  (Bengal)." 
The  report  of  the  survey,  which  lasted 
seven  years,  still  lies  in  manuscript  at 
the  India  Office.  Selections  from  it, 
filling  three  bulky  volumes,  were  pub- 
lished by  Mr.  Montgomery  Martin  in 
1838,  but  for  the  most  part  the  editor 
omitted  the  veryportions  which  are  less 
obsolete  now,  after  the  lapse  of  two 
generations,  than  any  other,  and  to 
which  Dr.  Buchanan  had  paid  special 
attention — those,  namely,  in  which  the 
castes  were  described.  The  omission 
would  have  been  still  more  regrettable 
had  the  information  been  collated  on 
a  recognised  ethnographic  system,  and 
thus  led  up  to  definite  results.  Neither 
Dr.  Buchanan  nor  the  investigators 
who  followed  him,  such  as  Colonel 
Dalton,  author  of  THE  ETHNOLOGY  OF 
BENGAL,  worked  on  accepted  lines,  or 


The  Ethnographic  Survey  of  India. 


129 


revealed  any  acquaintance  with  the 
writings  and  methods  of  European 
authorities. 

To  further  researches  in  the  direc- 
tion taken  by  these  pioneers,  the 
Government  of  India  have  hitherto 
given  only  occasional  and  apathetic 
support,  and  it  is  only  now,  after 
more  than  four  decades  of  Crown  rule, 
that  the  subject  is  receiving  from  the 
State  the  attention  it  deserves.  At 
the  instance  of  the  British  Associa- 
tion a  comprehensive  ethnographic 
survey  has  recently  been  instituted 
for  the  whole  Indian  Empire,  and 
thus  is  being  removed  the  long- 
standing reproach  that,  with  the 
strongest  political  inducements  to 
encourage  and  direct  this  branch 
of  research,  the  Indian  Government 
have  done  less  to  promote  it  than  per- 
haps any  contemporary  administra- 
tion. The  complaint  is  the  more  re- 
markable since  in  almost  every  other 
department  of  enquiry  that  Govern- 
ment occupies  the  first,  rather  than 
the  last  place,  in  the  extent  and 
variety  of  the  information  it  has 
collected,  often  at  great  cost,  and 
made  available  to  its  officers  and  the 
public.  Such  information  is  perio- 
dically renewed  in  the  provincial,  de- 
partmental, statistical,  and  general 
reports  which  stream  forth  daily  from 
the  Secretariat  presses.  These  blue- 
books  are  so  detailed  and  elaborate 
that  no  one  reads  them ;  and  the 
extent  to  which  their  preparation 
trenches  on  more  useful  duties  has 
become  so  notorious  that  Lord 
Curzon  has  placed  an  experienced 
officer  on  special  duty  to  reduce 
the  dimensions  of  the  evil  by  pre- 
scribing limits  to  most  of  the 
reports  and  directing  the  entire 
abandonment  of  others.  Geological, 
trigonometrical,  cadastral,  archaeologi- 
cal and  other  surveys  have  been  carried 
out  with  great  care  and  at  consider- 
able cost ;  but  ethnographic  enquiry 
No.  506. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


under  Government  direction  has  been 
limited  to  a  single  province,  although 
the  whole  country  offers  an  excep- 
tional field  for  its  pursuit. 

The  explanation  of  a  neglect  at 
which  science  has  often  chafed  would 
seem  to  be  that,  immersed  in  their 
responsible  labours,  the  Government 
of  India  have  been  too  ready  to 
conclude  that  an  ethnographic  survey 
would  serve  no  practical  purpose.  It 
is  to  be  remembered  that  the  financial 
situation  of  Government,  owing  to  a 
variety  of  causes,  has,  more  frequently 
than  not,  left  little  or  no  margin  for 
researches  not  having  a  direct  bearing 
on  the  actual  work  of  administration. 
If  the  accepted  official  belief  has  been 
that  to  collect  caste-customs  and  take 
physical  measurements  would  be  a 
luxury  subserving  scientific  and  his- 
torical interests  alone,  the  long  delay 
in  instituting  a  general  enquiry  is 
sufficiently  intelligible.  But  the 
Governor-General  in  Council  has  ex- 
plicitly disavowed  any  such  opinion 
at  the  present  time,  for  the  resolution 
constituting  the  survey  points  out 
that  a  well-arranged  and  authori- 
tative record  of  the  customs  and 
domestic  relations  of  the  various 
tribes  and  castes  which  compose 
the  framework  of  Indian  life  will 
have  its  uses  "for  the  purposes  of 
legislation,  of  judicial  procedure,  of 
famine  relief,  of  sanitation  and  deal- 
ings with  epidemic  diseases,  and  of 
almost  every  form  of  executive  action." 

This  utilitarian  justification  for  the 
survey  only  requires  a  few  moments' 
reflection  to  commend  itself  to  the 
judgment  of  anyone  acquainted  with 
the  people  of  India,  and  knowing 
something  of  the  extent  to  which 
every  department  of  their  existence  is 
governed  by  the  rules  of  their  respec- 
tive tribes,  castes,  or  sub-divisions. 
In  the  administration  of  justice  our 
courts  recognise  the  customary  law 
(much  of  it  traditional)  of  all  the 


130 


The  Ethnographic  Survey  of  India. 


races  of  Hindustan ;  and  this  fact 
alone  renders  desirable  the  know- 
ledge of  the  relations  of  different 
castes  to  the  land,  their  social  status, 
their  internal  organisation,  their  rules 
as  to  marriage  and  divorce.  Equally 
important  is  it  that  executive  orders, 
local  as  well  as  genera],  should  be 
based  on  close  acquaintance  with 
the  people  affected  by  them.  Now 
and  again  it  happens  that  such 
orders  respecting  agrarian  disputes, 
the  rights  of  religious  processions, 
or  the  suppression  of  contagious 
disease,  eventuate  in  serious  local 
rioting ;  and  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  in  some  instances  of  the 
kind,  this  unrest  could  have  been 
prevented  had  the  decisions  of  the 
Executive  been  based  on  more  detailed 
and  correct  knowledge  of  the  customs 
and  beliefs  of  the  particular  sections 
of  the  community  concerned  than 
was  available  at  the  moment, — know- 
ledge which  the  provincial  volumes 
to  be  produced  under  the  current  sur- 
vey will  supply  in  an  accessible  and 
authoritative  form.  To  no  one  will 
these  records  be  more  valuable  than 
to  the  newly-joined  English  civilian, 
who  for  lack  of  them  sometimes 
makes  mistakes  which,  though  small 
in  themselves,  loom  large  in  the  minds 
of  the  people  concerned,  and  often 
are  responsible  for  an  unpopularity 
which  many  subsequent  years  of  ex- 
cellent work  and  frequent  proofs  of  his 
genuine  sympathy  with  the  people  fail 
to  entirely  remove.  Similarly,  the 
attitude  of  the  Governments  and  their 
officers  towards  movements  of  social 
reform,  in  which  their  help,  legislative 
or  executive,  is  sought,  requires  for 
its  determination  a  close  acquaint- 
ance with  the  sentiments,  prejudices, 
and  customs  of  the  castes  or 
sections  affected ;  and  this  should 
be  acquired,  or  at  least  be  made 
accessible,  before  the  requisite  evi- 
dence is  coloured  by  partisanship  on 


the  issues  raised  by   the  proposers  of 
change. 

Perhaps  on  no  duty  discharged 
by  the  State  has  ethnography  a 
more  direct  bearing  than  on  that 
which  has  unfortunately  been  very 
prominently  before  the  public  in  the 
last  few  years, — the  relief  of  famine. 
By  the  earnest  endeavours  of  Govern- 
ment, and  the  critical  investigations 
of  successive  Commissions,  especially 
the  one  whose  report  was  presented 
last  May,  our  relief-operations  are 
being  brought,  theoretically  speaking, 
as  near  perfection  as  is  possible  in 
any  realm  of  human  endeavour  ;  but 
in  actual  practice  that  goal  cannot  be 
attained  without  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  habits  and  peculiarities  of  each 
section  of  the  people  in  affected  dis- 
tricts. To  many  of  them  the  kind  of 
food  eaten  and  the  hands  by  which  it 
is  cooked  are  matters  of  the  gravest 
religious  import ;  and  there  have  been 
cases  where  death  by  starvation  has 
been  preferred  to  the  rules  in  force  at 
relief-camps.  Such  cases  generally 
arise  from  the  terrors  not  only  in 
this,  but  in  many  subsequent  stages 
of  existence,  which  ostracism  from 
caste  conjures  up  to  the  Hindu  mind, 
and  have  not  been  unknown  in  the 
Mahomedan  community.  For  eating 
in  relief-kitchens  (chattras),  in  the 
Orissa  famine  of  1866,  a  number  of 
Brahmans  and  others  lost  their  respec- 
tive status,  and  now  form  a  separate 
and  lower  caste,  called  chatter-khai. 
A  closer  acquaintance  with  the  idio- 
syncracies  of  these  people,  by  ensuring 
the  adoption  of  more  suitable  means 
of  relief,  would  have  obviated  so 
terrible  an  alternative  to  starvation  ; 
and  ignorance  on  such  points  will  be 
inexcusable  when  every  district-office 
contains  in  its  library  a  record  of  the 
ethnographic  survey  for  the  province. 

But  obvious  as  these  considera 
tious  are,  it  has  taken  nearly  twenty 
years  for  the  suggestion  of  the  Census 


The  Ethnographic  Survey  of  India. 


131 


Commissioner  of  1881  (Sir  William 
Plowden)  that  detailed  information 
regarding  castes  and  occupations 
should  be  collected,  to  bear  full  frui- 
tion in  the  enquiry  now  in  progress. 
Government  adopted  the  suggestion 
as  a  pious  opinion,  but  instead  of 
laying  down  a  definite  scheme,  they 
left  the  initiative  in  the  matter  to  the 
local  administrations.  These  latter 
have  too  many  provincial  needs  to  be 
met  with  the  limited  funds  left  to 
them  by  the  central  exchequer  to  be 
eager  to  embark  on  costly  optional 
surveys,  and  only  Bengal  took  up 
the  proposal.  In  nominating  Mr. 
H.  H.  Risley  to  conduct  an  enquiry 
limited  to  two  years,  Sir  Rivers 
Thompson,  then  Lieutenant-Governor, 
made  use  of  an  argument  which  in 
itself  should  have  been  sufficient  to 
arouse  the  Government  of  India  from 
its  indifference.  Writing  early  in 
1884,  he  pointed  out  that  the  results 
of  Mr.  Risley's  investigations  would 
be  of  great  value  in  connection  with 
the  next  census  (1891),  but  if  the 
enquiry  was  postponed  till  then  it 
would  be  impossible  to  make  it  so 
complete  as  it  could  be  if  at  once 
proceeded  with. 

The  late  Census  [he  wrote]  showed 
how  rapidly  the  old  aboriginal  faiths  are 
being  effaced,  and  what  progress  is  being 
made  in  the  absorption  of  the  primitive 
races  in  the  great  system  of  Hinduism. 
At  the  same  time,  the  opening  of  com- 
munications, the  increase  in  the  facilities 
of  travel,  and  the  spread  of  education, 
are  tending  to  obliterate  the  landmarks 
of  the  Hindu  faith,  to  slacken  the  bonds 
of  caste,  and  to  provide  occupations 
unknown  to  the  ancient  polity.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  gained,  and  much  to  be  lost, 
by  postponing  this  important  work.  If 
it  is  not  undertaken  now,  a  mass  of  in- 
formation of  unsurpassed  interest  will 
be  lost  to  the  world. 


This  strong  argument  for  recording 
the  primitive  beliefs  and  usages  of 
the  Indian  peoples,  ere  the  process 


of  their  transformation  or  partial 
destruction  resulting  from  the  impact 
of  modern  civilisation  was  carried 
any  further,  was  for  the  time  being 
ignored  by  the  Government  of  India, 
excepting  in  so  far  as  it  may  have 
removed  obstacles  to  their  accept- 
ance of  the  Bengal  scheme.  Before 
organising  the  work,  Mr.  Risley 
conferred  at  Lahore  with  Mr.  Denziel 
Ibbetson,  who  has  lately  been  nomi- 
nated to  the  Governor-General's 
Council,  and  with  Mr.  J.  C.  Nesfield, 
of  the  Educational  Service,  for  the 
purpose  of  laying  down  a  plan 
whereby  the  researches  might  pro- 
ceed on  modern  lines  accepted  by 
ethnographic  experts  of  European 
eminence,  and  of  defining  the  nomen- 
clature to  be  employed.  Their  efforts 
to  adapt  the  recognised  scientific 
methods  to  the  special  conditions 
of  Indian  life,  stood  the  test  not 
merely  of  expert  criticism,  but  also 
of  practical  experiment.  But  the 
scheme  went  much  further  than  was 
contemplated  by  Sir  William  Plowden, 
with  whom,  as  we  have  seen,  the  idea 
originated.  Mr.  Risley  tells  us  that 
this  extension  was  inevitable,  directly 
an  attempt  was  made  to  give  effect 
to  the  general  idea.  So  intricate  is 
the  fabric  of  social  usage  in  India, 
that  a  hard  and  fast  line  cannot  be 
drawn  where  administrative  utility 
fades  away  in  scientific  interest ;  and 
hence  it  was  found  to  be  essential  to 
good  work  that  both  objects  should 
be  kept  in  view. 

To  the  purposes  first  named  refer- 
ence has  already  been  made,  while 
those  of  a  scientific  character  are  so 
obvious  as  to  scarcely  require  indica- 
tion. The  early  history  of  marriage, 
the  development  of  the  family,  modes 
of  relationship,  the  evolution  of 
inheritance,  and  the  growth  of 
agrarian  proprietorship  are  among 
the  principal  problems  on  which  in- 
valuable contributions  to  the  study 

K  2 


132 


The  Ethnographic  Survey  of  India, 


of  comparative  ethnology  can  be  made 
by  research  in  India.  Besides  these 
general  problems,  there  are  various 
questions  of  special  interest  to 
students  of  Indian  history,  religions, 
and  literature  on  which  light  can  be 
thrown  by  an  accurate  record  of  the 
actual  facts  existing  at  the  present 
day  in  respect  to  caste-arrangements. 
The  people  themselves  are  the  jealous 
custodians  of  primitive  ideas  and 
practices  which  in  other  countries  are 
only  traceable  in  doubtful  survivals. 
In  short,  a  more  promising  field  for 
the  systematic  study  of  mankind 
cannot  be  conceived,  and  the  reso- 
lution of  Government  outlining  the 
present  scheme  is  within  the  most 
literal  bounds  in  observing  that 
"  India  is  a  vast  storehouse  of  social 
and  physical  data  which  only  needs 
to  be  recorded  in  order  to  contribute 
to  the  solution  of  the  problems  which 
are  being  approached  in  Europe  with 
the  aid  of  material  much  of  which  is 
inferior  in  quality  to  the  facts  readily 
accessible  in  India,  and  rests  upon 
less  trustworthy  evidence." 

It  was  with  full  appreciation  of 
these  points  that  Mr.  Risley  super- 
intended the  enquiries  which  even- 
tuated in  the  publication,  in  four 
volumes,  of  his  TRIBES  AND  CASTES  OF 
BENGAL.  Each  district-officer  was 
required  to  nominate  from  among  his 
subordinates  one  or  more  officers  who 
were  willing  to  assist  in  collecting  in- 
formation in  their  respective  districts 
and  sub-divisions.  Through  them  the 
services  were  obtained  of  nearly 
two  hundred  correspondents  scattered 
throughout  the  Presidency,  who,  in 
their  turn,  communicated  with  an  in- 
definite number  of  representatives  of 
the  castes  and  tribes  dealt  with.  The 
object  kept  in  view,  Mr.  Risley 
tells  us,  was  to  multiply  independent 
observation,  and  to  give  as  much 
play  as  possible  to  the  working  of 
the  comparative  method.  The  corres- 


pondents were  instructed  to  mistrust 
accounts  published  in  books,  and  to 
deal  with  the  people  direct.  Their 
reports  were  tested  by  comparison 
with  notes  on  the  same  caste  or 
section  collected  by  Mr.  Risley,  with 
reports  from  other  correspondents  in 
the  same  or  other  districts,  and  with 
the  unpublished  notes  of  the  late  Dr. 
James  Wise,  who  during  thirteen 
years'  service  in  Eastern  Bengal  col- 
lected a  vast  amount  of  information 
and  verified  it  with  great  care,  with 
a  view  to  preparing  an  exhaustive 
illustrated  monograph,  a  project  he 
did  not  live  to  carry  out.  To  the 
value  and  accuracy  of  Mr.  Risley's 
book,  which  was  published  in  1891, 
testimony  was  given  by  the  proposal 
of  the  British  Association  that  the 
general  investigations  now  in  progress 
should  be  under  his  direction,  and  by 
the  Government's  acceptance  of  the 
suggestion.  So  far  as  Bengal  is  con- 
cerned, all  that  will  be  necessary  in 
the  current  enquiry  will  be  to  revise 
the  TRIBES  AND  CASTES  OP  BENGAL 
so  that  it  shall  correspond  with  the 
other  provincial  works,  for  which  it 
is  to  serve  as  a  model.  In  the  North 
Western  Provinces,  also,  a  consider- 
able body  of  material  is  available  in 
the  more  recent  TRIBES  AND  CASTES 
prepared  in  leisure  hours  by  Mr. 
Crooks;  but  it  is  described  in  the 
Government  resolution,  as  standing  in 
need  "  of  condensation  in  some  parts, 
and  of  revision  and  expansion  in 
others." 

These  two  works  constitute  the  only 
attempts  that  have  been  made  in 
recent  times  to  systematically  deal 
with  the  ethnographic  data  of  entire 
provinces.  For  eight  of  the  ten  local 
Government  areas  into  which  British 
India  is  now  divided  no  general 
records,  based  on  modern  scientific 
methods  of  investigation,  exist, 
though  of  course  a  large  amount  of 
material  lies  ready  to  hand  in  mono- 


The  Ethnographic  Survey  of  India. 


133 


graphs,   settlement-reports  and   other 
official  documents.    The  census  affords 
a  starting-point  for   the  enquiry,  and 
in  fact  the  British  Association  sug- 
gested that  the  data  for  it  should  be 
collected  in  connection  with  the  enu- 
meration made  last  March.    But  there 
were  administrative  objections  to  the 
adoption  of  this  course,  arising  mainly 
from  the  comparative   inefficiency  of 
the  agency  available  for  the  ordinary 
work  of  the  census.      Moreover,  the 
decennial  returns  are  less  valuable  as 
a   foundation    for   ethnographical   re- 
search  than   they  would   have    been 
had  the  basis  of  classification  adopted 
when   a   census    was    first   taken   in 
India  been  adhered  to.     It  recognised 
the  four  well-marked  racial  elements 
making   up   the   main    body   of    the 
population, — the    non-Aryans,  or   ab- 
originals, the  Aryans,  the  mixed  Hindus, 
and  the  Mahomedans.     In  the  second 
census,  taken  in   1881,  the  arrange- 
ment was  altered,  and  the  aboriginal 
element  of  the  population  was  chiefly 
returned  as  belonging  to  the  low-caste 
Hindus.     Ten  years  ago  there  was  a 
further  departure  from   the   original 
plan,  by  the  adoption   of  hereditary 
occupation  and  language  as  the  joint 
basis    of   classification,   and   this  was 
adhered    to  last    March.       A    census 
which  takes   a   non-racial    basis    and 
fails  to  separate  the  aboriginals  from 
the    descendants   of    the    Aryan    in- 
vaders, certainly  leaves  ample  room  for 
supplementary  ethnic  investigations. 

So  anxious  are  Lord  Curzon  and 
his  advisers  that  the  survey  should 
be  economically  carried  out,  that  in- 
expensiveness  was  laid  down  as  the 
first  condition  of  its  prosecution,  the 
second  being  that  it  must  produce 
definite  results  within  a  reasonable 
time,  and  the  third  that  it  must  not 
impose  much  extra  work  on  the 
district-officers.  These  conditions  are 
being  met  by  Mr.  Risley  offering  to 
supervise  the  work,  in  addition  to  his 


other  duties,  and  by  the  appointment 
in  each  province   of    an  officer  who, 
for    a    small    monthly    consideration 
superintends    the    survey   in    leisure 
hours,    and    who,    like    Mr.    Risley, 
has    the    assistance    of    one    whole- 
time     clerk.       Local     correspondents 
are    being    nominated    to    work    on 
the    same    lines     as     those    adopted 
in    Bengal    fifteen   years   ago.      The 
information     obtained    will     be     col- 
lated   by    the    Superintendent,    sup- 
plemented   and    tested    by   his   own 
enquiries   and    researches    in    official 
reports,      the     journals     of     learned 
societies,  &c.,  and  ultimately  embodied 
into    a    systematic    account    of    the 
people   of    the    province,    as    already 
explained.      It  has  been  justly  com- 
plained that  uncertainty  as  to  fact  is 
the  great  blemish  of  much  of  Euro- 
pean ethnological  literature.    We  may 
rest  assured  that  Mr.  Risley  will  do 
all  that  is  possible  to  obviate  a  like 
uncertainty  in  this  instance,  and  that 
the  tests  and  precautions  he  applied 
to    prevent    the    adoption    of     mis- 
statements  in  his  own  province  fifteen 
years  ago  will,  so  far  as  possible,  be 
systematically  enforced  in  other  parts 
of  India.      The   offer  of   substantial 
rewards    for    the     best    monographs 
sent  in  by  correspondents  (each  local 
government  having  the  allotment  of 
two    thousand    rupees    annually   for 
the  purpose)  will  serve  as  a  stimulus 
to  painstaking  accuracy,  and  thus  to 
counteract   the   frequent   indifference 
of   the  Indian   intellect  to   historical 
or   scientific   fact,    and    its    tendency 
to    accept   literary    theories    without 
putting    them    to   the   touchstone  of 
observation. 

In  the  most  favourable  circum- 
stances, however,  and  with  the  exer- 
cise of  the  greatest  care,  accuracy  in 
respect  to  so  diversified  and  complex 
a  social  system  as  that  of  India  must 
be  extremely  difficult.  Fraudulent 
claims  to  belong  to  higher  castes  are 


134 


The  Ethnographic  Survey  of  India. 


often  made,  and  disputed  classifica- 
tions are  frequent.  In  the  late  census 
the  inclusion  of  certain  castes  by  the 
authorities  of  the  North- Western 
Provinces  in  the  third  of  the  great 
divisions  of  Manu,  although  they 
considered  themselves  entitled  to  a 
place  in  the  second  division,  led 
to  prolonged  newspaper  controversies 
and  to  the  holding  of  meetings 
of  protest  by  the  parties  affected. 
Census-officers,  as  Mr.  Risley  points 
out,  have  sometimes  discovered  cases 
in  which  an  unusual  caste-appellation, 
misunderstood  and  misspelled  by  an 
ignorant  enumerator,  has  been  mis- 
read by  a  clerk  of  small  local  experi- 
ence, and  ultimately  transformed  past 
recognition  by  a  printer's  error, — a 
process  rendered  the  more  likely  by 
transliteration  from  the  local  verna- 
cular into  English.  Sometimes  these 
obscure  entries  seem  to  defy  elucida- 
tion, and  have  to  be  banished  to  the 
large  group  set  down  in  the  census 
reports  as  unknown,  belonging,  that 
is,  to  no  recognised  caste.  This  con- 
fession of  ignorance  has  frequently  to 
-be  made,  even  where  no  clerical  error 
has  occurred,  owing  to  the  difficulty 
of  identifying  the  names  of  small 
castes,  of  religious  sects,  of  sections 
or  septs,  titles,  and  family  names  in 
the  existing  stage  of  knowledge  ve- 
garding  the  internal  structure  of  the 
Indian  social  system. 

The  confusion  into  which  the  study 
of  caste  is  thus  thrown  supplies  a 
strong  argument  for  the  important 
auxiliary  to  the  enquiry  proper  which, 
following  the  precedent  of  Bengal 
has,  on  the  suggestion  of  the  British 
Association,  been  added  to  it,  that 
of  anthropometrical  measurements 
directed  to  determine  the  physical 
types  characteristic  of  particular 
groups.  Unsubstantial  claims  to  a 
high  place  on  the  roll  of  Indian 
origin  may  be  made,  errors  may  occur 
in  the  records,  even  language  and 


customs  may  mislead ;  but  physical 
characters  form  a  test  of  affinity  of 
race  that  cannot  be  gainsaid.  This 
is  especially  so  in  India,  where  the 
differences  of  physical  type  are  more 
marked  and  persistent  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  world,  owing  princi- 
pally to  the  elimination  to  a  very 
great  extent, — in  many  sections  of 
the  population  wholly — of  the  dis- 
turbing element  of  crossing  by  mixed 
marriages,  consequent  upon  the  caste 
system  of  the  Hindus  and  the  sec- 
tarian divisions  of  Mahomedans.  In 
Europe  the  crossing  of  races  con- 
stantly obscures  their  true  affinities, 
and  yet  the  examination  of  statistics 
drawn  from  physical  measurements 
has  been  found  to  throw  light  on  the 
distribution  of  different  race-stocks 
in  the  population.  It  follows  that  in 
India,  where  crossing  exists  only  on 
a  limited  scale,  anthropometry  should 
result  in  the  detachment  of  consider- 
able bodies  of  non- Aryans  from  the 
general  mass  of  Hindus,  and  in  re- 
ferring them,  if  not  to  the  individual 
tribes  to  which  they  originally  be- 
longed, at  least  to  the  general  cate- 
gory of  non- Aryans,  and  perhaps  to 
such  specific  stocks  as  the  Dravidian 
and  the  Thibetian.  The  change  which 
modern  civilisation  is  gradually  bring- 
ing about  in  Indian  society  adds 
emphasis  to  the  necessity  for  recourse 
to  methods  of  research  supplementary 
to  the  mere  collation  of  customs  and 
beliefs,  more  exact  in  character  and 
less  open  to  misleading  results.  The 
value  of  the  method  now  under 
mention  was  amply  demonstrated  in 
the  Bengal  enquiry;  and  it  may  be 
said  that  the  tendency  of  the  data 
obtained  was  to  confirm  not  only 
the  long  chain  of  Indian  tradition 
from  the  Vedas  downwards,  but  also 
the  standard  theory  of  caste  set 
forth  by  the  late  Sir  William  Hunter 
— that  of  a  protracted  struggle  be- 
tween a  higher  and  a  lower  race. 


The  Ethnographic  Survey  of  India. 


135 


To  the  proposal  of  the  British 
Association  to  further  supplement 
the  general  enquiry  by  obtaining 
photographs  of  typical  members  of 
various  races,  and  of  archaic  indus- 
tries,— the  services  of  photographers 
being  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the 
investigating  officers  for  the  purpose 
— the  Government  of  India  have 
given  a  decided  negative.  Expense, 
interference  with  the  other  portions 
of  the  enquiry,  the  existence  in  the 
India  Office  library  of  a  large  collec- 
tion of  photographs,  and  the  absence 
of  any  real  scientific  value  in  them, 
are  the  reasons  assigned  for  this 
refusal.  In  short,  says  the  resolu- 
tion, the  Government  of  India  "are 
not  disposed  to  spend  a  large  sum 
on  making  the  volumes  on  ethno- 
graphy more  popular  and  attrac- 
tive." But  it  is  intimated  that  if 
the  local  administrations  wish  to  in- 
troduce photographs  into  the  volumes 
produced  under  their  orders  they  can 
do  so, — at  their  own  expense.  This 
permission  to  the  local  Governments 
to  spend  money  on  a  feature  which 
the  Supreme  Government  will  not 
undertake  is  scarcely  consistent  with 
the  general  objections,  other  than  that 
of  expense,  raised  in  the  resolution. 


By  working  on  the  lines  that  have 
been  indicated,  it  is  estimated  that 
the  survey  can  be  completed  in  five 
years  at  a  cost,  exclusive  of  print- 
ing, of  only  £10,400.  In  view  of 
the  importance  of  doing  the  work 
thoroughly  a  much  larger  outlay 
would  be  abundantly  justified  should 
it  be  needed,  and  if  the  scheme  errs 
at  all  it  is  certainly  not  on  the  side 
of  extravagance.  But  that  being 
so,  there  is  all  the  more  reason  why 
ethnologists  and  scientific  societies 
in  Europe  and  America  should 
cordially  respond  to  Lord  Curzon's 
request  to  them  to  assist  the  Di- 
rector, hampered  as  he  is  by  the 
eternal  want  of  pence  which  vexes 
public  men,  with  their  advice  and 
suggestions,  and  to  supply  him  with 
copies  of  works  bearing  on  these 
investigations.  Under  Mr.  Risley's 
direction,  and  with  such  assistance, 
the  survey  may  confidently  be  ex- 
pected to  yield  most  valuable  re- 
sults both  in  respect  of  administra- 
tive efficiency  and  of  the  scientific 
study  of  mankind,  whom  Pascal 
calls  "  the  glory  and  scandal  of  the 
universe." 

F.  H.  BROWN. 


136 


SOME    AUSTRALIAN    VERSE. 


A  COMMONWEALTH  is  not  the  only 
new  thing  across  the  seas ;  there   is 
also    the    lay     of    the    Native-born. 
There   is    growing    up    a    school    of 
Australian  verse,  already  showing  pro- 
mise of  a  vigorous  life,  the  properties 
of  a  genuine  school  of  literature.     The 
Australian  has  a  character  of  his  own. 
He   has    the    Englishman's  stubborn- 
ness and  his  practical  frame  of  mind  ; 
he  has  his  love  of  sport,  his  humour, 
his  gay  recklessness  in  field  or  fight. 
But  he  has  also  shaken  off  much  in 
the  old   character  for  which  there  is 
no  place  in   his  new   home.     He   is 
not  insular,  nor  is  he  feudal.     There 
is  no  earl  in  his  county,  no  squire  in 
his    village.     He    holds   himself   the 
equal  of  any  man  (in  theory,  at  any 
rate,)   and    will   take   the   law   from 
none.     So    his   politics   are   different 
from  ours,  and  in  his  literature  there 
is  a  new  note.     We  read  it  with  im- 
pressions of  a  curious  mixture  of  old 
and  new.     On  the  one  hand,  there  is 
all  the  spirit  of  the  sturdiest  English 
poetry ;     men,    human    life,    human 
character,  deeds  and   actions,  are  its 
theme.     On    the   other,    we    quickly 
detect  a  new  colouring,  a  fresh  spirit ; 
the  colours  of  a  life  unknown  to  men 
in    the   old  world,  the  spirit  of   the 
citizen  of  a  country  that  has  not  yet 
come  to  manhood.     It  is  the  English- 
man speaking  in  accents  strange  to  us. 
The  new  nation  is  slowly  and  uncon- 
sciously finding  its  voice ;  it  is  begin- 
ning to  articulate. 

A  great  chance,  a  great  destiny  ! 
The  white  man,  with  faculties  fully 
developed,  is  placed  in  an  untouched 
land  to  work  out  a  new  history.  The 
finished  product  of  centuries  of  civi- 


lisation is,  so  to  speak,  born  again. 
He  renews  his  youth ;  the  sheet  is 
clean,  the  past  has  vanished,  the 
future  is  before  him.  Thus  we  get 
new  experiences,  a  new  civilisation,  a 
new  poetry.  There,  in  hardy  frontier 
life,  in  bush-clearings,  stations,  and 
camps,  among  his  rough  and  vigorous 
companions,  the  native-born  wins  his 
new  experience.  He  looks  around  on 
novel  scenes  with  open  eyes.  There 
is  nothing  like  it  in  England. 

The  hush  of  the  breathless  morning 
On  the  thin,  tin  crackling  roofs, 

The  haze  of  the  burned  back-ranges, 
And  the  dust  of  the  shoeless  hoofs. 

All  is  changed.  The  setting  is 
different ;  trees,  birds,  and  animals 
are  of  another  type.  There  is  the 
sombre  forest,  the  drought  and  the 
flood,  the  endless  sheep  and  cattle 
ranges,  the  long  days  on  horseback, 
the  limitless  plains.  The  fox  has  be- 
come dingo  or  wallaby,  the  robin  the 
bell-bird,  the  elm  the  wattle.  Only 
the  gay  and  sturdy  spirit  is  un- 
changed. In  place  of  beech  and  oak, 
of  meadow  and  hedge-row,  of  "  moan 
of  doves  in  immemorial  elms,"  of 

the  English  skylark 
And  spring  in  the  English  lane, 

the  landscape  is  one  of  creeks  and 
long  sun-burned  plains,  of  she-oaks  and 
gum  trees,  of  the  scent  of  the  musk 
from  the  wattle- tree  blossom,  of  the 
parrot's  scream  and  the  laugh  of  the 
great  king-fisher.  You  read  how 

We  saw  the  fleet  wild  horses  pass, 
And  the  kangaroos  through  the   Mit- 
chell grass, 


Some  Australian  Verse. 


137 


The  emu  ran  with  her  frightened  brood 
All  unmolested  and  unpursued. 

or  how, 

Beneath  a  sky  of  deepest  blue  where 

never  cloud  abides, 
A  speck  upon  the  waste  of  plain  the 

lonely  mailman  rides. 
Where  fierce  hot  winds  have  set  the 

pine  and  myall  boughs  asweep, 
He  hails  the  shearers  passing  by  for 

news  of  Conroy's  sheep. 
By  big  lagoons  where  wildfowl  play 

and  crested  pigeons  flock, 
By  camp  fires  where  the  drovers  ride 

around  their  restless  stock. 
And  past  the  teamster  toiling  down  to 

fetch  the  wool  away, 
My  letter  chases  Conroy's  sheep  along 

the  Castlereagh. 

(Paterson.) 

In  a  word,  we  are  opening  a  new 
chapter  in  literature. 

The  Australian  is  a  lucky  man. 
Old  Europe,  now  and  again  we  think, 
has  run  her  race.  She  has  toiled  and 
sweated  through  her  centuries  and 
worked  out  her  salvation,  but  the 
freshness  is  gone.  Where  are  the 
light  hearts?  Where  is  the  cheery 
adventurer  ?  Not  at  any  rate  in  our 
literature;  maybe  you  will  find  him 
in  our  streets  and  schools,  but  not 
among  our  poets.  One  says  the  world 
is  too  much  with  us ;  another  likens 
England  to  the  weary  Titan  stagger- 
ing under  a  burden  greater  than  she 
can  bear  ;  the  American  professes  to 
hold  us  as  of  no  account  at  all.  But 
the  Australian  is  young,  happy-go- 
lucky,  gay : 

He    saddles    up    his    horses,   and    he 
whistles  to  his  dog. 

Our  young  poets  of  the  time  are  dole- 
ful and  pensive  and  much  given  to 
sadness  of  soul.  The  Australian 
cares  for  none  of  these  things.  Little 
he  recks  of  the  morrow :  he  joins 
sturdily  in  the  rough  life  around  him  ; 
he  is  out  of  doors,  he  rides  and  races, 


shoots  and  drinks  ;  for  long  months 
he  is  alone  with  nature.  And  his 
poetry  tells  us  of  all  this.  It  is  real, 
it  breathes,  it  lives.  The  poet  tells 
us  exactly  what  he  has  seen,  what  he 
has  done  among  his  fellows,  what 
he  has  gone  through  in  long  lonely 
days  and  nights  at  his  station.  Now 
he  rises  to  high  moods  of  apprecia- 
tion of  natural  beauties ;  now  he  easily 
sketches  the  humours  of  this  life  of 
bushmen  and  country  towns.  It  is 
not  vers  de  societd,  the  verse  of  Praed 
or  Mr.  Austin  Dobson :  the  art  is 
not  so  subtle,  the  humour  is  broader ; 
but  the  men  are  simpler,  the  scenes 
are  more  human.  It  is  not  fashion 
or  high  society  we  read  about,  but 
healthy  home-spun  humanity ;  we  see 
the  town  of  Dandaloo — 

The  yearly  races  mostly  drew 
A  lively  crowd  to  Dandaloo — 

and  so  on  in  a  strain  that  is  neither 
of  Calverley  nor  of  Bret  Harte. 
Rather,  if  we  may  suggest  it,  we 
have  here  a  mellow  edition  of 
Dickens's  humour,  which  we  take  to 
be  on  the  whole  the  most  essentially 
British  in  our  literature.  Add  to 
this  humour  a  sense  of  natural  beauty 
such  as  you  will  hardly  find  in 
Dickens,  but  rather  in  Tennyson  and 
Matthew  Arnold,  and  you  have  the 
component  elements  of  Australian 
bush-verse.  There  is  not  the  salt  sea 
strain  ;  it  does  not  smell  of  the  brine ; 
you  shall  not  read  here  "of  Nelson 
and  the  North,"  nor  of  "  a  wet  sheet 
and  a  flowing  sea,"  for  the  conditions 
are  other.  The  bushman  and  his 
horse  are  the  heroes  of  the  piece. 
But  it  is  vigorous  verse ;  the  pulse 
beats  high,  the  lives  are  broad,  free, 
and  strong. 

For  the  latter-day  Englishman, 
somewhat  oppressed  with  culture, 
who  is  told  on  every  hand  that  Eng- 
land is  going  down  hill  and  is  being 


138 


Some  Australian  Verse. 


outstripped  by  the  German  and 
American  in  the  race  of  life,  who 
sees  himself  surrounded  by  melan- 
choly prophets,  doleful  bards,  or  who 
is  imprisoned  in  a  vast  expanse  of 
brick  and  mortar,  for  such  a  one 
there  is  something  exhilarating  in 
this  Australian  poetry.  What  if  the 
poet  paints  only  the  lights  and  omits 
the  shadows  ?  He  is  bringing  forth 
the  treasures  out  of  his  own  heart ; 
if  the  colours  are  bright,  the  picture 
is  not  therefore  untrue.  Here  is  a 
breezy  life ;  here  the  fresh  winds 
of  heaven  blow  ;  here  the  men  ride 
and  laugh,  drink  and  have  their  rous- 
ing chorus,  work  and  race.  Here 
men  are  free  and  equal. 

I  went  to  Illawarra  where  my  brother's 

got  a  farm, 
He  has    to   ask  his  landlord's    leave 

before  he  lifts  his  arm ; 
The  landlord  owns  the  country  side — 

man,  woman,  dog,  and  cat, 
They  haven't  the    cheek   to   dare  to 

speak  without  they  touch  their  hat. 

It  was    shift,    boys,   shift,    for    there 

wasn't  the  slightest  doubt 
Their  little  landlord  god  and  I  would 

soon  have  fallen  out ; 
Was  I  to  touch  my  hat  to  him  ?    Was 

I  bis  bloomin'  dog  ? 
So  I  makes  for  up  the  country  at  the 

old  jig-jog. 

(Paterson.) 

Little  the  bushman  cares  for  the 
morrow.  He  lives  carelessly,  for  the 
moment,  not  a  high  ideal,  it  may  be, 
in  theory,  but  it  works  out  all  right. 
What  does  it  matter  to  him  what 
to-morrow  brings  ?  Rough,  hardy, 
easy-going,  such  is  the  picture  we 
have  of  him,  and  his  mess-mate,  and 
his  good  horse. 

In  my  wild  erratic  fancy  visions  come 

to  me  of  Clancy 

Gone  a-droving  "  down  the  Cooper" 
where  the  Western  drovers  go  ; 
As    the    stock    are    slowly    stringing, 

Clancy  rides  behind  them  singing, 
For  the  drover's  life  has  pleasures 
that  the  townsfolk  never  know. 


And  the  bush  hath  friends  to  meet  him, 

and  their  kindly  voices  greet  him 
In  the  murmur  of  the  breezes  and 

the  river  on  its  bars  ; 
And  he  sees  the  vision  splendid  of  the 

sunlit  plains  extended, 
And  at  night  the  wondrous  glory  of 
the  everlasting  stars. 

(Paterson.) 

Another  recalls  his  old  bush-life  : 

And  often  in  the  sleepless  nights  I'll 

listen  as  I  lie, 
To    the    hobble-chains   clink-clanking, 

and  the  horse-bells  rippling  by. 
I  shall  hear  the  brave  hoofs  beating,  I 

shall  see  the  moving  steers, 
And  the  red  glow  of  the  camp-fires  "as 

they  flame  across  the  years, 
And  my  heart  will  fill  with  longing  just 

to  ride  for  once  again, 
In  the  forefront  of  the  battle  where  the 

men  who  ride  are  Men. 

(Ogilvie.) 

It  is  no  anaemic  muse  we  listen  to ; 
here  we  have  flesh  and  blood,  arms 
and  the  man. 

The  three  Australians  who  interest 
us  most  as  bush-poets  are  Adam 
Lindsay  Gordon,  A.  B.  Paterson,  and 
Will  Ogilvie.  We  take  it  they  are 
the  three  best  examples  of  the  poetry 
we  have  endeavoured  to  describe,  the 
poetry  which  is  not  the  work  of  the 
student  or  the  recluse  but  of  the  man 
of  action.  Australian  opinion  reckons 
Gordon  as  the  founder,  as  well  as  the 
best  writer  of  this  poetry.  He  is  too 
well  known  in  England  to  need  intro- 
duction here.  Some  of  his  poems,  as 
a  recent  anthologist  of  Australian 
verse  well  says,  are  "  full  of  solemn, 
dignified  manfulness,  and  once  read, 
can  never  be  wholly  forgotten."  His 
verse  was  the  first  to  reflect  the 
settler's  real  life,  and  he  began  the 
cult  of  the  horse  and  his  rider  which 
is  part  of  the  national  creed  to-day. 
The  best  of  his  bush-poems  are  to 
this  day  unmatched  of  their  kind. 
Enough  if  we  quote  once  more  the 
oft-quoted  SICK  STOCK-RIDER. 


Some  Australian  Verse. 


139 


'Twas    merry  hi   the    glowing  morn, 

among  the  gleaming  grass, 
To  wander  as  we've  wandered  many 

a  mile, 
And  blow  the  cool  tobacco  cloud,  and 

watch  the  white  wreaths  pass, 
Sitting  loosely  in  the  saddle  all  the 
while. 


The  deep  blue  skies  wax   dusky,  and 

the  tall  green  trees  grow  dim, 
The    sward    beneath    me   seems  to 

heave  and  fall ; 
And  sickly,   smoky   shadows  through 

the  sleepy  sunlight  swim, 
And  on  the  very  sun's  face  weave 

their  pall. 
Let  me  slumber  in  the  hollow  where 

the  wattle-blossoms  wave, 
With  never  stone  or  rail  to  fence  my 

bed; 
Should  the  sturdy  station  children  pull 

the  bush-flowers  on  my  grave, 
I  may  chance  to  hear  them  romping 
overhead. 


So  he  wrote  in  the  solitude  or 
hardships  of  his  life  in  Victoria  and 
South  Australia.  We  can  but  re- 
gret that  the  best  of  his  work  is  so 
limited  in  quantity,  and  that  many 
of  his  other  pieces  are  of  such  inferior 
quality;  but  he  has  left  his  stamp 
decisively  on  Australian  literature. 

Our  second  writer  is  Mr.  Paterson, 
of  THE  MAN  FROM  SNOWY  RIVER, 
which  is  highly  popular  in  Australia 
and  not  unknown  here.  He  does  not 
match  Gordon  at  his  best,  but  he  is 
sane,  humorous,  sensible,  with  a  wide 
experience  of  man,  life,  and  nature, 
as  he  knows  them.  His  mind,  while 
always  open  to  the  impressions  of 
beauty  in  nature,  is  equally  appre- 
ciative of  the  comic  side  of  the  pic- 
turesque society  around  him.  He 
hits  off  easy  sketches  of  colonial  life 
and  manners ;  again  he  paints  scenes 
of  the  natural  world  touched  with 
.  'nuine  charm.  At  times  his  poetry 
:  '.arely  more  than  humorous  verse, 
jingle  of  the  rhyming  journalist. 


On  Western  plains  where  shade  is  not, 
'Neath   summer  skies    of    cloudless 
blue, 

Where  all  is  dry  and  all  is  hot, 

There  stands  the  town  of  Dandaloo — 

A  township  where  life's  total  sum 

Is  sleep,  diversified  by  rum. 

He  excels  in  easy  portraits  of  the 
station-life  in  New  South  Wales 
with  a  breezy  background  of  nature, 
as  for  instance  in  the  delightful 
sketch  of  SALTBUSH  BILL,  "a  drover 
tough  as  ever  the  country  knew," 
and  its  graphic  exposition  of  the 
drover's  law. 

Now  this  is  the  law  of  the  Overland 

that  all  in  the  West  obey, 
A  man  must  cover  with  travelling  sheep 

a  six-mile  stage  a  day  ; 
But  this  is  a  law  which  drovers  make, 

right  easily  understood, 
They  travel  their  stage  where  the  grass 

is  bad,  but  they  camp  where  the 

grass  is  good ; 
They    camp,    and    they    ravage    the 

squatter's  grass  till  never  a  blade 

remains, 
Then    they  drift  away   as  the  white 

cloud    drifts    on   the    edge    of   the 

saltbush  plains. 

From  camp  to  camp  and  from  run  to 
run  they  battle  it  hand  to  hand, 

For  a  blade  of  grass  and  the  right  to 
pass  on  the  track  of  the  Overland. 

For  this  is  the  law  of  the  Great  Stock 
Routes,  'tis  written  in  white  and 
black — 

The  man  that  goes  with  a  travelling  mob 
must  keep  to  a  half-mile  track  ; 

And  the  drovers  keep  to  a  half-mile 
track  on  the  runs  where  the  grass  is 
dead, 

But  they  spread  their  sheep  on  a  well- 
grassed  run  till  they  go  with  a  two- 
mile  spread. 

So  the  squatters  hurry  the  drovers  on 

from  dawn  till  the  fall  of  night, 
And  the  squatters'  dogs  and  the  drovers' 

dogs  get  mixed  in  a  deadly  fight ; 
Yet  the  squatters'  men,  though  they 

hunt  the  mob,  are  willing  the  peace 

to  keep, 
For    the    drovers   learn    how  to    use 

their  hands  when  they  go  with  the 

travelling  sheep. 


Some  Australian  Verse. 


But,  on  the  whole,  we  like  the  author 
best  in  his  more  natural  mood,  in  his 
descriptive  pieces,  whether  of  man, 
horse,  or  scenery,  when  he  sometimes 
rises  to  passages  of  real  beauty  and 
truth. 

The  roving  breezes  come  and  go 
On  Kiley's  Run, 
The  sleepy  river  murmurs  low, 
And  far  away  one  dimly  sees 
Beyond  the  stretch  of  forest  trees — 
Beyond  the  foothills  dusk  and  dun — 
The  ranges  sleeping  in  the  sun 
On  Kiley's  Bun. 


I  see  the  old  bush  homestead  now 

On  Kiley's  Bun, 

Just  nestled  down  beneath  the  brow 
Of  one  small  ridge  above  the  sweep 
Of  river-flat,  where  willows  weep 
And  jasmin  flowers  and  roses  bloom, 
The  air  was  laden  with  perfume 
On  Kiley's  Bun. 

Or  in  this  Theocritean  picture  : 

The  roving  breezes  come  and  go,  the 
reed  beds  sweep  and  sway, 

The  sleepy  river  murmurs  low,  and 
loiters  on  its  way, 

It  is  the  land  of  lots  o'  time  along  the 
Castlereagh. 

Or  in  this  again,  the  voice  of  the 
wind  : 

But  some  that  heard  the  whisper  clear 

were  filled  with  vague  unrest ; 
The  breeze  had  brought  its  message 
home,  they  could  not  fixed  abide  ; 
Their  fancies  wandered    all    the   day 

towards  the  blue  hills'  breast, 
Towards  the  sunny  slopes  that  lie 
along  the  riverside. 

The  verse,  metre,  and  thought  may  be 
plain,  but  they  are  direct,  real,  and 
not  without  a  touch  of  beauty.  After 
all,  there  is  some  merit  in  simplicity  ; 
a  highly  fastidious  taste  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  sound  one.  Lastly,  we  note 
in  our  author  a  manly  sympathy  with 
weakness  or  poverty.  He  feels  the 
hardness  and  squalor  of  town  life  and 


crowded  cities;    he  is  a  man  as  well 
as  a  poet. 

The  last  of  our  three  bush-poets 
hails  also  from  New  South  Wales,  Mr. 
Ogilvie,  whose  FAIR  GIRLS  AND  GRAY 
HORSES  is  in  high  favour  in  Australia. 
Though  the  influence  of  Mr.  Kipling 
is  plain  in  his  work, — as  in  a  less 
degree  it  is  in  Mr.  Paterson's,  who, 
however,  holds  more  strongly  of 
Gordon — yet  he  has  his  own  note  too ; 
the  line  runs  spontaneous,  the  inspira- 
tion flows  free.  The  danger  is  that 
his  language  will  carry  him  away, 
that  the  sound  will  overwhelm  the 
sense.  But  against  that  danger  his 
practical  experience  of  life  should 
stand  as  a  safeguard ;  he  has  surely 
seen  and  done  too  much  to  be  ever 
the  victim  of  mere  words.  He  has 
roughed  it  with  the  others,  has  lived 
the  bush-life,  has  ridden  and  driven, 
has  worked  the  coach,  has  camped 
and  starved,  frozen  or  burned  in 
dry  Australian  summers.  His  verse 
breathes  the  free  and  careless  frontier 
life  of  New  South  Wales  and  Queens- 
land, of  days  of  drought  and  flood,  of 
cattle-driving,  of  hard  drinking,  of 
hard  riding,  of  days  and  nights  passed 
under  the  air  of  heaven.  His  verses 
go  with  a  swing  and  a  force,  and 
always  have  the  stamp  of  reality 
behind  them.  Take  the  opening  piece, 
one  of  the  best  in  the  volume,  "  From 
the  Gulf." 

Store  cattle  from  Nelanjie !  The  mob 

goes  feeding  past, 
With  half  a  mile  of  sandhill  'twixt  the 

leaders  and  the  last ; 
The  nags  that  move  behind  them  are 

the  good  old  Queensland  stamp, — 
Short  backs  and  perfect  shoulders  that 

are  priceless  on  a  camp. 
And  these  are  Men  that  ride  them, 

broad-chested,  tanned  and  tall, 
The  bravest  hearts  among  us  and  the 

lightest  hands  of  all ; 
Oh,  let  them  wade  in  Wonga  grass  and 

taste  the  Wonga  dew, 
And  let  them  spread,  those  thousand 

head, — for  we've  been  droving  too  ! 


Some  Australian  Verse. 


141 


Store  cattle  from  Nelanjie ;    By  half 

a  hundred  towns, 
By  Northern  ranges  rough  and  red,  by 

rolling  open  downs, 
By  stock-routes  brown  and  burnt  and 

bare,  by  flood-wrapped  river-bends, 
They've   hunted    them   from   gate   to 

gate, — the  drover  has  no  friends  !  .  . 


Store  cattle  from   Nelanjie !    They're 

mute  as  milkers  now  ; 
But  yonder  grizzled  drover,  with  the 

care-lines  on  his  brow, 
Could  tell  of  merry  musters  on  the  big 

Nelanjie  plains, 
With  blood  upon  the  chestnut's  flanks 

and  foam  upon  the  reins  ; 
Could  tell  of  nights  upon  the  road, 

when  those  same  mild-eyed  steers 
Went  ringing  round  the  river-bend  and 

through  the  scrub  like  spears. 
And  if  his  words  are  rude  and  rough, 

we  know  his  words  are  true, 
We  know  what  wild  Nelanjies  are, — 

and  we've  been  droving  too  ! 

Store     cattle    from    Nelanjie  1     Their 

breath  is  on  the  breeze  ; 
You  hear  them  tread,  a  thousand  head, 

in  blue-grass  to  the  knees ; 
The  lead  is  on  the  netting  fence,  the 

wings  are  spreading  wide, 
The  lame  and  laggard  scarcely  move — 

so  slow  the  drovers  ride  1 
But  let  them  stay  and  feed  to-day  for 

sake  of  Auld  Lang  Syne  ; 
They'll  never  get  a  chance  like  this 

below  the  Border  Line ; 
And  if  they  tread  our  frontage,  what's 

that  to  me  or  you  ? 
What's  ours   to  fare,  by   God  they'll 

share !    —  for  we've  been    droving 

too! 

Another  side  of  station-life  is 
touched  in  the  piece  called  "At  the 
Back  o'  Bourke,"  a  side  barely  hinted 
at  by  Gordon,  whose  regrets  are 
mainly  for  the  life  of  the  old  world 
which  Mr.  Ogilvie  never  knew. 

Where  the   Mulga  paddocks  are  wild 

and  wide, 
That's  where  the  pick  of  the  stockmen 

ride, 

At  the  Back  o'  Bourke  ! 
Under  the  dust  clouds  dense  and  brown, 


Moving  southwards  by  tank  and  town, 
That's  where   the    Queensland    mobs 
come  down — 
Out  at  the  Back  o'  Bourke  1 


That's  the  land  of  the  wildest  nights, 
The  longest    sprees    and  the  fiercest 

fights, 

At  the  Back  o'  Bourke  ! 
That's  where  the  skies   are  brightest 

blue, 

That's  where  the  heaviest  work's  to  do, 
That's   where  the  fires  of  Hell  burn 

through — 

Out  at  the  Back  o'  Bourke ! 

That's  where  the  wildest  floods  have 

birth, 
Out  of  the  nakedest  ends  of  Earth, 

At  the  Back  o'  Bourke  1 
Where  poor  men  lend  and  the  rich  ones 

borrow, 
It's  the  bitterest  land  of  sweat  and 

sorrow — 

But  if  I  were  free,  Fd  be  off  to-morroiv, 
Out  at  the  Back  o'  BourJce  ! 


The  life  described  may  not  always 
be  a  nice  one,  nor  will  it  do  to  ex- 
amine its  manners  or  morals  too 
closely.  Where  men  are  doing  the 
rough  work  of  the  world,  it  would  be 
ridiculous  to  expect  sentiments  and 
manners  which  would  please  girls' 
schools  or  respectable  suburbs.  We 
find  in  our  author  a  series  of  glowing 
pictures  drawn  from  a  simple  and 
elemental  state  of  society ;  we  find 
men  described  by  a  man.  It  is  a 
full-blooded  style,  no  doubt,  of  which 
one  might  easily  have  too  much.  But 
Mr.  Ogilvie  has  the  root  of  the  matter 
in  him ;  he  has  inspiration,  and  he  can 
move  us. 

If  Ruskin's  word  be  right,  and 
"  there  is  but  one  thing  worth  saying, 
and  that  is  what  we  have  seen  for 
ourselves,"  then  these  writers,  and 
others  of  the  same  school  whom  we 
have  not  now  time  to  examine,  should 
be  on  the  right  track,  for  they  tell  of 
their  own  experiences,  drawn  at  first 
hand  from  their  own  lives.  It  is 
much  enduring  Ulysses  or  Othello 


142 


Some  Australian  Verse. 


speaking  in  unvarnished  accents  of 
disastrous  chances,  moving  accidents ; 
it  is  the  plain  man  telling  us  what 
he  has  seen,  heard,  and  done,  in 
tolerable,  often  in  good,  sometimes  in 
really  excellent  verse.  If  the  verse 
be  polished,  we  may  then  get  true 
poetry ;  if  not,  at  any  rate  we  have 
reality,  such  as  no  study  or  research 
can  give.  For  this  reason  we  have 
not  included  Henry  Kendall  in  our 
list,  though  many  Australians  put  him 
first  of  all  their  poets.  And  on  one 
side  he  is  the  first.  As  a  scholar  and 
an  artist  in  verse,  from  the  point  of 
view  of  finish  and  style,  he  is  superior 
to  the  rest,  Gordon  and  all.  But  if 
we  judge  a  poet  from  his  matter,  from 
his  passion,  from  his  power  to  appeal 
to  the  heart,  we  must  put  him  else- 
where. He  writes  for  the  educated 
and  the  literary ;  Gordon  and  his 
successors  wrote  for  the  common  man 
whom  they  had  known,  and  the 
common  man  has  fastened  on  Gordon 
as  Scotsmen  on  Burns.  Some  of 
Kendall's  work  is  elaborated  with 
extraordinary  care  and  finish.  Take 
this  piece,  for  example,  "  The  Hut  by 
the  Black  Swamp." 

Across  this  hut  the  nettle  runs, 
And  livid  adders  make  their  lair 

In  corners  dank  from  lack  of  suns, 
And  out  of  fetid  furrows  stare 
The  growths  that  scare. 

Here  Summer's  grasp  of  fire  is  laid 
On  bark  and  slabs  that  rot  and  breed 

Squat  ugly  things  of  deadly  shade, 
The  scorpion,  and  the  spiteful  seed 
Of  centipede. 

Unhallowed  thunders  harsh  and  dry 
And  flaming  noon-tides  mute  with 

heat, 

Beneath  the  breathless,  brazen  sky 

Upon  these  rifted  rafters  beat, 

With  torrid  feet. 

And  night  by  night,  the  fitful  gale, 

Doth  carry  past  the  bittern's  boom, 
The  dingo's  yell,  the  plover's  wail, 
While  lumbering  shadows  start,  and 
loom 

And  hiss  through  gloom. 


Gordon  could  not  have  written  like 
that,  nor  perhaps  would  he  have  cared 
to  try,  for  there  is  no  human  interest 
in  the  piece.  Gordon  thought  out 
half  his  poems  in  the  saddle ;  Boake 
mustered  cattle  when  he  rhymed ;  and 
man  and  man's  doings  and  fortunes 
and  belongings,  down  to  his  horse  and 
his  dog,  alone  concern  them.  They 
were  men  of  action  and  wrote  for  men 
of  action.  Kendall  is  the  student : 
he  writes  for  the  literary  world,  and 
the  literary  world  admires  him  ;  but 
the  only  writer  the  stockman  knows 
is  Gordon. 

In  these  writers,  then,  we  see  the 
straightforward  and  plain  (it  would 
not  do  to  say  the  unlettered)  colonial 
speaking,  with  an  unexpected  amount 
of  literary  quality  as  well.  We  see 
the  emigrant,  or  native-born,  steadily 
devoted  to  his  race  and  his  new 
home.  It  is  no  dreamy  or  sentimental 
pride  in  his  land, — the  mountaineer's 
unconscious  passion  for  his  mountain 
home ;  but  strenuous,  ardent,  even 
aggressive.  It  is  a  fighting  pride, 
which  challenges  the  world  to  produce 
a  better  than  one's  own ;  a  hot  and 
generous  pride  which  covers  impar- 
tially one's  race  and  blood,  colony, 
district,  station,  chum,  horse,  dog  and 
rifle,  yet  humorous  enough  to  laugh 
at  itself,  if  need  be — though  it  will 
not  let  others  laugh. 

The  Australian  is  rooted  in  the 
soil ;  and  his  verse  clings  tenaciously 
to  the  ground  in  which  it  has  grown. 


Oh  !  rocky  range  and  rugged  spur  and 

river  running  clear, 
That  swings  around  the  sudden  bends 

with  swirl  of  snow-white  foam, 
Though  we,  your  sons,  are  far  away, 

we  sometimes  seeni  to  hear 
The  message  that  the  breezes  bring  to 

call  the  wanderers  home. 
The   mountain  peaks   are  white   with 

snow  that  feeds  a  thousand  rills, 
Along  the  river  banks  the  maize  grows 

tall  on  virgin  land ; 


Some  Australian  Verse. 


143 


And  we  shall  live  to   see  once  more 
those  sunny  southern  hills, 

And  strike  once  more  the  bridle  track 
that  leads  along  the  Bland. 

(Pater  son.) 

Nowhere  else,  perhaps,  in  modern 
verse  do  we  find  such  continuous,  end- 
less reflection  of  the  world  of  nature, 
rarely  such  freedom  and  buoyancy. 
It  is  the  gay  spirit  of  a  young  nation, 
the  firmness  of  the  grown  man,  the 
large  horizon  of  the  son  of  nature. 
He  has  lived  the  settler's  or  country- 
man's life ;  nature  has  become  part  of 
his  very  soul,  and  he  cannot  speak 
but  in  terms  of  her. 

The  night  winds  are  chanting  above  you 

A  dirge  in  the  cedar  trees, 
Whose    green  boughs   groan   at   your 
shoulder, 

Whose    dead    leaves   drift    to   your 

knees. 
You  cry,  and  the  curlews  answer  ; 

You  call,  and  the  wild  dogs  hear  ; 
Through  gaps  in  the  old  log  fences 

They  creep  when  the  night  is  near. 

I  stand  by  your  fenceless  gardens, 

And  weep  for  the  splintered  staves  ; 
I  watch  by  your  empty  ingles, 

And    mourn    by    your    white-railed 

graves ; 
I  see  from  your  crumbling  doorways 

The  whispering  white  forms  pass, 
And  shiver  to  hear  dead  horses 

Crop-cropping  the  long  gray  grass. 

Where  paddocks  are  dumb  and  fallow, 

And  wild  weeds  waste  to  the  stars, 
I  can  hear  the  voice  of  the  driver, 
The  thresh  of  the  swingle-bars  ; 
I  can  hear  the  hum  of  the  stripper 

That  follows  the  golden  lanes, 
The  snort  of  the  tiring  horses, 
The  clink  of  the  bucking-chains. 
(Ogilvie.) 


This  is  the  poetry  of  man  in  the 
bush  and  in  the  field, — man,  his  horse 
his  work  in  the  world  of  nature.  We 
may  fairly  describe  it  as  something 
new  in  literature.  For  the  freedom 
and  abandon  we  must  go  back  to  the 
early  poetry  of  nations,  the  minnelied, 
the  folk-song,  a  peasantry's  out -pour- 
ings ;  for  here  we  have  verse  as  direct, 
as  free,  as  living,  but  we  have  all 
this  in  the  hands  of  educated  men, 
heirs  of  a  long  line  of  letters.  They 
can  feel  as  the  young,  and  have  the 
trained  minds  of  the  old ;  they  have 
all  our  poetic  traditions  at  hand  to 
start  with  on  their  new  life.  We 
shall  expect  therefore  to  see  much 
from  them  in  time.  At  present, 
though  their  outlook  be  wide,  the 
landscape  is  somewhat  monotonous, 
though  their  experiences  be  many, 
they  are  not  diverse.  Their  criticism 
of  life  (to  borrow  a  memorable  phrase) 
is  as  yet,  and  inevitably,  somewhat 
immature ;  the  strings  of  their  lyre 
are  few,  and  their  voices  are  strangely 
alike.  But  in  time  they  should  pass 
into  "an  ampler  ether,  a  diviner 
air  "  ;  if  something  of  the  old 
recklessness,  the  old  gaiety  must 
go,  its  place  should  be  taken 
by  thought,  by  experience  work- 
ing in  a  larger  field  to  finer  issues. 
We  shall  look  to  them  for  some- 
thing far  different  from  the  light 
and  mocking  spirit  of  the  Ameri- 
can writer.  We  shall  expect  some- 
thing masculine  and  strong,  true 
to  the  English  tradition,  but  of 
genuine  colonial  character, 


144 


A   SNUG   LITTLE   SHOOTING-BOX. 


ANY  hard-worked  Londoner  who 
wants  a  month's  perfect  repose,  and 
is  at  the  same  time  something  of  a 
sportsman,  will  envy  me,  I  think,  the 
quarters  in  which  I  found  myself  in  the 
middle  of  last  September.  In  a  shel- 
tered corner  of  the  north-west  coast 
where  the  fuschias  grow  luxuriantly 
in  the  hedges,  far  away  from  any 
large  town  or  considerable  village, 
stand  a  few  cottages  and  farmhouses 
which,  with  the  old  church  and  par- 
sonage, constitute  a  little  hamlet 
representing  a  parish  of  respectable 
dimensions.  They  stand  on  one  side 
of  a  small  valley  through  which 
trickles  a  narrow  brook  bordered  by 
some  fine  meadows,  though  here  and 
there  becoming  swampy  or  overgrown 
with  rushes  and  thistles.  The  rising 
ground  on  either  side  shows  a  long 
stretch  of  stubble,  turnips,  and  pota- 
toes, among  which  stand  up  at  various 
points  rocky  knolls,  or  banks,  covered 
with  gorse  and  fern.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  further  one  of  these  ridges 
you  will  descend  into  another  little 
valley  through  which  runs  a  smaller 
stream  which  some  might  call  a  ditch, 
the  water  being  almost  hidden  from 
view  by  the  brambles  and  thick  coarse 
grass  overhanging  it. 

The  particular  house  in  which  I 
was  lodged  was  once  the  manor-house, 
and  still  retains  outwardly  much  of 
its  original  appearance  when  it  was 
the  home  of  an  old  family  of  gentry 
contented  in  those  days  with  smaller 
accommodation  than  is  now  required 
by  the  same  class  of  society.  It  is 
approached  from  a  cross-country  road 
down  an  avenue  of  sycamores,  at  the 


top  of  Avhich  stands  the  stack-yard, 
telling  its  own  tale  of  changed  for- 
tunes. An  iron  gate  at  the  bottom 
of  it  admits  us  into  a  tiny  court-yard, 
out  of  which  a  little  door  opens  into 
the  garden  and  the  front  entrance  to 
the  house.  Away  to  the  right  lie 
stables,  cow-houses,  pig-styes,  and  all 
the  usual  out-buildings  of  a  thriv- 
ing farmstead.  Passing  through  the 
door  aforesaid  you  come  upon  a  cool 
green  grass-plot,  overshadowed  by  a 
perfect  thicket  of  trees,  and  thence 
pass  under  a  verandah  running  along 
the  whole  side  of  the  house.  There 
is  almost  an  air  of  the  cloister  about 
the  whole  scene,  so  cool,  so  silent,  so 
ancient.  The  door  of  the  verandah 
serves  as  the  front  door.  For  where 
one  originally  stood  there  is  now  only 
a  wide  aperture  showing  the  principal 
staircase ;  and  a  curious  legend  at- 
taches to  it.  It  is  said  that  a  former 
owner  in  the  far  past  being  deserted 
by  his  newly  married  wife,  not  in 
favour  of  a  lover  but  owing  to  some 
domestic  difference,  gave  orders  that 
the  front  door  should  stand  open  day 
and  night  to  receive  her  on  her  re- 
turn, which  he  watched  for  daily,  it 
is  said,  for  years.  She  never  came 
back ;  but  the  door  was  never  closed 
again,  so  runs  the  story,  into  the 
truth  of  which  we  must  not  enquire 
too  curiously.  The  best  view  of  the 
house  is  from  the  north.  From  the 
hill  beyond  the  brook  you  see  only 
the  tall  grey  chimneys  and  gables 
peeping  through  what  seems  to  be 
a  grove  of  elms,  ashes,  and  syca- 
mores. From  this  spot  it  is  all  the 
old  manor-house,  picturesque  in  its 


A  Snug  Little  Shooting-Box. 


145 


decay,  and  stimulating  the  imagina- 
tion to  weave  all  sorts  of  romances 
concerning  its  past  history. 

Here  then  I  took  up  my  abode  for 
three  weeks, — "A  home  of  ancient 
peace,"  as  I  repeated  to  myself  almost 
every  morning  and  evening.  The 
house  was  occupied  by  the  tenant  of 
a  friend  of  mine  who  owned  a  large 
estate  here  where  the  game  was  pre- 
served by  the  farmers,  and  where 
he  came  himself  to  shoot  for  a  week 
every  season.  He  had  been  kind 
enough  on  this  occasion  to  reserve 
some  capital  partridge-ground  for  my- 
self, on  which  not  a  shot  had  been 
fired  before  my  arrival.  He  left  the 
next  day ;  so  there  I  was,  monarch  of 
all  I  surveyed,  free  to  go  out  and 
come  in,  to  go  to  bed  and  get  up,  to 
shoot  energetically,  or  saunter  about 
lazily,  just  as  I  chose.  It  was  a 
delightful  time  !  For  the  house  and 
all  around  it  had  a  charm  of  its  own 
for  me  which  made  an  off-day  nearly 
as  enjoyable  as  one  devoted  to  sport. 
My  hostess,  who  at  her  brother's 
death  had  succeeded  to  the  tenancy  of 
the  farm,  was  a  most  ladylike  and 
charming  Welshwoman,  between  forty 
and  fifty,  and  an  excellent  cook.  I 
brought  my  own  wine  and  whiskey 
and  a  supply  of  novels,  and  for  only 
too  brief  a  period  felt  that  life  had 
nothing  better  to  give. 

The  old-fashioned  garden  in  which 
apple-trees  and  sycamores,  yew-trees 
and  hazels,  the  ash  and  the  holly  all 
grew  together  among  gooseberry  and 
currant-bushes,  roses  and  rhododen- 
drons, potatoes  and  cabbages  in  the 
most  picturesque  confusion,  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  crumbling  stone  wall 
ten  or  twelve  feet  in  height  overgrown 
with  ivy,  lichens,  and  mosses ;  and  to 
judge  from  its  appearance  it  must 
have  counted  its  age  by  centuries. 
On  a  hot  day  the  shade  of  this  secluded 
bower,  half  garden,  half  thicket,  was 
inexpressibly  grateful,  and  its  silence 
No.  506. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


and  repose  as  you  returned  from 
shooting  were  equally  refreshing.  The 
old  gravel  walks  by  which  it  is  tra- 
versed were  once  trodden  by  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  long  descent  in  hoops 
and  periwigs ;  and  what  were  once 
three  snug  little  summer-houses,  now 
in  ruins,  placed  in  convenient  corners, 
may  have  listened  once  upon  a  time  to 
much  the  same  kind  of  conversation 
as  was  reported  by  the  Talking  Oak. 
Now,  however,  the  whole  place  is  only 
a  paradise  for  birds,  who  seem  to 
build  here  undisturbed,  and  take  their 
share  of  the  fruit  unconscious  of  nets 
or  guns.  The  garden  swarms  with 
black-birds  and  thrushes  old  and 
young,  and  all  perfectly  tame.  As  I 
look  out  of  my  bedroom  window  in 
the  morning  I  see  the  mistletoe 
thrushes  settling  on  the  big  holly 
which  stands  about  ten  yards  off, 
making  a  prodigious  fuss  about  some- 
thing, probably  about  the  berries. 
A  water-wagtail  trips  along  the  roof 
of  the  verandah  which  lies  just  be- 
neath me ;  a  pair  of  fly-catchers  jerk 
themselves  backwards  and  forwards 
from  a  low  wall  to  an  adjacent  pear 
tree ;  the  long-tailed  tit  and  the  blue 
tit,  chaffinches,  green  linnets,  and  bull- 
finches may  all  be  seen  in  the  course 
of  half  an  hour's  stroll  through  this 
leafy  and  tangled  wilderness.  In  the 
evening  I  watch  with  never  failing 
interest  the  whole  feathered  tribe 
going  to  roost.  The  thrushes  seem  to 
be  fighting  for  the  best  place  in  the 
big  holly ;  and  where  the  topmost 
branches  of  a  venerable  and  wide- 
spreading  ash  and  a  luxuriant  sycamore 
are  intertwined  so  closely  as  to  re- 
semble a  single  tree,  a  whole  bevy  of 
starlings  have  established  their  night 
quarters.  The  noise  kept  up  during 
the  hour  of  bed-time  by  all  alike  is 
one  of  the  most  cheerful  and  amusing 
sounds  in  nature.  The  full  rich 
chuckle  of  the  thrushes  and  blackbirds, 
the  chirruping  of  the  sparrows  and 

L 


H6 


A  Snug  Little  Shooting-Box. 


other  small  birds,  and  the  shriller 
twittering  of  the  starlings,  who  seem 
unable  to  make  up  their  minds  till 
they  have  vanished  and  returned 
again  half  a  dozen  times,  make  up  a 
concert  which  I  would  not  miss  for 
the  finest  entertainment  ever  given  at 
His  Majesty's  theatre. 

As  the  shades  of  evening  begin  to  fall 
the  garden  gradually  grows  silent,  and  I 
re-enter  the  house  just  as  a  white  owl 
flits  over  the  roof,  and  betake  myself 
to  the  dining-room  where  rabbit  soup, 
Welsh  mutton,  and  the  most  delicious 
apple-tart  and  cream  seem  still  more 
delightful  in  an  old  dark  wainscotted 
room  with  a  low  ceiling,  a  dignified 
tabby  cat,  the  picture  of  repose 
perched  on  one  side  of  me,  and  the  dog 
of  the  house,  a  nice  little  Irish  terrier, 
regarding  me  wistfully  on  the  other. 

The  next  morning  is  fine,  and  I 
prepare  for  a  start  immediately  after 
breakfast.  I  have  only  a  rather 
wild  spaniel  and  a  boy  to  carry  game, 
cartridges,  and  lunch.  I  make  my 
way  through  the  farmyard  down  to 
the  brook  and  so  on  to  the  rising 
ground  beyond,  and,  after  crossing 
two  grass  fields,  come  to  a  narrow 
strip  of  turnips  running  between  two 
wide  patches  of  stubble.  I  know  of 
old  that  this  is  a  favourite  spot,  and 
that  the  birds,  after  feeding  on  the 
stubble,  are  sure  to  have  run  in 
among  the  swedes  which  happen 
to  be  quite  dry.  As  they  have 
never  been  disturbed  they  will  lie 
almost  as  well  on  the  twentieth  of 
September,  the  day  I  began,  as  they 
would  on  the  first ;  and  I  had  not 
gone  half  way  down  the  turnips  when 
the  straining  of  Mungo  at  his  leash, 
and  the  forward  cock  of  his  ears  warn 
me  to  be  on  the  alert.  In  another 
moment  up  get  seven  or  eight  birds 
within  beautiful  shooting  -  distance, 
and  taking  over  the  stubble  to  the 
left  give  me  an  easy  cross  shot.  They 
fly  so  close  together  that  I  cannot 


help  taking  two  with  the  first  barrel, 
and  knock  over  another  -with  the 
second.  A  good  beginning,  —  too 
good  perhaps  to  last.  Coming  back 
up  the  turnips  one  old  bird  rises  up 
in  front  of  me  rather  wide.  I  hit 
him  very  hard,  but  he  gets  over  the 
fence  at  the  top  of  the  field,  and  I 
can  see  no  further.  I  marked  the 
line  he  took,  however,  and  feel  sure 
he  must  be  down  in  one  of  the  grass- 
fields  on  the  other  side.  I  now  let 
Mungo  loose,  and  set  him  to  hunt  the 
hedgerows,  which  are  here  as  a  rule 
composed  of  high  earthen  banks, 
with  brambles  and  gorse  growing 
over  them  and  deepish  ditches  on 
both  sides.  For  some  time  our  search 
is  in  vain,  but  just  as  I  am  thinking 
of  giving  it  up  Mungo  suddenly  stops 
short,  turns  his  nose  to  the  ditch  and 
pricks  up  his  ears.  Then,  a  sudden 
pounce  and  he  has  got  him — good 
dog  ! — bring  him  here — and  up  he 
comes  with  the  bird  in  his  mouth, 
and  with  a  good  conscience  too,  for 
he  has  not  bitten  it,  a  trick  he  is 
somewhat  given  to. 

Proceeding  down  hill  over  another 
field  or  two  leading  to  the  other  little 
hollow  first  mentioned  we  stop  at  the 
gate  of  a  field  bearing  a  splendid  crop 
of  turnips,  to  consider  the  best  way 
of  taking  them.  Before  moving  on, 
however,  the  boy  frantically  calls  my 
attention  to  a  glorious  spectacle  down 
below.  A  large  covey  of  birds, 
moved,  I  suppose,  by  someone  in  an 
adjoining  stubble,  are  skimming  across 
the  bottom  of  the  turnips  which  run 
right  down  to  the  other  little  brook, 
and  presently  pitch  altogether  in  some 
potatoes  alongside  of  them.  The  brook 
is  my  boundary ;  I  have  therefore  to 
go  quietly  down  one  side  of  the  field, 
and  get  round  the  birds  so  as  to 
cause  them,  if  possible,  to  keep 
on  my  side  of  the  stream.  They 
lie  well,  and  when  they  rise,  I 
get  a  right  and  left  at  them,  and 


A  Snug  Little  Shooting -Box. 


147 


Mungo  brings  both  the  birds  in  good 
style.  I  know  pretty  well  where  the 
rest  of  the  covey  have  gone ;  but 
with  a  wild  dog  you  must  never 
allow  your  attention  to  slumber  for 
a  moment,  and  I  paid  the  penalty  of 
doing  so  on  this  occasion.  Leaving 
the  turnips  and  keeping  along  the 
side  of  the  brook  I  reach  some  rushy 
ground  intersected  by  one  or  two 
ditches,  into  which  dead  thorns  and 
gorse  were  stuffed  by  way  of  making 
a  fence.  I  ought  to  have  remembered 
that  some  of  the  birds  at  all  events 
were  nearly  sure  to  be  here,  and 
that  Mungo  was  equally  sure  to  put 
them  up,  if  allowed  to  run  loose. 
But  I  never  took  him  up,  and  just 
as  I  was  getting  through  some  thorns 
Mungo,  who  had  winded  the  birds 
from  afar,  trotted  down  the  fence 
and,  before  I  was  well  over,  put  up 
the  whole  lot.  They  were  near  enough, 
but  I  was  so  vexed  that  I  missed 
with  both  barrels,  and  as  it  was 
entirely  my  own  fault  I  could  only 
swear  in  the  abstract. 

The  birds,  however,  had  divided. 
The  greater  part  went  back  ;  but  four 
or  five  turned  round  in  the  direction 
in  which  my  beat  lay,  and  I  hoped 
to  meet  with  them  again.  I  kept 
along  the  brook  which  now  ran  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fence  while  on  my 
side  was  a  deep  ditch  full  of  long 
dry  grass,  and  I  went  on  for  some 
distance  without  any  luck  ;  but  pre- 
sently Mungo,  on  whom  I  now  kept 
a  sharp  eye,  began  feathering  about 
uneasily  and  at  last  diving  into  the 
ditch  sprung  three  beautiful  young 
birds  right  in  my  face.  This  time  I 
was  cool  enough,  and  killing  my  first 
bird  as  he  went  straight  away  had 
the  satisfaction  of  wheeling  round  and 
dropping  the  second  as  he  made  off 
behind  me.  I  like  such  a  shot  as 
that ;  the  find,  the  rise,  and  the  right 
and  left  fore  and  aft,  are  joys  to 
think  of  after  dinner,  or  perhaps  in 


the  watches  of  the  night.  Still  keep- 
ing along  the  brook  and  the  rough 
ground  by  the  side  of  it  I  pick  up 
another  odd  bird,  and  then  emerge 
into  a  lane  which  divides  us  from 
another  lot  of  turnips.  I  have  four 
brace  on  the  game-stick  now ;  it  is 
one  o'clock  and  a  very  hot  day ;  shall 
we  eat  our  sandwiches  here  ?  There 
is  a  shallow  in  the  brook  where  the 
water  trickles  beautifully  clear  over 
the  pebbles,  and  the  dry  warm  grassy 
bank  offers  an  inviting  seat.  But  I 
decide  to  go  on,  work  the  next  turnip- 
field  and  get  up  the  hill  again,  before 
we  take  our  rest ;  more  especially  as 
the  boy,  in  accents  of  great  alarm, 
signals  the  approach  of  a  bull  who 
having  detached  himself  from  the 
herd,  is  now  slowly  following  us  about 
two  hundred  yards  off.  The  boy 
knows  him  for  a  misanthropic  evil- 
minded  beast,  and  expects  nothing 
less  than  instant  death  should  he  be 
allowed  to  come  up  with  us.  I,  too, 
have  no  liking  for  gentlemen  of  his 
breed,  and  think  it  decidedly  better 
to  put  something  between  us  which 
he  cannot  very  readily  get  over  before 
he  comes  any  nearer.  Clambering 
over  a  very  high  bank,  with  barbed 
wire  running  along  the  top,  crossing 
the  lane  into  the  next  field,  and 
shutting  a  good  strong  gate  behind 
us,  we  are  in  a  position  to  look  back 
upon  him  at  our  ease  and  mock  him 
as  he  stands  there  with  a  baffled  look, 
as  much  as  to  say  that  he  has  been 
taken  a  mean  advantage  of. 

We  beat  out  the  turnips  but  only 
got  a  landrail  and  a  rabbit,  and  then 
following  the  boy,  who  knows  the  way 
to  a  spring  in  the  vicinity,  we  stretch 
ourselves  under  a  hedge  and  enjoy  the 
frugal  meal  which  we  feel  we  have 
fairly  earned.  The  cup  attached  to 
my  whiskey-flask  is  filled  and  emptied 
more  than  once,  the  cold  clear  spring 
water  with  about  a  third  of  the  crea- 
ture forming  a  delightful  beverage. 

L  2 


148 


A  Snug  Little  Shooting-Box. 


The  boy,  being  Welsh,  is  a  teetotaller, 
and  even  were  he  not,  consideration 
for  his  morals  would  induce  me  to 
refrain  from  tempting  him,  even  were 
there  no  other  reason,  of  which  doubt- 
less there  might  be  several.  How 
grateful  was  that  hour  of  repose  ! 
Not  a  cloud  is  in  the  bright  blue 
sky  overhead ;  not  a  sound  is  to  be 
heard,  except  perhaps  the  song  of  the 
robin  from  a  neighbouring  ash ;  not  a 
breath  of  air  stirs  the  branches  of  the 
trees.  The  "  solemn  stillness "  of 
Gray's  elegy  is  to  be  found  sometimes 
at  midday  as  well  as  in  the  evening, 
and  never  so  perfectly  as  in  Sep- 
tember. From  the  top  of  this  hill  I 
can  see,  as  I  lie  down,  another  one 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  where 
there  is  clearly  a  long  stretch  of 
turnips.  I  know  that  there  were  a 
lot  of  birds  there  last  year,  and  after 
lunch  resolve  to  make  straight  for 
it  without  beating  any  intervening 
ground. 

I  am  not  disappointed,  though 
doomed  to  be  greatly  exasperated. 
I  get  round  to  the  back  of  the 
turnips,  so  as  to  bring  the  birds  my 
way,  and  had  scarcely  set  foot  in  them 
when  a  large  covey  rose  out  of  shot.  I 
had  again  neglected  to  take  up  Mungo 
in  time ;  off  he  went  helter-skelter 
through  the  turnips,  and  before  he 
came  back  had  put  up  three  more  nice 
coveys  of  birds  before  my  very  eyes 
as  I  stood  still  perfectly  helpless.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  a  catastrophe 
of  this  kind  does  not  improve  one's 
shooting.  In  the  next  hour  I  was 
rather  unsteady,  and  though  I  found 
more  birds  in  the  turnips  I  missed 
several  which  I  ought  to  have  killed, 
and  only  bagged  a  brace.  However, 
knowing  the  line  the  birds  had  taken, 
I  was  able  to  send  a  lot  of  them  back 
again,  when  they  spread  themselves 
over  the  field  as  birds  will  do  in  these 
circumstances,  and  when,  if  you  follow 
them  up  quickly  before  they  have  had 


time  to  get  together,  you  will  have 
some  shooting.  I  shook  off  the  de- 
pression produced  by  my  recent  mis- 
fortunes, adjured  the  boy  by  all  the 
English  oaths  I  could  make  him  under- 
stand not  to  let  Mungo  get  away  on 
any  pretext  whatsoever,  and  prepared 
for  business.  The  turnips  were  half 
white  and  half  swedes,  and  from  half- 
past  three  to  five  I  never  left  them. 
The  partridges  kept  getting  up  in 
twos  and  threes,  and  though  Mungo 
once  broke  his  leash  and  plunging 
in  among  some  birds  just  in  front, 
while  I  was  loading,  lost  me  at  least 
four  or  five  easy  shots,  I  got  eleven 
birds  out  of  that  one  field  in  spite 
of  his  vagaries. 

This  made  ten  brace  and  a  half, 
and  as  it  was  my  first  day,  and  very 
hot,  I  was  a  little  tired.  Besides 
which  I  was  obliged  to  take  the  boy's 
case  into  consideration,  though  he 
bore  himself  bravely  under  his  double 
burden  of  birds  and  cartridges.  So 
I  proposed  an  adjournment  to  the 
nearest  farmhouse  to  get  some  cold 
water,  and  refreshed  by  another 
draught,  of  well-diluted  whiskey  and 
a  little  chat  with  the  farmer,  who  did 
not  decline  the  cup,  I  turned  my  steps 
homewards.  My  path  led  past  another 
good  field  of  turnips  and  potatoes ; 
but  I  thought  I  would  leave  it  for 
another  day  and  merely  walked 
down  the  potatoes  as  the  nearest 
way  home.  Here  I  got  one  bird, 
which  made  up  the  eleven  brace,  and 
well  satisfied  I  sauntered  back  towards 
the  old  grey  gables  looking  out  from 
their  dark  green  cincture,  through 
that  delicious  mellow  sunshine  only, 
I  think,  to  be  felt  on  a  September 
afternoon,  when  the  air  is  just  begin- 
ning to  cool,  and  the  grass  and  the 
trees,  the  hedges  and  the  turnips  all 
look  a  deeper  green  than  at  any  other 
hour  of  the  day.  Before  I  reach  the 
house  I  pick  up  a  couple  of  rabbits 
which  Mungo  finds  for  me  in  some 


A  Snug  Little  Shooting-Box. 


149 


rough  grass,  and  when  I  turn  out 
my  bag  before  my  courteous  hostess 
she  is  all  smiles  and  compliments, 
— eleven  brace  of  partridges,  three 
rabbits,  and  a  landrail. 

This  was  an  ideal  day's  sport. 
Shooting  in  a  gale  of  wind,  or  a 
driving  rain,  is  quite  another  affair, 
and  I  had  two  or  three  such  experi- 
ences. But  the  fine  weather  came 
back  again,  and  I  had  more  such  days 
as  the  first.  I  was  requested  not  to 
shoot  hares,  but  there  were  some 
wild  pheasants  about,  and  with  the 
advent  of  October  I  had  these  to 
shoot  as  well.  They  lay  in  the  turnips 
and  among  the  gorse  and  briars  which 
straggled  alongside  the  fences.  One 
day  I  drove  two  coveys  of  birds  down 
towards  a  narrow  green  lane,  only  in 
fact  a  cart-track  with  a  hedge  and 
ditch  on  each  side  and  a  perfect 
thicket  of  furze  and  bramble  running 
alongside  of  it  for  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.  Both  pheasants  and 
partridges  lay  there,  and  though 
they  would  not  always  come  out  on 
my  side  of  the  hedge  I  got  five 
pheasants  and  nine  partridges  out  of 
that  lane  before  I  left  it.  Mungo 
enjoyed  this  part  of  his  work  im- 
mensely. I  love  to  see  a  spaniel 
nosing  a  pheasant.  You  can  tell 
pretty  nearly  by  his  action  what  game 
he  is  upon.  He  is  more  excited  over 
a  pheasant,  perhaps  because  it  takes 
longer  to  get  him  up ;  and  it  is  a 
pretty  sight  to  see  an  old  cock  forced 
upon  the  wing,  and  the  dog  watching 
his  flight  with  breathless  eagerness 
till  he  comes  down  with  a  thud  at  the 
report  of  the  gun.  When  there  are 
110  trees  a  pheasant  rising  in  this  way 
is  an  easier  shot  than  a  rocketer ;  but 


where  there  are  either  trees,  or  any 
very  tall  bushes,  hazel,  holly  or  what 
not,  you  have  to  shoot  smartly  to  stop 
him  before  he  is  out  of  sight.  My  best 
bag  of  partridges  while  I  stayed  at 
the  old  house  was  twelve  brace  on 
September  28th.  I  did  not  get  more 
than  a  dozen  pheasants  in  all,  for  it 
was  not  a  good  season  for  them  down 
in  those  parts.  Nineteen  rabbits, 
three  snipe,  a  landrail,  and  a  golden 
plover  with  a  hundred  and  seventeen- 
partridges  made  up  a  total  of  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty-three  head,  representing 
twelve  shooting  days,  of  which,  how- 
ever, four  or  five  were  partially  or 
wholly  wet. 

The  day  which  I  have  described 
may  practically  stand  for  all  the  rest. 
The  bag,  of  course,  would  vary  ac- 
cording to  the  weather  and  the  state 
of  my  nerves  ;  but  the  ground  I  went 
over  was  always  much  the  same  in 
character,  and  need  not  be  described 
twice.  The  early  mornings  brought 
me  the  same  lively  view  of  bird-life; 
afternoon,  with  few  exceptions,  the 
same  sweet  golden  sunshine ;  evening, 
when  bird  and  beast  had  retired  to 
rest,  the  same  absolute  repose ;  and 
when  the  moon  had  risen,  the  same 
unearthly  aspect  of  the  old  garden 
where  to  meet  a  ghost  among  its 
pale  gnarled  trunks  and  fantastic 
roots  would  have  seemed  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  Many 
a  happy  week  have  I  spent  in  the  old 
manor-house,  and  after  leaving  it  have 
often  wished,  with  the  farmer  return- 
ing from  the  Abbotsford  Hunt,  that 
I  could  go  to  sleep  till  September 
came  round  again. 

T.  E.  KILBY. 


150 


DOLLS,  THE   GOLD-FINDER. 


IT  was  Sunday  at  Friendly  Point, 
and  the  hot  glare  of  the  Queensland 
midsummer  sun  came  from  the  sea 
and  from  the  sand  along  the  margin 
of  the  sea,  until  the  eyes  were  dazzled 
and  the  skin  scorched.  From  the 
bush,  which  grew  beyond  the  sand, 
there  came  the  chirp  and  rattle  of 
the  cicadas,  with  now  and  again  the 
piping  note  of  a  stray  magpie,  as  the 
faint  breeze  that  blew  from  seaward 
floated  away  among  the  gaunt  white- 
barked  gums  and  made  the  rank 
dry  grass  rustle  faintly  as  it  passed. 
Such  a  day  it  was  that  the  clear 
depths  of  the  sea,  blue  where  the 
channels  lay  and  green  where  the 
sandbanks  formed,  seemed  to  spread 
in  cool  delights  that  mocked  those 
who  would  not  plunge  into  them  and 
revel  in  the  refreshing  sense  of  cold 
water  lipping  on  their  bare  bodies. 
Such  a  day  it  was  that  every  instinct 
of  humanity  went  out  to  nature  in 
revolt  against  the  conventional,  and 
against  anything  that  could  come 
between  the  softness  of  the  sea-breeze 
and  the  burning  heat  of  the  skin. 
To  lie  unclad  and  free  hi  every  limb, 
with  the  soft  breeze  fanning  the  body 
and  the  cool  clear  water  laving  it, 
was  the  appropriate  ideal  of  such 
weather  to  any  save  the  residents  at 
Friendly  Point.  To  their  minds  the 
appropriate  ideal  lay  in  an  entirely 
different  direction. 

Four  of  them,  arrayed  with  un- 
usual care,  were  down  by  the  shore, 
sitting  on  a  fallen  log  which  was 
partly  in  the  shade  of  a  tree.  Three 
of  them  were  smoking ;  but  the  fourth 


sat  gaunt  and  upright  as  befitted  a 
new  arrival  at  the  Point.  He  had 
only  arrived  the  night  before,  and  it 
was  in  his  honour  that  his  three  com- 
panions wore  other  than  trousers 
turned  up  to  their  knees  and  the 
loose  unbuttoned  shirt  that  was  the 
ordinary  costume  of  the  locality.  It 
was  long  since  a  new  resident  had 
come  to  the  Point,  for  there  were 
many  stories  about  the  place  which 
had  circulated  in  the  township  up  the 
river  across  the  bay,  stories,  indeed, 
which  were  not  always  to  the  credit 
either  of  the  morality  or  the  sobriety 
of  the  inhabitants.  They  had  drawn 
an  unenviable  attention  to  the  settle- 
ment, with  the  result  that  men  were 
no  longer  anxious  to  find  a  haven  of 
rest  in  it,  and  so,  as  the  years  wore 
on  and  fresh  arrivals  were  unknown, 
the  old  settlers  steadily  diminished 
by  natural  decrease.  Only  three  re- 
mained of  the  men  who  had  made 
the  locality  famous  in  the  days  gone 
by,  only  Backus,  Isters,  and  Snaky 
Dick ;  the  rest  had  either  drifted 
away  out  of  sight  and  memory,  or 
had  silently  yielded  up  the  burden 
of  life  in  the  lonely  hut  or  the 
sombre  bush,  and  had  been  laid  by 
their  comrades'  hands  in  unnamed 
graves,  unmarked  save  for  the  mound 
of  earth  which  the  rainy  seasons  soon 
beat  flat. 

Snaky  Dick,  grown  very  fat  and 
puffy,  was  responsible  for  introduc- 
ing the  new  arrival.  He  had  run 
against  him  in  the  town  up  the  river 
and  had,  with  the  strange  faculty 
which  comes  to  men  of  a  lonely 
life,  recognised  in  the  careworn, 
bald,  and  broken-spirited  man,  the 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


151 


sprightly  young  soldier  with  whom 
he  had  been  almost  as  a  brother  in 
the  far  off  days,  when  the  heat  of  the 
Australian  sun  was  unknown  to  him, 
and  life  was  only  a  jest.  He  had 
gone  up  to  him  and  greeted  him  as 
Dolls,  the  nick-name  by  which  he 
had  been  known  in  those  days,  and 
Dolls  had  stared  at  him,  vacant-eyed 
and  astonished,  as  he  sought  to  re- 
call when  and  where  he  had  met  this 
familiar  stranger.  His  life  had  not 
given  him  the  other  man's  memory, 
and  so  he  could  only  grope  in  his  mental 
darkness  as  a  blind  man  will  in  new 
surroundings,  hoping  to  stumble  upon 
something  that  would  seem  familiar  to 
him.  Before  he  could  find  it,  Snaky 
Dick  unbosomed  himself,  and  there- 
after Dolls  was  enlightened  and  had 
his  mind  set  at  rest  also,  for  he  was  at 
the  lowest  ebb  of  his  fortunes,  friend- 
less and  moneyless,  a  state  which 
is,  perhaps,  the  worst  that  humanity 
can  know,  and  Snaky  Dick,  with  his 
stories  of  Friendly  Point,  came  to  the 
care-worn  castaway  as  a  bearer  of 
glad  tidings. 

Dolls  poured  into  the  ears  of  his 
old  comrade  the  tale  of  his  own  mis- 
fortunes. There  was  little  in  it  to 
blame  the  man  for.  Always  his 
schemes  and  enterprises  (he  had  been 
an  ambitious  man)  had  just  missed 
success,  until,  as  the  years  went  by 
and  the  list  of  failures  grew  longer  and 
longer,  he  became  more  reckless  and 
tempted  Fortune  for  looking  askance 
at  him.  At  last  a  time  came  when 
he  had  nothing,  and  then  a  further 
futility  came  upon  him,  the  futility 
of  believing  that  he  had  the  brains 
whereby  a  great  invention  could  be 
created  and  a  great  fortune  built  up. 

At  the  time  Snaky  Dick  met  him 
he  had  received  his  seventh  fall  under 
that  delusion,  and  it  had  been  a  fall 
than  which  it  was  impossible  to  go 
lower.  Friendly  Point,  a  place  where 
rents  and  taxes  were  unknown,  where 


clothing  cost  practically  nothing,  and 
where  the  sea  offered  the  where- 
withal of  sustenance  whenever  neces- 
sity compelled  the  expenditure  of 
sufficient  energy  to  win  it,  was  to 
him  a  haven  not  to  be  despised.  So 
it  came  about  that  he  accompanied 
Snaky  Dick  back  to  the  quaint,  out 
of-the-world  settlement,  and  the  Sun 
day  afternoon  after  his  arrival  the 
three  old-established  settlers  turned 
out  to  do  him  honour,  clad  in  gar: 
ments  that  they  admitted  were  highly 
uncomfortable,  but  on  which  Snaky 
Dick  had  insisted  in  the  presence  of 
one  who  had  a  reputation  to  maintain 
as  a  capitalist,  a  man  of  business,  and 
an  inventor.  He  had  joined  them  on 
the  beach  and  sat,  dignified  and 
silent,  while  the  others  smoked  and 
yarned,  until  one  of  them  turned  to 
him  and  said  :  "  And  you've  had  your 
little  bit  of  trouble,  too,  Mister,  as  I 
understand  1 " 

"  Trouble  ?  Ah,  you'd  say  so  if 
you  knew  everything.  But  there, 
what's  life  without  trouble?  It's  the 
sauce  of  existence.  Look  at  that  sea, 
all  smoothness  and  sunshine.  What 
would  it  be  if  there  were  no  storms 
and  winds  and  waves  ?  Dead  dull 
monotony.  Look  at  those  sands,  all 
golden  and  gleaming ;  what  would 
they  be  if  it  were  not  for  the  clouds 
that  come  over  the  sun  and  make 
them  look  dull  and  dismal?  Storms 
and  winds  and  waves  and  clouds  are 
Nature's  parallels  of  our  troubles. 
Life  would  be  flat  without  them,  flat, 
stale  and  unprofitable.  Trouble's  the 
sauce  of  life  and  the  bringer  of  glad- 
ness,— if  we  only  knew  it." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,  I'm  satisfied 
with  rum,"  said  Backus  meditatively. 
"  It  takes  a  lot  of  beating  in  the  way 
of  sauce,  does  good  honest  colonial 
rum." 

Isters  looked  round  with  a  sud- 
denly brightened  face.  "  Maybe 
Snaky  Dick  explained  to  the  new 


152 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


chum  the  ways  we  used  to  have.  I 
observed  he  had  some  fixtures  with 
him  in  the  boat  when  he  came  over." 

Backus  looked  at  Snaky  Dick,  but 
meeting  with  no  responsive  glance  he 
turned  again  towards  the  new  arrival. 
"  There  used  to  be  a  custom,  not  to 
say  a  habit,  at  the  Point,  Mister,"  he 
began. 

"His  name's  Dolls,"  Snaky  Dick 
interpolated. 

"Well,  as  we're  all  mates  here, 
Dolls  let  it  be,"  Backus  went  on. 
"  But  as  I  was  saying,  there  used 
to  be  a  custom  here,  not  to  say  a 
habit—  " 

"  It  wasn't  our  fault  the  habit  didn't 
get  regular,"  interrupted  Isters  ;  "  but 
we're  all  on  to  begin  practising  again 
for  it  and  if  you've —  " 

"  He  don't  drink,"  said  Snaky 
Dick. 

Backus  and  Isters  looked  first  at 
one  another,  then  at  Dick,  and  lastly 
at  Dolls.  "  'E  don't  wot  ? "  asked  the 
Cockney  Backus. 

Dolls  had  risen  to  his  feet  and 
stood  stiff  and  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said  :  "  When  there  are  calls 
upon  my  brain  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
sacrifice  everything  to  the  demands 
of  invention,  and  there  are  calls  at 
present  claiming  me.  Wherefore  I 
must  leave  you,  so  as  to  meditate 
upon  my  great  invention,  an  invention 
which  will  bring  immortal  fame  to 
this  obscure  spot,  and  deathless  fame 
to  you  who,  in  however  humble  a 
degree,  are  associated  with  me  in  the 
unravelling  of  the  great  mystery." 

"  There's  no  call  for  any  mystery 
that  I  can  see,"  Isters  remarked 
stolidly. 

"You  are  wrong,"  said  Dolls  sternly ; 
"  you  are  utterly  and  entirely  wrong. 
There  is  much  mystery,  and  it  is  the 
mystery  I  would  solve."  As  he  spoke 
he  extended  his  right  arm  towards 
the  sea.  "  Gold,"  he  said  in  a  deep 
solemn  tone,  "  gold,  by  the  million 


tons  !  Who  fears  to  speak  of  famine 
while  that  is  there  1  "  He  stood,  with 
his  arm  still  stretched  out,  looking, 
with  dreamy  eyes,  at  the  expanse  of 
sparkling  rippling  colour  in  front  of 
him.  "  There's  gold  in  the  sea,"  he 
went  on,  "  gold  by  the  ton  in  the  sea. 
Anyone  knows  that,  but  anyone  does 
not  know  how  to  get  it  out.  There's 
a  problem  for  you,  my  boy;  there's 
a  game  worthy  of  your  brains  and 
intellect !  Set  to  work  on  it, — think  ! 
You've  plenty  of  time  and  there's 
plenty  of  sea,  and  no  syndicate  to 
cut  you  off  at  the  end  of  the  week. 
Think  it  out ;  thought  conquers  all 
things;  it  will  wring  the  gold  from 
the  sea." 

He  was  talking  to  himself,  ignoring 
the  presence  of  the  others,  and  they, 
amused  and  lazy,  let  him  ramble  on 
without  interruption.  When  he  ceased 
speaking  they  still  sat  silent,  the 
while  he  gazed  with  vacant  eyes  over 
the  expanse  of  blue  water  to  the 
narrow  rim  of  darker  blue  on  the 
horizon  which  told  of  the  mountain 
range  lying  a  hundred  miles  inland 
from  the.  shore  across  the  bay.  They 
were  almost  startled  when  he  turned 
his  glance  upon  them  suddenly  and 
said,  loudly  and  pompously  :  "  It  is 
as  good  as  done.  I  have  undertaken 
it,  and  what  I  undertake  I  achieve. 
This  place  shall  have  universal  fame, 
for  it  is  here  I  shall  get  gold  out  of 
sea-water.  I  am  no  braggart ;  within 
a  month  it  shall  be  done." 

Without  more  than  a  glance  at 
the  three  men  he  walked  away  across 
the  sand  towards  the  hut  of  which 
he  had  formally  taken  possession. 


II. 


Ready  to  meet  most  men  and  to 
fraternise  with  them,  the  residents  of 
Friendly  Point  experienced  a  hitherto 
unknown  difficulty  in  coming  to 
comradeship  with  the  new  arrival. 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


153 


Clad  in  vestments  of  the  Point  com- 
munity, and  established  in  one  of  the 
huts  left  by  a  former  dweller  to  go 
to  ruin,  Dolls  had  become  one  of  the 
residents  in  name  though  not  in  fact. 
He  had  a  curious  habit  of  wandering 
up  and  down  the  sands  just  above  the 
line  of  the  tide,  muttering  to  himself 
and  gesticulating  towards  the  sea  so 
long  as  he  was  left  alone ;  but  as 
soon  as  anyone  joined  him  he  turned 
away  and  retired  to  his  hut,  whence 
he  would  not  reappear  for  hours. 
At  first  his  fellow-residents  were  in- 
clined to  regard  this  as  merely  a  token 
of  eccentricity  inseparable  from  one 
who  possessed  the  genius  of  invention ; 
but  after  a  week  or  so  had  passed,  and 
Dolls  maintained  his  mysterious  atti- 
tude of  isolation,  the  other  men  began 
to  grow  irritated. 

Then  their  sentiments  underwent 
a  further  change,  and  a  certain  un- 
easiness came  over  them  as  Dolls 
ceased  to  wander  along  the  tide-mark 
by  daylight,  but  developed  nocturnal 
habits  instead.  In  the  night,  and 
especially  on  moonlight  nights,  he  was 
to  be  seen  at  all  hours  down  on  the 
sands  by  the  sea,  waving  his  arms 
towards  the  expanse  of  water  and 
bending  down  as  though  offering  it 
the  most  reverent  obeisance.  It  was 
growing  too  mysterious  for  them,  and 
definite  action  might  have  resulted 
but  for  Isters,  who  suggested  that,  as 
the  inventor  did  not  actually  interfere 
with  their  rest,  unless  they  went  out 
of  their  way  to  watch  him,  it  might 
be  as  well  to  leave  matters  as  they 
were  until  something  happened  which 
was  a  direct  interference  with  their 
comfort. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait  before 
this  something  occurred.  A  few  days 
later  Dolls  appeared  again  by  day- 
light,— but  not  on  the  beach.  With- 
Iout  a  word  of  warning  the  occupant 
of  each  hut  was  startled  by  suddenly 
seeing  at  the  door  the  figure  of  Dolls. 


He  did  not  speak,  but  just  leaned 
forward  as  though  about  to  enter. 
His  eyes,  wild  and  gleaming,  glanced 
round  the  interior  and  over  the  occu- 
pant without  apparently  seeing  him, 
and  then  without  a  word  or  a  sign,  the 
hands  were  removed  from  the  door- 
posts, the  body  swung  back,  and 
Dolls  disappeared. 

The  effect  upon  each  of  the  three 
men  was  pronounced,  and  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day  was  not  suffi- 
cient time  for  them  to  discuss  it  ade- 
quately. When  the  sun  went  down 
they  gathered  together  in  the  hut  of 
Backus  and  debated  whether  it  was 
not  compulsory  upon  them  to  do 
what  had  never  yet  been  done  at 
the  Point,  namely,  to  tell  a  resident 
that  he  would  have  to  go.  u  But 
supposing  he  won't  go,  what  then?" 
Snaky  Dick  asked;  and  the  question 
led  to  a  further  stretch  of  debate, 
until  the  sun  had  been  below  the 
horizon  for  hours  and,  with  the  point 
still  unsolved,  the  men  began  to  grow 
sleepy. 

They  were  suddenly  and  effectually 
re-awakened,  for  from  the  direction 
of  Dolls's  hut  there  came  a  series  of 
most  unearthly  yells  and  screeches 
that  their  ears  had  ever  heard. 

With  one  accord  they  rushed  to 
the  door.  It  was  a  moonless  night 
and  they  could  see  the  light  from 
Dolls's  fire  streaming  through  the  open 
door  and  window  of  the  hut,  while  a 
bright  glow  was  visible  over  the  wide 
square  chimney.  The  melancholy 
noise  was  unabated. 

"He's  on  fire,  he's  burning  himself! 
Come  on,  lads,"  Isters  exclaimed  and 
led  the  way  to  the  door  of  Dolls's  hut. 

The  noise  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it 
began,  and  as  they  reached  the  hut 
they  peered  through  the  open  doorway 
expecting  to  see  some  horrible  sight 
within.  Instead,  they  saw  the  figure 
of  Dolls  sitting  on  an  empty  case  with 
his  back  to  them  and  his  face  to  a 


154 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


great  roaring  fire  over  which  hung  a 
smoke-begrimed  billy-can. 

"  Here,  what's  this  row  ? "  Isters 
exclaimed  as,  followed  by  the  other 
two,  he  entered  the  hut. 

Dolls  looked  round.  "Row,"  he 
said,  "row?  That's  no  row;  that's  the 
imprecation.  It  was  me — singing." 

Before  anyone  else  could  speak  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  seizing  the 
billy-can,  lifted  it  from  the  fire  and 
held  it  out  towards  them.  "  There, 
see  ! "  he  cried. 

They  looked  and  saw  a  foaming 
bubbling  liquid. 

"  Now  watch,"  he  cried,  and  hastily 
raking  the  blazing  wood  of  the  fire 
apart  so  as  to  form  a  hollow  depression 
in  the  centre,  he  poured  the  contents 
of  the  can  into  it.  A  cloud  of  steam 
ascended  with  a  loud  hissing ;  the 
flames  died  away,  leaving  the  pile  of 
burning  wood  in  a  glowing  heap  of 
red,  and  through  the  air  there  spread 
an  odour  so  terrible  and  so  pungent 
that  the  three  visitors  with  one  bound 
made  for  the  door,  and  never  stopped 
till  they  had  got  some  distance  from 
the  hut,  inside  of  which,  as  they 
turned,  by  the  dull  glow  shed  by  the 
embers  of  the  fire,  they  could  see 
Dolls  capering  round  and  round. 

"  There's  been  rum  'uns  at  the  Point 
before,"  Isters  exclaimed ;  "  there's 
been  rum  'uns  and  wrong  'uns,  but 
this  is  the  first  time  we've  harboured 
a  real  full-blooded  loonie.  Snaky,  my 
boy,  if  you've  many  more  mates  like 
this  one  you'd  better  form  a  new 
camp  to  ask  them  to ;  Friendly  Point 
can't  stand  it." 

"  It's  chemistry,"  Snaky  Dick  re- 
plied ;  "  it's  an  experiment.  He'll  do 
it  all  right.  Don't  you  be  afraid. 
Dolls  is  a  clever  chap  at  that  work." 

"  Then  we'll  leave  him  at  it  and 
come  and  look  for  him  in  the  morn- 
ing," Isters  said.  "  I  wouldn't  face 
that  smell  again  for  a  forty  gallon 


"  I  don't  know.  It's  my  view  he's 
struck  it,  and  if  we  come  back  in 
an  hour  or  so,  we'll  see  something," 
Snaky  Dick  urged. 

He  was  supported  by  Backus,  whose 
Cockney  curiosity  was  more  powerful 
than  his  want  of  sleep,  and  Isters  had 
perforce  to  yield  or  go  off  by  himself 
and  lose  any  entertainment  there 
might  be  later. 

For  an  hour  or  so  the  men  sat  in 
the  hut  of  Backus,  smoking  and  talk- 
ing, listening  the  while  for  any  fresh 
token  of  activity  on  the  part  of  Dolls. 
But  no  sound  came  from  the  direction 
of  his  hut,  although  the  glow  of  his 
fire  still  streamed  out  into  the  night. 
At  length  curiosity  mastered  each  of 
the  three  watchers  and  together  they 
went  to  learn  what  was  taking  place. 

As  they  approached  the  hut  they 
saw,  as  on  the  previous  occasion,  the 
figure  of  Dolls  outlined  against  the 
red  gleam  of  the  fire,  which  also 
showed  where  the  billy-can  stood  on 
the  rude  hearth-stone.  Dolls  was 
gazing  intently  at  the  fire,  so  intently 
that  he  never  moved  as  the  men  en- 
tered his  hut  and  stood  beside  him. 
They  followed  the  direction  of  his 
glance,  and  saw  that  a  hole  had  been 
scraped  in  the  embers  down  to  the 
hearth,  in  the  centre  of  which  there 
was  a  large  button  of  what  appeared 
to  be  semi-molten  metal. 

"  What,  Dolls,  how  goes  it  ? "  Snaky 
Dick  asked  briskly  as  the  man  sat 
still  and  silent. 

The  voice  seemed  to  awaken  him, 
for  he  slowly  turned  his  head  and 
looked  his  questioner  in  the  face, 
revealing  his  own  haggard  features 
and  staring  eyes  to  the  scrutiny  of 
the  others. 

"  There  !  "  he  said,  in  a  deep  theatri- 
cal tone.  "  There  !  "  and  he  pointed 
to  the  button  of  metal.  "  That,  sir, 
is  pure  unalloyed  gold,  and  I  got  it 
from  a  canful  of  sea-water.  Look  at 
it.  There  is  an  ounce  of  gold  !  An 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


155 


ounce  for  a  canful  of  water  !  How 
many  canfuls  of  water  are  there  in 
the  ocean  ?  Tell  me  that,  and  I  will 
tell  you  how  many  ounces  of  gold  I 
will  produce  from  it.  There  is  the 
ocean  outside.  Go  and  fetch  it,  and 
I  will  turn  it  into  gold.  Go;  I  am 
waiting  for  the  ocean." 

"That's  not  gold,  old  sky-rocket; 
that's  a  bit  of  lead-sinker  off  a  schnap- 
per-line,"  Isters  exclaimed  with  a 
loud  laugh. 

"  The  folly  of  fools  is  immeasurable, 
as  immeasurable  as  my  millions  of 
tons  of  gold  which  I  shall  take  from 
the  ocean,"  Dolls  replied,  with  a 
dignity  of  tone  and  manner  that 
checked  the  hilarity  of  Isters  and 
subdued  the  other  two  to  a  state  of 
wondering  curiosity.  "  Watch  and 
you  shall  see,"  he  added,  as  he  scraped 
one  side  of  the  ring  of  embers  away 
and  through  the  opening  gently 
pushed  the  button  of  metal.  Then 
he  carefully  picked  it  up  with  the 
aid  of  a  couple  of  sticks  and  dropped 
it  into  a  pannikin  which  stood 
beside  him  more  than  half  full  of 
a  clear  liquid.  The  liquid  hissed 
and  bubbled  and  a  little  steam  rose 
up ;  as  soon  as  that  ceased  Dolls  put 
in  his  finger  and  thumb  and  drew  out 
the  button  which  shone  bright  and 
yellow  in  the  firelight. 

"To-morrow  you  shall  take  it  to 
town,"  he  said  to  Backus.  "  Take  it 
to  an  address  I  will  give  you  and 
bring  back  the  answer  whether  it  is 
gold  or  not.  Now  leave  me,  for  I 
would  meditate." 

III. 

There  was  rejoicing  at  the  Point 
when  Backus  returned  from  town  and 
for  many  a  night  and  day  after- 
wards, rejoicing  of  the  kind  that  had 
won  the  place  its  reputation  years 
before.  Dolls  was  the  host  by  com- 
mon consent,  and  the  news  of  the 


festivities  travelled  to  outlying  fishing- 
stations  where  men  lived  away  from 
all  others  of  their  colour,  but  yet 
heard  (though  Heaven  alone  knows 
how)  that  the  Point  had  put  on  its 
ancient  manners  again  and  so  become 
a  place  of  attraction  for  them.  The 
story  of  the  great  discovery  was  told 
and  retold,  not  always  coherently 
perhaps,  but  always  with  plenty  of 
enthusiasm ;  and  always  was  the  dis- 
coverer toasted  deeply  and  loyally. 

Buoyed  up  by  the  flattery  of  those 
who  were  his  guests,  his  vanity 
soothed  by  the  terms  of  the  letter 
Backus  had  brought  to  him  from  the 
town,  and  his  confidence  in  himself 
re-established  by  the  tangible  evidence 
of  success  in  this,  his  last,  effort,  Dolls 
returned  to  his  hut  and  his  labour, 
with  brief  interludes,  during  which 
he  visited  the  hut  where  festivity 
reigned  and  joined  in  the  wild  un- 
tutored frolic  that  went  on  there. 

Two  boys,  sons  of  one  of  the  men 
who  had  come  in  from  an  outlying 
fishing-camp,  paid  him  great  attention 
at  that  period.  They  were  mystified 
at  his  long  silent  vigils  over  the 
glowing  pile  of  wood-ashes  in  his 
hut,  and  were  curious  to  learn  why 
he  was  always  boiling  sea-water  in 
the  billy-can,  and  carefully  guarding 
the  salt  that  was  left  when  all  the 
water  had  boiled  away.  Unknown 
to  him  they  watched  him  through  a 
chink  in  the  wall  of  the  hut  for 
hours  together,  and,  failing  to  obtain 
any  satisfaction  by  that  means,  they 
became  emboldened,  after  watching 
the  festivities  in  the  other  hut,  to 
pester  him  with  questions.  Their 
curiosity  gratified  him,  and  he  told 
them  not  only  all  about  the  great 
discovery  but  about  many  other  things 
as  well ;  and  always  did  they  listen 
with  interest.  But  there  was  one 
effect  of  his  words  upon  them  which 
he  did  not  anticipate.  From  being 
curious  the  stories  he  told  them  made 


156 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


them  become  inquisitive,  and  they 
fretted  for  an  opportunity  when  they 
too  might  assist  in  the  working  of 
the  great  discovery.  Hence  they 
paid  him  close  attention  and  followed 
him  from  one  hut  to  the  other,  always 
on  the  look-out  for  opportunity  and 
always  keeping  their  own  counsel. 

At  length  their  perseverance  was 
rewarded,  and  they  slipped  away  to 
his  hut  secure  for  a  thorough  investi- 
gation. 

The  first  thing  that  attracted  their 
attention  was  the  deep  hole  in  the 
centre  of  the  heap  of  wood-ashes  in 
the  fireplace,  and  they  fell  into  a 
dispute  at  once  as  to  the  depth  of  it. 
To  prove  his  contention  the  younger 
boy  picked  up  a  plumb  of  lead  which, 
with  its  string  attached,  formed  the 
sinker  of  the  fishing-lines  Dolls  had 
never  used.  He  lowered  the  lead 
down  the  hole  to  convince  his  brother 
of  his  error,  when  both  boys  were 
amazed  to  see  the  string  burst  into 
flames.  They  looked  at  one  another 
for  a  moment,  then  turned  and  ran, 
and  only  when  at  a  very  safe  distance 
did  they  explain  to  one  another  that 
the  ashes  were  still  hot  and  had  set  fire 
to  the  string.  But  simple  as  their 
explanation  made  it  appear,  the  burn- 
ing of  the  string  satisfied  them  for 
the  time  being  to  leave  the  great 
discovery  alone. 

It  was  many  hours  after  when 
Dolls,  unsteady  on  his  feet  and  cloudy 
in  his  mind,  came  back  to  his  post  by 
the  ash-heap.  Before  leaving  he  had 
placed  in  the  hollow  a  quantity  of  the 
compounds  from  which  he  believed  the 
gold  had  come  on  the  former  occasion, 
and  dimly  in  his  mind  he  realised 
that  the  transmutation  ought  by  this 
time  to  have  taken  place.  As  stea- 
dily as  he  could  he  raked  away  the 
ashes  from  the  top  of  the  heap, 
smoothing  it  over  until  the  piece  of 
hoop-iron  he  was  using  struck  some- 
thing solid.  The  jar  of  the  iron, 


slight  as  it  was,  sent  the  man's  heart 
into  his  throat,  for  it  told  him  that 
again  the  experiment  had  succeeded 
and  demonstrated  that  he  had  indeed 
solved  the  great  problem. 

More  vigorously  he  raked,  and 
more  excited  did  he  become,  as  the 
ashes  were  cleared  away  from  the 
centre  until  there  was  slowly  revealed 
a  massive  cake  of  yellowish  metal 
glistening  with  iridescent  hues.  The 
sight  was  too  much  for  the  self- 
control  of  Dolls  and  he  leaped  to  his 
feet  and  ran,  shouting,  to  his  late 
companions  in  conviviality. 

Besides  warning  them  of  his  ap- 
proach his  shouts  reached  the  ears  of 
the  two  boys  and  aroused  in  them 
a  fear  which  effectually  put  the  seal 
of  secrecy  on  their  escapade.  But  no 
such  reserve  governed  the  others  who 
heard  first  the  shouts  and  then  the 
story  of  Dolls.  Together  they  went 
to  the  hut  where  the  treasure  lay,  and 
there,  with  much  ceremony,  some 
excitement,  and  not  a  little  confusion, 
the  cake  of  metal  was  taken  from  its 
resting-place  and  passed  around,  warm 
and  shining,  from  one  to  the  other. 
There  was  no  doubting  the  matter 
now  ;  the  cake  was  gold  of  the  purest 
quality,  every  one  of  the  men  was 
prepared  to  swear, — and  did.  Dolls 
was  a  genius  of  the  proudest  and 
most  distinguished  character,  and  had 
thoroughly  vindicated  his  promise 
to  make  Friendly  Point  a  place  of 
world-wide  fame.  The  praise  that 
was  showered  upon  him,  the  natural 
elation  which  came  to  him  at  his 
continued  success,  and  the  contrast 
between  the  dazzling  future  that  lay 
before  him  and  the  grim  failure  of 
his  past,  all  combined  to  make  Dolls 
come  perilously  near  to  losing  his 
head.  As  it  was  he  puffed  himself  up 
with  pomposity  almost  to  the  point 
of  bursting.  He  gave  orders  to  the 
men  who  so  recently  saved  him 
from  starvation,  and  strutted  about 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


157 


the  hut  as  though  it  was  a  king's 
palace. 

Backus  and  Isters  were  ordered  to 
start  at  once  for  the  town  to  carry 
the  cake  of  metal  to  the  man  they  had 
seen  on  their  former  visit.  They 
were  to  leave  it  with  him  and  tell  him 
that  Dolls  was  coming  in  person  to 
see  him.  Then  they  were  to  obtain 
from  him  what  money  was  necessary 
to  purchase  the  wherewithal  to  pro- 
perly celebrate  at  the  Point  the  de- 
monstration of  the  great  discovery. 

No  sooner  were  the  orders  given 
than  they  were  obeyed,  for  Dolls  was 
fast  becoming  a  creature  of  almost 
superhuman  power  in  the  eyes  of  the 
ignorant  and  not  too  sober  men 
around  him.  When  he  said  that  he 
would  follow  with  the  morning,  one  of 
the  men  from  the  fishing-camp  at  once 
offered  his  boat,  and  went  away  to 
make  it  ready.  The  remainder  stayed 
with  Dolls  and  kept  up  the  celebra- 
tion of  the  discovery  as  well  as  the 
stores  would  permit,  until  the  sun  rose 
and  it  was  time  for  him  to  start  for 
his  journey  across  the  bay  and  up  the 
river  to  the  township. 

It  was  a  clear  morning,  with  a  light 
breeze  just  strong  enough  to  move 
the  boat  along,  so  that  by  the  time 
the  township  was  reached,  Backus  and 
Isters  were  making  ready  to  leave  on 
their  return  journey.  They  reported 
that  they  had  carried  out  all  the 
instructions  they  had  received,  and 
added  that  the  gentleman  was  waiting 
to  greet  and  honour  the  great  dis- 
coverer. Dolls,  who  had  arrayed 
himself  in  his  best,  stepped  ashore 
and  barely  heeded  the  fisherman's 
remarks  that  he  would  return  with 
Backus  and  Isters,  and  leave  the  boat 
for  Dolls  to  sail  down  again  if  he 
came  back  to  the  Point. 

Dolls  walked  briskly  to  the  office 
of  the  man  who,  as  the  head  of  the 
syndicate  that  had  formerly  employed 
him,  had  left  him  in  the  hopeless 


state  that  Snaky  Dick  had  found  him 
in.  He  smiled  to  himself  as  he  ap- 
proached the  place.  "A  thousand 
millions  is  what  I  shall  ask,"  he  said 
to  himself  as  he  opened  the  door  and, 
without  ceremony,  walked  into  the 
private  office.  At  the  table,  looking 
extremely  ill-pleased,  sat  the  financier. 

"  I  sent  you,"  Dolls  began  in  a 
lordly  tone. 

"  Lead  !  Coloured  lead  !  It  is 
a  swindle,"  interrupted  the  other 
savagely.  "  Already  I  have  lost 
thirty  pounds,  and  unless  you  re- 
fund that  at  once  I  give  you  in 
charge." 

Dolls,  taken  aback,  sunk  into  the 
nearest  chair  and  stared  at  the  man 
vacantly. 

"  It  is  a  trick,  a  swindle,"  cried  the 
other,  his  temper  rising  now  that  he 
had  once  begun  to  speak. 

"That's  a  lie,"  Dolls  retorted.  "You 
have  had  my  gold  and  now  want  to 
thieve  it !  But  what  of  that  ?  You 
cannot  steal  my  secret,  and  I  can  get 
tons  more  gold,  tons  and  tons,  from 
the  ocean." 

"  It's  lead,  I  tell  you,"  cried  the 
other.  "There,  what's  that?"  he 
asked,  as  he  held  up  the  cake  of 
yellowish  metal  with  the  iridescent 
hues  upon  it  before  Dolls's  eyes. 

"  That  1  "  Dolls  said  suavely. 
"  That  is  a  cake  of  gold  procured  by 
means  of  my  great  secret  knowledge 
from  the — " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  for  the  man 
had  turned  the  cake  round  and  now 
held  towards  him  a  side  whence  the 
outer  part  had  been  cut  away,  reveal- 
ing what  not  even  the  enthusiastic 
Dolls  could  fail  to  recognise  as  fresh- 
cut  lead. 

The  financier  flung  it  heavily  on 
the  table  in  front  of  him,  and  Dolls, 
his  mind  a  confused  blur,  picked  it 
up  and  looked  at  it. 

There  could  be  no  mistake ;  the 
cake  was  identical  with  the  cake  he 


158 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


had  taken  from  the  ashes  in  all  but 
the  side  from  whence  the  outer  part 
had  been  scraped  or  cut,  and  the  poor 
muddled  brain  of  Dolls  failed  to  de- 
velope  even  a  suspicion  that  he  had 
been  tricked.  The  blow  was  too 
sudden  and  too  swift,  and  under  it 
the  great  inventor  and  discoverer  sat 
forlorn  and  dismayed. 

"It's  a  bare-faced  swindle,"  the 
financier  went  on.  "  You  send  me 
up  a  small  piece  of  gold,  just  about 
as  much  as  would  make  half-a- 
sovereign,  with  a  message  that  it 
was  a  proof  of  your  success.  I  was 
fool  enough  to  believe  you,  and  at 
once  you  send  me  up  a  cake  of  lead 
coloured  to  look  like  gold.  Now 
then,  either  you  refund  every  penny 
you  and  your  friends  have  had  from 
me,  or  I'll  call  in  the  police." 

"  It  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true," 
Dolls  said  wearily.  "  It  was  gold  I 
sent.  I  got  it  the  same  as  the  other ; 
it  is  all  part  of  the  system.  The  dis- 
covery cannot  be  wrong.  It  must  be 
the  metal.  Perhaps  it  had  not  had 
time  to  change  right  into  gold  and 
only  got  as  far  as  lead.  Ah,"  he 
went  on  in  a  brighter  tone,  "that's 
it !  I  didn't  give  it  time  enough.  I'll 
take  it  back  and  treat  it  again.  The 
discovery  cannot  be  wrong.  This  shall 
be  gold  all  through  next  time  you 
see  it." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  took  up 
his  hat. 

"Not  so  fast,"  his  companion  said 
sharply  ;  "  you  don't  play  the  confi- 
dence trick  on  me.  You  have  to 
make  this  square  before  you  leave 
the  room." 

"  But  I  must  return  to  my  labora- 
tory to  complete  my  work ;  my 
apparatus  is  there." 

"That  may  be,  but  before  you  leave 
this  room  you'll  make  things  square 
with  me." 

"How  can  I?"  Dolls  asked.  "What 
am  I  to  do  more  than  I  have  done  ? " 


"  I  want  proof  before  I  trust  you 
any  more.  Give  me  proof  that  you 
are  acting  squarely,  or  in  come  the 
police  and  out  you  go  to  gaol." 

"  How  can  IV  repeated  the  dis- 
concerted Dolls.  "  How  can  I  ? " 

"  By  writing  out  the  secret  of  your 
process  and  leaving  it  with  me,"  was 
the  reply. 

Dolls  stared  blankly  at  the  financier 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  blurted 
out  a  curt  refusal. 

"  You  know  the  alternative  ? "  was 
the  answer. 

"Not  for  millions,  not  for  untold 
millions  would  I  part  with  the  secret," 
Dolls  exclaimed. 

"  Now  see  here,  you're  a  reason- 
able man,"  the  financier  said  quietly. 
"You'll  see  the  force  of  this.  If  I 
hand  you  over  to  the  police  they'll 
lock  you  up.  After  you're  safe  under 
lock  and  key  I  start  for  Friendly 
Point.  Your  friends  know  me,  and 
I  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  finding 
where  you  worked  out  your  experi- 
ments. You  did  not  clean  up  before 
you  came  away,  and  I  dare  say  you 
left  enough  behind  to  show  a  smart 
man  how  you  did  the  trick.  So  while 
you  are  spending  your  days  in  gaol 
I  am  learning  all  about  the  secret, 
which  will  then  be  mine,  mine  only, 
and  don't  you  forget  it." 

Dolls  gasped.  "  It  would  be  cold- 
blooded scoundrelism,"  he  exclaimed. 

The  financier  held  up  a  warning 
hand.  "  No  bad  language,"  he  said 
sternly ;  "  we  discuss  this  matter  on 
business  principles.  You  give  me  the 
secret  or  I  take  it.  Which  is  it  to 
be  ?  One  or  the  other  ;  they  are  both 
the  same  to  me,  so  long  as  I  have  what 
I  want." 

Dolls,  helpless  to  break  from 
the  toils  in  which  he  was  caught, 
yielded  without  further  struggle  and 
wrote  down  the  secret  of  his  dis- 
covery. The  financier  was  not  a 
scientific  man,  and  the  terms  that 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


159 


Dolls  used  in  the  document  were  as 
meaningless  to  him  as  they  were  to 
the  expert  to  whom  he  referred  the 
document  next  day ;  but  by  that 
time  many  things  had  happened. 

As  soon  as  the  discovery  had  been 
committed  to  paper  (even  the  "  impre- 
cation" being  included)  Dolls  made 
good  his  escape  and,  returning  to  the 
landing-stage,  went  on  board  the  boat 
the  fisherman  had  left  there.  He 
was  not  clever  at  handling  a  sailing- 
boat  but  knew  enough  to  enable  him 
to  get  down  as  far  as  the  mouth  of 
the  river  in  safety,  though  at  a  con- 
siderable cost  in  time.  But  the  hours 
did  not  drag  for  him.  His  mind 
was  too  full  of  his  discovery,  and 
the  manner  in  which  the  secret  of 
it  had  been  wrung  from  him,  for 
the  mere  passage  of  time  to  concern 
him. 

Night  came  on  as  he  was  passing 
down  the  river,  but  the  moon  was  up 
as  soon  as  the  last  glow  of  the  sunset 
died  from  the  west,  and  there  was 
light  enough  for  Dolls  to  distinguish 
the  dangers  to  navigation  while  he  was 
in  the  stream.  Bitterness  was  in  his 
heart,  bitterness  and  sorrow,  for  it 
was  real  to  the  man  that  he  had 
given  away  the  great  secret  of  his 
discovery,  the  secret  for  which  he 
had  been  going  to  ask  and  obtain 
countless  millions.  He  believed  that 
what  he  had  written  was  true  and 
comprehensible  ;  and  he  believed,  also, 
that  by  the  following  day  it  would  be 
published  broadcast,  and  that  wher- 
ever the  ocean  laved  the  earth  men 
would  be  at  work  wresting  gold  from 
the  water,  until  there  was  so  much 
of  the  yellow  metal  in  the  world  that 
all  mankind  would  turn  from  it  in 
disgust. 

In  the  gloom  of  his  sorrow  a 
thought  flashed  with  the  brilliance  of 
a  lightning-stroke.  If  so  much  gold 
was  made  that  it  became  dross,  an- 
other metal  would  take  the  place  of 


gold,  another  metal  that  was  rare  and 
scarce ;  and  his  hand  sought  the  cake 
of  coloured  lead  in  his  pocket.  In 
the  midst  of  his  desolation  triumph 
came  to  him.  They  might  publish 
his  secret,  they  might  take  the 
millions  of  tons  of  gold  from  the 
sea ;  but  he  would  keep  his  other 
secret,  the  secret  how  to  make  this 
rare  and  as  yet  unknown  metal. 

The  boat  had  reached  the  mouth  of 
the  river  and  before  him  stretched 
the  wide  expanse  of  the  bay.  On 
the  far  side  there  lay  the  islands  at 
the  head  of  one  of  which  was 
Friendly  Point,  where  high  revel  was 
now  being  kept  in  honour  of  his 
discovery.  Beyond  that  island  lay 
the  wide  Pacific  Ocean,  heaving  and 
rolling  as  it  sought  to  sweep  into 
the  bay  through  the  treacherous 
channels  that  divided  the  islands 
from  one  another.  Dolls  had  heard 
of  those  channels,  where  the  currents 
ran  like  mill-streams,  and  where 
sharks  lurked  in  the  deep  holes,  and 
stinging-rays  in  the  shallows.  They 
were  fatal  even  to  skilled  boatmen, 
and  Dolls,  for  a  moment,  wondered 
if  he  could  find  his  way  to  the  Point 
across  the  expanse  of  sea  before  him 
without  being  drawn  into  one  of  these 
death-traps.  But  it  was  only  for  a 
moment.  The  next,  his  astuteness  in 
turning  the  tables  on  his  adversary, 
and  rescuing  the  greatest  secret  of  all 
from  the  spoilers,  overcame  every 
other  sense  ;  and,  calculating  the 
wealth  that  would  yet  be  his,  Dolls 
steered  straight  for  the  mighty  rollers 
where  they  boomed  and  thundered  on 
the  ocean-side  of  the  channels. 

The  noise  came  to  him  as  the 
cold  grey  streak  of  dawn  showed 
on  the  eastern  horizon.  The  noise 
was  straight  ahead  of  him,  just  where 
there  appeared  a  line  of  leaping, 
springing  mountains  of  foam.  A 
swift  glance  to  the  right  and  the  left 
showed  him  where  the  banks  of  the 


160 


Dolls,  the  Gold-finder. 


channel  were  flying  past  him,  and 
Dolls  stood  up  as  the  white  foam  of 
a  broken  billow  swarmed  round  the 
bows  of  the  boat  and  rose  up  over 
the  side.  With  the  luck  of  the  fool 
he  pushed  the  helm  over  and  brought 
the  boat  broadside  on  to  the  current 
but  with  her  nose  pointing  to  the 
nearest  shore,  and  the  breeze  caught 
the  .sails  full  and  forced  her  towards 
the  land.  Only  twenty  yards  lay  be- 
tween him  and  safety,  but  midway  over 
that  distance  a  narrow  sandbank  cut 
the  channel  in  two.  The  boat  grounded 
on  it  and  heeled  over  away  from  the 
current  and  the  breeze,  but  towards 
the  rushing  fury  of  the  breakers. 

Dolls,  seeking  to  hold  his  balance, 
saw  a  line  of  white  foam  leaping  and 
swinging  over  the  deeper  blue  beneath. 
Hissing,  it  swept  up  to  the  boat  and 
rose  over  the  side  that  was  forced 
down  by  the  current  to  meet  it.  The 
boat  heeled  further  over  under  the 


weight  of  the  water  and  Dolls  was 
flung,  as  a  straw  on  the  wind,  into 
the  seething,  foaming,  boiling  rage  of 
the  breaking  roller.  It  was  to  him 
as  though  the  ocean  he  had  threatened 
with  his  skill  had  come  to  test  his 
strength  of  conquest,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  swirling  fury  that  tossed 
him  to  and  fro,  now  up,  now  down, 
Dolls  roused  himself  to  action.  Blend- 
ing with  the  roar  of  the  ocean  and 
the  hiss  of  the  spray  the  discordant 
notes  of  his  "  imprecation  "  struggled 
for  a  moment  to  live.  Then  the  rush 
of  might  and  anger  flooded  above  his 
head,  and  the  waves  and  currents 
gambolled  with  a  nerveless,  lifeless 
thing,  until,  hours  afterwards,  they 
grew  tired  of  the  sport  and  flung  it, 
as  though  in  derision  and  contempt, 
at  the  foot  of  a  sun-dried  tussock  of 
withered  sea-quenched  grass. 

Dolls  had  solved  the  golden  secret 
of  the  ocean. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


JANUARY,    1902, 


PRINCESS   PUCK. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

"  Do  come  here  for  Christmas," 
wrote  Bella  to  Bill  from  Haylands 
about  the  middle  of  December.  "You 
must  come,  if  it  is  only  for  a  week. 
It  is  nonsense  for  Polly  to  say  she 
can't  spare  you ;  she  simply  must. 
Theresa  thinks  that  it  will  do  you 
good.  She  won't  believe  what  Polly 
says  about  the  way  in  which  you 
have  taken  this  breaking  off  with 
Gilchrist ;  she  thinks  you  must  be 
upset,  and  that  to  come  here  might 
do  you  good.  I  enclose  a  postal 
order  for  six  shillings  for  the  fare. 
Polly  is  sure  to  say  you  can't  afford 
it;  Theresa  and  I  can,  and  we  want 
you  to  come." 

And  in  spite  of  Polly's  protesta- 
tions and  objections  Bill  went.  Polly 
could  not  go ;  she  had  one  lodger  now 
and  could  not  shut  the  house  up. 
But  seeing  that  he  was  only  one,  and 
one  who  did  not  require  much  waiting 
on,  and  seeing  also  that  Bella  and 
Theresa  had  paid  Bill's  fare,  there 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
go.  So  Bill  went  to  Wrugglesby, 
and  Bella  and  Theresa,  who  had 
driven  from  Ashelton  for  some  shop- 
ping, met  her  and  brought  her  home. 

Bella  was  glad  Bill  was  coming, 
although,  she  reflected,  if  the  girl  was 
really  as  disturbed  as  Theresa  im- 
agined about  her  broken  engagement 
she  would  be  but  poor  company  and 
No.  507. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


not  much  relief  from  the  dulness  of 
Haylands.  For  some  reason  or  other 
it  had  been  dull  there  that  autumn, 
at  least  on  the  days  when  Jack  did 
not  come.  Theresa,  who  had  always 
been  quiet,  was  more  quiet  than  ever 
now ;  she  seemed  to  have  aged  during 
the  past  months,  or  else  Bella,  used 
to  associating  with  the  livelier  if 
more  unprincipled  Polly,  thought  so. 
"  Marriage  does  alter  people,"  thought 
Bella,  and  fell  to  speculating  about 
herself  and  Jack.  There  really  was 
very  little  to  think  about  at  Hay- 
lands,  very  little  to  talk  about  in  all 
Ashelton.  Even  Miss  Minchin,  at 
the  fortnightly  working-parties,  had 
nothing  fresh  to  say,  and  so  went 
untiringly  over  the  nine  days'  wonder 
of  Gilchrist  Harborough's  claim  to 
Wood  Hall. 

Miss  Minchin  might  not  be  tired 
of  that,  but  Bella  was,  and  by  the 
beginning  of  December  she  had  heard 
quite  enough  of  that  and  most  other 
subjects  of  Ashelton  conversation. 
But  about  that  time  she  and  Theresa 
found  a  fresh  subject  in  the  letter 
Bill  wrote  to  them  after  Gilchrist's 
visit  to  London.  She  wrote  by  one 
post,  and  by  the  next  Polly  wrote  a 
good  two  ounces  of  lamentation,  in- 
dignation, and  abuse,  the  last  both  of 
Theresa  and  her  "  ridiculous  secrecy," 
and  also,  in  a  far  larger  degree,  of 
Bill  and  her  obstinacy.  Theresa  was 
much  perplexed ;  neither  she  nor 


162 


Princess  Puck. 


Bella  could  understand  how  it  had 
come  about ;  there  was  no  expla- 
nation, except  that  Bill  had  availed 
herself  of  their  permission  to  change 
her  mind,  and  that  somehow  seemed 
unlikely.  Bella  was  inclined  to  blame 
Gilchrist,  and  cited  several  instances 
when  his  devotion  had  fallen  short  of 
Jack's.  Theresa,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  for  putting  the  change  down  to 
girlish  caprice.  She  made  a  point  of 
talking  to  Gilchrist  on  the  subject, 
but  without  enlightening  herself  to 
any  great  extent.  "  Of  course  I 
could  not  cross-question  him,"  she 
wrote  to  Polly,  and  was  naturally  not 
aware  of  that  lady's  wrathful  excla- 
mation,— "  I  know  I  could  then  ! " 

Although  Theresa  did  not  hear 
this,  or  any  other  of  Polly's  remarks, 
she  could  guess  their  nature,  and  her 
invitation  to  Bill  was  given  partly 
with  a  view  of  saving  the  girl  from 
the  ceaseless  bombardment  of  the 
elder  cousin's  wrath.  As  it  hap- 
pened, however,  Polly  was  compara- 
tively merciful  in  her  indignation ; 
she  knew  when  words  were  a  waste 
of  breath,  and  understood  with  some 
precision  when  she  could,  and  when 
she  could  not,  move  her  partner. 
Consequently  Bill  was  let  off  easily, 
and  for  that,  or  for  some  other  reason, 
she  did  not  seem  at  all  unhappy  when 
she  stepped  out  on  the  platform  at 
Wrugglesby  station.  The  sisters,  who 
met  her,  recognised  the  fact  at  once, 
and  Bella  at  least  was  glad  of  it  as 
she  helped  to  carry  Polly's  hat-box 
to  the  pony-carriage.  Bill  talked  a 
good  deal  on  the  homeward  way 
seeming  anything  but  depressed. 
Once  when  they  were  clear  of  the 
town  she  looked  round  and  said 
softly  :  "  How  beautiful  it  is  !  How 
very,  very  beautiful  it  is  out  here  !  " 

Bella  thought  the  girl  must  be 
expressing  her  delight  at  leaving 
London  and  all  her  troubles  behind 
her.  She  could  see  no  beauty  in  the 


landscape, — bare  fields  spread  wide 
beneath  the  winter  sky  ;  gaunt,  black- 
limbed  elms  and  leafless  hedgerows 
where  the  twilight  crept  myste- 
riously; a  pale  flare  of  sunset  break- 
ing through  the  ashen  clouds  to  make 
the  level  land  luminous  and  show  near 
objects  with  a  wonderful  distinct- 
ness ;  stacks  and  barns  and  low-roofed 
cottages  whence  the  smoke  in  thin 
spirals  went  straightly  up  into  the 
evening  air. 

Robert  came  out  to  meet  the  pony- 
carriage  with  quite  a  cheerful  smile 
of  welcome. 

"  Here,  brother-in-law  Laziness," 
Bill  said,  filling  his  arms  with 
Theresa's  parcels  ;  "  take  some  more, 
you  can  have  these.  I've  got  the 
sugar,  T." 

And  they  went  in-doors,  Robert's 
setter  slobbering  over  Bill,  — she  never 
had  a  dress  that  could  be  hurt  by  a 
dog's  caress — and  sheepishly  follow- 
ing them  into  the  forbidden  precincts 
of  the  house. 

"You  are  jolly  cold,  I  expect," 
Robert  said  as  he  poked  the  fire  into 
a  blaze.  "Get  your  boots  off  and 
warm  your  feet.  Where  are  your 
slippers  ?  In  this  thing  ?  Is  this 
the  key  tied  on  outside  ? " 

Bill  said  it  was ;  in  her  opinion  to 
tie  its  key  to  the  handle  of  an  article 
was  a  sure  way  of  having  the  key 
when  you  wanted  it.  Robert  un- 
fastened the  box  and  rummaged  over 
the  contents  with  clumsy  hands  till 
he  found  the  shoes ;  afterwards  he 
put  the  things  back  anyhow,  so  that 
the  box  had  to  be  carried  up  stairs 
with  the  lid  open. 

How  they  talked  that  evening  ! 
Bella  and  Robert,  even  Theresa  as 
well  as  Bill.  Bill  wanted  to  know 
everything,  about  the  horses  and 
dogs,  the  cows  and  pigs ;  what  that 
stack  had  yielded  when  it  was  threshed, 
how  the  potatoes  were  keeping,  why 
the  long  meadow  was  ploughed.  She 


Princess  Puck. 


163 


wanted  to  know  all  about  everybody 
in  the  place,  how  they  were  and  what 
new  clothes  they  had  ;  she  wanted  to 
know  when  Jack  came  last  and  when 
he  was  coming  next,  what  quantity 
of  butter  Theresa  was  getting  now, 
and  the  pattern  of  the  lace  Bella  had 
bought  for  her  petticoats. 

Somehow  or  other  the  common- 
places of  life,  the  veriest  trivialities 
assumed  a  vivid  interest  with  Bill ; 
the  life  which  had  seemed  rather  dull 
in  the  living  became  full  of  humour 
and  incident  when  told  to  her.  Her 
own  life  in  London,  when  she  told 
them  about  it,  seemed  almost  fascin- 
ating. Bella  found  herself  wishing 
that  she  had  insisted  on  joining  the 
lodging  venture  ;  she  did  not  realise 
that  the  life,  like  the  flat  wintry 
landscape,  required  to  be  looked  at 
through  the  lens  of  a  particular  kind 
of  mind  to  assume  the  aspect  it  did 
for  Bill. 

One  could  not  help  being  conscious 
of  Bill's  presence  in  the  house.  By 
the  next  afternoon  Theresa  was  begin- 
ning to  be  aware  of  the  difference  she 
made.  Bill  had  been  in  the  attic  that 
morning  and  looked  over  the  nuts  and 
apples  that  she  herself  had  put  there ; 
she  had  brought  down  the  rotten  ones 
and  brought  down  also  the  rose-leaves, 
put  away  to  dry  and  forgotten.  She 
had  been  round  the  barns  and  stables 
and  out  into  the  frozen  garden,  round 
the  orchard  to  look  for  broken 
branches  and  dead  wood  for  burning, 
into  the  icy  dairy  to  help  Jessie  and 
hear  about  her  love-affairs. 

"  It's  like  openin'  the  winders  on  a 
summer  mornin',"  Jessie  said,  when 
just  before  dinner  Bill  passed  the 
kitchen-door  with  some  Christmas 
roses  she  had  found  in  a  sheltered 
corner  of  the  garden.  She  had  gone 
to  the  pantry  to  arrange  them  in  a 
glass,  singing  as  she  did  so.  Strangely 
enough  she  had  not  sung  or  whistled 
since  that  September  morning  at 


Bymouth  when  she  mimicked  the 
birds  while  Kit  Harborough  wrung 
out  her  wet  bathing-dress.  But  she 
did  not  know  this,  neither  did  Jessie, 
though  she  heard  the  singing  appre- 
ciatively now.  Still,  it  was  not  that 
which  caused  her  remark  when  Bill, 
now  quiet,  passed  the  kitchen-door. 

"It  do  freshen  the  house  up 
wonderful  to  have  you  here  again, 
miss  ;  it's  for  all  the  world  like 
openin'  the  winders  on  a  sunny 
mornin'." 

But  Bill  scarcely  understood  the 
allusion  any  more  than  Theresa  did 
the  fact.  Theresa  certainly  did  not 
understand ;  she  was  glad  to  have 
the  girl  back  again,  but  felt  that  she 
was  more  incomprehensible  than  ever. 
Her  whole  attitude  towards  Gilchrist 
and  the  broken  engagement  was  ex- 
traordinary to  Theresa.  She  ques- 
tioned Bill  of  course,  and  learned 
practically  nothing,  though  her  ques- 
tions were  answered  freely  enough. 
Bill  was  glad  when  the  questioning 
was  over ;  she  was  very  tired  of  the 
subject  and  she  wanted  to  hear  about 
Bella's  trousseau ;  also  she  wanted  to 
go  and  see  Mr.  Dane. 

Mr.  Dane  knew  nothing  about  the 
engagement ;  there  was  no  reason 
now  why  Bill  should  tell  him,  yet 
that  afternoon,  as  she  knelt  on  his 
hearthrug  in  the  twilight,  she  sud- 
denly determined  to  do  so  and  to  ask 
his  opinion  on  her  own  course  of  action. 
It  was  after  one  of  those  pleasant, 
companionable  silences  which  often 
fell  between  them  that  she  approached 
the  subject,  entirely  without  intro- 
duction, as  was  her  way.  "  Mon- 
seigneur,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  do  you 
think  it  is  ever  right  to  break  a 
promise, — a  promise  to  marry  some- 
one, I  mean  ? " 

"  To  marry  someone  1 "  Mr.  Dane 
repeated,  and  though  his  tone  was 
only  surprised  there  was  a  gravity 
in  his  manner  as  if  he  feared  trouble 

M2 


164 


Princess  Puck. 


in  the  near  future.     "Yes,"  he  said 
after   a  moment's  consideration,   "  in 
some    circumstances    I   do    think    it 
right  to  break  such  a  promise." 
"  What  circumstances  ?  " 
"  If  the  person  giving  the  promise 
finds  out  afterwards  that  he  or  she 
does  not  love  the  one  to  whom  it  is 
given." 

"  If  one  of  the  two  finds  that  out  1 " 
Bill  said  in  surprise.  "You  do  not 
really  think  that  is  enough  ?  You 
would  not  break  a  promise  for  that, 
you  would  not  think  it  honourable  ; 
it  would  not  be  either — neither  hon- 
ourable nor  right." 

"It  would  not  be  right  for  some 
people,"  Mr.  Dane  admitted ;  "  but 
for  others — "  he  broke  off  abruptly, 
and  after  a  pause  turned  to  her 
with  an  almost  terrible  earnestness. 
"Child,"  he  said,  "do  not  think  I 
am  trifling  with  right  and  wrong ; 
indeed  I  am  not.  Yet  still  I  say 
that,  though  it  might  not  be  honour- 
able for  some  to  break  such  a  pro- 
mise, for  you  it  would  not  be  a 
question  of  honour  or  dishonour  but 
of  absolute  necessity." 
"  I  did  not  think  so." 
"  You  1  "  he  exclaimed  with  an 
excitement  which  astonished  her  ; 
"  you  did  not  think  so  ? " 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  did  not.  I 
promised  to  marry  Gilchrist  Harbo- 
rough,  but  I  did  not  love  him." 

"  Then,  in  God's  name,  do  not 
marry  him !  You  don't  know  what 
you  are  doing.  Do  you  think  it 
worse  to  break  your  promise  and 
dishonour  your  word,  or  to  break 
a  man's  heart  and  dishonour  him, 
yourself,  and  God's  law,  all  that  is 
most  holy  and  most  binding  on 
earth?" 

And  then  Bill  realised  what  she 
had  done,  and  how  her  words  had 
wounded  her  friend-  Had  he  not 
married  a  woman  who  did  not  love  ? 
Had  he  not  suffered  to  the  full  the 


uttermost  bitterness  of  which  he 
spoke  1  As  she  realised  how  she  had 
reopened  the  tragedy  of  his  life  the 
girl  was  struck  dumb  with  remorse, 
too  grieved  for  the  moment  to  think 
of  explaining  the  circumstances  of  her 
own  affairs. 

But  Mr.  Dane  did  not  know  the 
reason  of  her  silence,  and  he  went 
on,  his  face  drawn  and  stern.  "  You 
do  not  know  your  own  history  nor 
the  danger  which  may  threaten  you. 
I  do ;  and  knowing,  I  say  you  must 
not,  cannot  marry  a  man  you  do  not 
truly  love.  It  is  a  mockery  to  pray 
'  lead  us  not  into  temptation '  and 
then  to  put  yourself  in  temptation's 
way.  There  is  a  passion  which  is 
stronger  than  you  ;  it  may  sleep  now 
but  it  will  not  always  sleep,  believe 
me,  it  will  not  always  sleep.  Listen 
now :  first  concerning  your  mother. 
You  did  not  know  her,  neither  did 
I,  but  you  yourself  told  me  she 
married  in  defiance  of  her  parents ; 
she  loved  the  man  and  counted  them 
well  lost  for  him.  And  he,  —  he 
loved  her,  bewitched  her,  desired  her, 
— she  had  no  will  but  to  go, — I  know 
how  it  was  done." 

"  You  knew  my  father  !  " 
"  No,  I  knew  his  father.  I  saw 
the  spell  at  work  ;  I  know  the  will  of 
those  Alardys  and  the  power  of  their 
love ;  I  have  good  reason  to  know. 
Your  grandmother,  the  first  Wilhel- 
mina,  I  knew  her  too.  She  was 
another  man's  wife  ;  she  married  him 
though  she  did  not  love  him;  she 
thought  it  was  safe;  she  did  not 
know — then  came  this  other — " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  He  was 
pacing  the  far  side  of  the  room  with 
the  restlessness  almost  of  a  young 
man  ;  he  stood  in  the  shadow  now, 
but  she  sat  regarding  him  wide-eyed, 
something  almost  of  horror  in  her 
face.  That  he  should  tear  open 
these  old  wounds  for  her,  his  wife's 
grandchild,  Wilhelmina's  grandchild  1 


Princess    Puck. 


165 


Wilhelmina !  Yes,  she  knew  now, 
the  links  in  the  chain  were  joined  and 
she  knew,  although  she  murmured, 
—  "  My  grandmother,  Wilhelmina 
Corby  1 " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  then  he  came 
into  the  firelight  and  his  face  was 
very  pitiful.  "  Child,  child,"  he  said 
sadly,  "  there  are  passions  of  which 
you  know  nothing ;  pray  God  you 
never  may  ! " 

The  girl's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with 
tears  :  "  Do  you  not  hate  me  1 "  she 
whispered. 

But  he  did  not  hate  her.  The 
blessed  years  which  had  taught  him 
not  to  hate,  taught  him  to  be  merciful 
as  well  as  just.  "  No,  Princess  Puck," 
he  said  smiling  gently,  "I  do  not 
think  I  hate  you." 

She  crept  dog-like  to  his  side  of 
the  fire.  "Shall  I  tell  you  some- 
thing," he  said,  reaching  a  hand  down 
to  touch  her  hair,  "  something  which 
I  do  not  count  the  least  of  my 
blessings  this  year  ? — God's  goodness 
in  sending  to  me,  whom  He  has 
denied  wife  or  child,  a  little  brown 
elf  for  a  grand-daughter." 

Bill  could  not  speak.  She  only 
mutely  pressed  against  his  chair,  and 
for  a  long  time  they  sat  silent  while 
he  softly  stroked  her  hair  and  the 
ashes  fell  quietly  on  the  hearth.  At 
last  the  old  man  spoke  again ;  he 
had  been  thinking  of  the  girl's  half- 
made  confidence  and  it  ti-oubled  him 
greatly.  "  This  promise  of  which 
you  spoke,"  he  said, — "  is  it  to  be 
kept  or  broken  1 " 

Bill  started  like  one  awakening. 
"  Broken,"  she  said,  "  I  have  broken 
it ; "  and  she  told  him  the  whole 
story,  always,  of  course,  excepting 
that  which  was  said,  or  rather  was 
not  said,  when  she  and  Kit  Har- 
borough  met  under  the  beeches  on 
a  day  when  a  dream  proved  to  be 
a  dream  no  longer.  But  perhaps 

r.  Dane  discovered  a  little  of  that 


for  himself,  for  when  he  said  good- 
bye to  her  that  night  he  realised 
that  his  Princess  Puck  was  a  child 
no  more. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

IT  was  towards  the  end  of  January 
that  Bella  came  to  town  to  finish 
buying  her  trousseau.  A  trousseau 
is  a  really  momentous  affair,  and 
Bella,  feeling  that  the  shops  at 
Wrugglesby  were  not  equal  to  the 
occasion,  came  to  Bayswater,  where 
Polly  gave  her  limitless  advice  and 
all  the  help  in  her  power.  Polly 
really  enjoyed  Bella's  visit,  and  Bill, 
who  knew  Polly's  weakness,  did  all 
the  housework  so  that  the  elder  cousin 
should  be  free  to  go  shopping  or  help 
with  the  needlework  according  as  the 
opportunity  offered.  During  the  time 
Bella  was  in  London  it  seemed  to 
Bill  that  they  thought  of,  talked  of, 
and  considered  very  little  beyond 
clothes,  except  perhaps  once  or  twice 
in  the  evenings  when  Bella  told  them 
a  little  about  Ashelton.  Such  con- 
versations did  not  interest  Polly,  but 
as  Bill  liked  them  Bella  talked  to 
her.  Once  indeed  Polly  showed  some 
interest,  when  Bella  spoke  of  the 
change  in  Theresa  and  Robert. 

"  They  both  have  altered  a  good 
deal,"  she  concluded,  —  "  especially 
Robert.  You  saw  him  at  Christ- 
mas, Bill  ;  don't  you  think  he  is 
changing  ? " 

"Not  changing  exactly,"  Bill  said, 
"  he  is, — I  think  he  is  developing, 
growing  to  what  you  would  expect. 
Some  kinds  of  people  are  bound  to 
grow  in  particular  kinds  of  ways ; 
they  can  hardly  help  themselves." 

"  I  don't  like  Robert's  kind  of  way 
then.  I  think  he  has  changed  a  good 
deal,  and  for  the  worse ;  so  would  you 
if  you  had  stayed  at  Haylands  as  long 
as  I  have." 

Bill   did    not    explain    that   what 


166 


Princess  Puck. 


Bella  called  "  a  change  for  the  worse  " 
and  she  "  a  natural  growing "  were 
one  and  the  same  thing  ;  she  did  not 
say  anything  about  it,  though  she  felt 
a  good  deal,  and  knew  that  she  could 
not  help  Theresa  now  any  more  than 
she  could  have  helped  her  last  spring. 

Bella  had  gone  on  to  speak  of  the 
change  in  Theresa  and  of  the  quiet  of 
Haylands.  "  Hardly  a  soul  comes 
there  now,"  she  said  ;  "  Theresa  keeps 
them  all  at  arm's  length.  I  expect 
that  is  why  Miss  Minchin  and  Mrs. 
Jackson  and  the  rest  of  them  never 
come  now.  Of  course  Gilchrist  Har- 
borough  would  not  come." 

Polly  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "  I 
expect  Bill's  breaking  with  Gilchrist 
troubled  Theresa  a  good  deal,"  she  said. 

But  Bella  laughed  at  such  an  idea, 
and  afterwards  went  on  to  speak  of 
Gilchrist  and  the  lawsuit.  "  He  has 
so  little  spare  time  just  now,"  she 
said,  "  that  I  don't  believe  he  would 
go  to  see  anyone  except  on  business. 
Jack  sees  him  sometimes,  and  that  is 
how  I  get  to  hear  about  him  and  his 
case.  He  is  rather  disgusted  with  it 
just  now,  Jack  says,  abuses  the  lawyers, 
and  professes  a  great  contempt  for  the 
slowness  of  the  law." 

Bill  opened  her  eyes.  "  Why,"  she 
said,  "  he  has  only  just  begun  !  It 
will  be  two  years  before  it  is  over. 
What  did  he  expect?" 

"  How  do  you  know  1 "  demanded 
Polly. 

"  I  was  told,"  Bill  answered,  and 
Bella  saved  her  further  explanation 
by  remarking :  "  That  is  what  Mr. 
Stevens  says ;  he  told  Jack  so,  and 
Jack  told  Gilchrist." 

"What  did  he  say?"  Bill  inquired. 

"  Oh,  that  he  did  not  see  how  they 
were  going  to  make  the  time  out,  but 
he  supposed  they  would  do  it  some- 
how. Jack  said  he  seemed  disgusted 
with  everything  that  day,  and  vowed 
he  would  not  mind  selling  his  chances 
for  a  good  sum  down." 


"Did  he  say  that?"  Bill  asked 
quickly.  "  He  told  Jack  that  ?  But 
he  couldn't  do  it,  he  couldn't  sell  his 
chances ;  they  would  be  no  good  to 
anyone  else." 

"  He  could  sell  them  to  the  other 
side,"  Bella  said  with  the  pride  of 
recently  acquired  knowledge.  "  Jack 
told  me  that  if  the  Harboroughs  were 
rich  they  would  probably  by  the 
autumn,  if  his  claim  seemed  pretty 
good,  try  to  compromise, — pay  him 
to  withdraw,  you  know.  But  then 
they  are  not  rich ;  they  have  no  spare 
money  at  all,  and  Jack  says  he  does 
not  think  they  could  raise  any.  It 
seems  rather  a  pity,  for  Jack  says  he 
believes  Gilchrist  would  agree  to  a 
reasonable  arrangement ;  he  does  not 
care  a  bit  about  Wood  Hall  now  and 
only  wants  to  go  back  to  Australia." 

"  We  all  know  why  that  is,"  Polly 
said  with  pious  conviction.  "  Bill  has 
only  herself  to  thank  if  he  does  leave 
England  like  that." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  would  make 
any  difference  to  Bill  if  he  did  go," 
Bella  retorted ;  "  and  she  certainly 
has  nothing  to  do  with  his  wanting 
to  go.  Jack  says  he  is  disgusted 
with  people  in  general,  with  the 
lawyers  and  the  other  claimant  much 
more  than  with  Bill." 

"  Poor  Gilchrist !  "  Polly  said  with 
commiseration,  and  continued  to  look 
in  a  meaning  manner  at  Bill,  who, 
however,  was  far  too  absorbed  in  the 
thoughts  suggested  to  her  by  Bella's 
words  to  heed  her. 

Long  that  night  she  lay  thinking 
of  these  new  ideas,  her  brain  full  of 
conflicting  thoughts,  impossible  plans, 
crazy  fancies.  Money,  money, — she 
had  never  felt  the  want  of  it  before, 
never,  for  all  her  poverty,  felt  any 
desire  to  be  rich.  She  had  always 
been  poor  and  she  had  never  minded  ; 
she  had  never  been  tempted  by  girlish 
superfluities,  had  never  cared  for 
ribbons  and  laces  and  nice  food.  But 


Princess  Puck. 


167 


now, — now  she  wanted  money  des- 
perately, not  a  few  shillings,  or  a  few 
pounds  as  Polly,  who  did  nu'nd  being 
poor,  wanted  it;  but  money  in  the 
big  sense  of  the  word,  in  the  sense  in 
which  Polly  never  wanted  it,  in  which 
she  herself  had  hardly  contemplated 
it  before.  Not  that  it  mattered 
whether  she  wanted  much  or  little, 
shillings  or  pounds  or  hundreds  of 
pounds ;  one  seemed  about  as  attain- 
able as  the  other. 

It  was  always  part  of  Bill's  work 
to  get  up  and  clean  the  boots  and 
light  the  fires  before  breakfast ;  it 
was  no  very  great  effort  to  her,  and 
seemed  moreover  to  fall  naturally  to 
her  share.  On  the  morning  after  she 
had  lain  so  long  thinking  over  the 
problem  of  ways  and  means,  she  got 
up  as  usual,  cleaned  the  lodgers' 
boots,  lighted  the  fires,  washed  her 
hands,  and  then,  taking  a  candle  from 
the  kitchen-dresser,  climbed  on  the 
back  of  a  chair  that  stood  against  the 
wall.  Moving  an  almanack  hanging 
high  above  it,  a  hole  became  visible 
from  which  she  drew  out,  wrapped 
in  paper,  Peter  Harborough's  shoe- 
buckles.  For  a  long  time  she  stood 
looking  at  them.  Once  she  rubbed 
them  on  the  corner  of  her  apron ; 
once  she  held  them  close  to  the  candle 
so  that  the  brilliant,  refracted  light 
flashed  back  from  the  gems  and  scat- 
tered sparks  of  white  fire  over  her 
face  and  hands.  She  could  not  tell 
what  they  were  worth,  perhaps  a 
hundred  pounds,  perhaps  two  hundred, 
— Polly  had  said  two ;  diamonds  were 
very  valuable  she  knew,  but  how  valu- 
able she  could  not  tell.  At  last  she 
wrapped  the  buckles  up  again,  put 
them  back  in  their  hiding-place  and 
went  about  her  work  with  a  thought- 
ful face. 

She  wore  a  thoughtful  face  all  that 
day,  for  she  was  revolving  a  plan  in 
her  mind.  In  the  afternoon  she  went 
to  her  bedroom  and  there  opened  the 


little  oak  box  which  used  to  stand  in 
the  spare  room  at  Langford  House. 
She  had  only  been  to  it  once  since 
last  winter,  but  now  she  turned  over 
its  contents  carefully.  She  was  not 
much  the  wiser  for  her  examination  ; 
the  only  papers  old  enough  to  interest 
her  conveyed  little  to  her  mind,  be- 
yond the  indisputable  fact  that  the 
name  Corby  appeared  in  them.  How- 
ever, her  failure  to  find  anything, 
important  in  the  little  chest  did  not 
alter  her  plans,  and  in  the  evening, 
when  the  elder  cousins  were  at  leisure, 
she  spoke  to  Polly  about  them.  Bella 
and  Polly  had  been  busy  with  the 
trousseau  all  day,  but  by  the  evening 
they  were  able  to  listen  to  Bill  when 
she  informed  them  that  she  was  going 
to  Wrugglesby  the  next  day. 

"  To  Wrugglesby  !  "  Bella  ex- 
claimed. "What  on  earth  are  you 
going  there  for  1 " 

But  this  Bill  was  not  prepared  to 
say;  she  expected  to  be  asked  the 
question  and  several  others,  and  to 
give  much  annoyance  by  not  answer- 
ing them,  but  it  could  not  be  avoided. 
She  felt  that  she  could  not  explain 
matters  yet.  Things  fell  out  exactly 
as  she  anticipated ;  Bella  was  only 
curious,  but  Polly  was  decidedly 
angry  ;  she  felt  that  she  had  a  right 
to  inquire,  and  she  exercised  it, — 
with  no  good  results  for  when,  on 
Bill's  refusing  to  assign  any  reasons, 
she  forbade  her  going  to  Wrugglesby, 
the  girl  showed  every  intention  of 
going  in  spite  of  her.  Whereupon 
Polly,  who  by  this  time  knew  she 
could  not  always  drive  the  stubborn 
Bill,  became  very  dignified,  retreating 
from  her  post  of  dictator  behind  a 
manner  of  superior  and  chilling  in- 
difference, after  which  she  climbed 
down  from  her  pinnacle  of  outraged 
authority  and  informed  the  offender 
that  she  should  not  pay  her  fare. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  Bill  said 
readily  ;  "  I  have  some  money." 


168 


Princess  Puck. 


And  she  had ;  for  it  so  happened 
that  after  a  battle  royal  with  Polly 
one  day  she  had  succeeded  in  arrang- 
ing for  wages  of  a  pound  a  month, 
the  same  as  any  other  little  servant. 
Polly  had  vowed  that  she  should  not 
have  it,  that  she  was  a  partner  in  the 
firm  and  not  a  paid  servant,  but  Bill 
stood  to  her  guns,  foregoing  any 
future  profits  but  insisting  on  present 
wages  ;  and  as  she  struck  work  when 
they  were  not  paid  she  contrived  to 
get  them  regularly,  and  so  to  have  a 
little  money  for  an  emergency.  Re- 
membering which  Polly  said  ungra- 
ciously :  "At  any  rate  you  can't  go 
until  the  one  o'clock  train." 

CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

THE  one  o'clock  train  was  a  very 
slow  one,  but  it  suited  Bill  admirably, 
and  by  it  she  went  the  next  day. 

It  was  nearly  three  when  the  one 
clerk  who  looked  out  on  Wrugglesby 
High  Street  from  Mr.  Stevens's  office- 
window,  saw  the  small  figure  cross 
the  road  and  come  towards  the  door. 

"A  lady  to  see  you,  sir, — Miss 
Alardy." 

The  clerk  announced  this  to  his 
employer,  although  he  thought  Miss 
Alardy  an  exceedingly  young  lady  to 
consult  a  lawyer  on  her  own  account. 
Mr.  Stevens  thought  so  too ;  he  had 
a  hazy  recollection  on  hearing  the 
name  that  she  must  be  one  of  Miss 
Brownlow's  nieces,  but  he  was  not 
sure  of  the  relationship  until  he  saw 
the  girl.  Then  he  remembered  her 
as  the  youngest  of  the  nieces,  the  one 
whom,  it  seemed  only  the  other  day, 
he  used  to  see  walking  beside  the 
governess  with  a  dusky  mane  of  hair 
hanging  about  her  shoulders  and  a 
general  appearance  suggestive  of  a 
tendency  to  turn  very  restive  on 
provocation. 

"  Well,  and  what  has  brought  you 
to  Wrugglesby  ? "  he  said  when  he 


had  asked  after  the  other  cousins. 
No  one  treated  Bill  in  a  business-like 
way ;  even  the  grocer  at  Bayswater 
regarded  her  as  a  man  and  a  brother. 
Mr.  Stevens  certainly  had  no  idea  of 
being  professionally  consulted  by  this 
slip  of  a  girl. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  you,"  she 
answered  simply.  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  question,  a  law  question." 

She  had  her  purse  in  her  hand  and 
looked  somehow  as  if  she  were  pre- 
pared to  pay  six-and-eightpence,  cash 
down,  for  his  opinion. 

"  I  will  try  to  answer  you,"  he  said 
with  as  much  gravity  as  he  could 
contrive.  "  What  is  this  question  1 " 

"  It  begins  in  the  year  1799,"  she 
said  without  more  ado.  "  In  that 
year  a  man,  Roger  Corby, — perhaps 
you  have  heard  of  him  t  But  that 
does  not  matter — in  the  year  1799 
he  gave  a  piece  of  land  to  another 
man — Briant.  He  gave  it  for  ninety- 
nine  years  but  no  rent  was  to  be 
paid." 

"  A  lease,  that  is,"  the  lawyer  said, 
"  and  the  rental  probably  one  pepper- 
corn payable  if  demanded.  Yes, 
proceed." 

"  This  year,"  Bill  said,  "  the  time 
will  be  up,  and  I  imagine  Roger 
Corby  would  get  his  land  back  if  he 
were  alive  ? " 

"  Naturally." 

"  But  he  is  not  alive,  so  I  suppose 
his  descendants  would  get  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  is  usually 
expected  to  take  place." 

"  He  has  only  got  one  descendant  ; 
she  comes  like  this,"  and  Bill  took  up 
some  books  which  lay  on  the  table. 
"  Roger  Corby's  only  son  died  a  year 
after  him," — she  put  a  thin  black 
book  down, — "  he  is  dead,  you  see  " 
— pushing  the  book  away — "  and  so 
does  not  count.  The  son's  only  child, 
a  daughter,  is  dead  too,  but  she 
married  when  she  was  fairly  young 
and  she  married  twice.  She  ran 


Princess  Puck. 


169 


away  from  her  first  husband  and  he 
divorced  her  ;  then  she  married  the 
other  man  and  had  one  son,  the  only 
child  she  had.  Well,  the  son  is  dead 
too  and  the  only  person  left  is  his 
daughter.  Would  she  be  able  to  get 
the  land  at  the  end  of  the  ninety-nine 
years  1 " 

"Most  probably,  if  she  has  the 
necessary  documents  and  can  prove 
she  is  legally  descended  from  Roger 
Corby." 

Bill  said  "Thank  you,"  and  sat 
thinking  a  minute.  The  lawyer 
watched  her  curiously,  feeling  sure 
there  must  be  something  behind  all 
this,  and  wondering  a  little  what  it 
could  be. 

"Mr.  Briant,"  Bill  said  at  last,— 
"  I  mean  the  Mr.  Briant  who  now 
has  the  land — does  not  think  it  will 
be  claimed,  at  least  I  believe  not ;  he 
probably  does  not  know  of  the  second 
marriage  of  Wilhelmina  Corby,  and 
the  son  and  the  granddaughter." 

"  Which  means,"  Stevens  observed, 
"  that  he  will  very  strongly  object  to 
acknowledging  their  existence  and 
will  do  his  best  to  keep  what  he  has 
got.  Were  I  the  granddaughter,  I 
think  I  should  first  make  quite  sure 
that  the  thing  in  question  was  worth 
fighting  for,  and  also  I  should  be  very 
clear  that  Wilhelmina  Corby  was 
divorced  from  her  first  husband  and 
legally  married  to  her  second ;  can 
you  tell  me  these  things  ?  " 

Bill  could  tell  him  one  of  the 
things.  "  Do  you  know  Sandover  1 " 
she  asked.  "  Yes  ?  A  good  part  of 
Sandover  now  stands  on  the  land  ;  of 
course  at  the  time  it  was  given  it  was 
only  corn  fields  and  grass,  but  now  it 
must  be  valuable." 

Mr.  Stevens  whistled,  although  it 
was  supposed  to  be  a  business  inter- 
view. "  It  is  worth  something,  I 
admit.  Now  for  Wilhelmina  Corby, 
— how  about  her  1 " 

"  It  would  have  to  be  found  out," 


Bill  said,  "  but  I  believe  it  is  all 
right.  But  tell  me,  what  did  you 
mean  by  necessary  documents  ?  " 

"  First  and  pi-incipally  the  counter- 
part of  the  lease.  You  don't  know 
what  that  is  ?  It  is  an  exact  copy 
of  the  deed,  the  lease  which  is  in 
possession  of  the  man  who  now  has 
the  land  and  by  right  of  which  he 
has  it.  There  is  certain  to  have 
been  such  a  deed ;  this  man,  Brian.t, 
is  sure  to  have  his  lease,  and  unless 
the  granddaughter  can  produce  her 
counterpart  she  would  find  it  well 
nigh  impossible  to  prove  her  case. 
Has  she  got  it,  do  you  think  ]  " 

Bill  did  not  know,  and  Mr.  Stevens 
went  on  to  say  : — "  In  the  first  in- 
stance it  would  probably  have  been 
among  Roger  Corby's  papers,  and  so 
it  may  have  passed  into  his  grand- 
daughter's keeping  ;  if  it  did,  the 
question  is  what  became  of  it  when 
she  changed  husbands?  And  if  she 
kept  it  in  her  possession,  has  her 
granddaughter  got  it  still,  or  failing 
that,  is  it  possible  to  trace  it  1 " 

Bill  considered  a  while;  she  was 
thinking  of  the  little  oak  box  and 
her  search  in  it.  "There  is  an  oak 
box,"  she  said  at  last ;  "  it  is  used 
as  an  ottoman  in  my  bedroom,  but 
I  have  heard  that  it  belonged  to  my 
grandmother.  It  is  full  of  papers, 
mostly  letters  and  recipes  of  my 
mother's,  but  there  are  a  few  which 
are  older,  one  or  two  very  large, 
tough,  yellowish  ones,  not  written 
in  the  ordinary  way.  I  looked  at 
them  yesterday  but  I  could  not  make 
them  out,  except  that  the  name 
Corby  occurs  in  them,  and  that  at 
least  one  has  the  date  1799.  Do 
you  think  the  thing  we  want  is 
there  ? " 

"I  think  it  is  just  possible."  Mr. 
Stevens  was  not  altogether  surprised 
at  this  dropping  of  the  impersonal. 
"  So  you  are  the  granddaughter  of 
Wilhelmina  Corby,  are  you  ?  " 


170 


Princess  Puck. 


"  Yes.  I  did  not  bring  the  box 
with  me,  but  I  wish  I  had  now." 

"  Perhaps  there  is  nothing  of  value 
in  it.  What  are  these  old  papers 
like  ?  Can  you  describe  them  to 
me?" 

Bill  did  as  well  as  she  could,  and 
though  the  description  was  not  very 
detailed  Mr.  Stevens  seemed  satisfied. 
"I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "if  you 
have  the  counterpart,  but  I  should 
say  from  what  you  tell  me  that  you 
must  have  one  or  two  of  the  old 
Cor  by  documents.  Don't  think  that 
I  mean  they  are  of  any  pecuniary 
value,  as  the  chances  are  all  against 
it ;  the  counterpart,  if  we  could  find 
it,  might  be,  but  the  others  are  just 
so  much  legal  lumber." 

Bill  did  not  seem  troubled  by  this 
discouraging  remark,  nor  yet  by  the 
lawyer's  next  words  :  "  If  it  is  not 
a  rude  question,  may  I  ask  how 
much  of  all  this  does  your  cousin's 
solicitor  know  1 " 

"  We  have  not  got  a  solicitor,"  Bill 
answered  readily.  "Mr.  Brownlow 
made  Aunt  Isabel's  will,  but  he  is 
dead  now,  and  when  he  was  alive 
we  did  not  see  anything  of  him. 
Polly  thought  him  very  stupid." 

"  Polly  i  That's^Miss  Haines  is 
it  not  ?  Has  your  coming  to  me  her 
sanction  ? " 

It  had  not,  for  the  very  good 
reason  that  Bill  had  not  consulted 
her  on  the  subject,  or  even  informed 
her  that  any  such  subject  existed ; 
accordingly  she  told  Mr.  Stevens  so, 
and  explained  that  the  affair  was 
her  own  entirely. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,"  the  puzzled 
man  enquired,  "  that  she  knows 
nothing  at  all  about  this1?" 

"  No,"  Bill  told  him,  "  she  doesn't 
even  know  my  grandmother  was  a 
Corby.  I  did  not  know  much  myself 
before  Christmas,  and  when  I  did 
know,  it  hardly  seemed  worth  while 
telling  her.  I  did  not  realise  then 


that  it  might  be  valuable ;  I  did  not 
realise  that  till  the  night  before  last." 

"The  night  before  last?  What 
happened  then  ? " 

"  I  wanted  money  desperately,  and 
I  thought  and  thought  of  ways  of 
getting  it." 

Mr.  Stevens  repressed  an  inclina- 
tion to  smile.  "  You  have  by  no 
means  got  it  yet  in  spite  of  your 
interesting  story,"  he  said.  "  Let  me 
enumerate  some  of  the  difficulties  in 
the  way.  Supposing  you  have  the 
counterpart  of  the  lease  and  it  is 
all  correct,  you  have  got  to  be  sure 
of  several  things, — that  none  of  all 
these  people  between  yourself  and 
Roger  Corby  were  bankrupt,  that 
they  made  no  awkward  marriage- 
settlements,  and,  if  they  died  in- 
testate, left  no  more  than  one  child 
apiece  to  survive  them." 

"These  things  will  have  to  be  found 
out,"  Bill  said  calmly.  "  Marriage- 
settlements  I  don't  know  anything 
about;  children  I  do.  There  were 
no  more  than  I  have  said,  or  at 
least  none  that  lived  to  grow  up ; 
I  have  no  relations  at  all  on  my 
father's  side.  As  for  bankrupt,  I 
believe  it  is  all  right,  but  I  am 
not  sure  ;  Roger  Corby  died  in  debt, 
though  I  think  it  was  all  paid  off 
after  his  death.  But  I  know  he 
was  in  debt  when  he  died,  that  is 
why  Wilhelmina,  my  grandmother, 
had  his  body  carried  away  by  night." 

Mr.  Stevens  had  heard  something 
of  this  story  but  always  believed  it  to 
be  a  mere  local  tradition.  "  I  had  no 
idea  it  really  happened,"  he  said. 

Bill  assured  him  that  she  had 
excellent  reasons  for  believing  that  it 
did  ;  then  she  returned  to  the  subject 
of  more  direct  interest  to  herself. 
"Supposing,"  she  said,  "that  all  these 
things  of  which  you  spoke  were  right, 
what  then  ? " 

"Then,  if  you  can  get  over  the 
difficulty  of  the  divorce  and  remarriage 


Princess  Pitch. 


171 


and  subsequent  birth  of  a  son,  you 
should  have  a  very  good  case  and 
ought,  if  all  goes  well,  eventually  to 
get  the  money  you  so  much  need ;  or 
rather  certain  persons  in  authority 
would  get  it  to  hold  in  trust  for  you." 

"  In  trust  for  me  ? "  Bill  said  with 
a  rather  anxious  look. 

"  Certainly ;  you  are  not  of  age  yet 
are  you  ?  Eighteen  ?  The  law  does 
not  consider  you  of  age  till  you  are 
twenty-one.  Until  that  time  the 
money,  if  you  get  it,  will  be  in  the 
hands  of  guardians  who  will  manage 
it  entirely  and  only  allow  you  the  use 
of  a  moderate  and  reasonable  pro- 
portion." 

"  Polly  and  Theresa  are  called  my 
guardians ;  would  they  have  to  look 
after  the  money  1  " 

"  That  depends,"  Mr.  Stevens  said. 
"  If  they  are  only  '  called  '  your  guar- 
dians, the  court,  if  the  case  were 
decided  in  your  favour,  would  appoint 
some  one  to  look  after  you  and  your 
money ;  you  would  be  a  ward  of  the 
court,  and  the  court  takes  very  great 
care  of  its  wards  and  looks  after  them 
in  a  manner  not  always  permitted  to 
parents  nowadays.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  your  cousins  are  legally  ap- 
pointed your  guardians,  they  would, 
until  you  were  twenty-one,  have  the 
control  of  your  property,  applying  it 
solely  for  your  benefit  and  allowing 
you  a  certain  amount  for  your  use. 
But,  remember,  they  could  not  do  as 
they  chose  with  it,  for  they  could  be 
called  upon  to  give  a  very  exact 
account  of  their  proceedings." 

Bill  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"  That's  all  right,"  she  said.  "  Polly 
and  Theresa,  more  especially  Polly, 
are  set  down  in  Aunt  Isabel's  will  as 
my  guardians  ;  I  should  be  able  to 
manage  if  I  got  the  money." 

"  They  would  not  allow  you  more 
than  a  comparatively  small  sum  ;  you 
could  not  touch  any  great  amount.  I 
don't  fancy  you  would  be  much  better 


off  than  under  the  court  if  you  wanted 
to  do  anything  foolish,  unless  of 
course,  the  folly  took  the  form  of  an 
unwise  marriage,  when  you  certainly 
would  have  more  liberty  if  you  were 
not  a  ward  of  the  court." 

Bill  laughed  softly.  "I  will  tell 
you  what  I  will  do  if  I  get  the 
money,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  give 
Polly  so  much  a  year  for  the  rest  of 
her  life ;  she  deserves  it  and  I  would 
give  her  as  much  as  I  could  afford ; 
and  with  the  rest  I  should  do  what  I 
liked.  We  should  arrange  it  some- 
how ;  Polly  would  do  as  I  told  her. 
There  is  time  at  least  to  try  to  find 
some  way  of  doing  it  legally,  but  if  I 
could  not  find  one  I  don't  see  that  it 
would  so  very  much  matter,  because 
Polly  would  be  the  person  who  did 
wrong  according  to  the  law  and  I 
should  be  the  person  who  suffered 
wrong,  and  consequently  the  one  who 
ought  to  have  her  up  when  I  was  old 
enough.  As  the  case  would  really  be 
the  other  way  round,  I  should  not 
have  her  up,  and  she  could  not  have 
me  up,  so  it  would  be  all  right." 

"  Oh,"  Mr.  Stevens  remarked  drily, 
"  that  is  how  you  think  you  will 
arrange  matters,  is  it  1  It  strikes  me 
you  are  a  worthy  granddaughter  of 
Wilhelmina  the  wilful.  I  fancy 
though  you  will  find  more  obstacles 
than  you  bargain  for  in  this  little 
game ;  where,  for  instance,  does  the 
other  cousin  and  guardian  come  in  1  " 

"  I  should  have  to  explain  to 
Theresa  that  it  was  right.  You 
would  think  it  so  if  you  knew. 
Theresa  will  always  do  what  she 
thinks  right,  and  Polly  will  do  what 
she  is  made  to  do.  To  get  your  own 
way  is  mostly  a  matter  of  time." 

"  This  time  I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised if  it  took  you  till  one-and- 
twenty.  Law  is  not  so  easy  to  play 
with  as  you  think  ;  and  cases  of  this 
sorb  are  not  so  easy  to  win  either, 
neither  are  they  settled  in  a  hurry." 


172 


Princess  Puck. 


Bill  was  prepared  for  that.  "  How 
long  do  you  think  it  would  take  ? " 
she  asked.  "  A  year  ?  " 

"  Probably ;  it  might  be  longer,  or 
it  might,  if  you  have  very  good 
luck  and  few  difficulties,  be  a  little 
shorter." 

"  Would  it  cost  a  great  deal  ?  " 

"It  could  not  be  done  for  nothing." 

"  Would  a  hundred  pounds  be  any 
good  to  start  with  1 " 

"  It  would  be  excellent." 

Bill  put  her  hand  into  her  pocket 
and  drew  out  the  diamond  buckles  : 
"  I  don't  know  what  they  are  worth," 
she  said  as  she  placed  them  before 
the  astonished  lawyer,  "  but  at  least 
a  hundred  pounds ;  more  than  that 
I  expect." 

"  Where  did  you  get  them  ? "  Mr. 
Stevens  had  taken  one  to  the  window 
and  glanced  from  it  to  the  girl. 

"  Old  Mr.  Harborough  gave  them 
to  me  before  he  died." 

"What!"  The  lawyer  lost  all 
interest  in  the  buckles  and  stood 
staring  at  their  owner,  wondering 
what  new  surprise  this  granddaughter 
of  the  Cor  by  s  was  going  to  develope. 

"Mr.  Harborough  gave  them  to 
me,"  she  repeated.  "  They  are  my 
very  own ;  young  Mr.  Harborough 
was  there  at  the  time  they  were 
given,  and  he  said  they  were  my  own 
and  no  one  could  take  them  away.  I 
did  mean  to  keep  them  for  another 
purpose,  but  I  believe  it  would  be 
more  right  to  use  them  for  this." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  these 
buckles  are  worth  1 " 

"  More  than  a  hundred  pounds," 
Bill  said  readily ;  "  they  will  do  to 
begin  the  case,  won't  they  ? " 

"  It  is  altogether  extraordinary," 
the  lawyer  muttered,  and  began  to 
wrap  the  buckles  in  paper  with  the 
resigned  air  of  one  who  gives  up  a 
problem. 

He  offered  the  parcel  to  Bill  but 
she  put  her  hands  behind  her  back ; 


"  I  want  you  to  keep  them,"  she  said, 
"  and  begin  at  once." 

It  was  perhaps  as  well  that  Mr. 
Stevens  was  not  busy  that  afternoon, 
for  he  found  there  were  several  more 
points  to  be  explained  to  his  young 
client,  among  others  that  she  herself 
could  not  bring  an  action  or  give 
directions  for  legal  proceedings.  This 
difficulty  she  disposed  of  by  under- 
taking to  arrange  matters  with  Polly 
within  two  days.  Another  point  the 
good  man  had  to  explain  was  that  no 
one  would  undertake  the  case  without 
first  knowing  a  great  deal  more  about 
it.  This  the  indefatigable  Bill  met 
with  a  promise  to  send  the  oak  box 
to  him  by  an  early  train  the  next 
morning,  and  to  set  to  work  at  once 
to  find  out  any  and  every  detail  she 
could  concerning  the  first  Wilhelmina. 
When  at  last  Mr.  Stevens,  again 
handing  her  the  buckles,  told  her 
that  her  method  of  payment  was  not 
according  to  custom,  she  was  still  not 
nonplussed.  "  Shall  I  get  them  sold," 
she  asked,  "and  give  you  the  money?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  don't  attempt  to 
sell  them.  And  listen  to  me :  I 
should  not  in  any  circumstances 
undertake  this  business  for  you ;  I 
will  examine  the  contents  of  the  box 
if  you  like,  and  tell  you  how  I  think 
you  stand ;  but  I  would  not  under- 
take the  case,  which  is  completely  out 
of  my  range.  I  am  a  country  lawyer 
with  quite  as  much  country  work  as 
I  can  do;  I  am  not  a  very  young 
man,  not  a  very  poor  one,  and  not 
at  all  an  ambitious  one.  I  have 
neither  the  time  nor  the  inclination 
for  such  a  piece  of  work  as  this." 

"  But  you  could  find  someone  who 
would  do  it  1 "  Bill  asked,  not  in  the 
least  impressed  by  the  gravity  of  his 
manner. 

"  I  suppose  I  could,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing in  spite  of  himself.  "  But  even 
if  I  were  to  find  someone,  and  there 
really  was  something  for  that  some- 


Princess  Puck. 


173 


one  to  do,  you  must  see  that  there 
are  a  good  many  things  to  settle 
before  it  comes  to  terms.  When,  and 
if,  it  does  your  cousin  is  the  proper 
person  to  be  consulted." 

But  Bill  did  not  agree  with  him 
there.  She  pointed  out  that  the 
affair  was  hers  and  the  buckles  hers ; 
still  she  conceded  that  Polly  could  be 
talked  to,  and,  since  he  wished  it,  she 
would  take  the  buckles  back  to  town. 
She  put  them  in  her  pocket  again  to 
the  no  small  uneasiness  of  Mr.  Stevens, 
although,  as  she  herself  said,  they 
were  too  big  to  drop  out,  and  no  one 
would  expect  to  find  anything  of  value 
in  her  pocket. 

She  was  about  to  leave,  by  no 
means  dissatisfied  with  the  interview, 
when  Mr.  Stevens  made  a  remark 
which  caused  her  to  pause.  After 
saying  that  she  must  not  make  sure 
of  her  position,  and  that  he  himself 
could  give  her  no  hope  until  he  had 
examined  the  contents  of  the  oak 
box,  he  concluded  :  "  And  even  if 
everything  else  proves  satisfactory, 
it  is  quite  possible  you  will  come  to 
grief  over  the  matter  of  the  divorce  ; 
the  other  side  would  be  sure  to  make 
the  most  of  that ;  it  will  have  to  be 
gone  into  very  thoroughly." 

Bill  stopped  on  the  threshold.  "  Do 
you  mean,"  she  asked,  "  that  you 
will  have  to  go  into  it  thoroughly, 
or  that  it  will  have  to  be  done  in 
public  1 " 

"I  should  not  have  much  to  do 
with  it,  but  both  your  lawyers  and 
those  on  the  opposite  side  would  have 
plenty ;  it  is  a  point  on  which  a  good 
deal  might  turn." 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  and 
Bill's  face  clouded. 

"  You  had  better  think  of  it,"  the 
lawyer  said,  "  for  it  will  certainly 
arise.  You  must  be  sure,  and  the 
other  side  would  insist  on  being  sure, 
that  there  was  a  divorce  ;  they  would 
want  the  date  of  it  and  the  date  of 


the  second  marriage  and  the  date  of 
the  birth  of  the  child." 

"Will  they  want  the  name  of  the 
first  husband  ? " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Will  it  be  published  in  the 
papers  ? " 

"It  would  probably  figure  in  the 
reports  of  the  case." 

"  Then  I  am  not  at  all  sure  the 
case  can  ever  come  off,"  Bill  said  to 
Mr.  Stevens's  great  astonishment. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Because  the  first  husband  is 
alive,  and  I  would  not  hurt  him  for 
all  the  world." 

Mr.  Stevens  regarded  this  as  a 
matter  of  sentiment,  but  a  sentiment 
he  could  honour,  though  he  hardly 
knew  how  to  advise.  "  Well,"  he 
said  at  last,  "  you  need  not,  and 
indeed  cannot,  do  anything  for  a 
long  time.  I  will  look  over  your 
papers  and  tell  you  how  I  think  you 
stand,  and  by  that  time  you  will  have 
been  able  to  decide  what  you  wish 
to  do." 

But  this  was  not  Bill's  manner  of 
going  to  work  at  all.  "  Thank  you 
very  much,"  she  said,  "  but  I  think 
I  must  decide  sooner  than  that. 
When  does  the  last  up-train  leave 
for  London  ?  Eight  o'clock,  is  it  ? 
Thank  you,  I  will  decide  before 
that.  Perhaps  I  had  better  not  come 
to  see  you  so  late ;  I  will  write  from 
town." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  the  lawyer 
said,  moved  by  the  gravity  of  her 
face  and  manner,  "  there  is  no  need 
to  take  the  matter  so  seriously,  or  to 
do  anything  in  such  a  hurry.  Send 
me  the  box,  and  afterwards  we  will 
talk  over  what  can  be  done." 

But  though  Bill  again  thanked  him, 
not  disagreeing  with  him  this  time, 
he  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  had 
convinced  her. 

"  It's  a  pity  if  she  drops  it,"  he 
meditated  as  he  watched  her  go  down 


174 


Princess  Puck. 


the  street.  "She  would  win  if  she 
went  in,  somehow — and  probably  do 
precisely  what  she  pleased  witli  her 
fortune  when  she  got  it.  She  is  the 
kind  that  does  ;  she  would  bamboozle 
the  Court  of  Chancery  and  dance 
through  an  Act  of  Parliament." 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  waiting-room  of  a  railway- 
station  is  not  usually  selected  as  the 
best  place  in  which  to  think  seriously 
over  a  matter  of  perplexity.  But  if 
the  waiting-room  be  attached  to  the 
station  at  a  very  small  country  town 
where  trains  are  infrequent  and  pas- 
sengers few,  a  worse  place  might  be 
chosen ;  it  has  at  least  the  merit  of 
freedom  from  friendly  advice.  More- 
over the  fact  of  a  person  sitting  there 
doing  absolutely  nothing  for  an  hour 
or  more  creates  no  surprise,  as  it  is  to 
be  presumed  he  is  only  waiting  for  the 
next  train.  On  the  January  after- 
noon of  Bill's  visit  to  Wrugglesby 
she  found  the  waiting-room  an  admir- 
able place  for  quiet  thought.  When 
she  left  Mr.  Stevens's  office  she  went 
straight  to  the  station  and,  sitting 
down  with  her  back  to  the  window, 
tried  to  think  over  the  difficulties 
suggested  by  the  lawyer's  words. 

The  difficulties  resolved  themselves 
into  one  and  one  only, — Mr.  Dane. 
The  other  obstacles  to  the  success  of 
her  undertaking  might  or  might  not 
prove  insurmountable ;  at  any  rate 
Bill  would  face  them  undauntedly 
with  a  light  heart  and  a  clear  con- 
science. But  Mr.  Dane  was  another 
matter ;  she  could  not  wilfully,  and 
with  her  eyes  open,  do  what  she  felt 
sure  would  give  him  pain  ;  and  yet, 
— how  could  she  give  up  this  enter- 
prise 1 

At  this  point  two  stout  women 
entered  the  waiting-room.  They  were 
going  to  Darvel  by  the  next  down 
train  in  some  twenty  minutes'  time, 


and  had  walked  in  three  miles  from 
a  neighbouring  village ;  when  one 
walks  three  miles  the  balance  of  a 
spare  half-hour  is  not  much  to  allow 
for  catching  a  train.  They  were  in 
"  nice  time,"  they  told  each  other, 
though  they  seemed  flustered  and 
annoyed  when  they  found  the  book- 
ing-office still  closed.  Bill  heard  what 
they  said  without  understanding,  just 
as  she  saw  them  without  perceiving ; 
she  sat  looking  straight  before  her 
though  her  true  gaze  was  inwards. 
They  glanced  at  her  once  or  twice. 
"  A  natural,  poor  thing,"  was  the 
conclusion  they  came  to.  "  They 
didn't  oughter  let  her  be  about  alone 
like  that,"  was  their  final  opinion  as 
she  rose  from  her  seat  and  walked 
out  of  the  waiting-room. 

Bill  left  the  station,  turned  out  of 
the  main  street,  and  took  the  road  to 
Ashelton.  She  had  decided  what  to 
do  :  she  would  go  to  Mr.  Dane,  not 
to  ask  his  permission  to  claim  her 
connection  with  the  Corby  family  and 
consequently  to  drag  him  and  his  past 
before  the  eyes  of  his  neighbours,  but 
to  tell  him  her  story  and  ask  his 
advice.  She  loved  him  so  well  that 
she  felt  sure  he  would  give  his  advice 
without  prejudice  ;  she  was  absolutely 
certain  that  he  would  not  misunder- 
stand or  misjudge.  She  started  on 
her  walk  with  a  comparatively  quiet 
mind,  not  an  absolutely  quiet  one  for 
she  knew  she  must  give  a  full  confi- 
dence or  none  at  all.  She  must  tell 
all,  even  including  that  which  con- 
cerned Kit  Harborough,  and  the 
dream  which  was  a  dream  no  more. 

At  first  Bill  thought  of  nothing 
but  what  she  had  to  tell,  but  bit  by 
bit  the  solitude  of  the  road  and  the 
exhilaration  of  the  exercise  soothed 
her  so  that  she  thought  no  more. 
Six  miles  of  lonely  road,  a  level 
country  wide  spread  and  bare  on 
either  hand,  a  silent  wintry  after- 
noon with  the  suggestion  of  twilight 


Princess  Puck. 


175 


gathering  before  the  village  was 
reached, — what  more  could  one  ask 
to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  1  No- 
thing, in  Bill's  opinion,  as  she  walked 
the  six  miles  in  something  under  an 
hour  and  a  half,  without  a  single 
doubt  of  her  ability  to  walk  them 
back  again  after  dark  and  her  pleasure 
in  doing  it. 

But  she  did  not  walk  those  six 
miles  back :  the  proprietor  of  the 
White  Horse  at  Ashelton  received  a 
request  during  the  evening  for  the 
little  cart  and  old  pony  for  Mr.  Dane. 
And  it  is  to  be  presumed  he  drove 
Bill  to  Wrugglesby  in  time  for  the 
eight  o'clock  train,  for  some  sort  of 
vehicle  brought  her  to  the  station  in 
time  for  that  train,  and  a  little  after 
eight  o'clock  Mr.  Dane  rang  at  the 
private  house  of  Stevens  the  lawyer. 

Mrs.  Stevens  wanted  very  much  to 
know  what  had  brought  Mr.  Dane  to 
see  her  husband  at  that  time  in  the 
evening.  She  had  a  great  opinion  of 
Mr.  Dane,  of  whom  she  knew  little, 
and  of  his  Family  (with  a  capital  F), 
of  which  she  knew  less.  She  and 
Mr.  Johnson  had  conferred  more  than 
once  on  the  subject  of  the  relative 
who  was  a  lord  and  the  other  relative 
who  was  a  bishop,  and  the  mystery 
why  Mr.  Dane  himself  was — if  not  a 
bishop  or  a  lord — at  least  something 
more  than  a  country  pai-son.  On  that 
particular  evening,  after  Mr.  Dane 
had  left,  Mrs.  Stevens  naturally 
wished  to  know  the  reason  of  his 
visit ;  first  she  sought  indirectly  for 
information  and  learned  nothing ; 
then  she  asked  boldly  what  had 
brought  him  there  that  night. 

"  A  small  pony-cart,  my  dear,"  Mr. 
Stevens  said  amiably;  "and  the  same 
vehicle  has  taken  him  away  again.  I 
hope  he  will  reach  his  destination 
safely,  for  he  is  not  as  young  as  he 
was  and  the  night  is  dark,  though 
the  pony,  I  must  admit,  looks  a  safe 
beast." 


Mrs.  Stevens,  being  somewhat  an- 
noyed by  this  answer,  condescended 
to  no  more  questions  and  maintained 
a  dignified  silence  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening, — a  proceeding  which  it  is 
to  be  feared  did  not  greatly  trouble 
Mr.  Stevens,  since  he  was  so  com- 
pletely engrossed  in  his  own  medita- 
tions that  he  was  not  aware  of  it. 
After  Mrs.  Stevens  had  gone  to  bed 
he  poked  the  fire  into  a  blaze  and 
observed  to  the  crackling  coals  : 
"  You  were  a  fool,  Wilhelmina  the 
first,  a  fool !  You  threw  away  a  very 
fine  and  noble  gentleman  for  your 
gipsy  lover."  And  being  a  country 
lawyer  of  somewhat  prosaic  practice, 
and  being  also  a  man  of  genial  sym- 
pathies, he  once  more  gave  himself 
up  to  meditations  on  the  story  which 
had  been  told  him  that  night. 

And  Mr.  Dane,  having  reached 
home  in  safety,  also  thought  a  little 
of  the  story  which  had  been  revived 
that  night.  But  not  for  long;  he 
resolutely  put  it  away  from  him  as 
he  put  away  the  diamond  buckles  Bill 
had  left.  She  had  left  them  on 
purpose  and  with  a  definite  under- 
standing. "  You  must  keep  them, 
Monseigneur,"  she  said.  "I  can  re- 
claim them,  if  I  ever  have  the  money, 
and  if  you  do  not  sell  them  before. 
I  cannot  have  you  undertake  this 
great  thing  for  me  unless  you  will 
have  them  as  a  sort  of  guarantee  ;  I 
would  rather  you  kept  them ;  it  is 
better  so."  So  he  kept  them,  for 
after  he  had  seen  how  she  carried 
them  loose  in  her  pocket  and  heard 
how  she  kept  them  in  a  hole  in  the 
kitchen-wall,  he  also  thought  that  it 
was  better  so. 

Bill  went  back  to  London  without 
her  buckles,  but  Polly  was  not  aware 
of  the  fact.  Indeed  Polly  did  not 
hear  anything  much  about  the  visit 
to  Wrugglesby  that  evening,  for  Bill 
did  not  reach  home  till  late,  too  late 
to  tell  all  about  it,  she  said,  and  put 


176 


Princess  Puck. 


off  the  explanation  till  the  next  day 
when  she  promised  to  tell  Polly  every- 
thing. Bella  was  rather  disappointed 
by  this  arrangement  for  she  would  be 
out  then, — at  the  dressmaker's  in  the 
morning  and  at  Mrs.  James  Brown- 
low's  in  the  afternoon.  It  must  be 
admitted  that,  fond  as  Bill  was  of 
her  cousin,  Bella's  absence  suited  her 
well,  for  she  wanted  to  have  a  long 
and  somewhat  difficult  talk  with  Polly. 

Bella  went  out  early,  and  early  also 
went  the  little  oak  box  by  rail  to 
Wrugglesby,  carefully  addressed  and 
properly  insured  as  Mr.  Stevens  had 
impressed  upon  Bill  it  must  be.  Be- 
fore it  went  she  pulled  off  the  chintz 
cover  from  the  top  and  took  one 
thing  from  the  inside;  not  a  docu- 
ment or  deed,  or  even  one  of  her 
mother's  recipes,  only  a  fossil  sea- 
urchin  found  on  the  beach  at  Bymouth 
on  a  sweet  September  morning.  She 
hid  it  away  among  her  linen  ;  then 
she  nailed  down  the  lid  of  the  box, 
tied  a  rope  round  it,  and  sent  it 
away. 

Polly  did  not  know  it  had  gone 
until  later  when  Bill  told  her  in  the 
course  of  their  talk.  This  talk  did 
not  prove  so  difficult  as  Bill  had 
anticipated,  for  Polly  was  quick  to 
grasp  the  possibilities  of  the  case.  It 
was  true,  Bill  had  acted  without  her 
consent  and  in  a  measure  outraged 
her  in  her  part  of  guardian ;  but 
Polly  was  not  always  playing  that 
part,  and  she  was,  as  the  late  Mr. 
Brownlow  had  said,  a  capital  woman 
of  business;  when  it  came  to  plain 
facts  apart  from  appearances,  Bill's 
conduct  and  communication  wore  a 
very  different  aspect.  As  Polly  said  : 
"  You  risk  nothing ;  even  if  you  lose 
you  are  no  worse  off  than  you  were 
except  for  those  diamond  buckles — " 
(here,  in  spite  of  a  previous  and  very 
eloquent  statement  of  her  opinion  of 
Bill's  giving  them  up,  Polly  could  not 
forbear  from  making  a  short  digres- 


sion and  recapitulation  of  her  senti- 
ments)— "  except  for  those  buckles, 
you  lose  nothing  since  Mr.  Dane  is 
going  to  advance  the  money  and  take 
all  the  trouble.  You  are  quite  sure 
he  means  you  only  to  pay  if  you  win  ? 
You  lose  nothing  if  you  fail  and  if 
you  succeed — well !  " 

The  prospect  seemed  almost  too 
much  for  Polly,  and  Bill  forebore  to 
mention  any  of  her  own  plans  regard- 
ing the  money,  should  she  win  it. 
Polly,  of  course,  had  something  to  say 
about  the  way  in  which  she  had  not 
been  consulted,  though  not  much,  for, 
as  she  admitted,  Bill  "  had  done  very 
well ; "  moreover,  she  was  somewhat 
mollified  by  the  nominal  share  in 
future  transactions  which  Bill  assured 
her  would  be  hers.  Bill  explained 
matters  as  clearly  as  she  could  to 
Polly's  great  satisfaction  and  sufficient 
enlightenment.  In  a  matter  of  this 
sort  Polly  was  quick  to  grasp  the 
essential  points,  and  in  a  matter  of 
any  sort  even  quicker  to  accommodate 
herself  to  the  part  she  was  to  play. 
There  was  one  thing,  however,  which 
Polly  did  not  understand,  and  which 
Bill  would  not  explain, — the  reason 
that  had  induced  Mr.  Dane  to  follow 
such  an  extraordinary  course  as  he 
had,  and  not  only  to  give  his  sanction 
to  the  proceedings  but  also  to  lend 
active  and  financial  assistance. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  was  all  Bill 
would  say  ;  "  you  would  not  under- 
stand. I  hardly  know  myself  and 
I  certainly  can't  explain.  I  can't 
talk  about  him,  he  is, — he  is  too 
good." 

Polly  was  not  satisfied,  but  she 
could  get  no  other  explanation,  and 
when  Bill  left  her  after  some  rather 
able  though  unsuccessful  cross-exam- 
ination, she  hurled  after  her  as  a 
parting  shot  :  "  It  is  a  very  peculiar 
thing,  Bill,  very  peculiar  indeed,  the 
way  in  which  elderly  gentlemen  do 
things  for  you.  One  gives  you  a  pair 


Princess  Puck. 


177 


of  diamond  buckles,  and  another  is 
undertaking  a  law-case  for  you.  It  is 
most  peculiar,  not  to  put  too  fine  a 
point  upon  it, — most  peculiar  ! " 

And  though  Polly  went  to  the 
kitchen-door  and  raised  her  voice  so 
that  Bill  who  had  gone  up-stairs 
should  not  lose  any  of  the  remark, 
she  still  contrived  to  throw  a  vast 
deal  of  meaning  into  the  last  words 
and  the  sniff  which  followed  them. 
But  Bill,  if  she  heard,  did  not  answer, 
which  was  wise ;  and  Polly,  who  was 
too  satisfied  with  the  results  of  Bill's 
"  peculiarity  "  to  trouble  very  much 
about  explanations,  went  back  to  her 
work  and  asked  no  more  unanswerable 
questions. 

Bella  and  Theresa  had  to  be  taken 
into  confidence  of  course,  but  neither 
of  them  thought  the  matter  so  im- 
portant as  Bill  and  Polly  did.  It  was 
interesting  to  know  all  about  Bill's 
people,  but  the  substantial  benefits  to 
be  reaped  from  it  seemed  uncertain 
and  shadowy.  "It  was  all  rather 
improbable  and  unwise,"  Theresa  said, 
while  Bella,  being  full  of  her  own 
concerns,  hardly  understood  what  was 
being  discussed  ;  and  both  sisters 
entirely  failed  to  realise  the  value  of 
success  should  it  ever  be  attained. 

"They  are  so  stupid,"  Polly  once 
said  impatiently  ;  "they  don't  grasp 
anything  out  of  their  own  groove. 
I've  no  patience  with  either  of  them  ; 
they  are  thorough  Brownlows,  without 
an  ounce  of  vitality  between  them. 
They're  all  right  so  long  as  you  put 
them  in  ordinary  circumstances, — a 
decent  house  with  a  decent  servant, 
decent  meals  at  regular  hours,  and  a 
decent  husband  to  come  home  at 
regular  times  and  provide  the  money. 
But  as  for  striking  out  a  line  for 
themselves,  or  saving  a  situation,  or 
doing  or  even  understanding  anything 
which  is  out  of  their  ordinary  rut  or 
wants  a  small  amount  of  enterprise, 
they  simply  can't  do  it !  " 
No.  507. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


Bill  laughed  a  little,  though  she 
could  not  deny  the  truth  of  at  least 
part  of  the  indictment.  She  could 
not  deny  to  herself  either  that  this 
same  characteristic  of  the  sisters  made 
it  easier  for  her  to  carry  through, 
unquestioned  and  undisturbed,  the 
enterprises  which  they  could  neither 
undertake  nor  understand.  However, 
she  did  not  remark  on  this  to  Polly, 
but  merely  said  :  "  I  think  Bella  and 
T.  are  both  rather  occupied  with  their 
own  concerns  just  now." 

Polly  would  not  allow  this  excuse 
to  Theresa,  though  she  admitted  it 
might  hold  good  for  Bella  whose 
wedding-day  was  so  near.  Bella's 
wedding  occupied  all  their  minds 
about  this  time,  Polly  being  deter- 
mined that  it  should  be  of  suitable 
though  quiet  magnificence.  "  Of 
course  we  are  still  in  mourning,"  she 
said,  "  or  at  least  we  can  reckon  we 
are ;  Aunt  was  almost  like  a  mother 
to  us,  besides  an  out  of  mourning 
wedding  would  cost  so  much.  As  it 
is,  we  can  make  a  very  good  show 
indeed  at  a  reasonable  price.  And  I 
mean  to  do  it  too,  Bill ;  we  are  quite 
as  good  as  the  Dawsons,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  let  them  think  we  are  not." 
And  Polly  made  all  the  preparations 
in  her  power  ;  her  chief  cause  of 
trouble  being  that,  since  Bella  was  to 
be  married  at  Ashelton,  she  herself 
could  not  be  at  the  base  of  operations 
very  long  beforehand. 

Bella  left  town  early  in  February, 
in  the  company  of  Jack  who  had  come 
to  town  on  business.  When  Polly 
heard  of  his  coming  she  regretted  that 
she  could  not  offer  him  the  hospitality 
she  had  offered  Gilchrist,  but  her 
house  was  too  full  now  to  allow  of  it. 
However,  Jack  came  to  see  them  and 
stopped  some  time  and  was,  as  Polly 
said,  '  as  pleasant  a?  possible  and 
quite  different  from  Mr.  Gilchrist 
Harborough."  Indeed,  Jack,  instead 
of  disapproving  of  Bill's  working,  in- 


178 


Princess  Puck. 


sisted  ou  helpiiig  her  to  clear  the 
table,  making  much  fun  over  it.  He 
always  seemed  to  regard  Bill  as  a 
jolly  little  school-girl  not  to  be  taken 
seriously  ;  that  day  he  teased  her 
about  the  apples  she  took  to  eat  in 
the  train  on  her  journey  to  By  mouth. 
Bill  told  him  they  were  Polly's,  but 
he  would  not  believe  her,  and  they 
laughed  over  it  for  some  time.  Later 
on,  however,  she  became  serious  and 
asked  him  some  questions  about  the 
Harborough  lawsuit.  Of  late  Jack 
had  become  somewhat  intimate  with 
Gilchrist ;  Bill  had  gathered  this  from 
Bella's  talk,  and  thinking  that,  if 
anyone  could  tell  her  of  the  present 
condition  of  the  Harborough  case, 
Jack  could,  she  questioned  him  on  it. 

"Why,  Lady  of  Law,"  he  ex- 
claimed when  he  found  out  how  much 
she  knew  of  the  original  claim,  "you 
seem  to  know  a  good  deal  about  it 
already  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  heard  all  about  that  part," 
she  told  him;  and  he  remembered 
that  Gilchrist  had  been  very  often  to 
Haylands  during  the  summer,  so 
often  that  he  had  once  thought  there 
was  some  sort  of  an  understanding 
between  Bill  and  the  Australian, 
though  latterly  he  had  begun  to 
doubt  it.  "I  am  afraid,"  he  said, 
thinking  her  interest  in  the  case  was 
on  Gilchrist's  account,  "  I  am  afraid 
your  friend  won't  get  this  affair 
settled  in  a  hurry  ;  there  seem  to 
be  a  hundred  and  one  things  to 
prove." 

"  Yes  ?     What  ?     Tell  me." 

He  smiled  at  her  earnestness. 
"  Let  me  see,"  he  said,  "  what  shall 
I  tell  you  1  I  have  heard  about  it  no 
end  of  times,  but  I  am  not  so  very 
much  the  wiser  and  I'm  sure  you 
won't  be;  still,  here  goes.  The  law- 
yers now,  I  believe,  are  busy  trying  to 
find  out  whether  this  precious  rule  of 
the  youngest  son  inheriting  applies 
to  sons  only,  or  whether  it  can  be 


extended  to  other  relations  when  the 
sons  give  out." 

"  Can't  it  1     I  should  have  thought 
it  could." 

"  Ah,  but  you're  not  a  lawyer ; 
lawyers  don't  think,  they  prove. 
They  say  sometimes  the  extension  is 
allowed  and  sometimes  it  is  not, 
according  to  early  arrangement  or 
tradition  or  something  ;  they  have  got 
to  find  out  how  the  first  Harborough 
had  his  affairs  arranged.  Then  an- 
other question  they  are  busy  about  is 
how  much  old  Harborough  knew  of 
the  existence  of  another  claimant, 
and  I  don't  see  how  they  are  ever  to 
discover  that  in  the  circumstances. 
Things  are  rather  mixed  altogether  ; 
for  instance,  your  friend's  father  was 
born  in  1845,  old  Harborough  came 
into  the  property  that  same  year,  and 
that  year  also  there  died  his  youngest 
brother,  the  one  who  should  have  had 
the  property, — that  is  what  I  call 
indecently  crowding  events  to  no  pur- 
pose. Then  the  old  man's  will  seems 
likely  to  prove  another  bone  of  con- 
tention,— whether  he  had  a  right  to 
make  a  will,  why  he  made  it,  whether 
he  believed  his  position  insecure  and 
made  it  to  strengthen  it,  or  whether 
he  thought  it  secure  and  made  it  in 
good  faith, — oh,  it  is  a  lovely  tangle 
I  can  tell  you  !  Harborough  has 
talked  to  me  about  it  till  I  have  com- 
pletely forgotten  which  party  wants 
to  prove  what,  and  have  got  so  mixed 
myself  that  I  have  gone  home  deciding 
to  sow  estates-tail  in  the  home-field, 
drain  the  pond  and  turn  it  into  an 
estate  in  fee  simple  to  settle  on  my 
bonny  bride." 

He  drew  Bella's  hand  into  his  own 
as  he  spoke,  and  it  was  easy  to  see 
from  their  faces  that  there  would  be 
no  more  discussion  of  the  Harborough 
case  for  the  present.  But  Bill  could 
not  forbear  asking  one  last  question  : 
"  I  suppose  it  will  take  a  long  time  to 
settle  ?  " 


Princess  Puck. 


179 


"Years  !  You'll  have  time  to  grow 
up  twice  over  before  they  are  done 
squabbling,  and  Bella  will  be  a  staid 
and  sober  matron  by  the  time  the 
decision  is  given." 

Bella  combated  this  opinion,  not 
because  she  doubted  the  length  of  the 
Harborough  lawsuit  but  because  she 
vowed  she  never  would  be  staid  and 
sober.  A  conversation  natural  to 
the  circumstances  ensued,  and  lasted 
until  Jack  and  Bella  left  the  house 
together. 

It  was  of  course  quite  out  of  the 
question  for  both  Bill  and  Polly  to 
attend  Bella's  wedding,  as  they  could 
not  leave  the  house  to  take  care  of 
itself,  so  it  had  been  arranged  for  Bill 
to  atay  and  Polly  to  go.  It  was  really 
important  that  she  should  be  present 
at  the  function,  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  her  own  belief  that  Bella  and 
Theresa  would  not  be  equal  to  the 
situation  and  the  Dawson  family  in 
its  strength.  "  They  would  never 
manage  without  me,"  Polly  said  with 
conviction.  "  I  shall  go  down  a  day 
or  two  beforehand, — I  really  must,  to 
see  after  things.  You  can  do  here 
quite  as  well  as  I  can,  and  no  one 
need  know  you  are  alone  ;  I  am  not 
afraid  to  trust  you,  as  I  know  you 
can  take  very  good  care  of  yourself 
and  the  house." 

To  this  Bill  agreed.  "  Of  course  I 
shall  be  all  right,"  she  said.  "  You 
had  better  stay  as  long  as  Bella  and 
Theresa  want  you." 

But  Polly  had  decided  not  to  remain 
after  the  wedding.  "  There  will  be 
no  need  for  me  to  do  that,"  she  said. 
"  I  shall  go  several  days  before  to  see 
that  everything  is  arranged  properly 
and  I  shall  come  back  directly  after. 
Or, — no,  on  second  thoughts,  I  think 
it  had  better  be  the  day  after ;  it 
would  perhaps  be  nicer  if  I  waited 
till  the  day  after,  as  there  will  be 
such  a  lot  of  clearing  up  to  do." 

Bill  heard  this  last  decision  with  a 


smile,  she  knew  that  Polly's  "  clearing 
up  "  would  mean  a  substantial  hamper- 
shaped  addition  to  her  luggage.  But 
she  said  nothing,  as  she  knew  Theresa 
would  not  mind,  and  Polly  fulfilled 
her  plan  exactly.  She  went  to  Wrug- 
glesby  three  days  before  the  wedding 
with  the  most  wonderful  costume  that 
even  her  ingenuity  had  ever  compassed, 
safely  packed  in  a  cardboard  box  and 
placed  on  the  seat  beside  her. 

Polly's  work,  and  she  certainly  did 
work  during  those  three  days,  was 
not  in  vain.  Bella's  wedding  was  in 
every  way  successful.  The  Dawson 
family  was  properly  impressed  with 
the  desirability  of  the  new  connection ; 
Mrs.  Dawson  was  almost  satisfied,  and 
Miss  Gladys  Dawson  charmingly  (and 
unpleasantly)  put  in  her  place  by  the 
presiding  genius.  Polly  really  was  in 
her  element  that  day  and  showed  to 
the  best  advantage.  Mrs.  Stevens 
was  warm  in  her  praises,  and  even 
Gilchrist  Harborough,  who  was  there 
more  as  the  bridegroom's  friend  than 
the  bride's,  thought  that  his  former 
opinion  of  Miss  Haines  had  been 
unjust. 

"  It  really  was  as  nice  a  wedding 
as  I  have  ever  seen,"  was  Miss  Gruet's 
opinion,  and  in  the  main  Ashelton 
agreed  with  her,  finding  in  the  event 
a  delightful  subject  of  conversation 
during  the  lengthening  days. 

"  It  is  quite  the  event  of  the  spring," 
Miss  Minchin  said  gaily.  So  it  was 
in  Ashelton,  and  beyond  Ashelton  the 
ladies  did  not  take  very  much  account. 

Beyond  Ashelton,  at  the  little 
house  at  Bayswater,  there  was  another 
event,  and  one  of  such  interest  to 
those  concerned  that  even  Polly  for  a 
time  regarded  Bella's  wedding  as  of 
secondary  importance.  Mr.  Stevens 
had  examined  the  contents  of  Bill's 
box  and  found  that  the  deed  dated 
1799  was  indeed  the  counterpart  of 
the  lease  granted  by  Roger  Corby  in 
the  year  that  Peter  Harborough  was 

N  2 


180 


Princess  Puck. 


shot.  Mr.  Dane,  acting  upon  this 
information,  had  been  to  a  certain 
old  established  firm  of  solicitors  in 
London  and  had  seen  the  senior 
partner.  He  was  not  the  man  who, 
something  more  than  forty  years  ago, 
had  helped  to  cut  the  bond  Wilhel- 
mina  Corby  had  tried  to  break  for 
herself;  nevertheless  he  soon  knew 
all  about  it,  for  it  was  recorded  in  the 
annals  of  the  firm  and  only  needed  to 
be  looked  up.  Looked  up  it  accord- 
ingly was,  together  with  other  events, 
dates,  and  certificates  ;  and  the  lease 
and  the  information  and  everything 
else  there  was  to  place  were  placed  in 
the  hands  of  this  lawyer  who,  at  Mr. 
Dane's  request,  undertook  the  case 
Mr.  Stevens  had  refused.  Altogether, 
what  with  one  thing  and  another, 
things  were  progressing  surprisingly 
well,  and  Polly  and  Bill  had  good 
reason  to  congratulate  themselves. 
Before  the  spring  was  over  Mr. 


Briant  of  Sandover  felt  the  conse- 
quences of  the  energy  and  inquiry 
Bill  had  provoked,  for  he  received  the 
most  unwelcome  intelligence  that  a 
descendant  of  the  Corbys  existed  and 
claimed,  in  a  purely  legal  and  formal 
manner,  a  large  piece  of  his  valuable 
Sandover  estate.  He  did  not  believe 
the  claim  genuine  ;  and  then  he  did 
not  believe  it  could  be  substantiated  ; 
and  in  any  case  he  was,  if  possible, 
going  to  contest  it,  for  he  had  always 
believed  there  were  no  legitimate 
descendants  of  the  Corbys  left. 

"  It  rains  lawsuits,"  he  grumbled 
once ;  "  before  Kit  Har borough  is 
through  with  his  trouble  I  am  let 
in  for  one.  Although,"  so  he  added 
to  a  friend,  "  between  you  and 
me,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  the  boy 
clear  of  his  business  half  as  well  as 
I  shall  be  of  Mary  Ann  Haines, 
guardian  of  somebody  Corby's  grand- 
daughter." 


(To  be  continued.) 


181 


GODS    AND   LITTLE   FISHES. 


IT  may  doubtless  be  better  to  be 
a  little  living  fish  than  a  big  dead 
god ;  but  at  any  rate  it  is  a  fine 
thing  to  be  a  god  and  have  your  sport 
in  the  deep.  Glad  are  the  gods 
always  for  the  little  fishes.  Life  to 
some  of  us  without  them  would  be 
vanity ;  to  others  they  spell  not 
sport,  but  life  or  death.  The  com- 
mon herring,  the  vulgar  sprat,  hawked, 
three  for  a  penny  in  noisome  boxes, 
are  arbiters  of  weal  or  woe  to  many 
a  snug  houseful,  and  in  their  maws 
hold  poverty  or  wealth.  But  you 
have  to  see  them  in  their  native 
element  before  you  can  understand 
this. 

It  was  for  this  the  Minister's  land- 
lady was  busy  buttering  her  thickest 
biscuits  while  the  Minister  was  up- 
stairs looking  out  an  old  jersey,  relic 
of  fishing-days  in  an  lona  cobble  in 
these  careless  college  vacations  ere  yet 
parishes  had  power  to  trouble.  She 
tore  a  piece  from  THE  SCOTSMAN, — the 
Minister  had  but  two  idols,  his  paper 
and  his  pipe — and  wrapped  up  the 
provender  in  her  own  kindly  canny 
fashion,  while  the  Minister  came 
tripping  down  the  stair,  his  eyes 
shining,  whistling  THE  GLENDARUEL 
HIGHLANDERS,  a  certain  proof  of 
elation  with  him. 

"  You  see,"  he  explained  gravely  as 
he  saw  my  raised  eyebrows,  "  I  have 
been  out  often  enough  with  the  drift- 
net  but  never  with  the  trawl." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  I,  and  pretended 
to  understand  ;  though  why  a  man 
should  grow  excited  at  the  prospect 
of  a  trawl  while  the  thought  of  the 
drift  leaves  him  perfectly  calm,  is 
beyond  me.  The  truth  is,  once  the 


salt  sea  has  stung  your  blood  and  you 
have  been  to  the  killing  of  the  fish, 
not  even  age  and  infirmity  can  keep 
you  from  the  trade,  drift,  trawl,  or 
line.  Even  a  douce  minister  will  be 
wildly  excited  over  a  good  catch. 
Once  a  fisher,  always  a  fisher. 

"  Come  on  then  and  let's  not  keep 
the  men  waiting.  The  boats  from 
the  head  of  the  loch  are  away  this 
while." 

The  harbour  was  full  of  brown 
sails,  and  boats  were  moving  as  we 
drew  near.  Time  and  tide  and  fish 
wait  on  no  man,  not  even  on  a  min- 
ister ;  and  had  the  WELCOME  HOME  ! 
been  standing  down  channel  now,  we 
had  known  better  than  to  grumble. 

"  Ha,  there  she  lies,"  exclaimed  the 
Minister,  who  had  been  anxiously 
scanning  the  craft.  "  She's  at  anchor 
and  not  a  soul  aboard." 

And  sure  enough  when  we  rounded 
the  breast-wall,  behold  our  crew  easily 
dispersed  on  herring-boxes,  with  backs 
rounded,  elbows  planted  on  knees, 
legs  up  to  chins.  What  mastery  of 
the  sweet  art  of  lounging  lies  in  these 
great  slack  frames,  coiled  so  loosely 
into  the  laziest  of  postures  !  See 
your  coast  fisherman  as  he  leans  his 
folded  arms  on  the  harbour-wall  or 
stretches  his  legs  on  the  warm  grass 
at  the  quay-head  ;  no  professional 
tramp  could  lounge  it  more  genuinely. 

A  lazy  calling,  is  it,  wise  and 
gentle  tourist,  loftily  eyeing  the  re- 
cumbent figure  from  your  cushioned 
seat?  The  cat  is  lazy  enough  when 
she  basks  in  the  sun, — but  see  puss 
after  her  mouse.  Put  your  loafing 
lazy  fisherman  into  his  skiff,  get  the 
nets  in  and  the  sails  up, — and  you 


182 


Gods  and  Little  Fishes. 


will  see  industry,  energy,  keenness, 
aye  and  even  nimbleness,  of  the  rarest 
kind.  Once  aboard,  the  clumsiest 
figure  there  will  wake  into  strenuous 
life.  Your  lazy,  lounging,  lubberly 
fisherman  is  out  moiling  and  sweating 
by  night  when  you  are  snug  abed,  and 
thinks  himself  lucky  if  he  has  not  to 
sit  mending  his  nets  all  day  into  the 
bargain. 

"Hullo,  Mitchell,"  cried  the  Min- 
ister to  a  big  fellow  passing  with  an 
enormous  armful  of  provender,  "  are 
you  stocking  an  ironclad  1 " 

A.  broad  smile  of  delight  was  the 
sole  answer.  These  grand  fellows,  it 
is  plain,  like  a  word  from  the  pastor ; 
no  flippant  jesters  at  life  are  these, 
but  serious,  deep-thinking  Celts,  men 
with  the  religious  cast  of  spirit.  Not 
that  they  have  no  humour, — far  from 
it ;  but  humour  is  one  thing  and  a 
serious;  ribald  flip  and  jest  are  another. 
"There's  a  couple  of  Jonahs  to- 
night," laughed  our  Skipper  from  his 
herring- box,  a  great,  black-faced  fellow 
with  a  chest  like  a  bull.  "  Did  you 
ever  hear,  sir,  of  the  minister  on  the 
east  coast  ?  If  he  only  takes  a  squint 
at  the  boats  when  they  are  going  oot, 
there's  not  a  fish  for  them  that  night !  " 
The  group  shook  with  deep-chested, 
silent  laughter. 

"  Put  us  overboard,  then,"  said  the 
Minister,  "  and  let  us  drown." 

At  this  there  was  another  laugh  of 
the  same  noiseless  kind. 

"  No  fears,  sir,"  put  in  the  irrepres- 
sible Johnston e, — he  was  the  recog- 
nised wag — "a  Jonah'll  no  droon." 
On  this  followed  more  laughter. 
"  Besides  there's  a  whale  aboot  the 
noo ! "  And  again  came  the  silent 
chorus. 

'Twas  poor  enough  jesting,  I  grant 
you,  for  a  drawing-room  ;  but  with 
ten  men  in  an  overloaded  punt,  its 
gunwale  just  lipping  the  water  and 
taking  it  in  at  a  dozen  places,  quite 
as  lively  as  there  is  any  need  for. 


We  are  the  last  of  the  boats,  but 
there  is  no  sign  of  haste.  Everything 
is  done  with  a  fine  leisure  that  comes 
of  confident  skill.  The  Minister  takes 
the  helm  with  acclamation,  and  there 
is  manifest  delight  when  he  gets  the 
boat  out  of  harbour  with  full  sails  and 
cuts  well  to  windward  of  THE  SAUCY 
LASS. 

"  You're  doin'  fine,"  comments  the 
Skipper  approvingly,  eyeing  the 
widening  gap.  The  others  affect  not 
to  see  the  humiliated  boat,  but  they 
know  its  position  to  an  inch  and  have 
an  innuendo  ready  for  its  helmsman 
next  day. 

"  There  was  a  whale,"  says  John- 
stone  slowly  and  impressively  if  in- 
consecutively,  "  doon  by  the  Mull  Dhu 
this  mornin' ;  but  I'm  dootin'  he's  awa 
up  the  loch  noo." 

There  was  a   general   stir   at   this 
which  showed  that  all  minds  had  been 
busy  with  the  problem  of  destination. 
"  Is   that    the    MacGregors  puttin' 
aboot  ? "  asked  the  Skipper. 

"  It's  just  them.  They'll  be  for  up 
the  loch." 

"  Put  her  round,  sir  ;  that's  right ! 
A  wee  bit  more  on  the  wind ;  you'll 
do!" 

Away  we  went  on  a  dancing  sea, 
the  falling  sun  throwing  its  scarlet 
and  gold  athwart  the  waves  behind 
us.  A  boat  standing  south  was 
caught  in  the  glow  and  sheeted  with 
flame.  An  otter  flashed  up  between 
us  and  the  west,  its  coat  strewn  with 
diamonds.  A  long,  black  snout  sud- 
denly pushed  along  above  water  over 
our  bow. 

"  There  he  is  now,  boys  !  He's 
workin'  north.  We'll  do  yet,  boys," 
shouted  Johnstone  cheerily. 

In  the  long  run  up  the  loch  we  had 
time  to  talk  theology.  There  seemed 
to  prevail  a  general  suspicion  of 
Popery,  and  a  venerable  Principal, 
boasting  descent  from  the  Covenanters, 
was  frankly  pointed  at.  "  He's  the 


Gods  and  Little  Fishes. 


183 


boy,"  said  Johnstone  warmly,  of  a 
certain  notorious  defender  of  the 
faith  and  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  to  all 
Ritualists.  The  Skipper,  an  elder 
of  the  Kirk,  listened  gravely  and 
seemed  to  agree.  The  discussion 
was  interrupted  by  the  anchor  going 
down,  MacBride  at  the  bow  being  a 
silent  man  and  a  practical  creature 
thinking  of  supper.  The  funnel 
was  put  in,  the  fire  lit,  and  tea 
made  in  a  kettle.  Cups  were  dis- 
placed by  porridge-bowls,  slices  of 
tongue  were  served  up  in  soup-plates, 
and  we  suppered  sumptuously  on 
thick  bread  and  butter,  the  cook  com- 
placently receiving  compliments.  Out 
in  that  superb  air  everything  tasted 
superbly. 

The  unwritten  but  unbroken  law 
of  the  herring-fishing  is  that  the  fish- 
ing shall  not  begin  till  the  sun  has 
gone  an  hour ;  and  religiously  we  sat 
till  the  full  time  had  lapsed. 

"  On  with  your  breeks,"  cried  the 
Minister,  pocketing  his  watch  ;  "  up 
anchor !  " 

He  had  assumed  command ;  and 
as  the  herring-fishing  is  a  scaly  opera- 
tion, I  hastened  to  draw  over  my 
own  a  pair  of  the  Minister's  cast-off 
trousers. 

"Now  you're  dressed,"  remarked 
Johnstone  approvingly ;  and  Neil 
passed  me  a  lump  of  rope  to  gird  my 
loins  withal.  "  That's  what  we  put 
on,"  he  said.  It  went  round  me 
twice  ;  it's  not  everybody  has  the 
proportions  of  a  Loch  Fyne  fisherman. 
They  themselves  got  their  huge  limbs 
into  stiff  oilskin  trousers  and  drew  on 
waterproof  sleeves.  You  will  find 
few  people  so  careful  of  themselves 
as  these  big  fellows.  The  clothing 
they  wear  is  astonishing  :  the  thickest 
of  wool  next  the  skin  ;  rough  home- 
knitted  stockings  up  to  the  knees ; 
trousers  of  stout  blue  cloth  ;  heavy 
sea-boots  running  well  up  the  leg ; 
blue  flannel  shirts  of  uncommon 


toughness  ;  oilskin  overalls, — and  this 
in  the  height  of  summer  !  I  smiled 
at  the  panoply  ;  but  the  night  was 
not  to  be  over  before  I  should  be 
envying  them  every  stitch. 

Now  the  fishing  began  in  earnest ; 
chaff  ceased,  and  all  grew  serious. 
The  loch  was  a  millpond ;  the  moon 
was  not  yet  up,  the  water  glistening 
with  a  dull  oily  light.  We  could  see 
the  black  shapes  of  boats  up  and 
down  the  loch  for  a  mile  and  more 
in  this  strange  glimmer. 

"  Where'll  the  whale  be  noo  1 " 
asked  Johnstone.  He  seemed  to  be 
the  mouthpiece  of  the  crew. 

"  He's  awa  doon  sooth,"  said  the 
look-out,  the  speechless  MacBride. 

"  Aye,  that's  the  way  he's  workin'," 
put  in  the  Skipper,  and  his  word  was 
law. 

For  some  time  we  drifted  in  dead 
silence  till  the  Minister  pointed 
quickly ;  he  was  an  lona  man  and 
had  not  lost  the  ear  for  them. 
"  There's  herring  out  there,"  he 
exclaimed  in  suppressed  excitement. 

At  this  there  was  a  stir  and  eager 
words.  "  Aye,  aye.  But  they're  in 
the  tide."  "  The  rascals'll  no  come 
in."  And  Johnstone  shook  a  fore- 
boding head.  "  Was  that  a  whale  ?  " 
Something  had  broken  up  down  the 
loch.  "  Naw,  just  a  pellock." 

"  That's  the  whale  noo, — there,  he's 
at  the  Otter  Ferry  !  And  that's  the 
MacGregor's  boat." 

Confound  these  MacGregors !  Chips 
of  Rob  Roy  they  were  sure  enough, 
red  as  bulls,  keen  as  eagles.  They 
were  always  where  the  fish  were ; 
when  not  a  boat  on  the  loch  but  was 
clean,  they  had  their  maize.  Well, 
it  was  their  luck.  This  was  the  year 
of  the  Red  MacGregors  ;  last  year  our 
boat  was  top  of  the  loch  ;  so  be  it. 
The  fishermen  take  these  changes 
philosophically.  In  no  race  dwells 
a  finer  spirit  of  fellowship  :  if 
they  get  a  haul,  they  say  "  Very 


184 


Gods  and  Little  Fishes. 


good,"  and  go  cheerily  home ;  if  a 
neighbour  gets  the  fish,  there  is  no 
growling.  The  sea  is  a  strange  mis- 
tress, and  her  followers  are  resigned 
to  her  caprices. 

If  you  would  know  to  what  mira- 
culous delicacy  the  human  ear  can 
attain,  you  must  go  to  the  herring- 
fishing.  Such  was  the  silence  that 
one  could  hear  one's  heart  beat ;  and 
yet  the  sounds  of  the  deep  escaped 
one,  told  one  nothing.  The  waters 
were  a  blank  mystery  into  which  one 
peered  with  aching  eyes  and  straining 
ears.  The  Skipper,  bolt  upright  at 
the  stern  with  both  hands  over  his 
ears,  was  reading  the  scarce  signs  of 
the  sea ;  the  most  imperceptible  sound, 
movements  wellnigh  invisible,  were 
full  of  meaning  for  him.  He  read 
the  face  of  the  waters  as  one  would 
read  a  printed  page. 

By  day  any  fool  can  tell  the  her- 
ring-shoal when  it  bursts  up  like  a 
breaking  wave,  plain  to  see,  and  even 
by  the  sprinkled  air-bubbles  which 
mark  where  it  rests  down  below. 
But  go  out  by  starless  night  when 
the  eyes  are  useless,  with  the  ear  for 
a  guide ;  what  with  the  ripple  of  the 
tide  on  the  boat,  the  creak  of  the 
cordage,  the  rattle  of  the  tiller,  the 
breaking  of  wavelets  on  the  rock, 
the  falling  of  mountain  streams  into 
the  loch  water,  the  sudden  plunges 
of  the  porpoise,  the  dipping  of  the 
oars,  the  far-off  sounds  of  anchors 
going  down,  of  sails  being  hoisted, 
the  cries  of  seabirds,  echoes  from  the 
shore  and  the  dull  mists  of  the  night, 
could  you  pick  out  the  rising  of  a 
herring  or  mark  the  ring  left  by  his 
nose  ?  The  flight  of  the  herring-gull 
could  tell  you  something  by  day,  but 
at  night  if  you  are  quick  enough,  you 
catch  but  the  glimpse  of  a  black 
mass  swiftly  passing  overhead.  The 
whale  could  tell  you  something  too 
if  you  could  only  see  him,  but  you 
are  not  keen  enough  for  that,  nor 


indeed  for  anything  watei-men  can 
sight  at  the  midnight  hour.  You 
can  hear  the  blowings  of  the  pellock 
indeed  ;  you  would  be  stone  deaf  if 
you  did  not  catch  his  lusty  plunges. 
But  the  fisherman's  sense  is  very  finely 
drawn.  A  tiny  bubble  rising  from 
below  may  even  in  the  dark  guide 
the  look-out ;  the  faintest  plop  conveys 
a  message  to  his  ear. 

The  herring  were  out  in  the  tide 
now  ;  but  how  they  knew  that,  I 
could  not  tell.  Yet  there  they  were 
— gazing  eagerly  seawards  as  if  mark- 
ing something. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  heavy  splash 
to  the  north.  "Mitchell's  gettin'  a 
shot."  "  Aye,  aye  ;  pull  up,  boys." 

As  we  drew  near,  and  the  black 
mass  began  to  define  itself,  we  could 
hear  the  shaking  of  the  net  and  the 
smiting  of  the  surface  that  indicated 
a  catch.  Presently  even  a  landsman 
could  mark  the  twittering  of  the  fish 
as  they  were  tumbled  into  the  hold  ; 
it  was  just  like  swifts  on  a  June 
evening. 

"  How  are  ye  doin',  Colin  1 " 

"Middlin'.  Big  fish  here,  but  ill 
to  get.  The  half's  away." 

"  That's  a  peety,  Colin." 

There  was  nothing  great  here ;  so 
the  boat  nosed  south  again,  a  soft 
wind  sending  us  gently  along. 

"I  doot,  boys,"  said  the  Skipper, 
"it'll  need  to  be  the  theatre  after 
all." 

After  I  had  entered  this  theatre 
and  heard  the  diabolical,  piercing, 
malignant  screech  of  the  sternels,  I 
knew  where  Wagner  got  the  key  of 
his  DIE  WALKURE,  A  low  island  ran 
across  a  snug  bay ;  this  was  the 
concert-hall.  The  island  was  car- 
peted with  nests,  eggs,  and  young  of 
the  sternel,  and  the  air  swarmed  like 
a  hailstorm  with  clashing,  squabbling, 
jealous  birds,  fighting  every  inch  of 
spacefc  whose  shrill  screaming  ceased 
not  by  day  nor  night.  In  the  night- 


Gods  and  Little  Fishes. 


185 


fall  it  was  maddening.  You  felt  as  if 
you  were  driven  to  give  them  back 
scream  for  scream,  and  entering  the 
murderous  fray,  strike  savagely  right 
and  left ;  it  was  a  fitting  background 
for  the  ravings  of  a  Lear. 

There  was  a  good  beach  for  fish  in 
the  bay ;  and  my  landlubber's  nose 
was  not  so  blunt  but  I  caught  a  smell 
of  fish  in  the  water,  though  I  could 
not  tell,  as  our  crew  could,  that  it 
was  the  gut-herring  and  therefore  not 
to  be  touched. 

"  We'll  need  to  try  the  ferry, 
boys,"  said  Johnstone  as  we  swept  out 
fishless. 

"  I  think  we  will,"  assented  the 
Skipper;  "the  whale's  doon  that  way." 

The  moon  was  now  peeping  out 
shyly  like  a  maid  through  her  cur- 
tains. Up  went  the  sail.  Boats 
passed  and  repassed,  all  seeking  the 
fish  that  would  not  come  and  be 
caught.  There  was  no  jealousy  vis- 
ible in  the  fleet.  Information  and 
hints  were  freely  asked  and  generously 
given.  To  be  sure  all  hailed  from  the 
one  port,  and  I  cannot  say  whether 
they  would  have  been  as  free  to  the 
men  of  Tarbert.  But  here  at  all 
events,  within  the  fleet,  were  no 
curmudgeons.  The  ocean  herself 
leads  the  way ;  she  is  free  to  all  her 
sons. 

There  was  some  rude  chaff  which, 
rough  and  jagged  as  it  was,  awakened 
no  resentment. 

"  What  are  ye  sailin'  up  an'  doon 
for  there,  Dougal,  like  a  hen  lookin' 
for  a  nest  ?  Can  ye  no  tell  us  where 
the  fish  is  1 " 

"Aye,  aye,  lad.  The  fish  is  here  ; 
but  no  what  I'm  wan  tin'." 

"  Maybe  it's  skatefish  ye're  lookin' 
for." 

"  Maybe  it  is.  Have  you  got  any- 
thing yourself  1 " 

"  Not  a  haet." 

At  this  confession  there  was  no 
derision ;  only  a  deep  "  Aye,  aye " 


came  across  the  water.  Unmanly 
jeering  is  rare,  save  among  young  lads 
who  have  not  ripened  into  the  full- 
blown fisher  ;  nor  is  the  rough  and 
ready  chaff  ever  really  malicious. 

"  Is  that  a  torch  up  the  loch  1 " 

Northwards  a  light  shot  up  in  the 
darkness  and  flickered  over  the  waters. 
Then  another  burst  forth,  both  flaring 
grandly.  Two  green  lights  bore  down 
on  the  signal.  These  were  the  screws 
to  bid  for  the  catch.  A  take  early  in 
the  night  is  a  coveted  thing. 

All  eyes  were  turned  patiently  to 
the  lights,  and  though  the  torches 
were  up  at  the  very  place  we  had  left, 
not  a  growl  escaped  their  lips.  A 
council  of  war  was  inaugurated. 
Otter  Ferry  had  been  drawn  blank. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  to  be  now  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Skipper. 

"  Will  we  try  the  Mull  Dim?  " 

"I'm  quite  agreeable,"  said  Mac- 
Bride,  breaking  his  long  silence. 

u  All  right." 

A  herring-boat  is  a  democratic 
institution.  Every  man  gives  his 
opinion,  and  his  word  will  be  weighed 
impartially.  The  only  marks  of  the 
ruler  here  are  age  and  wisdom. 

The  Mull  Dhu  was  three  miles 
away,  which  meant  some  pulling  to 
get  there  in  good  time.  Our  com- 
panion boat, — the  trawlers  work  in 
pairs — followed  us  unquestioningly. 
It  was  a  pocket  Republic  whose 
affairs  were  well  managed.  Given 
eight  cool-tempered,  sensible  men, 
patient,  cautious,  serious,  it  is  easy  to 
form  your  ideal  State  on  a  socialistic 
basis.  Every  fishing-crew  is  one. 

Out  went  the  great  oars  unmur- 
muringly  for  the  long  pull.  A  good 
twelve  feet  they  were  and  for  size 
like  young  trees.  It  was  now  you 
could  see  where  the  fishermen  got 
their  brawny  frames.  Only  a  power- 
ful man  could  handle  these  ponderous 
blades.  The  Minister  took  one  and 
did  not  so  badly  ;  but  his  thews  and 


186 


Gods  and  Little  Fishes. 


sinews  are  no  ordinary  things.  Three 
pulled  and  one  steered.  They  changed 
places  automatically.  In  our  little 
Republic  all  was  done  harmoniously, 
silently,  perfectly. 

It  was  now,  when  we  glided  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Mull  I)hu,  coming 
on  for  two  in  the  morning.  Very 
little  of  the  fishing- night  was  left; 
and  if  we  did  not  catch  within  the 
next  hour  and  a  half,  we  might  go 
home  to  our  beds. 

Another  torch  up  !  this  time  too  at 
the  Otter  Ferry,  the  very  place  we 
had  rowed  from  so  laboriously.  Twice 
done  in  one  night !  Yet  nobody  spoke. 

The  sea  was  grey  and  ghostly  now. 
Out  there  were  the  kelpies,  stealing 
over  the  face  of  the  waters ;  great 
undulating  serpents  with  hideous 
heads  crawled  on  the  surface  of  the 
deep ;  gigantic  vague  monsters  with 
remorseless  tentacles  rolled  shape- 
lessly  out  in  the  mist  yonder ;  name- 
less things  crept  to  and  fro.  You 
did  not  need  an  Ossian  to  spin  a 
Celtic  legend  here;  you  felt  the 
gloom  in  your  very  bones.  The 
heavy  masses  of  the  hills  looming 
black  overhead,  the  grey  water  shud- 
dering underneath,  the  shapes  that 
flitted  in  the  air  or  moved  along  the 
deep,  the  strange  cries  from  the  heart 
of  the  gloom,  formed  fit  place  for 
uncouth  happenings.  If  Vander- 
decken  himself  had  sailed  ghost-like 
out  of  the  greyness,  one  would  not 
have  been  afraid ;  it  would  have 
seemed  just  the  right  thing.  The 
mystery  indeed  is  why  he  did  not 
glide  forth. 

The  silent  man  at  the  bow  straight- 
ened himself ;  he  had  not  spoken 
since  we  left  Otter  Ferry.  "  Was 
that  the  ploutin'  o'  a  herrin'  ?  " 

Mark  that  word  ploutin' ;  was 
there  ever  a  more  expressive  term? 
The  Minister,  who  has  an  etymo- 
logical weakness,  says  the  word  is 
ploop.  But  ploop  or  plout,  I  care 


not ;    it   is   just    what   you    do    hear 
when  the  herring  rises. 

All  ears  were  bent  to  the  sound. 
The  Skipper  gave  his  verdict.  "  No, 
it's  just  troots  playin'  in  the  water. 
Ho,  John — "  this  to  a  passing  skiff 
— "  have  you  got  a  haul  to-night  ?  " 

"Not  wan." 

"  Ach,  ye'll  need  to  play  Jock 
Tamson." 

To  play  Jock  Tamson  is  to  lie  down 
to  sleep  in  the  boat  till  the  fish  come 
to  be  caught. 

"  It's  yourself  that  can  do  that  well." 

"  What  about  the  time  there  was 
a  boat  left  her  nets  on  the  Craignure 
shore  ?  Was  it  you,  John  1 " 

"  Aye,  aye,  it  was  me,"  said  John 
sadly,  disappearing  into  the  vapour. 

There  was  a  quiet  chuckle  all  round 
at  this,  in  the  midst  of  which  the 
Minister  appeared  from  the  cabin  to 
ask  what  all  the  noise  was  for. 

"  It's  the  Brochan  away  by.  I  was 
askin'  him  aboot  the  time  he  broke 
his  nets." 

"  Is  that  all  1  I  thought  you  had 
landed  a  load  of  herring." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Johnstone  with  a 
grin,  "  if  there  was  any  herrin'  in't, 
they  were  frichted  away." 

It  was  at  this  point  Neil  made  his 
first  and  only  joke  that  night.  "  Och 
yes ;  it's  no  ill  to  hear  him  when  he 
sleeps."  Neil  had  been  so  silent, 
silenter  than  even  the  man  at  the 
bow,  the  remark  was  so  quietly 
humorous,  delivered  with  such  sly 
unction  and  so  unexpected,  that  the 
shipload  of  us  roared,  the  Minister 
loudest  of  all.  Neil  himself  shook 
with  silent  laughter  for  the  next  half 
hour. 

"  Has  anything  been  got  to-night  ? " 
asked  the  Minister  after  a  bit. 

"  No  much,  sir.  The  Lion's  awa' 
doon  sooth  by  the  point  there.  They 
say  he  has  a  shot."  The  veracity  of 
their  epithets  was  unerring.  The 
Lion  was  a  truly  leonine  man. 


Gods  and  Little  Fishes. 


187 


"  I  think  we'll  be  shiftin'  home 
now.  There's  the  mornin'  comin'." 

And  to  be  sure,  day  was  breaking 
in  the  north-east  and  the  clouds 
opening.  Away  home  we  went,  not 
doleful,  but  chastened  into  subdued 
cheerfulness.  It  takes  a  lot  to  break 
a  fisherman's  heart. 

When  the  last  dusk  of  night  was 
leaving  the  Mull  Dhu,  we  passed  a 
cove  where  an  old  man  and  a  lad  in 
a  tarred  boat  were  taking  in  a  net 
wherein  struggled  a  few  silvery  fish. 

"  Mackerel,  Peter  1 "  was  the  cry. 

"Aye,  aye,"  came  the  deep- voiced 
answer.  Old  as  the  man  was,  the 
voice  was  strong  as  ever.  There  are 
white-headed  men  out  in  the  herring- 
boats  every  night  and  as  keen  as  the 
young  ones. 

"He'll  need  to  be  quicker  than 
that  if  he's  to  catch  the  ION  A." 

Mackerel  are  very  ill  to  take  out 
of  the  net ;  they  are  slippery  and 
have  a  sharp  back  fin.  It  was  after 
five  when  we  pulled  slowly  into  the 


bay.  Peter  was  not  in  till  six,  and 
the  steamer  was  away. 

"  Better  luck  next  time,  lads." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir." 

No  tears  were  shed  over  the  ab- 
sence of  fish.  There  might  be  plenty 
next  night ;  if  not  next  night,  then 
the  next.  Hope  springs  eternal  in 
the  fisher's  breast.  And  underneath 
all  is  a  sturdy  fatalism  :  what  use  in 
quarrelling  with  the  inevitable  ? 

The  Tarbert  men  win  all  the 
sailing  races  on  the  loch. 

"  How  is  it,"  I  asked  a  young  fisher- 
man, "  you  let  the  Tarbert  men  beat 
you  1 " 

"  Och  sure,  the  Tarbert  men  has 
the  best  boats." 

That  was  it, — the  Tarbert  men  had 
the  best  boats.  What  more  could  be 
said  1  Nothing  could  touch  that  fact. 
And  when  we  gods  came  home  that 
morning  without  the  little  fishes,  I 
said  to  myself,  "  The  Tarbert  men  has 
the  best  boats."  And  it  comforted  me. 
J.  SCOULAE  THOMSON. 


188 


THE   ST.    LOUIS   OF    "THE   CRISIS." 


WHILE  coming  under  the  class  of 
fiction,  Mr.  Churchill's  recent  novel 
bases  itself  frankly  upon  fact,  and 
makes  an  exact  and  detailed  use  of 
it.  Many,  who  are  but  little  attracted 
to  him  as  an  original  creator,  have 
been  fascinated  with  the  story  because 
of  its  intense  realism.  THE  CRISIS  is 
a  close  study  of  St.  Louis  as  it  existed 
before  and  during  the  Civil  War. 
There  are  few  romances  which  prepare 
the  reader  better  for  the  study  of 
actual  memoirs.  Take,  for  instance, 
General  Sherman's  two  volumes  of 
Memoirs,  and  you  will  find  that,  where 
the  Memoirs  and  THE  CRISIS  deal 
with  similar  things,  they  are  in  almost 
exact  correspondence. 

The  city  where  Generals  Hancock 
and  Grant  found  their  wives,  where 
General  Sherman  was  a  familiar 
figure  for  many  years  and  where  he 
lies  buried,  where  General  Fremont 
organised  the  Western  Sanitary  Com- 
mission, is  surely  of  considerable 
importance  to  the  student  of  United 
States'  history.  In  a  critical  period 
it  held  a  cardinal  place.  Not  two 
hundred  miles  off  is  Springfield, 
Illinois,  where  Lincoln  made  his 
reputation,  whence  he  was  called  to 
be  President  of  the  United  States, 
and  whither  he  was  brought  to  be 
buried.  Mr.  Churchill  was  well- 
advised  when  he  took  St.  Louis  and 
its  surroundings  as  the  stage  on  which 
the  events  of  his  story  should  happen. 
It  was  the  place  where  he  lived  as  a 
boy,  and  attended  school ;  and  among 
the  elderly  gentlemen  with  whom  he 
was  privileged  to  associate,  were 
several  who  had  played  auspicious 
parts  in  the  war,  and  had  seen 


Lincoln  and  Sherman  at  highly  cri- 
tical moments.  For  future  historians 
of  the  war  THE  CRISIS  will  remain 
a  valuable  book  because  it  contains 
sketches  of  the  leading  actors  as  they 
had  actually  appeared  to  men  of  the 
time  who  were  eminently  fitted  to 
judge  them,  and  who  gave  their  im- 
pressions in  an  off-hand  way  to  an 
eager  boy  fond  of  hero-making.  There 
are  many  vivid  and  diversified  con- 
versations at  the  back  of  THE  CRISIS 
and  its  construction.  It  is  reproduc- 
tive as  much  as  creative. 

To  come  to  Mr.  Churchill's  method: 
Thackeray  is  patently  his  master,  in 
whose  steps  he  diligently  essays  to 
follow.  Paying  minute  attention  to 
locality,  and  introducing  as  sub- 
ordinate characters  men  who  were 
and  are  in  everyone's  mouth,  he  draws 
a  picture  of  a  past  period,  in  which 
the  incidents  are  threaded  like  beads 
on  the  string  of  a  family  history. 
Colonial  and  revolutionary  times  he 
interpreted  through  the  Carvel  family 
of  Virginia ;  the  time  of  civil  war  he 
has  interpreted  through  the  St.  Louis 
merchant,  Comyn  Carvel,  a  lineal 
descendant  of  his  earlier  hero.  Here 
again  he  follows  Thackeray's  heredi- 
tary method. 

At  the  time  the  story  opens,  in  the 
early  Fifties,  there  was  a  Southern 
gentleman  in  St.  Louis,  engaged  in 
general  business  not  far  from  the 
levee,  a  widower  with  a  daughter. 
Mr.  James  E.  Yeatman,  son  of 
Thomas  Yeatman,  a  merchant  and 
banker  of  Nashville,  Tennessee,  came 
to  St.  Louis  in  1842,  when  he  had 
barely  passed  his  majority,  and  en- 
gaged in  a  general  business  at  Second 


The  St.  Louis  of  "  The  Crisis." 


189 


and  Morgan  Streets,  in  a  building 
still  standing.  This  is  the  gentleman 
to  whom  Mr.  Churchill  dedicated 
KICHARD  CARVEL,  in  the  following 
appreciative  terms :  "To  James  E. 
Yeatman,  of  Saint  Louis,  an  Ameri- 
can gentleman  whose  life  is  an 
example  to  his  countrymen."  Until 
1857  the  firm  of  Yeatman  and 
Robinson  continued  to  carry  on  busi- 
ness, but  it  failed  to  weather  the 
financial  crisis  of  that  year.  Mr. 
Yeatman's  first  wife  was  Miss  Alicia 
Thompson,  of  Virginia,  and  their 
daughter  Alice  is  still  .  living  at 
Glencoe,  a  suburban  resort  about 
twenty-five  miles  to  the  south  of  the 
city,  which  comes  frequently  into  the 
pages  of  the  story.  He  owned  pro- 
perty in  the  neighbourhood,  and  a 
station  on  the  Missouri  Pacific  rail- 
road, called  Yeatman,  bears  witness 
to  the  fact. 

Mr.  Yeatman,  having  early  lost  his 
first  wife,  took  for  his  second  partner 
in  life,  Cynthia  Pope,  sister  of  the 
general  who  was  expected  in  1861  to 
do  great  things  for  the  cause  of  the 
Union,  but  whose  career  was  brought 
to  a  close  by  the  untoward  results  of 
the  second  battle  of  Bull  Run.  The 
house  to  which  Yeatman  brought  his 
wife  still  stands  on  the  bluff,  above 
what  was  the  old  Bellefontaine  Road, 
overlooking  meadow-lands  that  stretch 
to  the  big  Mississippi  river.  These 
lands,  once  green  and  decked  with 
flowers,  are  now  disfigured  by  fac- 
tories, elevators,  and  other  unsightly 
constructions.  The  house,  then  known 
as  Belmont,  now  bears  the  name  of 
the  Eddy  House,  and  stands  at  the 
corner  of  Penrose  and  Eleventh 
Streets. 

Cynthia  Yeatman's  sister  Penelope 
had  been  married,  early  in  the  Thirties, 
to  a  rising  young  lawyer,  Beverley 
Allen,  a  Virginian,  who  had  graduated 
at  Princeton,  and  gone  west  to  push 
his  fortunes.  He  built  a  country 


house  on  a  bluff  a  little  further  to  the 
north  than  Belmont,  and  this  house 
is  the  Bellegarde  of  THE  CRISIS. 
Mrs.  Allen's  married  life  lasted  but 
eleven  years.  In  1845  her  husband, 
who  had  been  visiting  Europe,  was 
carried  off  by  cholera  at  New  York. 
She  still  survives,  in  a  hale  old  age. 

There  were  three  girls  in  the  Allen 
family,  who  were  brought  up  to  love 
and  reverence  their  Uncle  Yeatman 
as  a  second  father.  Never  was  a 
man  more  worthy  of  respect,  and 
never  was  it  more  completely  given. 
Always  a  lover  of  children,  Mr. 
Yeatman  was  an  ideal  of  amiability 
and  goodness  to  his  three  daughters. 
One  of  them,  "Puss"  Allen  as  she 
was  called  by  her  intimates,  be- 
came Mrs.  Hall,  and  the  mother 
of  Mabel  Hall,  now  Mrs.  Winston 
Churchill.  Another  became  Mrs. 
Sturgeon,  who  now  resides  in  the  old 
house  on  the  bluff.  A  third,  Mrs. 
Orrick,  lives  with  her  mother  in  the 
Aliens'  city  residence  in  Washington 
and  Spring  Avenues. 

Death  came  into  the  familes  again  in 
1854,  removing  Mrs.  Yeatman.  Her 
husband  gave  up  a  separate  suburban 
establishment  and  joined  forces  with 
his  widowed  sister-in-law.  He  was 
thenceforth  intimately  associated  with 
the  Beverley  Allen  house.  The  spacious 
north-east  room  became  his  library, 
and,  as  he  was  an  inveterate  reader, 
his  constant  haunt.  Here  his  body 
lay  on  July  8th,  when  his  many 
friends  came  to  bid  him  a  last  fare- 
well and  accompany  him  to  the 
neighbouring  cemetery. 

Mr.  Yeatman,  however,  is  not  the 
Comyn  Carvel  of  the  tale,  although 
he  furnished  material  for  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  character  and  its  sur- 
roundings. He  is  essentially  Calvin 
Brinsmade,  the  banker,  whose  town- 
house  was  in  Olive  Street,  who 
attended  the  Presbyterian  church, 
and  who,  during  the  Civil  War 


190 


The  St.  Louis  of  "The  Crisis." 


became  head  of  the  Western  Sanitary 
Commission. 

A  few  years  after  the  dissolution 
of  the  firm  of  Yeatman  and  Robin- 
son, Mr.  Yeatman  identified  himself 
with  the  Merchants'  Bank,  which  he 
had  been  instrumental  in  founding 
some  years  previously.  Its  first  loca- 
tion was  at  the  north-west  corner  of 
Main  and  Locust  Streets  in  a  build- 
ing still  standing.  Afterwards  it 
was  moved  two  blocks  west  to  the 
north-west  corner  of  Third  and  Locust 
Streets,  and  occupied  a  building  now 
undergoing  a  thorough  reconstruction ; 
and  finally  it  became  the  Merchants' 
Laclede,  on  the  ground  floor  of  the 
Laclede  Building  at  the  corner  of 
Fourth  and  Olive  Streets.  For  over 
thirty  years  Mr.  Yeatman  was  its 
president. 

His  town  house  was  in  Olive 
Street,  west  of  Tenth  Street,  where 
he  owned  so  many  houses  on  the 
south  side  of  the  street  that  the 
place  was  known  as  Yeatman's  Row. 
The  Row  has  long  ceased  to  contain 
residences,  and  is  now  given  up 
mostly  to  piano  and  furniture  stores. 
The  chapter,  then,  in  the  first  book 
of  THE  CRISIS,  entitled  "The  Little 
House,"  comes  as  close  as  possible 
to  reality.  A  visitor  to  St.  Louis  in 
the  Fifties,  anxious  to  find  a  con- 
venient house,  would  naturally  have 
applied  to  a  benevolent  gentleman 
with  Washington-like  nose,  who 
owned  several  houses  in  Olive  Street, 
and  himself  lived  in  one  of  them. 

The  great  glory  of  Mr.  Yeatman's 
career  was  the  prominent  and  efficient 
part  he  took  in  the  organisation  and 
practical  working  of  the  Western 
Sanitary  Commission,  established  in 
September,  1  861,  by  General  Fremont. 
"  The  General  was  a  good  man,' ' 
remarks  the  author  of  THE  CRISIS 
(p.  573),  "  had  he  done  nothing  else 
than  encourage  the  Western  Sanitary 
Commission,  that  glorious  army  of 


drilled  men  and  women  who  gave  up 
all  to  relieve  the  suffering  which  the 
war  was  causing.  Would  that  a 
novel, — a  great  novel, — might  be 
written  setting  forth  with  truth  its 
doings.  The  hero  of  it  would  be 
Calvin  Brinsmade,  and  a  nobler  hero 
than  he  was  never  under  a  man's 
hand.  For  the  glory  of  generals 
fades  beside  his  glory." 

In  discharge  of  his  benevolent 
duties  Mr.  Yeatman  went  south  to 
the  scenes  of  carnage,  and  the  hostile 
armies  were  filled  with  a  new  emo- 
tion, that  of  tender  compassion,  as 
they  witnessed  his  devoted  efforts. 
About  three  and  a  half  million 
dollars  in  goods,  and  three  quarters 
of  a  million  in  cash  were  disbursed 
by  this  noble  institution. 

At  one  time  himself  a  slave-owner, 
Mr.  Yeatman  busied  himself  also  with 
the  future  of  the  emancipated  negro. 
The  Freedmen's  Bureau  was  or- 
ganised on  a  plan  devised  by  him, 
and  in  1865  President  Lincoln  in- 
vited him  to  become  its  Commis- 
sioner, an  offer  which  he  did  not  see 
his  way  clear  to  accept.  Some  have 
called  him  the  John  Howard  of  his 
generation. 

The  character  of  Stephen  Brice  is 
composite ;  but  many  of  the  incidents 
in  his  life  correspond  exactly  with 
incidents  in  the  early  career  of  Mr. 
Henry  Hitchcock  of  St.  Louis.  Mr. 
Hitchcock,  while  of  New  England 
stock,  was  born  at  Mobile,  Alabama, 
where  his  father  was  chief -justice  of 
the  State.  After  studying  at  Yale, 
he  came  west  to  St.  Louis,  and  was 
examined  for  the  bar  by  Hamilton 
R.  Gamble.  Like  Stephen  Brice  he 
made  his  reputation  by  an  election 
speech  on  behalf  of  Lincoln's  candi- 
dacy, which  was  considered  a  master- 
piece of  oratory.  He  was  also  a 
constant  contributor  to  the  Press, 
and  became  in  1857  assistant-editor 
of  THR  ST.  Louis  INTELLIGENCER. 


The  St.  Louis  of  "  The  Crisis." 


191 


He  did  not  take  part  in  the  war 
until  late  in  the  contest,  but  yet  he 
saw  a  good  deal  of  its  most  stirring 
incidents.  As  Sherman's  judge  advo- 
cate he  marched  with  that  general 
to  the  sea,  and  was  present  at  the 
celebrated  interview  between  him  and 
Johnston.  It  was  Major  Hitchcock, 
as  we  read  in  Sherman's  Memoirs, 
who  was  entrusted  with  the  im- 
portant duty  of  carrying  the  des- 
patches to  Washington,  to  place 
them  in  the  President's  hands.  Mr. 
Hitchcock  was  a  member  of  the  same 
Presbyterian  church  as  Mr.  Yeatman, 
and  was  associated  with  him  in  many 
ways. 

The  incident  of  the  forced  auction 
at  the  Carvel  mansion  is  based  on 
fact.  Similar  events  happened  in 
the  case  of  Mr.  McPheeters  and  of 
ex-Governor  Polk,  who  lived  respec- 
tively at  Lucas  Avenue  and  Four- 
teenth Street.  Certain  of  those  who 
chose  to  bid  for  the  articles  offered, 
and  got  them  at  a  bargain,  contracted 
no  little  amount  of  enduring  ill-will. 

It  is  probable  that  many  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  German  Richter, 
who  meets  with  so  untimely  a  death, 
have  their  counterpart  in  the  life  and 
personality  of  Judge  Leo  Rassieur, 
a  South  St.  Louis  German,  who  stood 
up  staunchly  for  the  Union  in  1861, 
fought  bravely  through  the  war,  and 
now  occupies  the  honoured  position 
of  Commander  of  the  Grand  Army 
of  the  Republic. 

General  Grant  appears  in  one  of 
the  earlier  chapters  as  engaged  in  the 
discharge  of  duties  to  which  he  was 
for  some  time  accustomed.  Those 
years  when  he  tried  to  make  a  living 
out  of  farming, — selling  wood  and 
other  produce  in  the  city — were  a 
time  of  great  straitness  of  finances 
with  him.  He  left  farming  for  the 
real  estate  business,  and  for  a  short 
time  the  firm  of  Boggs  and  Grant 
had  an  office  in  Pine  Street,  between 


Second  and  Third  Streets.  This 
enterprise,  in  turn,  proved  unsatis- 
factory, and  he  applied  for  a  place  in 
the  Customs,  then  under  the  direction 
of  an  old  army  acquaintance  named 
Lind,  who  had  served  under  him  as 
lieutenant  in  the  Mexican  War. 
For  two  months  in  the  winter  of 
1859-60  he  worked  at  the  Custom 
House  without  wages,  when  the  death 
of  Lind  prevented  his  appointment 
from  being  ratified.  This  closed  his 
business  career  in  St.  Louis,  and  he 
moved  north  to  Ohio,  where  he  lived 
until  the  breaking  out  of  hostilities  in 
the  following  year. 

William  Tecumseh  Sherman  was 
closely  connected  with  St.  Louis 
during  the  ten  years  previous  to  the 
war;  and  on  April  1st  of  the  event- 
ful year  1861,  he  came  to  the  city  to 
be  president  of  one  of  the  street-car 
companies.  Before  two  months  were 
over  he  had  resigned,  in  order  to  take 
command  of  a  regiment,  and  it  was 
during  this  stay  that  the  capture  of 
Camp  Jackson  occurred.  The  account 
of  the  day's  doings  which  Sherman 
gives  in  his  Memoirs  closely  corre- 
sponds with  the  account  in  THE 
CRISIS.  He  was  living  at  the  time 
in  Locust  Street,  a  few  doors  from  the 
Carvel  house  of  the  story,  and  just 
one  short  block  north  of  Yeatman's 
Row.  The  company  of  which  he  was 
president  was  called  the  St.  Louis  or 
Fifth  Street,  and  came  to  be  known 
later  as  the  Broadway  Cable.  Its 
stables  were  at  Bremen,  four  short 
blocks  from  Belmont,  and  not  very 
far  from  the  Beverley  Allen  house  in 
Grand  Avenue.  Here  he  had  an 
office,  where  Colonel  John  O'Fullen, 
a  resident  of  the  neighbourhood,  used 
to  visit  him.  "  He  daily  came  down 
to  my  office  in  Bremen,"  writes  Sher- 
man in  his  Memoirs,  "and  we  walked 
up  and  down  the  pavement  by  the 
hour,  deploring  the  sad  condition  of 
our  country,  and  the  seeming  drift 


192 


The  St.  Louis  of  "  The  Crisis." 


towards  dissolution  and  anarchy." 
The  Fair  Grounds  lay  a  short  distance 
inland,  and  were  conveniently  placed 
for  the  exercise  of  that  hospitality  to 
young  officers  which  Mr.  Brinsmade 
is  described  in  the  story  as  offering  so 
freely. 

With  the  change  from  steamboat 
traffic  to  railroads,  St.  Louis  has  left 
the  river-front  and  pushed  inland. 
Only  this  year  the  chief  race-course  of 
the  city,  which  was  formerly  at  the 
Fair  Grounds,  has  been  changed  to  a 
locality  situated  seven  miles  due  west 


from  Main  Street,  and  four  miles 
west  of  Camp  Jackson.  The  resi- 
dential houses  on  the  bluffs  north  and 
south  are  survivals  of  an  early  time ; 
and  the  commercial  portion  of  the 
city,  instead  of  ending  at  Fourth 
Street,  begins  there  and  extends  west- 
ward. As  described  in  THE  CRISIS, 
the  old  houses,  once  centres  of  life 
and  hospitality,  are  now  dark,  dingy 
and  deserted. 

JAMES  MAIN  DIXON. 

St.  Louis,  Missouri,  U.S.A. 


193 


PATER'S    PHILOSOPHY    OF    LIFE. 


"THE  perpetuity  by  generation  is 
common  to  beasts ;  but  memory, 
merit,  and  noble  works  are  common 
to  men  ;  and  surely  a  man  shall  see 
the  noblest  works  and  foundations 
have  proceeded  from  childless  men, 
who  have  sought  to  express  the 
images  of  their  minds  where  those  of 
their  bodies  have  failed  :  so  the  care 
of  posterity  is  most  in  them  that  have 
no  posterity." 

This  saying  of  Bacon's  was  never 
more  true  than  in  the  case  of  Walter 
Pater.  MARITJS  THE  EPICUREAN  and 
the  unfinished  GASTON  DE  LATOUR  are 
in  a  special  and  peculiar  sense  his 
children,  and  bear  upon  them  the 
stamp  and  impress  of  heredity  more 
distinctly  than  is  the  case  with  many 
physical  children. 

Those  who  read  and  admired  the 
earlier  work  eagerly  looked  to  find 
in  the  later  an  intellectual  feast  of 
good  things  such  as  its  writer  knew 
so  well  to  serve.  But,  although  it 
may  seem  ungracious  to  criticise  a 
mere  fragment  by  one  in  whose  creed 
beauty  of  form  held  so  high  a  place, 
and  who  was  always  so  careful  in 
polishing  and  refifiing  any  piece  of 
literature  which  he  voluntarily  gave 
to  the  public,  still  we  must  frankly 
confess  to  have  found  GASTON  DE 
LATOUR  disappointing,  and  this  in 
spite  of  one  or  two  exquisite  passages, 
suggestive  of  Pater  in  his  happier 
vein.  It  is  questionable  whether  it 
was  wise  to  republish  it  at  all,  in 
view  of  a  reputation  already  assured 
and  needing  nothing  that  we  find  in 
this  book  to  raise  it  higher. 

In  choice  of  subject  and  method  of 
execution  we  have  in  Gaston  a  feebler 
No.  507. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


edition  of  Marius,  himself  painted  in 
none  too  brilliant  colours.  Indeed 
the  later  hero  (to  give  him  that  name) 
plays  an  even  smaller  part  than  the 
earlier,  and  serves  but  as  a  peg  upon 
which  to  hang  philosophic  apothegms. 
There  is  a  want  of  current  in  the 
book,  amounting  almost  to  stagnation, 
which  causes  one  to  regret  that  the 
form  of  narrative,  however  slight, 
was  chosen  in  preference  to  that  of 
the  essay.  Could  we  have  had  the 
charming  picture  of  Montaigne's  per- 
sonality, together  with  the  able  sum- 
mary of  his  philosophy,  in  the  form 
of  an  essay,  and  perhaps  another  on 
the  interesting  Giordano  Bruno,  we 
should  have  had  the  pith  of  what  is 
valuable  in  the  book  without  the  in- 
troduction of  the  colourless  Gaston, 
who  is  after  all  but  the  veriest 
shadow.  The  fact  that  Pater  should 
have  conceived  and  partially  executed 
a  second  book  on  such  closely  analo- 
gous lines  to  the  first,  reflects  some- 
what upon  his  originality,  and  proves 
the  truth  of  the  contention  that  they 
are  both  in  a  peculiarly  close  sense 
his  children,  bearing  the  strongest 
family  likeness  to  him  and  to  each 
other. 

By  a  closer  examination  of  these 
two  brothers  we  shall  endeavour  to 
draw  nearer  to  the  character  of  the 
father,  and  to  see  the  world,  for  the 
time  being,  with  his  eyes. 

And  in  spite  of  their  clearness  of 
vision  and  delicacy  of  perception 
where  beauty  was  concerned,  we  must 
admit  that  they  were  short-sighted 
eyes, — wilfully  short-sighted  when  it 
was  a  question  of  seeing  anything 
offensive  or  disagreeable.  They  had 


194 


Pater's  Philosophy  of  Life. 


a  way  (a  very  pleasant  way  for  their 
owner)  of  throwing  as  it  were  a 
golden  haze  over  anything  repug- 
nant, extending  sometimes  even  to  sin 
itself,  which  was  apt  to  be  smothered 
in  some  such  elegantly-turned  phrase 
as  the  following,  taken  at  random 
from  GASTON  DE  LATOUR:  "Appetite 
and  vanity  abounded,  but  with  an 

abundant,  superficial  grace 

which,  as  by  some  aesthetic  sense  in 
the  air,  made  the  most  of  the  pleasant 

outsides  of  life only  blent, 

like  rusty  old  armour  wreathed  in 
flowers,"  etc. 

However  valuable  this  power  of 
artistic  selection  in  smoothing  the 
artist's  path  through  life  (and  it  is 
unquestionably  an  attitude  of  mind 
to  be  cultivated,  within  bounds),  it 
nevertheless,  when  pushed  too  far, 
can  become  a  hindrance  to  those  who 
would  "see  life  steadily,  and  see  it 
whole."  From  the  Epicureans  of  old 
to  the  modern  Christian  Scientists 
there  have  been  those  in  every  age 
whose  love  of  ease  and  pleasantness 
has  led  them  to  seek,  in  theory  at 
least,  to  eliminate  the  evils  and  the 
disagreeables  from  life.  Not  of  the 
normal,  healthy  type,  these  advocates 
of  the  pleasant,  realising  instinctively 
their  inadequate  equipment  for  the 
battle  of  life,  prefer  to  expend  what 
little  energy  they  possess  in  the 
attempt  to  cheat  themselves  into  be- 
lieving that  all  difficulties  are  either 
needless  or  imaginary,  rather  than 
in  the  effort,  natural  to  the  healthy 
man,  to  recognise  and  overcome  them. 

In  Pater's  creed  beauty  is  placed 
above  truth,  and  he  therefore  lacks 
the  robustness  of  those  saner  thinkers 
who  are  not  hampered  by  being 
aesthetes  first  and  philosophers  after- 
wards. There  is  an  element  of 
cowardice  almost  pathetic  in  this 
clinging  to  the  "  goodly  outside," 
— this  shrinking  from  stirring  too 
deeply  the  abyss  below,  which  is  well 


indicated  in  the  concluding  sentence 
of  GASTON  DE  LATOUR,  the  last  words 
which  Pater  will  ever  speak  to  us. 
He  is  still  considering  his  favourite 
theme,  the  harmonising  of  discordant 
elements,  the  reconciling  of  good  and 
evil,  which  is  the  motive  of  his  most 
earnest  writing,  the  goal,  pursued 
with  passionate  longing,  of  a  life  of 
study.  And  he  ends,  as  he  begins, 
with  a  question,  the  form  of  which  is 
the  keynote  of  his  strongest  bent. 
"  How  could  Gaston,"  he  asks,  "  re- 
concile the  '  opposed  points '  which  to 
him  could  never  become  indifferent, 
of  what  was  right  and  wrong  in  the 
matter  of  art  ?  "  This  indecision,  this 
trick  of  postulating  and  leaving  un- 
answered difficult  questions,  is  strongly 
characteristic.  It  is,  however,  in  the 
elder  of  Pater's  children  that  we  shall 
find  the  family  traits  most  distinctly 
emphasised. 

In  MARIUS  THE  EPICUREAN  we  have 
laid  bare  to  our  view  the  intimate 
history  of  the  struggles  and  phases  of 
a  lonely  soul  in  search  of  truth  and 
intellectual  peace,  together  with  a 
masterly  summary  of  the  different 
philosophies  and  religions  which  in- 
fluenced and  moulded  his  mental  and 
spiritual  growth.  No  more  interest- 
ing theme,  within  its  own  line,  could 
have  been  chosen  by  any  writer,  and 
hardly  a  more  difficult  one.  And  the 
triumph  of  Pater  lies  in  the  fact  that 
he  has  done  it  justice,  and  has  more 
than  succeeded  in  a  field  where 
scarcely  another  writer  of  our  time 
could  have  even  ventured  to  follow. 
If  it  be  true  that  a  great  part  of  art 
lies  in  selection,  then  the  mere  selec- 
tion of  this  theme  and  background 
raises  him  to  a  high  place  among  both 
artists  and  philosophers. 

In  the  character  of  Marius  Pater 
has  given  us  a  glorified  example  of 
the  dreamy,  contemplative  student,  a 
type  familiar  throughout  history;  but 
instead  of  giving  him,  as  has  usually 


Pater's  Philosophy  of  Life. 


195 


been  done  in  drama  and  romance, 
a  secondary  part  to  play  while  the 
interest  centred  in  the  hero,  the  man 
of  action,  to  whom  he  was  but  the 
foil,  Pater  has  raised  his  student  to 
the  first  place,  and  it  is  in  the  history 
of  his  inner  life  that  we  find  the 
heart  and  essence  of  this  remarkable 
book. 

It  is  safe  to  assume  that  as  our 
culture  grows  and  our  experience  of 
life  widens  and  deepens,  we  become 
less  and  less  inclined  to  set  up  narrow, 
or  even  positive,  ideals,  conformity  to 
which  we  demand  from  those  to  whom 
we  give  our  admiration  and  from 
whom  we  are  willing  to  learn.  Per- 
haps the  only  vital  test  of  true  living, 
of  the  development  of  character  on 
the  right  lines,  the  one  way  by  which 
we  can  tell  that  the  waters  are  sweet 
and  not  stagnant,  is  by  the  waning  of 
intolerance  and  the  waxing  of  charity. 
And  we  must  beware  of  seeking  to 
find  in  Marius  the  traits  which  could 
only  belong  to  his  anti-type.  But 
even  while  under  the  potent  charm 
of  Marius  as  he  is,  we  cannot  escape 
from  a  disturbing  consciousness  of  his 
limitations,  his  inadequacy  even  to 
fulfil  his  own  destiny.  There  is  some- 
thing lacking  on  the  human  side  to 
make  him  convincing  as  a  living  per- 
sonality. We  feel  that  he  was  old 
without  ever  having  been  young,  and 
that  in  many  senses  he  never  really 
lived  at  all. 

Were  we  called  upon  to  criticise, 
the  words  shadowy,  unreal,  visionary, 
ineffectual,  would  at  once  rise  to  our 
lips.  At  times  we  feel  almost  im- 
patient and  inclined  to  ask  when  he 
will  come  to  some  decision,  when 
begin  to  live.  He  was  an  intel- 
lectual aristocrat,  and  occupied  a 
stall  in  the  theatre  of  life  which  he 
never  left  to  mingle  with  the  actors. 
We  pine  for  him  to  do  something, 
even  something  wrong ;  but  he  re- 
mains throughout  a  sensitive  plate, 


as  it  were,  an  excellent  reflector  and 
exponent,  but  incapable  of  taking  a 
side  and  never  rising  even  to  the 
height  of  pessimism.  He  never  leaves 
the  Happy  Valley,  never  makes  the 
choice  of  life.  He  is  for  ever  taking 
in  vague  and  indefinite  impressions, 
never  giving  out  definite  ones.  The 
nearest  approach  we  get  to  a  sum- 
ming up,  a  philosophy  of  life,  is 
in  certain  rare  and  ecstatic  moods, 
exquisitely  reflected  in  Pater's  ornate 
prose,  in  which  he  receives  flashes  of 
the  universal  harmony  and  is  stirred 
to  his  being's  depths  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  in  some  way  he  can 
neither  explain  nor  understand  nor 
even  always  feel,  "all's  right  with 
the  world."  He  is  a  negative  not 
a  positive,  to  adopt  M.  Desjardin's 
classification.  His  only  passion  was 
for  truth,  and  even  that  towards  the 
end  he  scarcely  hoped  to  find.  He 
was  too  delicately  responsive  to  every 
aspect  of  beauty,  too  sensitive  to 
every  side  of  truth,  ever  to  rise  to 
the  height  of  synthesis;  too  easily 
penetrated  superficially  by  certain 
elements  of  truth  to  be  permeated 
and  possessed  by  truth  as  a  whole ; 
too  much  on  the  look-out  for  small 
thrills  of  joy  and  beauty  to  become 
instinct  with  its  spirit  as  the  main- 
spring of  his  life.  He  was  ever 
searching,  never  finding,  although  to 
say  this  is  only  to  say  that  he  was 
a  philosopher. 

The  only  fragment  of  belief  in 
which  he  found  some  ultimate  com- 
fort was  in  a  variation  of  Socrates's 
daemon, — a  spiritual  companion  ever 
at  hand  to  counsel  and  direct  the 
submissive  soul,  an  inner  voice  of 
light  and  leading  which  is,  after  all, 
little  more  than  the  glorified  con- 
science of  the  modern  rationalist. 

Although  so  delighting  in  physical 
sunshine,  spiritually  he  never  rose  out 
of  the  twilight.  It  is  the  beauty  of 
decay,  of  lingering  among  tombs  that 


196 


Pater  s  Philosophy  of  Life. 


is  wafted  to  us  in  the  book, — nay 
more,  it  is  the  beauty  of  death.  His 
negative  attitude  of  tolerance  implies 
a  receptivity  wide  enough  to  include, 
as  a  part  of  life,  even  death  itself, 
fusing  in  the  fervent  heat  of  his  soul's 
fire  all  irreconcilable  elements.  He 
was  a  thinker,  a  philosopher,  a 
dreamer  of  dreams, —  the  very  oppo- 
site of  the  modern  man.  And  in 
nothing  is  his  filial  resemblance  more 
marked,  for  in  Pater  himself  we  have 
an  extreme  example  of  the  medieval 
survival  in  culture. 

Marius  was  not  (with  all  deference 
to   his    creator)    even  an    Epicurean, 
except  in  that  he  was  more  strongly 
attracted  by  the  tenets  of  that  school 
than  by  any  other  of  the  philosophic 
systems  of  his  time.     If  we  consider 
briefly  some  of  the  salient  features  in 
this  school,  we  shall  readily  perceive 
how  great  is  the  discrepancy,  even  in 
essentials,  between  their  teaching  and 
the  attitude  of  Marius.     The  latter, 
although    called   an    Epicurean,    was 
almost     equally     attracted     by    the 
Stoicism    of    Marcus    Aurelius,    and 
later  by  the  Christianity  of  Cornelius 
and    Cecilia.     The  very  fact  of    this 
susceptibility     to      other      influences 
differentiates    him    from   the    Epicu- 
rean     of      history,      whose     leading 
characteristic    was   an  almost  servile 
acceptance   of   the  founder's  dogmas. 
While   Platonists,  Stoics,  and  others, 
grew  and  developed,  Epicureans  stood 
still    in  superstitious  stagnation,   the 
very      opposite     of     Marius,      whose 
open   mind    can    scarcely   be   denied. 
Further,  the  orthodox  Epicurean  re- 
jected once  and  for  all   any  concern 
with  death,  which  for  Marius,  as  we 
have  seen,  always  possessed  a  peculiar 
fascination. 

Again,  Epicurus  lived  in  the  present 
and  enjoyed  the  here  and  now,  while 
Marius  never  could  shake  off  the 
influence  of  the  past.  Instead  of 
possessing  his  past,  he  was  rather 


possessed  by  it,  and  this  to  an  al- 
most unhealthy  extent.  It  was  for 
ever  coming  and  laying  its  ghostly 
finger  upon  him,  preventing  him 
from  adequately  realising  and  parti- 
cipating in  the  present. 

Epicurus  too,  was  more  robust, 
more  democratic  even  than  Marius, 
as  in  his  view  of  pleasure  there  was 
room  for  the  poor,  if  just  and  wise, 
while  for  Marius  beauty  in  externals 
was  a  necessity.  He  enjoyed  high 
thinking  but  not  plain  living,  and  his 
view  of  the  simple  life  was  a  compre- 
hensive one.  He  bid  his  disciples  avoid 
all  culture,  and  condemned  aesthetic 
discussions  as  only  fit  for  sensitive 
and  sentimental  souls.  Marius,  as  we 
know,  was  deeply  cultured  and  de- 
lighted in  dialectic. 

In  yet  another  respect  do  we  find 
that  Marius  falls  short  of  the  Epicu- 
rean    standard.       Epicureanism     ap- 
proaches closely  to  rationalism  in  that 
the   trained    sage   has    acquired    the 
power  of  discrimination  between  real 
and    apparent   pleasures,   and    almost 
instinctively  rejects  the  latter  without 
regret.       Only     the     learners     were 
troubled    by    conscious    difficulty    of 
choice,    and    in    this    Marius    never 
completed  his  novitiate.     He  was,  as 
we  have  seen,  ever  distracted  by  the 
difficulty  of  choice,  of  decision,  by  his 
morbidly     acute    perception    of    the 
friction  in  life, — the  painful  effort  to 
reconcile  life  as  he  found  it  with  the 
beautiful  inner  life  that  he  would  fain 
have    lived,    undisturbed    by    conflict 
with  hard   realities.      His  failure  to 
find  the  harmony  for  which  he  longed, 
or  to  solve  in  any  way  satisfactory  to 
himself  the  problem  of  good  and  evil 
is  accountable  for  the  tragedy  of  his 
life ;   and  that,   in  its  lack  of  work 
done   and    dearth    of    even    definite 
philosophical   conclusions,   we   cannot 
but  feel   to  have   been  greater  than 
the  tragedy  of  his  death,  in  which  the 
writer  appears  to  see  a  sort  of  atone- 


Pater's  Philosophy  of  Life. 


197 


ment  in  the  sacrifice  of  his  life  for  his 
friend.  He  died,  however,  as  he  had 
lived,  and  the  beauty  of  the  sacrifice 
is  marred  by  the  fact  (artistically  in 
accordance  with  his  characteristic  in- 
decision) that  it  was  the  outcome  of 
mere  accident,  and  the  direct  result  of 
his  way  of  drifting  with  the  tide  and 
offering  no  resistance  to  circumstances. 
Although  we  are  distinctly  given  to 
understand  that  he  did  not  afterwards 
regret  the  consequences  of  his  in- 
action, it  yet  renders  the  sacrifice 
a  negative  rather  than  a  positive 
virtue. 

In  perhaps  nothing  else  was  Marius 
so  Epicurean  as  in  this  very  quality 
of  passiveness.  The  teacher's  con- 
ception even  of  pleasure  was  negative, 
and  consisted  rather  in  the  absence  of 
pain  than  in  any  active  enjoyment. 
It  was  essentially  a  middle-aged 
philosophy  ;  there  was  no  room  for 
action  or  growth,  and  therefore  none 
for  youth  in  such  a  system.  It  was 
a  state  of  blessedness  that  was  sought, 
— to  be,  not  to  do.  In  estimating 
and  attempting  to  understand  the 
Epicurean  point  of  view  we  have 
perhaps  failed  to  take  sufficiently  into 
account  the  feeble  health  of  Epicurus 
himself,  more  especially  as  it  influenced 
his  definition  of  pleasure,  which  must 
in  every  case  of  necessity  be  co- 
terminous with  the  capacity  of  the 
subject. 

Pater,  too,  was  the  victim  of  deli- 
cate health,  which  he  has,  perforce, 
transmitted  to  his  children.  He  was 
so  far  removed  from  the  healthy 
human  type, — he  touched  life  himself 
at  so  few  points — that  the  power  to 
generate  such  a  type  was  inevitably 
out  of  his  reach. 

What  then,  makes  the  charm  of 
this  book,  and  what,  if  anything 
positive,  can  we  learn  from  the  gentle, 
ineffectual  Marius  ? 

First,  it  is  one  of  the  few  books  of 
our  time  which  possesses  an  atmo- 


sphere of  its  own.  It  has  a  rich, 
original  flavour  as  of  old  wine.  With 
its  beautiful  historic  setting,  its  local 
colour,  its  stateliness  and  distinction 
of  style,  the  soothing  serenity  of  its 
gentle  flow,  it  is  of  especial  value  to 
us  in  these  days  of  crudity  and  hurry. 
Instinct  not  with  the  spirit  of  our  age 
but  with  the  breath  of  long  ago,  it 
supplies  a  needed  antidote  to  our 
over  -  civilisation.  As  we  follow 
Marius  in  his  external  life  and  are 
companions  of  his  walks  about  the 
Rome  of  Marcus  Aurelius  in  the 
early  dawn  of  the  Christian  Era,  as 
well  as  in  his  spiritual  progress,  we 
feel  that  in  both  senses  it  is  good  for 
us  to  be  here.  There  is  in  the  book 
a  freshness  as  of  early  morning, — as 
if  the  writer  had  been  able  to  arrest 
and  make  his  own  the  glory  of  those 
morning  hours  of  golden  sunshine  in 
which  Marius  so  delighted  to  steep 
both  body  and  spirit,  and  in  which 
he  could  do  his  best  intellectual  work. 

If  Marius  has  no  direct  achieve- 
ment, no  definite  advice  to  offer  us, 
we  can  yet  learn  much  by  implication 
from  the  story  of  his  life.  We  can 
learn  the  danger  of  regarding  one's 
own  personality  as  the  pivot  of  the 
Universe,  of  this  perpetual  "  inspec- 
tion of  OUT  own  mental  secretions." 
We  can  learn  the  truth  of  the  Ger- 
man proverb,  Probiren  geht  ^tber 
studiren,  that  it  is  better  to  stand 
forth  and  take  one's  place  bravely  in 
the  battle  of  life,  willing  to  share 
both  pleasure  and  pain,  and  that  it  is 
sometimes,  nay  always,  wiser  to  take 
a  side,  even  though  it  be  the  wrong 
one,  than  to  squander  intellectual 
power  in  the  attempt  to  cheat  oneself 
into  believing  that  inaction  is  better 
than  the  risk  of  possible  or  even 
probable  mistakes. 

Also  we  can  learn  not  to  expect 
too  much  of  life.  Both  Epicurus  and 
Marius  fell  into  the  fatal  error  of 
imagining  that  pleasure  and  not  work, 


198 


Pater's  Philosophy  of  Life. 


not  the  building  of  character,  should 
be  man's  goal.  They  attempted  to 
build  upon  a  rotten  foundation,  a 
fabric  of  dreams  ;  what  wonder  that 
they  found  therein  no  rest  or  abiding 
peace  1  They  failed  to  recognise  that 
pleasure  is  but  an  incident  in  life, — 
"  a  bounty  of  Nature,  a  grace  of  God" 
— and  that  in  making  it  the  conscious 
aim  they  robbed  it  of  its  delicate 
bloom  and  lost  its  essence,  which 
must  consist  not  merely  in  the  ab- 
sence of  pain,  but  in  the  healthy 
reaction  from  work  done. 

Beyond  the  acquisition  of  know- 
ledge Marius  never  did  any  work,  and 
for  neglecting  a  law  of  Nature  he  paid 
the  penalty  in  a  starved  emotional  life 
and  the  incapacity  for  other  than 
tepid  sensations.  He  never  attained 
even  to  the  unconscious,  impulsive 
action  of  the  healthy  man.  He  well 
illustrates  the  extreme  academic  atti- 
tude, which  is  a  paralysing  one. 
While  perhaps  the  average  healthy 
man  thinks  too  little,  Marius  proves 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  thinking 
too  much,  and  that  there  exist  certain 
speculative  cul-de-sacs  which  in  the 
world  of  thought  occupy  much  the 
same  position  that  perpetual  motion 
and  flying-machines  have  hitherto 
held  in  the  world  of  matter.  The 
intellectual  life  must  justify  itself  by 
at  least  some  measure  of  practice; 
otherwise  we  have  but  one-sided  de- 
velopment; there  are  but  drones  in 


the  hive.  The  self-conscious  are  not 
those  upon  whom  we  can  depend  for 
our  best  work,  and  what  a  sad  pros- 
pect for  the  race  if  we  had  many 
Mariuses  among  us  ! 

But  we  must  not  forget  that  he, 
like  us  all,  was  the  victim  of  circum- 
stance. It  was  his  misfortune  never 
to  be  forced  into  contact  with  the 
realities  of  life.  Had  he  travelled, 
had  he  married,  or,  above  all,  had  it 
been  necessary  for  him  to  earn  his 
bread,  he  would  have  been  a  thousand 
times  the  gainer,  and  his  ripe  scholar- 
ship and  rich  artistic  nature  might 
have  blossomed  and  borne  fruit. 

But  in  spite  of  all  that  he  lacked 
there  is  yet  about  him  a  gentle  dig- 
nity, a  power  through  repose  which 
binds  us  to  him  with  a  subtle  spell, 
and  makes  us  feel  that  his  failure 
was  not  his  own  fault  so  much  as 
the  inevitable  issue  of  his  too  sensi- 
tive nature,  and  that,  being  Marius, 
and  Pater's  child,  he  could  not  have 
been  other  than  he  was.  His  scorn 
for  dogma  and  his  open  mind  alike 
command  our  respect,  while  we  recog- 
nise and  regret  that  his  possession 
of  the  faults  of  these  very  qualities 
hindered  any  result  in  action  or 
conduct.  Perhaps  he  showed  true 
greatness  in  his  perception  that  no 
single  philosophy  or  religion  can  be 
more  than  an  arc  in  the  circle  of 
truth. 

F.  E.  H. 


199 


WHERE    THE    PELICAN    BUILDS    ITS    NEST. 


THE  sun  shines  on  no  more  desolate 
or  dreary  country  than  the  Great 
Never  Never  Land  of  Australia, 
whose  grim  deserts  have  claimed 
many  a  victim  to  the  cause  of 
knowledge. 

The  explorer's  life  in  these  deadly 
solitudes  is  not  one  of  many  plea- 
sures. Rather  do  unpleasant  possi- 
bilities for  ever  obtrude  upon  his 
weary  brain,  until  he  is  well  nigh 
distraught,  or  at  least  reduced  to  a 
morbid  state  of  melancholy  in  keep- 
ing with  his  miserable  surroundings. 
Little  wonder  is  it  that  disaster  so 
often  attends  the  traveller  in  those 
lonely  lands.  The  strongest  will 
becomes  weakened  by  the  insidious 
influences  of  the  country,  and  the 
most  buoyant  spirit  is  quickly  dulled. 
All  Nature  seems  to  conspire  against 
him.  The  stunted  mulga  and  mallee 
shrubs  afford  no  welcome  shade  ; 
they  dot  the  sand-wastes  in  mono- 
tonous even  growths,  and  the  eye  is 
wearied  by  their  everlasting  motionless 
presence.  The  saltbush  clumps  and 
spinifex  patches  conceal  hideous  rep- 
tiles. Snakes  and  centipedes  crawl 
across  the  track ;  scaly  lizards,  venom- 
ous scorpions,  ungainly  bungarrows, 
and  a  host  of  nameless  pests  are  always 
near  to  torture  and  distract.  Even 
the  birds  are  imbued  with  a  pro- 
found solemnity  that  adds  still  more 
to  the  wanderer's  depression.  The 
pelican  stands  owlishly  in  his  path 
as  if  to  guard  from  intrusion  its 
undiscovered  home  ;  the  carrion-crow 
with  its  ominous  scream  is  for  ever 
circling  overhead  ;  and  the  mopoke's 
dull  monotone  is  as  a  calling  from  a 
shadowy  world. 


With  this  introductory  apology,  as 
it  were,  for  my  plainly  written  narra- 
tive, I  give  you  a  story  of  travel,  a 
note  from  a  wanderer's  log,  a  mere 
incident  of  many,  from  that  land  of 
interminable  sand- wastes. 

We  were  three  months  out  on  an 
expedition  from  Kalgoorlie  to  the 
Gulf  country,  and  fortune  had  been 
friendly  during  that  time,  leading  us 
to  claypans,  native  wells,  and  water- 
holes,  opportunely  as  our  store  of  the 
precious  fluid  gave  out.  Our  course 
was  as  a  triumphal  march,  and  my 
old  comrade,  Mac,  who  had  often 
endured  the  horrid  pangs  of  thirst 
in  similar  tracts,  shook  his  head 
doubtfully  at  our  good  luck.  "  We'll 
hae  tae  suffer  for  this  yet,"  he  would 
say,  and  I  could  not  but  think  there 
might  be  truth  in  the  words. 

My  party  consisted  of  four  in  all ; 
Phillip  Moresby,  a  young  Cambridge 
graduate,  was  the  geologist  and  my 
right-hand  man.  Mac  and  Stewart 
were  two  muscular  Scotsmen  who  had 
served  me  in  good  stead  on  many 
previous  journeys.  They  were  im- 
bued with  the  dare-devil  spirit  of  the 
rover  and  were  content  to  follow,  or, 
as  they  put  it,  to  "risk  their  car- 
ceeses,"  wherever  I  might  lead. 

Our  equipment  was  dangerously 
simple  ;  five  pack  horses  and  two 
camels  bore  our  complete  outfit,  and 
considering  that  our  mining  imple- 
ments included  a  boring-plant  and 
"  dolly  "  arrangement,  it  may  be 
understood  that  the  necessaries  of 
life  were  cut  down  to  a  minimum. 

The  two  best  horses,  Sir  John 
and  Reprieve,  carried  the  bulky 
water-bags  only  ;  the  others, — poor 


200 


Where  the  Pelican  Builds  its  Nest 


miserable  specimens  of  horseflesh, 
emaciated  and  worn  by  their  long 
march  and  never  varying  diet  of 
spinifex  and  saltbush  -  tips  —  paced 
wearily  on  with  jolting  burdens  of 
tinned  meats  (tinned  dog  in  the  bush- 
man's  vocabulary),  flour  and  extracts, 
— the  sum  total  of  the  explorer's 
needs. 

The  camels  were  strong  and  wiry. 
Slavery  had  been  with  me  on  a 
former  expedition  ;  we  knew  his 
powers  to  a  nicety,  and  he  never 
failed  us.  Misery  was  a  young  and 
fiery  bull  that  needed  much  watch- 
ing. He  was  rather  vicious  and 
.surly,  and  not  infrequently  had  to 
be  coaxed  along  by  the  aid  of  nose- 
tweezers  ;  yet  he  was  a  powerful 
and  enduring  animal,  and  bore  his 
burden  well,  if  less  patiently  than 
his  neighbour. 

On  the  morning  of  August  22nd, 
1898,  we  were  camped  in  latitude 
26°  37'  i3",  longitude  128°  9'  7",  by 
the  side  of  a  much  evaporated  soak — 
the  residue  of  a  previous  rainfall, 
but  how  long  previous  was  beyond 
conjecture. 

We  had  reached  the  eastern  limit 
of  our  march  and  found  no  auriferous 
country.  Phil,  it  is  true,  had  accu- 
mulated a  collection  of  water-worn 
coloured  pebbles  which  he  fondly 
called  rubies,  and  his  joy  was  shared 
by  Mac  and  Stewart  who  swore  by 
Phil's  knowledge.  I  called  his  speci- 
mens garnets,  worth,  perhaps,  a  few 
shilling  an  ounce,  but  then,  my  ex- 
perience was  general  and  at  best  but 
superficial,  and  I  did  not  trouble  my 
head  about  the  specific  gravity,  which 
factor  was  the  all  important  one  to 
Phil.  However,  at  this  camp  we 
held  a  council  to  decide  the  course 
of  our  further  journeyings.  The 
country  in  the  vicinity  was  a  vast 
rolling  plain  strewn  with  ironstone 
rubble  and  conglomerate  boulders ; 
but  in  the  far  eastward  distance  a 


dim  hazy  outline  seemed  to  interrupt 
the  horizon's  even  curve,  and  I  noted 
in  my  log-book  :  "  Viewed  at  a  dis- 
tance of  about  twenty  miles  mountain 
range,  apparently  basalt  formation, 
sides  precipitous,  district  rolling  sand 
plain." 

We  named  the  soak  Doubtful 
Water,  which  title  had  a  double 
significance ;  it  could  not  be  relied 
upon  to  retain  its  fluid  contents,  and 
it  also,  in  a  sense,  described  our 
plans  at  that  time,  for  they  were  very 
doubtful  indeed. 

Our  expedition  had  been  under- 
taken in  the  hope  of  acquiring  geo- 
graphical knowledge  of  an  unknown 
tract  of  country ;  but  then,  like  many 
others,  I  had  dreamed  of  flowing 
rivers  and  beautiful  green  valleys, 
grassy  downs  and  luxurious  forests. 
I  had  hoped  also  to  encounter  auri- 
ferous country,  which  was  my  reason 
for  transporting  unwieldy  machinery 
over  those  barren  sands.  To  be 
strictly  truthful,  I  should  say  that 
it  was  really  the  supposed  Eldorado 
of  the  Interior  that  had  been  my 
visionary  incentive. 

And  now  we  had  travelled  across 
country  full  five  hundred  miles,  to 
find  only  sand  and  spinifex,  saltbush 
and  mallee  scrub,  ironstone  rubble, 
and  barren  quartz  boulders !  My 
disappointment  was  keen,  and  Mac 
did  not  improve  my  good  temper 
when  he  caustically  asked,  "An" 
whaur's  the  land  o'  promise  noo  ? "  I 
looked  at  the  camels  listlessly  chewing 
the  fibrous  ends  of  saltbush  clumps, 
then  at  the  skeleton  frames  of  the 
horses  as  they  lay  gasping  in  the 
sand,  too  weary  to  eat.  "  You've 
got  the  rubies,  Mac,"  I  said  quizzi- 
cally ;  "  what  more  do  you  want  1 " 

"  We'll  shift  our  course  to  north- 
ward, boys,"  I  said  that  evening,  as 
we  gazed  at  each  other  through  the 
smoke  of  our  camp-fire.  "  Hang  it 
all,"  said  Phil,  who  was  youthful  and 


Where  the  Pelican  Builds  its  Nest. 


201 


enterprising,  "  won't  you  let  us  have 
a  look  at  the  mountains  ? "  "  Moun- 
tain be  jiggered,"  muttered  Stewart ; 
"  A  dinna  want  another  spike  in  the 
back."  He  referred  to  a  previous 
experience  of  his  when  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  Leopold  Mountains  in  the 
North-West. 

"There  is  not  much  to  be  gained 
so  far  as  I  can  see,"  I  answered. 
"  The  natives  will  probably  be  numer- 
ous, and  as  a  matter  of  course,  un- 
friendly— "  "  But  the  formations  ?  " 
interrupted  Phil  eagerly.  "  Basalt, 
or  diorite,  or  sandstone  —  nothing 
gold-bearing,"  I  replied  rather  sharply. 
I  had  mapped  out  a  course  at  the 
start  in  which  the  128th  degree  of 
longitude  was  to  be  the  extent  of  our 
easting ;  we  had  arrived  at  that 
bearing  now,  and  having  encountered 
nothing  but  the  most  miserable  sand- 
country,  there  was  certainly  little 
encouragement  to  proceed. 

However,  Phil  was  most  anxious 
to  explore  the  shadowy  ranges  ;  he 
had  never  seen  a  mountain  in  West 
Australia  before,  he  explained.  Mac 
and  Stewart  now  supported  his  wish 
with  much  ingenious  argument,  the 
latter  having  apparently  forgotten  his 
prejudices  in  that  direction,  and  in 
a  weak  moment  I  consented  to  their 
entreaties. 

An  extract  from  my  log  dated 
August  23rd,  1898,  reads  as  follows  : 
"  Decided  to  explore  mountain  on 
horizon.  Started  9  a.m.  Course  due 
East.  Slavery  and  Misery  shaping 
well,  but  horses  failing  rapidly."  Be- 
fore we  had  gone  ten  miles  one  of 
the  horses  had  to  be  shot ;  it  was 
literally  too  weak  to  stand,  and  the 
poor  brute's  agony  was  being  but 
needlessly  prolonged.  Slavery  re- 
ceived much  additional  burden  in 
consequence,  but  he  merely  looked 
sorrowfully  at  me  as  I  pulled  on 
his  saddle-ropes,  and  continued  his 
melancholy  march. 


As  we  approached  our  new  objec- 
tive, the  country  gradually  became 
altered  until  when  within  a  few  miles 
of  the  mountain,  the  surface  appeared 
strewn  with  great  ironstone  boulders 
of  peculiar  shape;  and  deep  dry 
ravines,  half  filled  with  iron-sand  silt, 
tore  up  the  ground  in  long  parallel 
courses. 

It  was  indeed  a  strange  sight  and 
I  marvelled  greatly  at  the  extra- 
ordinary geological  features  shown. 
But  we  were  yet  to  be  more  sur- 
prised ;  as  we  neared  the  base  of  the 
mountain,  that  now  presented  to  us 
a  face  of  somewhat  precipitous  ascent, 
great  "blows"  of  basalt  rock  reared 
high  above  the  ground,  and  deep  pit- 
like  cavities  penetrated  the  iron 
formations,  marking  a  semi-circular 
line  of  indentations.  And  in  these 
strange  craters  a  greenish  yellow  fluid 
seethed  and  foamed,  sending  up  thin 
columns  of  pungent  blue  vapour  that 
rose  through  the  quivering  heat-haze 
and  dissolved  high  above  our  heads. 
Phil's  explanation  of  the  phenomenon 
was  elaborate  and  by  no  means  un- 
interesting. He  analysed  the  fluid 
and  found  it  to  be  essentially  salt, 
yet  holding  in  solution  much  iron  and 
a  considerable  percentage  of  copper. 
The  cauldrons,  however,  varied  con- 
siderably in  size  as  in  the  nature  of 
their  contents.  In  some  the  liquid 
literally  boiled,  and  surrounding  these 
a  thick  crust  of  salt  and  lime 
heightened  the  pit-levels  several  feet. 
Others  maintained  merely  a  tepid 
heat,  and  they  were  proved  to  con- 
tain much  less  foreign  matter  than 
their  near  neighbours  ;  their  depths, 
also,  averaged  but  nine  feet,  as 
against  a  sounding  of  twenty- seven 
feet  obtained  in  the  hottest  and 
widest  cavity. 

We  camped  alongside  the  least 
odoriferous  of  the  cauldrons,  and  now 
a  serious  difficulty  arose ;  there  was 
here  not  even  the  much  maligned 


202 


Where  the  Pelican  Builds  its  Nest. 


saltbush  to  provide  feed  for  our  weary 
beasts ;  not  even  a  thorny  patch  of 
spinifex  could  be  seen.  Far  up  on 
the  mountain  side,  a  scraggy  forest  of 
stunted  Eucalypti  found  root,  but  no 
other  form  of  vegetation  was  in  sight. 
Our  camp  was  fixed  on  a  solid  iron 
base. 

"  The  puir  animiles  canna  eat  iron- 
stane,"  said  Mac,  sorrowfully  survey- 
ing the  scene.  "  They'll  have  to  fast 
again,  to-night,"  I  replied ;  "  we'll 
see  what  can  be  done  in  the  morn- 
ing." The  poor  brutes  had  fasted  so 
often  before  that  they  seemed  to  have 
grown  quite  accustomed  to  the  ordeal ; 
and  only  sniffed  at  the  sand  dejectedly, 
before  laying  their  tired  bodies  down 
to  rest. 

On  the  following  morning  we  pre- 
pared to  thoroughly  explore  the  moun- 
tain. This  was  not  to  be  such  an 
easy  process  as  we  imagined,  for  its 
extent  was  much  greater  than  we  had 
at  first  calculated.  It  stretched  back- 
wards for  a  considerable  distance, 
presenting  to  the  north  and  south 
a  saddle-back  ridge  connecting  two 
dome-like  elevations.  On  the  side  on 
which  we  were  camped  masses  of 
ironstone  rubble  banked  the  base  to 
a  considerable  height,  and  extended 
far  out  into  the  plains.  From  our 
tent  the  ascent  rose  very  gradually 
for  a  Jong  distance,  then  sharply 
rising  it  culminated  in  one  of  the 
great  domes.  The  lower  altitudes 
were  thinly  feathered  by  mallee 
shrubs  and  a  few  sandalwood  bushes, 
but  higher  up  the  solid  rock  appeared, 
gaunt  and  bare. 

We  hobbled  the  horses  and  camels 
and  turned  them  loose  to  graze  on 
any  vegetable  growth  they  might  find, 
which  by  the  appearance  of  the  coun- 
try promised  to  be  rather  an  unsatis- 
factory quest.  Then  we  set  off  on 
our  journey  of  discovery. 

Stewart  carried  the  water-bag,  filled 
with  distilled  fluid  from  one  of  the 


cauldrons.  Mac  bore  a  lengthy  coil  of 
rope  on  his  shoulders,  to  be  used  in 
case  of  emergency,  and  he  also  gripped 
tightly  his  double-barrelled  breech- 
loader. Phil  burdened  himself  with 
a  pick  and  a  prospector's  hammer, 
for  tapping  the  rock  and  obtaining 
samples.  I  carried  only  my  sextant 
and  my  rifle;  the  former  instrument 
is  indispensable  to  the  traveller,  the 
latter  is  always  useful.  And  so  off 
we  went,  never  dreaming  of  disaster, 
without  even  a  piece  of  damper  in 
our  pockets.  We  were  not  used  to 
mountaineering  in  West  Australia. 

Half  an  hour's  labour  brought  us 
to  the  belt  of  scrub ;  and  now  we 
saw  that  the  ascent  of  the  mountain 
was  to  be  no  child's  play,  for  the 
summit  towered  yet  high  above  us. 

As  we  passed  through  the  leafless 
forest,  which  formed  no  shade  yet 
obscured  our  vision,  a  little  incident 
occurred  that  altered  the  whole  day's 
plans,  and  entirely  changed  the  object 
of  our  excursion.  Stewart,  who  bore 
the  heaviest  load,  came  last,  and 
we  had  barely  penetrated  midway 
through  the  brush  when  he  bellowed 
out,  "  A  crocodile,  Phil,  a  crocodile  !  " 

Phil  turned  with  alacrity,  as  did  we 
all ;  and  Mac  nearly  strangled  himself 
in  his  endeavours  to  extricate  his 
neck  from  the  cumbrous  coil  of  rope, 
that  he  might  level  his  gun  at  the 
monster.  Stewart  had  fallen  con- 
siderably to  the  rear,  and  when  we 
returned  we  found  him  madly  floun- 
dering through  the  brush,  in  the 
wake  of  an  enormous  bungarrow,  that 
flopped  its  ungainly  limbs  energeti- 
cally in  its  endeavours  to  escape.  A 
bungarrow,  I  should  mention,  is  a 
fearsome  looking  animal,  half  reptile 
half  saurian,  that  has  its  home  in  the 
desert  interior.  Its  body  underneath 
is  of  a  dirty  yellow  colour,  similar  to 
the  ironstone  sand ;  and  its  back  is 
sheathed  in  horny  scales  that  easily 
deflect  a  bullet.  The  mouth  is  enor- 


Where  the  Pelican  Builds  its  Nest. 


203 


mous,  as  is  also  the  tail  which  tapers 
to  a  very  fine  point.  Altogether 
Stewart's  exclamation,  —  "a  croco- 
dile " — described  the  appearance  of 
the  animal  sufficiently  well. 

"  Take  care,  Stewart,"  I  warned ; 
"if  he  bites,  you  won't  forget  it  in 
a  hurry." 

"  Nae  fear  o'  that,"  he  shouted 
back,  and  disappeared  after  his  elusive 
prey,  closely  followed  by  Mac,  who 
made  repeated  efforts  to  sight  his 
blunderbuss  on  the  brute,  but  without 
avail. 

Phil  and  I  waited  for  some  con- 
siderable time  for  the  return  of  the 
adventurers.  To  such  a  level  does 
Australian  travel  reduce  the  mind, 
that  I  fear  we  were  speculating 
whether  that  bungarrow  would  be 
edible  !  The  merciless  sun,  however, 
soon  brought  our  thoughts  back  to  us; 
we  were  absolutely  melting. 

"What  has  become  of  those  beg- 
gars ? "  said  Phil,  irritably.  At  that 
moment  a  loud  report  crashed  through 
the  air,  causing  even  the  twigs  to 
quiver,  and  died  away  in  long  trem- 
bling waves  of  sound.  We  waited 
expectantly,  but  no  voices  heralded 
our  companions'  return.  Soon  another 
report  thundered  along  the  mountain 
side,  and  I  groaned  in  despair.  "They 
are  bushed,  Phil,"  I  cried,  "and  we 
cannot  locate  the  sound."  Hastily  I 
discharged  my  rifle  in  the  hope  that 
Mac's  sharp  ears  would  catch  the  first 
decisive,  penetrating  report  of  the 
exploding  cordite,  before  the  mountain 
drowned  it  in  reverberating  echoes. 
But  it  was  in  vain  ;  rarely  indeed  can 
sound  be  located  in  such  circumstances. 
The  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle  is  eclipsed 
by  the  rolling  echoes  that  follow,  and 
the  point  of  discharge  can  at  best  be 
but  a  dangerous  guess.  From  our 
present  altitude  we  could  trace  the 
flat  expressionless  desert  fading  away 
in  the  distance.  We  had  rounded  a 
bluff  in  our  ascent,  and  so  were 


debarred  a  view  of  our  camp ;  and 
this  fact  would  seriously  confuse  the 
wanderers. 

We  heard  no  more  shots,  and  con- 
cluded that  the  bungarrow-hunters 
had  realised  the  hopelessness  of  sig- 
nalling in  such  a  manner. 

"  I  guess,"  said  Phil,  "  we'll  move 
upwards ;  we  may  see  them  from  the 
top."  I  had  not  thought  of  that, — 
as  I  have  said,  prolonged  incarcera- 
tion amid  the  sand-plains  does  not 
sharpen  the  intellectual  faculties. 
"Mac  and  Stewart  have  probably 
sufficient  sense  to  do  likewise,"  I 
answered,  much  relieved,  and  we 
renewed  our  march.  A  little  later 
it  was  borne  upon  us  abruptly  that 
the  water-bag  as  well  as  Stewart  had 
disappeared.  We  had  both  acquired 
thirsts  of  elaborate  proportions,  and 
we  cursed  Stewart  and  his  crocodile 
heartily. 

The  sharp  edges  of  the  ironstone 
rubble  cut  deeply  into  our  much  worn 
boots,  and  lacerated  our  feet.  I  had 
not  reckoned  on  this ;  and  when  we 
emerged  into  the  open,  and  clambered 
over  the  bare  rocks  that  were  hot  as 
Nebuchadnezzar's  furnace,  I  deter- 
mined in  future  to  strictly  forbid 
mountain-exploration  in  West  Aus- 
tralia. 

After  another  hour  of  acute  effort 
we  drew  ourselves  painfully  to  the  top 
of  the  dome-like  culmination,  and 
looked  on  the  other  side.  A  wilder- 
ness of  dwarfed  Eucalypti  met  our 
gaze,  stretching  far  into  the  flats 
below  ;  the  mountain  fell  away  in  a 
gentle  slope, — so  different  from  the 
heights  we  had  scaled — and  merged 
into  the  plains  many  miles  beyond. 
Numerous  gullies,  once  cleft  by  rushing 
torrents,  marked  the  trend  of  the 
land ;  and  where  these  ancient  river- 
channels  united,  a  clump  of  lime-trees 
flourished,  denoting  clearly  a  water- 
bearing area  of  generous  kind. 

As  we  looked,  several  thin  wisps  of 


204 


Where  the  Pelican  Builds  its  Nest. 


smoke  appeared,  curling  lazily  up  into 
the  sky.  The  fires  had  evidently  just 
been  lighted. 

"  Natives,"  said  Phil,  laconically  ; 
and  indeed  there  was  little  occasion 
to  doubt  the  unmistakable  evidences 
of  the  Aborigine. 

"  I  hope  they  are  not  numerous," 
I  said  anxiously,  knowing  from  experi- 
ence that  a  few  natives  are  always 
easily  handled,  whereas  a  tribe  are 
almost  invariably  aggressively  disposed 
to  the  stranger.  We  withdrew  our- 
selves quickly  from  our  lofty  perch, 
and  a  strange  sight  we  must  have 
looked  to  those  poor  nomads,  as  we 
stood  outlined  against  the  clear  blue 
sky. 

About  fifty  feet  on  the  right  side  of 
the  dome,  towards  the  saddle-back 
ridge,  Phil  noticed  a  peculiar  break 
in  the  iron  crust,  and  he  picked  his 
steps  cautiously  forward  to  obtain  a 
few  samples  from  the  rock.  Our 
enthusiasm  had  cooled  considerably. 
The  mountain  certainly  afforded  indi- 
cations that  in  other  circumstances 
would  have  at  once  commanded  our 
closest  attention.  But  now  I  scanned 
the  hill- side  anxiously  for  trace  of 
my  lost  comrades,  and  revolved  in  my 
mind  the  awkward  probability  of  our 
horses  and  camels  being  stolen  by  the 
natives  in  our  absence. 

Phil  reached  the  outcrop,  and  after 
giving  a  few  preliminary  taps  on 
the  surface,  I  was  surprised  to  see 
him  disappear  beneath  two  great 
over-hanging  ledges.  They  evidently 
formed  a  kind  of  cave,  and  once 
inside,  Phil's  mallet  resounded  vigor- 
ously. Suddenly,  I  heard  him  give 
a  yell  of  delight,  but  at  the  same 
time  my  ears  caught  the  dim  echoes 
of  Mac's  gun.  I  looked  all  round  ; 
nothing  was  in  sight  on  our  side  of 
the  mountain,  the  camp  being  still 
hidden  by  a  tantalising  bluff.  I 
scrambled  up  the  dome's  smooth  sur- 
face, and  looked  on  the  northward 


slope.  Instinctively  my  eyes  sought 
the  native  camp  sheltered  among  the 
limes.  A  heavy  pall  hung  above  the 
trees,  the  result  of  the  numerous  fires 
now  alight.  I  could  distinguish  the 
dancing  flames,  and  here  and  there 
a  black  form  showed  clearly  against 
them,  but  nothing  further  appeared 
to  disturb  the  peace  of  the  landscape. 

I  turned  away,  feeling  somewhat 
disconcerted  at  the  prolonged  absence 
of  my  sturdy  henchmen.  Never  be- 
fore had  they  been  left  entirely  to 
their  own  resources,  and  though  they 
were  both  well-proved  bushmen,  I 
could  not  but  feel  anxious  for  their 
welfare. 

Before  I  could  descend  from  my 
perch,  Phil  clambered  up  beside  me. 
In  his  hand  he  carried  a  ragged  piece 
of  rusty  ironstone  quartz.  "  What 
do  you  think  that  is  ? "  he  enquired 
with  elation. 

"Rather  barren- looking  stuff,"  I 
replied,  turning  it  over  carelessly. 
Then  I  noticed  a  seam  of  sparkling 
yellow ;  eagerly  I  held  the  specimen 
to  the  light,  and  examined  it  closely  ; 
the  vein  was  clear  and  distinct ;  it 
was  assuredly  gold.  I  tried  the  knife- 
test,  and  was  convinced ;  the  yellow 
metal  was  soft  and  ductile. 

"  Well,  it's  not  pyrites  this  time  ? " 
spoke  Phil  triumphantly. 

"No,"  I  replied;  "you've  got  the 
genuine  article  now,  and  no  mistake. 
It  should  be  worth  more  than  the 
rubies." 

Another  loud  report  boomed  up 
towards  us,  and  Phil's  sharp  eyes  at 
once  detected  the  smoke  of  the  dis- 
charge. "  Why,  they  are  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  mountain  ! "  he 
cried.  The  puff  of  smoke  yet  lin- 
gered over  the  tops  of  the  mallee 
scrub  about  half  a  mile  beneath  us, 
and  soon  I  could  descry  the  wav- 
ing branches  that  betokened  the 
approach  of  the  wanderers.  We 
watched  closely.  Sometimes  Stew- 


Where  the  Pelican  Builds  its  Nest. 


205 


art's  helmet  would  show  through  the 
sparse  brush,  only  to  disappear  again 
as  the  vegetation  became  more  dense. 
What  they  were  doing  on  that  side 
of  the  hill,  I  could  not  imagine. 
They  seemed  to  be  making  rapid 
progress,  but  strangely  enough  were 
rounding  the  base  of  the  summit. 
Evidently  they  had  not  noticed  us. 

At  length  they  came  to  a  clear 
patch  of  rocky  ground,  and  we  saw 
to  our  astonishment  that  they  were 
running. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with 
them  ? "  cried  Phil  in  wonderment, 
his  newly  discovered  gold-mine  being 
for  the  time  completely  forgotten.  I 
unslung  my  rifle,  and  sent  three 
dum-dums  crashing  into  space.  The 
runners  came  to  a  halt,  and  looked 
all  round.  Then  they  must  have 
seen  us, — and  at  our  lofty  eminence, 
we  could  hardly  have  escaped  notice, 
had  they  looked  up  earlier;  their 
course  veered,  and  without  stopping 
a  moment  they  charged  wildly  to- 
wards us. 

And  now  a  startling  sight  appeared 
that  elicited  a  yell  of  horror  from 
Phil,  and  caused  me  again  to  hur- 
riedly unstrap  my  rifle.  Less  than 
two  hundred  yards  behind  our  com- 
panions, about  a  score  of  stalwart 
natives  came  bursting  through  the 
bush  in  hot  pursuit.  We  had  not 
noticed  them  before  because  of  their 
similarity  in  colour  to  the  scraggy 
brushwood  ;  but  as  they  bounded  into 
the  open,  their  black  bodies  showed 
up  clearly  against  the  dull  brown 
ironstone  rock.  That  they  were  on 
the  track  of  Mac  and  Stewart,  and 
with  hostile  intent,  was  obvious. 
Some  had  spears,  but  the  majority 
of  the  warriors  carried  only  their 
waddies,  or  clubs  ;  they  were  rapidly 
gaining  on  the  fugitives,  and  those 
with  spears  were  even  preparing  to 
discharge  them.  Mac  was  labouring 
heavily  under  his  coil  of  rope,  and 


his  gun  was  clutched  to  his  side. 
Stewart  still  gripped  his  water-bag, 
and  sped  along  behind  his  more 
portly  fellow-fugitive.  There  was 
no  time  for  consideration ;  hastily  I 
slid  the  sighting-bar  of  my  rifle  to 
six  hundred  yards,  and  peering  along 
the  barrel,  fired,  so  as  to  strike  the 
ground  in  front  of  the  oncoming 
horde.  A  cloud  of  sand  flew  up  from 
the  decayed  rock,  a  few  yards  ahead 
of  the  foremost  native,  showing  where 
the  ball  had  struck,  but  though  the 
pursuers  seemed  bewildered,  they 
continued  their  rush.  Again  I  fired, 
again  and  again  until  the  air  rent 
and  quivered  with  the  mighty  echoes 
that  thundered  out.  The  fugitives 
were  within  three  hundred  yards  of 
us,  and  a  faint  cheer  floated  up  the 
hill,  showing  how  truly  they  appre- 
ciated my  diversion. 

"  Drop  the  coil,  Mac  ! "  shouted 
Phil.  "Leave  the  water-bag,  Ste- 
wart ! "  His  instructions,  however, 
were  not  heard  or  wilfully  disobeyed, 
but  the  ardour  of  the  pursuit  was 
cooled ;  the  warriors  hesitated  when 
two  of  their  number  dropped  struck 
by  a  ricochet  bullet.  They  had  seen 
no  spear  or  boomerang  hurtling 
through  the  air,  and  could  not 
understand  such  tactics.  Another 
fusilade  completed  their  demoralisa- 
tion, and  they  turned  and  fled,  drag- 
ging their  wounded  brethren  after 
them  by  the  hair  of  the  head. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Mac  struggled 
up  the  rocky  elevation  on  which  we 
stood,  and  Stewart  followed  close 
after. 

"  A've  never  run  like  that  frae  ony 
man,"  spluttered  Mac,  as  he  crawled 
towards  us  on  hands  and  knees ;  and 
his  compatriot  behind  gave  a  deep 
grunt  of  sympathy.  "  If  the  black 
deevils  wad  only  fight  fair,"  continued 
Mac  indignantly,  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  "  we  wad  hae  had  a  tussle  for 
it." 


206 


Where  the  Pelican  Builds  its  Nest. 


"  Nae  mair  spikes  in  the  back  fur 
me,"  groaned  Stewart,  breathing 
heavily  as  he  swarmed  up  the  rock. 

Then  before  I  could  question  them 
in  any  way,  they  stood  together,  and 
glaring  towards  their  late  pursuers, 
hurled  out  imprecations  strange  and 
sulphurous. 

Meanwhile  Phil  silently  picked  up 
the  water-bag  which  Stewart  had 
deposited,  and  inverting  it  over  his 
head  gulped  down  great  mouthfuls 
of  the  contents.  He  suddenly  checked 
himself,  however,  and  throwing  down 
the  bag,  gasped  and  choked,  and 
finally  spat  out  several  small  stones. 
I  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  but 
Stewart,  who  had  heard  the  gurgling 
sound,  astonished  me  more ;  checking 
his  flow  of  expletives,  and  with  a  look 
of  horror  on  his  face,  he  seized  the 
water-bag.  "  Ye've  swallowed  ma 
rubies,"  he  howled,  and  Mac  who  had 
discharged  his  final  imprecation  at  the 
enemy,  turned  abruptly,  and  lifted  up 
his  voice  in  a  wail  of  sympathy. 
"  The  rubies  an'  ma  puir  wee  iguana," 
he  said  sorrowfully.  Phil  had  now 
recovered  himself,  and  picking  up  the 
small  stones,  he  handed  them  to 
Stewart  without  comment.  Explana- 
tions followed,  and  the  experiences  of 
the  adventuresome  pair  were  detailed 
with  telling  force. 

"We  lost  the  bungarrow,"  began 
Mac  ;  "  it  ran  in  between  twa  rocks, 
an'  only  left  its  tail  sticking  oot,  an' 
we  pu'd  an'  pu'd  at  that  but  he  was 
ow'r  muckle  for  us  " — here  he  paused 
to  sigh  regretfully,  then  continued  his 
narrative. 

It  appeared  that  when  they  had 
realised  themselves  bushed,  they  kept 
moving  along  the  belt  of  scrub  in  the 
hope  to  come  upon  us,  and  unknow- 
ingly had  travelled  right  round  the 
mountain.  They  had  found  the  rubies 
in  one  of  the  dry  gullies  that  ran 
towards  the  native  camp,  and  in  their 
zeal  to  obtain  a  good  collection  had 


followed  the  old  channel's  course  in 
the  direction  of  the  lime-trees,  into 
the  midst  of  the  Blacks'  domain. 
The  result  was  as  we  had  witnessed. 

"  We  pit  the  rubies  in  the  bag," 
said  Stewart,  "  for  we  had  nae  other 
place  tae  carry  them." 

"I  can  understand  why  you  held 
on  to  the  bag,"  Phil  said;  "but  Mac's 
reason  for  treasuring  the  heavy  rope 
is  beyond  me." 

"  We  hiv'na  another  rope  in  camp," 
said  Mac  shortly,  which  showed  that 
that  worthy  gentleman  had  considered 
the  future,  even  while  he  fled  before 
the  blood-thirsty  natives. 

Without  further  delay  we  began 
the  descent,  Phil  having  tapped  off  a 
number  of  specimens  from  his  discovery 
which  Mac  and  Stewart  eagerly  carried. 
"  What  wi'  gold  an'  rubies  an', — an' 
niggers,"  said  the  latter,  "we  should 
surely  be  content  noo." 

Carefully  we  slid  down  the  rocky 
surfaces,  and  gingerly  we  trod  over 
the  glass-edged  rubble.  Then  we 
entered  the  shadeless  forest  where 
the  bungarrow-hunters  had  begun 
their  eventful  day's  experiences,  and 
with  hurried  steps  steered  towards  the 
bluff  that  divided  us  from  our  camp. 

I  was  not  altogether  unprepared 
for  further  trouble,  and  thus  when 
we  reached  the  headland,  I  viewed 
almost  with  indifference  the  extra- 
ordinary appearance  of  the  ground 
we  had  vacated  but  a  few  hours  pre- 
viously. Around  each  cauldron  several 
natives  were  disporting  themselves, 
while  our  tent  was  surrounded  by 
many  inquisitive  gins  (women),  who 
each  in  turn  took  a  hasty  peep  within. 
I  looked  abroad,  and  far  in  the  dis- 
tance could  see  our  beasts  of  burden 
manoeuvring  about  in  the  vain  effort 
to  obtain  some  edible  substance  from 
the  barren  sands  ;  and  I  heaved  a 
sigh  of  relief  when  I  saw  that  there 
were  no  Blacks  in  their  vicinity. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  now  ? " 


Where  the  Pelican  Builds  its  Nest. 


207 


spoke  Phil,  after  a  considerable 
silence. 

"  A  dinna  ken  what  you're  gaun 
tae  dae,"  grimly  said  Mac,  cocking 
his  gun,  "  but  a'm  fur  nae  mair 
rinning  awa'.  " 

"  There  is  little  need  for  you  to 
worry,  Mac,"  I  answered  ;  "  I  don't 
think  there  is  any  fight  in  them." 
It  suddenly  had  dawned  upon  me 
that  the  cauldrons  might  be  the  sup- 
posed dwellings  of  the  natives'  gods, 
Bilya-Backan  or  Piama.  In  that 
case  nothing  was  more  likely  than 
that  the  Blacks  should  hold  their 
fantastic  ceremonials  here ;  and  the 
fact  that  the  tent  was  unmolested 
gave  credence  to  my  surmise. 

Without  further  hesitation  we  ad- 
vanced beyond  the  bluff  and  strode 
slowly  down  the  hill-side.  I  had  no 
intention,  however,  of  approaching 
within  spear's  throw  of  the  warriors 
should  they  be  disposed  to  await  our 
arrival,  as  such  a  course  would  have 
been  flatly  suicidal ;  but  as  I  antici- 
pated, there  was  little  cause  to  be 
alarmed. 


Immediately  the  women  saw  us  they 
gave  vent  to  their  terror  in  shrill 
cries  ;  the  men  glanced  up  from 
their  orgies,  then  broke  into  con- 
fusion and  fled  precipitately,  fol- 
lowed by  their  noisy  consorts. 

"  It's  your  turn  noo,  ye  deevils," 
bellowed  Mac  triumphantly  after 
them. 

My  little  tale  is  at  an  end.  It  is 
one  of  the  least  dreary  episodes  of 
my  West  Australian  experiences  ; 
and  though  the  rubies  were  after  all 
only  garnets,  and  the  gold-bearing 
rock  of  too  refractory  nature  to  be 
of  any  commercial  value,  even  if 
transport  could  have  been  arranged, 
still  our  mountain-exploration  had 
proved  a  genuine  diversion.  It  had 
broken  the  dreary  routine  of  our 
journeyings,  and  uplifted  our  thoughts 
from  the  endless  wastes. 

We  renewed  our  march  next 
morning,  heading  due  north,  but  it 
was  eight  months  later  when  we 
reached  the  coast  beyond  the  Leopold 
Mountains. 

ALEXANDER  MACDONALD. 


208 


THE    BRITISH   OFFICER   AND   HIS   FOREIGN   CRITICS. 


PERHAPS  the  most  annoying  spirit 
evoked  by  the  present  war  in  South 
Africa  is  that  which  accords  a  ready 
credence  to  any  incident  tending  to 
reveal  incompetence  or  stupidity  in 
the  ranks  of  our  officers  and  men. 
Fortunately  these  well  abused  indi- 
viduals as  a  body  are  absolutely  in- 
different to  popular  praise  or  blame; 
but  this  want  of  confidence  constitutes 
a  very  serious  danger  for  this  country 
in  the  event  of  complications  nearer 
home.  The  price  of  Consols,  and 
ultimately  the  stability  of  every  busi- 
ness in  England,  depends  on  the 
national  belief  in  the  success  of  our 
arms  whether  on  land  or  sea.  If, 
therefore,  in  a  great  European  war 
the  same  ready  acceptance  should  be 
accorded  to  every  wild  misstatement 
as  to  the  handling  and  efficiency  of 
our  forces,  the  nation  will  learn  to  its 
cost  the  evils  this  attitude  of  mind 
will  entail,  and  the  danger  that  such 
a  state  of  military  ignorance,  which 
alone  renders  this  panic-telegraphy 
possible,  may  create  for  this  country. 

Now  that  trustworthy  information 
is  beginning  to  filter  homewards,  I  find, 
as  I  expected  from  the  first,  that  in 
comparison  to  those  of  other  nations 
the  British  staff  and  regimental 
officers  stand  very  creditably  indeed. 

It  seems  to  be  universally  imagined 
that  a  people  can  be  transferred  from 
a  state  of  peace  to  one  of  war  by  the 
mechanical  operation  of  pressing  an 
electric  button,  and  that  forthwith 
armies  and  fleets  are  set  in  motion 
and  reach  their  appointed  positions 
by  a  perfect  mechanical  system.  But 
you  have  only  to  realise  that  the 
pressure  of  the  telegraph-key  frees  not 


only  the  electric  current,  but  the 
fears,  hopes,  and  passions  of  millions 
of  men  and  women,  and  that  these 
important  factors  are  not  so  easily 
controlled  a?,.! the  actual  movements 
of  those  detailed  to  fight,  to  under- 
stand how  difficult  it  is  to  maintain 
the  absolute  mechanical  precision  of 
pace  and  execution. 

At  the  first  word  of  the  outbreak 
of  war  the  craziest  rumours  abound. 
Men  see  fleets  massing  where  no  ships 
could  possibly  appear,  and  even  the 
glint  of  a  couple  of  mower's  scythes 
has  ere  now  been  magnified  into  the 
flashing  sabres  of  a  division  of  cavalry. 
That  these  are  not  assertions  as  wild 
as  the  rumours  I  deprecate  I  have 
only  to  draw  on  German  experiences, 
for  example,  to  prove.  It  has  always 
been  taught  that  the  concentration  of 
the  German  army  at  the  beginning  of 
hostilities  in  1870  was  a  model  for 
all  time,  and  relatively  it  certainly 
was  far  better  than  anything  of  the 
kind  that  had  ever  been  achieved 
before.  That  it  will  be  immeasurably 
superior  the  next  time  that  Germany 
goes  to  war  there  can  be  no  doubt ; 
but  as  the  element  of  human  nature 
will  always  prevail,  the  same  essen- 
tial mistakes  will  again  occur,  and 
when  the  true  history  of  any  future 
European  struggle  comes  to  be  written, 
I  venture  to  predict  that  our  "  stupid" 
officers  will  have  as  little  reason  to 
dread  the  comparison  then,  as  they 
have  now  when  contrasted  with  the 
Germans  in  1870. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  point  out 
that  the  problem  of  concentrating 
a  huge  army  on  a  well  defined  land- 
frontier  which  has  been  fought  over 


The  British  Officer  and  his  Foreign  Critics. 


209 


for  generations,  and  which  is  ap- 
proached by  a  network  of  roads  and 
railways  whose  carrying  capacities  can 
be  calculated  to  a  fraction,  is  of  in- 
finitely greater  simplicity  than  the 
transfer  of  even  a  moderate  force 
across  six  thousand  miles  of  sea  and 
one  thousand  miles  by  land  into  an 
unsurveyed  and,  in  part,  almost  un- 
inhabited country.  Von  Moltke  was 
well  aware  of  the  difference  when  on 
one  occasion  he  defended  the  British 
army  against  some  disparaging  critic 
by  the  remark,  that  English  officers 
did  not  go  to  the  front  in  first-class 
carriages. 

Then  again,  it  is  not  difficult  in 
dealing  with  a  regular  army,  whose 
capability  for  operations  has  been 
demonstrated  in  many  campaigns,  to 
predict  its  probable  rate  of  movement 
and  obvious  aims ;  hence  no  one  could 
be  surprised  that  the  broad  plan  of 
preliminary  deployment  was  well  and 
truly  drawn  up  in  Berlin  in  1868. 

But,  considering  the  facilities  of 
daily  intercommunication  which  ex- 
isted between  Germany  and  France, 
it  is  nothing  less  than  astonishing 
that  the  army  as  a  whole  was  so 
badly  informed  as  to  the  rottenness 
of  the  French  military  machine, 
which  rottenness  was  bound  to  frus- 
trate the  vigorous  offensive  so  feared 
by  the  Germans,  and  to  meet  which 
their  elaborate  plan  of  deployment 
had  been  calculated.  The  explanation 
of  this  omission  lies  deep  in  human 
nature,  which  is  much  the  same  in 
Prussia  as  in  Great  Britain.  The 
officers  on  the  spot  had  put  off  to  a 
more  convenient  season  the  purchase 
of  maps  of  their  own  garrisons,  and 
the  study  of  the  printed  matter 
available  about  their  possible  enemy. 

According  to  the  Headquarters' 
plan  of  deployment  the  troops  coming 
from  the  interior  of  Germany  were  to 
be  detrained  and  collected  in  army- 
corps  and  armies  at  stations  some 
No.  507. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


three  to  four  marches  within  the 
frontier,  at  points,  that  is  to  say, 
which  the  enemy  could  not  by  any 
possibility  reach  first. 

I  need  only  say  in  passing  of  this 
arrangement,  which  was  duly  and 
punctually  carried  out  (every  regi- 
ment having  received  a  carefully 
drawn  up  time-table  for  road  and 
rail),  that  though  the  capacities  of 
the  railways  had  been  calculated  at 
the  low  figure  of  twenty-four  trains 
a  day  for  double  lines,  and  twelve 
for  single,  yet  the  whole  elaborate 
scheme  broke  down  in  the  first 
twenty-four  hours,  and  that  thence- 
forth the  movement  had  to  be  carried 
out  from  hand  to  mouth,  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  first  come,  first  served.  This 
rate  of  dispatch  excited  the  scorn  of 
our  own  managers  of  railway-traffic, 
who  even  in  those  days  were  capable 
of  handling  one  hundred  and  twenty 
trains  a  day  over  a  double  line. 

Seven  years  later  in  India  our 
single  line  railways,  in  spite  of  the 
disadvantages  of  native  signallers, 
plate-layers,  &c.,  and  the  long  con- 
tinuance of  the  strain  on  their  re- 
sources, contrived  to  beat  even  the 
best  of  the  German  records  in  the 
railing  of  troops  to  the  front.1 

The  chief  interest,  however,  in  the 
way  of  blunders  centres  in  what  oc- 
curred in  the  frontier  districts  while 
the  armies  were  massing,  and  where 
a  French  inroad  was  possible  at 
almost  any  moment. 

Owing  to  the  constitution  and  dis- 
tribution of  the  German  army  it  was 
impossible  to  hold  the  whole  of  the 
frontier  in  force ;  but  it  was  inadvis- 
able to  sacrifice  territory  without  at 
least  the  show  of  defence,  and  also 
it  is  a  military  maxim,  based  on  long 

1  So  far  as  my  information  goes  the 
3  ft.  6  in.  Cape  and  Natal  single  lines 
have  also  beaten  them,  over  curves  and 
gradients  more  severe  than  anything  in 
Germany. 


210 


The  British  Officer  and  his  Foreign  Critics. 


experience,  to  gain  touch  of  your 
enemy  as  quickly  as  may  be,  and 
never  to  allow  him  to  escape  from 
under  observation  again. 

Accordingly  the  few  troops  actually 
along  the  border  were  not  withdrawn 
inland,  but  were  left  to  be  used  as 
feelers,  with  directions  to  fall  back 
only  before  superior  forces.  The  whole 
line  to  be  guarded  was  eighty-five 
miles  in  extent,  fairly  open  rolling 
ground  from  Sierck  on  the  Mosel  to 
near  Saarbriick ;  thence  it  rose  into 
forest-clad  mountains  for  about  sixty 
miles  to  Weiszenburg,  and  from  there 
across  an  undulating  wooded  plain  to 
the  Rhine. 

To  watch  the  whole  extent  of  coun- 
try there  were  only  twelve  squadrons 
of  cavalry  and  five  battalions  of 
infantry  available,  not  exactly  an 
adequate  force  for  the  business  in 
hand.  On  the  evening  of  July 
15th  things  looked  so  threatening 
that  the  officer  in  command  at 
Trier  turned  out  the  nearest  cavalry 
(the  9th  Hussars)  and  hurried 
them  off  to  the  frontier  for  patrol- 
duty  and  purposes  of  observation. 
This  was  an  ordinary  measure  of 
precaution,  abundantly  justified,  but 
unfortunately  he  appears  to  have 
forgotten  to  mention  the  fact  that 
war  had  not  been  formally  declared, 
and  that  therefore  the  frontier  must 
be  respected.  The  consequence  was 
that  a  hot-headed  subaltern,  burning 
to  be  the  first  man  to  set  foot  in 
France,  violated  French  territory 
forthwith,  a  result  which  might  have 
proved  decidedly  embarrassing  for  the 
higher  diplomacy  had  it  been  reported, 
for  at  the  time  Bismarck  had  not  yet 
"  edited  "  the  King's  telegram. 

However,  as  Verdy  de  Vernois  (niy 
principal  authority  for  this  period) 
placidly  remarks,  "  Things  are  apt  to 
be  overlooked  in  an  emergency."  It 
was  uncommonly  lucky  that  the  order 
for  mobilisation  (which  of  course  is 


not  necessarily  the  declaration  of  war) 
arrived  just  two  hours  later.  Directly 
after  the  receipt  of  this  order  the 
detachment  of  troops  in  Saarbriicken, 
within  two  miles  of  the  frontier, 
marched  out  (the  next  morning)  to 
their  headquarters  to  pick  up  their 
war-equipment  and  reserves. 

Now  the  townspeople  had  no  know- 
ledge of  these  administrative  details, 
and  at  once  the  wildest  rumours  were 
afloat,  and  something  like  a  panic 
prevailed.  This  latter  was  only 
partially  allayed  when  the  regiments 
actually  detailed  to  occupy  Saar- 
briicken marched  into  the  town  a 
few  hours  later;  but  before  this  the 
railway-people,  with  more  zeal  than 
discretion,  had  torn  up  their  own 
rails  in  two  places,  and  it  is  probable 
that  the  bridge  would  have  been 
blown  up  could  any  powder  have 
been  found. 

On  the  Luxembourg  frontier  the 
same  needless  destruction  occurred. 
No  one  seems  to  have  thought  that 
the  break-down  gangs  would  be  re- 
quired at  once  to  repair  the  absurd 
damage.  For  two  or  three  days  after 
the  mobilisation,  Saarbriicken  rivalled 
Hong  Kong  as  a  source  of  rumours. 
First,  the  town  was  occupied  by  the 
French ;  then  it  was  not  occupied  by 
them  nor  likely  to  be ;  the  French 
army  was  advancing,  it  was  not  ad- 
vancing, and  so  forth,  until  at  last 
General  von  Goeben,  commanding  the 
district,  was  obliged  to  telegraph  him- 
self on  the  morning  of  the  17th  for  a 
categorical  answer  to  the  question,  "Is 
Saarbriicken  occupied,  or  is  it  not  1 " 
for  it  might  very  well  have  happened 
that  the  troops  having  marched  out 
no  others  had  come  in  to  take  their 
places,  or  the  town  might  only  con- 
tain the  civil  population.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  Prussian  troops  had  held  it 
all  the  time,  but  the  responsible  staff- 
officer  had  forgotten  to  mention  the 
fact  to  those  whom  it  might  concern 


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211 


in  the  district.  This  was  not,  how- 
ever, the  fault  of  the  Prussian  troops, 
as  they  were  reporting  direct  to  head- 
quarters in  Berlin,  and  also  to  their 
own  immediate  superior,  who,  in  send- 
ing on  the  gist  of  the  messages  to  his 
general,  omitted  to  state  their  origin, 
and  the  headquarters  at  Berlin  had 
other  things  to  think  out,  nor  indeed 
was  it  their  work  to  notify  the  local 
commander  of  the  operations  in  his 
own  district.  But  does  not  this  clearly 
show  how  even  the  best  laid  plans 
can  miscarry  when  the  nation  has 
not  been  trained  to  understand  the 
operations  of  war,  and  to  keep  cool 
heads  in  an  emergency?  Civilians 
should  be  sufficiently  familiarised 
with  the  contingencies  arising  from 
a  declaration  of  war  to  understand 
how  dangerous  unfounded  or  exag- 
gerated reports  can  be ;  and  soldiers 
should  be  taught  that  the  first  thing 
to  be  done  is  to  give  the  clearest 
possible  statement  of  facts  to  the 
most  responsible  civilians,  and  to 
request  them  to  keep  quiet  and  not 
to  make  bad  worse  by  hysteria. 

Meanwhile  it  occurred  to  someone 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  blow 
up,  or  otherwise  damage,  the  line 
between  Saargeinand  and  Bitsch  on 
French  soil,  and  a  lieutenant  of 
Uhlans,  with  a  few  troopers  and  rail- 
way-men, was  dispatched  for  this 
purpose,  but  without  definite  instruc- 
tions where  to  go  or  what  to  do 
when  they  got  there. 

To  begin  with,  they  could  not  get 
a  map  of  the  country  in  Saarbriicken, 
but  they  managed  to  scrape  together 
a  few  crowbars,  some  dynamite,  and 
some  loose  powder  in  a  bag,  and  thus 
equipped  they  set  off  on  their  vague 
errand.  From  Saarbriicken  to  the 
railway  in  question  is  about  twelve 
miles,  a  difficult  country  certainly  for 
it  is  mountainous,  but  one  would 
imagine  a  cavalry-man  could  have 
learned  something  of  the  ground  he 


was  quartered  near,  and  that,  properly 
led,  the  distance  could  have  been 
covered  by  the  men  in  four  or  five 
hours  at  the  very  most.  It  took  them 
exactly  two  days  to  find  the  railway, 
and  the  damage  done  by  the  wrecking- 
party  could  have  easily  been  repaired 
in  a  couple  of  hours. 

Curiously  enough  von  Verdy  gives 
the  subaltern's  name  and  quotes  the 
case,  if  without  praise,  equally  with- 
out disapproval.  Major  Kunz,  an- 
other authority  to  whom  we  owe  THE 
HISTORY  OF  THE  GERMAN  CAVALRY 
IN  FRANCE  IN  1870-71  (one  of  the 
most  remarkable  books  the  campaign 
has  produced)  conceals  this  officer's 
name  and  is  rather  severe  in  his 
comments  on  him. 

As  for  myself,  when  I  saw  the 
ground  in  question  and  realised  the 
whole  affair,  I  can  only  say  that  I 
"  was  unequal  to  the  occasion,"  and 
felt  that  the  only  thing  which  could 
be  bracketed  with  this  performance 
was  Mark  Twain's  ascent  of  the 
Riffelberg. 

If  you  recollect,  as  I  did  at  that 
moment,  another  ride  made  by  a 
British  officer  in  India  you  will 
still  further  appreciate  the  Uhlan's 
achievement.  I  mean  the  occasion 
when,  at  a  certain  point  near  the 
Sutlej,  Lord  Gough,  having  just 
received  the  Sikhs'  declaration  of  war, 
turned  to  one  of  his  aides-de-camp  and 
pointing  to  Tapp's  Nose,  a  mountain 
five  thousand  feet  above  the  plains 
and  forty  miles  away,  said  these 
words  only  :  "  Ride  and  fetch  "em."1 
Right  over  the  Sewaliks,  hills  nearly 
twelve  hundred  feet  high,  and  through 
the  great  jungles  of  the  Doon,  this 
officer,  one  of  the  "  stupid  British, 
horse-racing  lot,"  rode  without  a 
check,  reached  his  destination  in 
five  hours,  just  as  night  was  falling, 


1  The  29th  were  quartered  at  Kansauli 
close  to  Tapp's  Nose, 

p  2 


212 


The  British  Officer  and  his  Foreign  Critics. 


delivered  his  orders,  and  the  regiment 
promptly  marched  the  next  morning. 
Now  the  Englishman  had  to  find 
his  way  alone  through  a  roadless, 
mapless  country  over  ground  com- 
pletely unknown  to  him,  while  the 
German  was  never  further  away 
from  his  garrison-town  than  a  dozen 
miles,  or  he  ought  not  to  have  been ; 
also  a  map  of  the  country  he  might  be 
required  to  work  over  should  have 
formed  an  essential  part  of  his 
equipment. 

To  return  to  the  history  of  the 
blunders  made  at  the  beginning  of 
the  Franco-Prussian  campaign :  away 
to  the  eastward,  in  the  mountainous 
stretch  between  Saarbriicken  and 
Weiszenburg,  and  thence  across  the 
Rhine  valley,  confusion  reigned  su- 
preme. The  space  available  for  the 
masses  of  troops  expected  was  very 
restricted,  and  it  was  particularly 
essential  that  timely  warning  of  the 
enemy's  approach  should  be  given. 
Of  organisation  to  this  end,  however, 
there  is  but  little  trace,  although  the 
German  position  would  have  been 
seriously  endangered  had  a  body  of 
French  troops  penetrated  through 
the  mountains  and  wheeled  in  east- 
ward upon  their  right  wing. 

But  though  this  obvious  peril 
failed  to  provide  for  its  prevention, 
it  started  into  vigorous  existence 
the  usual  crop  of  alarming  rumours. 
Already  on  July  23rd  it  was  bruited 
about  that  eighty  thousand  French 
were  concealed  in  the  forests,  pre- 
pared to  fall  next  morning  on  the 
weak  Bavarian  detachment,  and 
troops  were  hurriedly  marched  and 
countermarched  to  meet  these  chi- 
merical levies  * 

A  glance  at  the  map  ought  to 
have  satisfied  any  staff-officer  of  even 
moderate  intelligence  that  nothing  of 
the  kind  could  possibly  be  true,  and 
that  even  if  true  it  could  not  essen- 
tially matter,  since  eighty  thousand 


men  could  neither  advance  nor  de- 
ploy for  action  in  such  cramped 
country  in  less  than  forty-eight  hours; 
yet  this  improbability  was  believed 
and  accepted  as  fact  by  officers  of 
some  standing  and  experience.  Here 
again  is  a  proof  of  the  necessity  for 
the  training  that  guards  against  men 
being  thrown  off  their  balance  by  a 
sudden  upheaval  of  their  usual  routine 
of  existence.  If  they  were  consis- 
tently educated  to  understand  the 
meaning  and  unhesitatingly  to  accept 
the  weight  of  responsibility,  to  think 
exactly  and  clearly,  to  weigh  evidence 
carefully  and  to  judge  its  worth 
swiftly,  such  blunders  as  these  could 
not  occur,  because  the  reports  which 
gave  rise  to  them  would  be  at  once 
appraised  at  their  true  value. 

Look,  for  instance,  at  the  evidence 
on  which  were  based  those  I  am  de- 
scribing at  the  moment.  On  July 
23rd  an  officer's  patrol  sent  in  the 
following  report :  "A  workman  ejected 
from  Strasburg  states  that  eighty 
thousand  men  are  collected  in  that 
city,  and  began  their  advance  towards 
Weiszenburg  on  July  22nd.  West  of 
Haguenau  there  are  six  thousand 
infantry  and  cavalry.  Civilians  em- 
ployed in  the  Bienwald  district 
report  thirty-six  thousand  men  at 
Siegen,  eight  miles  south-east  of 
Weiszenburg."  On  July  24th  the 
Bavarian  division  reported  :  "  A 
Bavarian  sapper,  returning  to  duty 
from  Strasburg,  says  that  there  are 
forty  thousand  men  in  Bitsch.  A  de- 
serter says  that  the  troops  marching 
to  Bitsch  took  more  than  an  hour 
to  file  past  his  hiding-place,  and  that 
Turcos  were  among  them."  Wljere 
was  his  hiding-place  1  Apparently  no 
one  took  the  trouble  to  enquire,  or  to 
record  its  whereabouts  if  known. 

Incidentally  it  is  worth  while  to 
point  out  that  Turcos,  Algerians,  and 
Zouaves  were  at  once  seen  all  -along 
the  frontier  from  the  very  first  day  of 


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213 


the  war ;  yet  there  was  not  a  single 
one  of  these  troops  in  France  at  the 
time,  the  first  being  only  due  to 
arrive  at  Marseilles  on  the  25th,  a 
fact  which  had  been  duly  notified 
to  all  German  head-quarters  by  the 
General  Staff  at  the  commencement 
of  operations.  But  in  the  universal 
excitement  prevailing  these  instruc- 
tions had  been  entirely  forgotten. 

On  July  25th  the  enemy's  numbers 
were  still  further  magnified,  but 
General  von  Bothmer  of  the  Bavar- 
ians in  forwarding  the  reports  did  at 
last  suggest  that  the  numbers  might 
be  exaggerated.  Nevertheless  the  next 
morning,  when  General  von  Gersdorf, 
commanding  the  22nd  (Prussian) 
division,  arrived  in  Landau,  he  was 
met  with  the  announcement  from 
Colonel  von  Thile,  a  brigadier,  that 
eighty  to  ninety  thousand  French 
were  already  massed  between  Saarge- 
miinde  and  Bitsch,  and  were  to  attack 
Pirmassens  on  the  next  day. 

Von  Gersdorf,  just  arrived  from  a 
long  railway  journey  and  wholly  igno- 
rant of  local  positions,  etc.,  could  only 
act  on  the  information  received,  and  at 
once  orders  were  issued  for  the  German 
troops  to  concentrate  and  meet  the 
apparently  pressing  danger ;  as  a 
consequence  of  this  order  they  crossed 
the  line  of  advance  laid  down  for  the 
corps  appointed  to  follow  them,  and 
the  way  was  prepared  for  a  state  of 
hopeless  confusion  had  this  movement 
been  continued.  Fortunately  some 
one  was  wise  enough  to  send  in 
clearer  reports ;  the  French,  whose 
total  numbers  in  that  particular  dis- 
trict never  exceeded  twenty  thousand, 
showed  no  intention  of  advancing  to 
the  attack,  and  in  a  little  while 
common  sense  had  come  to  the  rescue, 
the  German  alarmist  movement  was 
countermanded,  and  absolute  chaos 
averted. 

I  have  called  special  attention  to 
this  one  incident  as  typical  of  what 


was  happening  along  the  whole 
frontier.  The  civil  population,  anxious 
to  assist  as  well  as  badly  scared, 
brought  in  the  wildest  rumours; 
patrols  went  out  to  endeavour  to 
ascertain  their  truth,  saw  nothing 
themselves,  and  "came  back  to  tea," 
as  Albrecht  said  of  our  cavalry  scouts 
on  the  Modder  River.  But  for  all 
this  the  rumours  were  accepted  by 
responsible  officers  on  the  spot,  and 
telegraphed  on  to  headquarters,  often 
in  such  a  form  as  to  leave  it  uncertain 
whether  the  senders  of  the  telegrams 
had  been  eye-witnesses  of  the  events 
reported  or  not.  And  to  make  all  this 
foolishness  still  stranger,  it  happened 
that  there  were  many  people  still 
alive,  and  presumably  in  sufficient 
possession  of  their  wits,  who  could 
remember  the  days  of  the  Napoleonic 
wars.  Indeed,  in  my  day,  when  I 
was  at  school  in  Constanz,  German 
boys  were  extraordinarily  well  versed 
in  the  suffering  and  loss  entailed  by 
those  old  campaigns  and  in  the  history 
of  the  various  leaders  in  them,  and 
their  several  achievements.  As  this 
was  before  the  campaign  with  Austria 
in  1866  it  was  no  new  thing  which 
was  now  happening,  and  the  know- 
ledge must  have  been  widely  spread 
among  the  inhabitants  of  the  country 
generally;  moreover  all  the  able- 
bodied  men  had  done  their  three  years' 
service  in  the  ranks  ;  and  yet  in  spite 
of  all  this,  except  from  a  few  non- 
commissioned officers  of  the  Frontier 
Guards  and  Forest  Police,  not  a  single 
trustworthy  report  was  brought  in  in 
those  first  days  of  panic  and  con- 
fusion. Excited  men  did  not  even 
know  or  recognise  the  colours  of  the 
French  uniforms ;  Lancers  were  mis- 
taken for  Hussars,  Infantry  of  the 
Line  for  Zouaves,  and  so  forth.  If 
such  curious  mistakes  are  possible  in 
a  nation  bred  and  educated  amidst 
wars  and  alarms  of  war  in  a  fashion 
impossible  for  our  island  population, 


214 


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what  may  we  not  expect  if  ever 
foreign  troops  should  land  on  our  own 
coasts  ? 

As  matters  stand  now,  how  many 
of    our    local    yeomanry,    volunteers, 
cyclists,    police,    etc.,    could    tell    the 
difference  between  a  French  chasseur 
a  pied  and  an  ordinary  linesman  ?  And 
yet  considering    the   great   difference 
in  the  marching  powers  of  the  two, 
it  would  mean  success  or  disaster  if 
their  respective  presence  was  wrongly 
reported,  as  the  former  can  move  at 
exactly  double  the  pace  of  the  latter, 
and     could     surprise,    and     possibly 
destroy   troops    who    would    not    be 
expecting  an  attack  for  several  hours 
if  they  had  heard  they  were  to  meet  a 
line  regiment  moving  at  half  the  speed. 
Nothing  is  more  important   for  a 
Headquarter  Staff  than  an  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  names  and  numbers 
of   the    regiments    opposed    to   them, 
as  from  these  indications  a  good  staff- 
officer,  knowing  the  capabilities    and 
reputation  of  each  of  them,  can  gauge 
the  composition    of   the  whole   army 
which  his  side  will  have  to  fight.     It 
is  analogous  to  the  way  in  which  men 
like  Cuvier  and   Owen  could  from  a 
bone  or  two  build   up    correctly  the 
animal  to  which  they  belonged.     This 
is  a  commonplace  of  military  instruc- 
tion all  the  world  over  ;  yet  in  the 
first    days    of    1870,    though   several 
prisoners  were  taken,  never  once  was 
the  number  of  the  regiment  to  which 
they    belonged    forwarded    to    head- 
quarters,   until    at    length     a    sharp 
special  reminder  was  telegraphed  from 
Berlin  to  all  whom  it  might  concern. 
It  will  be  worth  while  to  study  for 
a  moment  the  situation,   as  a  whole, 
as  it  existed  in  Germany  during  the 
fortnight  which  elapsed  between  the 
declaration    of    war    and     the     first 
serious   fighting,   from    July    14th   to 
August  2nd,  and  compare  it  with  our 
position  in  Natal  before  Sir  Redvers 
Buller's  arrival. 


The  French  forces  formed  part  of 
a    regular   army   properly    uniformed 
and  organised  in  battalions,  brigades, 
etc,  commanded  by  well-known  men. 
It  was  moving  in  closed  bodies  of  the 
strength  of  a  battalion  upwards,  along 
well-known     roads,     bivouacking     in 
masses  of  from  one  to  ten  thousand 
in  the  open  fields,  and  all  to  within 
ten   to  twenty  English  miles  of  the 
German  outposts.     Now  you    cannot 
bivouac  a  brigade  in  a  three-acre  field, 
for  instance,  and  a  screen  which  will 
hide  the  glow  of  the  fires  on  the  sky 
has  yet  to  be  invented ;  yet  in  spite 
of   such  and    similar    simple  aids    to 
reasoning,  the  men  whose  business  it 
was  to  find  out  the  strength,  and  even 
the  presence,  of  the  enemy  sent  in  very 
little  trustworthy  information  regard- 
ing them.     If  it  be  argued  in  defence 
that   the    ground    was   enclosed    and 
obstructed  with  woodland,  I  can  only 
say  so  much  the  better  for  the  deter- 
mined scout  who  wished  to  see  with- 
out being  seen  ;  it  is  easier  to  detect 
essential  details  at  two  hundred  yards 
than  at  two  thousand,  and  the  chance 
of    discovery    is    not    approximately 
greater.     Further  than  this  the  people 
were  polyglot,  had  enjoyed  sixty  years 
of  compulsory  education  on  the  German 
side  at  least;  disguise  was  simple,  and 
the  troops  moved  at  not  more  than 
two  and  a  half  miles  an  hour. 

So  much  for  the  difficulties  in  1870, 
and  now  for  the  other  picture. 

Natal  possesses  great  mountain 
ranges  and  ravines,  is  peopled  largely 
by  Kaffirs,  and  owns  many  settlers 
of  doubtful  loyalty.  In  distinction  to 
the  French  leaders,  the  Boer  com- 
manders were  an  unknown  quantity 
as  they  had  really  not  yet  been  ap- 
pointed ;  while  as  to  distribution  no 
conclusion  as  to  their  army-organisa- 
tion could  be  drawn  since  such  a 
thing  did  not  exist.  They  had  no 
uniforms  to  distinguish  them,  and  no 
roads  to  limit  their  movements.  They 


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215 


were  almost  as  free  and  as  fast  as 
birds  on  the  wing,  and  the  speed  of 
their  manoeuvres  over,  to  us,  almost 
unknown  country  made  it  impossible 
to  follow  them,  while  above  all  the 
distances  might  be  reckoned  thus, — 
multiply  those  on  the  German  fron- 
tier by  ten  and  you  will  still  be 
well  within  the  mark. 

If  a  highly  organised  army  like 
that  of  the  Germans  could  do  no 
better  than  it  did  under  their  easier 
conditions,  with  their  well  educated 
and  intelligent  soldier-citizens  to  aid 
it,  is  there  any  reason  to  expect  that, 
had  they  been  launched  into  war 
in  South  Africa  as  we  were,  that 
they  would  have  excelled  our  "poor 
mercenaries "  (the  "  scum  of  the 
nation,"  "  the  conscripts  of  poverty 
and  famine,"  as  they  are  pleased  to 
call  our  troops),  in  the  far  more  diffi- 
cult circumstances  which  we  had  to 
face? 

They  have  also  delighted  to  make 
merry  over  our  fighting  record  and  to 
question  the  courage  of  "  puny  weak- 
lings," pointing  to  the  numerous  in- 
cidents of  surrender  and  the  frequent 
surprises.  Now  surrenders  of  small 
bodies  in  the  open  field  are  a  conse- 
quence of  certain  methods  of  fighting 
and  certain  kinds  of  ground,  and  when 
these  conditions  recur  the  phenome- 
non repeats  itself.  This  our  Austrian 
critics,  who  have  studied  their  own 
military  history,  might  be  expected 
to  know.  But  when  organised  armies 
fight  on  an  unbroken  front  ten  miles 
in  extent  and  with  ten  to  twenty 
thousand  men  to  the  mile  ready  to 
close  all  gaps  as  they  occur,  though 
the  circumstances  which  tend  to 
create  surrender  may  arise  the  oppor- 
tunity to  seize  them  is  not  present. 

It  is  a  popular  idea  among  the 
younger  generation  in  Germany  that 
all  their  soldiers  fought  like  heroes  in 
1870,  and  it  would  go  hard  with  a 
man  who  should  venture  to  hint  the 


reverse.  Yet  thirty  years  ago  Germans 
were  less  reticent,  and  many  an  officer 
has  confided  to  me  scenes  that  were 
almost  incredible,  and  for  which  it 
would  be  hard  to  find  a  parallel  in 
our  own  annals.  Still  it  must  always 
be  remembered  that  human  nature  is 
the  same  everywhere,  and  that  "skulk- 
ing "  is  not  unknown,  a  certain  per- 
centage of  it,  even  in  the  bravest 
armies. 

I  could  quote  many  incidents  to 
prove  this,  but  if  I  did  a  German 
critic  would  possibly  challenge  my 
testimony  as  biassed  by  national  feel- 
ing; therefore  it  will  be  better  to  cite 
some  taken  from  German  sources,  not 
from  those  of  party  polemics  but  from 
the  serious  works  of  military  authors 
of  the  highest  credit. 

Foremost  among  such  men  stands 
Meckel  who,  if  he  lives  and  retains 
his  vigour,  must  rise  to  very  high 
command.  In  a  pamphlet  entitled  A 
SUMMER'S  NIGHT'S  DREAM  (Sommers 
Nacht  Traum)  written  to  recall  to  the 
younger  officers  who  have  not  seen 
war  the  wide  difference  between  the 
theories  of  the  manoeuvre-ground  and 
the  practice  of  the  battle-field,  he  has 
described  his  own  first  experience  in 
1870-71.  The  name  of  the  battle 
he  suppresses,  but  internal  evidence 
points  to  Saarbriicken  on  August  6th, 
a  few  days  subsequent  to  the  events 
already  touched  on. 

I  recalled  my  first  battle  in  France. 
We  did  not  arrive  on  the  field  until  late 
in  the  day,  and  we  crossed  it  where  the 
fight  had  been  fiercest.  I  was  already 
used  to  the  sight  of  the  dead  and 
wounded,  but  was  not  prepared  for  what 
now  met  my  eyes.  The  field  was  liter- 
ally strewn  with  men  who  had  left  the 
ranks  and  were  doing  nothing.  Whole 
battalions  could  have  been  formed  from 
them.  From  one  position  we  could 
count  hundreds.  Some  were  lying  down, 
their  rifles  pointing  to  the  front,  these 
had  evidently  remained  behind  when  the 
more  courageous  had  advanced  ;  others 
had  squatted  like  hares  in  the  furrows. 


216 


The  British  Officer  and  his  Foreign  Critics. 


Wherever  a  bush  or  ditch  gave  shelter, 
there  were  men  to  be  seen  who  in  some 
cases  had  made  themselves  very  com- 
fortable indeed.  The  men  nearest  me 
bore  on  their  shoulder-straps  the  number 
of  a  famous  regiment.  I  turned  to  look 
at  my  own  men.  They  began  to  seem 
uneasy.  Some  were  pale  ;  I  myself  was 
conscious  of  the  depressing  effect  pro- 
duced on  me  by  what  I  saw.  If  the  fire 
of  the  breechloader,  which  we  were  now 
to  face  for  the  first  time,  while  already 
its  continuous  roll  sounded  in  our  ears, 
had  so  disorganised  this  regiment,  what 
would  happen  to  us  ? 

During  our  advance,  before  we  came 
under  any  really  serious  fire,  and  whilst 
on^y  the  whistle  of  an  occasional  bullet 
could  be  heard,  we  saw  six  men,  one 
behind  the  other  in  a  long  queue,  cower- 
ing behind  a  tree ;  afterwards  I  saw  this 
sight  so  frequently  that  I  became  accus- 
tomed to  it — who  did  not  ?  And  this,  I 
said  to  myself,  is  the  result  of  three 
years'  careful  education  in  the  indepen- 
dent use  of  cover.  Would  not  Frederic 
the  Great's  soldiers,  who  knew  nothing 
of  fighting  independently,  have  been 
ashamed  to  present  such  a  spectacle  to 
passing  troops  ? 

That  this  formed  no  isolated  in- 
stance is  further  proved  from  the 
following  account  of  the  fighting  at 
Woerth,  which  appeared  anonymously 
in  the  MILITAIR  WOCHENBLATT  but 
whose  author  was  soon  detected  by 
internal  evidence. 

Our  regiment  soon  received  the  order 
to  advance.  The  Fusilier  battalion  (to 
which  I  belonged)  moved  off  in  company 
columns  towards  the  Sauerbach.  When 
we  came  within  range  of  the  enemy's 
bullets  the  skirmishing  section  of  my 
company,  which  I  commanded,  was  ex- 
tended, and  the  other  two  sections  fol- 
lowed, closed,  at  a  short  distance  behind 
us.  In  front  of  us  there  was  already 
a  line  of  skirmishers,  which  appeared  to 
have  taken  the  first  slopes  of  the  hilly 
land  lying  towards  Elsasshausen.  After 
passing  over  the  Sauerbach,  where  I  lost 
sight  of  the  rest  of  my  company,  we 
were  obliged  to  cross  the  wide  meadow 
which  lies  between  the  Sauer  and  the 
foot  of  the  hills ;  on  nearing  these  hills 
I  saw  the  skirmishing  line  in  front  of 
me  come  down  the  hill  at  full  speed, 


evidently,  as  I  thought,  followed  by  the 
enemy  at  their  heels. 

I  made  my  section  take  up  a  position 
in  order  to  detain  the  pursuing  enemy 
to  the  utmost.  When  the  repulsed  line 
reached  us  and  had  halted,  I  heard  from 
one  of  the  men  (there  was  no  officer  pre- 
sent) that  the  French  had  attacked  them 
with  greatly  superior  numbers  and  forced 
them  to  retire.  We  waited,  however, 
in  vain  to  see  the  French  come  over  the 
hill, — no  one  came ;  there  were  only 
some  of  the  enemy  to  be  seen  hah*  left 
in  front  of  us,  about  five  hundred  paces 
distant ;  nevertheless  the  men  fired  for 
all  they  were  worth,  and  I  tried  to  pre- 
vent this  as  much  as  possible.  Then  there 
came  along  the  line  from  the  right  a  sum- 
mons, given  by  signs  from  the  officers,  to 
endeavour  to  storm  the  heights,  and  the 
whole  line  of  skirmishers  went  up  the 
hill  with  a  tempest  of  hurrahs  and  a 
fabulously  rapid  fire.  Arrived  above, 
we  saw  dense  lines  of  the  enemy's 
skirmishers,  about  four  hundred  paces 
in  front  of  us,  run  away  with  the  utmost 
rapidity  and  disappear  behind  the  nearest 
wave  of  the  ground.  Why  the  French 
ran  away  from  our  thin  line  I  cannot 
conceive  ;  however  we  followed  them  as 
quickly  as  possible,  the  men  indeed  so 
excited  that  they  could  not  be  prevented 
firing  at  random.  Then  suddenly  the 
advance  stopped.  We  were  just  in  a 
fold  of  the  ground  which  allowed  no 
general  view ;  before  I  could  satisfy 
myself  as  to  the  cause  of  this  check, 
our  whole  line  suddenly  turned  round, 
attended  to  no  more  orders  and  ran 
away,  no  one  being  able  to  discover  any 
explanation  for  this  phenomenon.  The 
fact  was,  we  afterwards  learned,  that 
the  French  had  made  another  attack, 
with  re-inforced  swarms  of  skirmishers, 
which  had  repulsed  our  right  wing,  but 
which  we  had  not  even  seen.  After 
about  two  hundred  paces  we  succeeded 
in  bringing  our  running  troops  to  a 
stand ;  I  still  saw  no  actual  enemy,  but 
we  kept  up  uninterruptedly  a  very  hot 
fire.  We  now  again  went  forward,  after 
having  calmed  the  men  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. This  tune  the  French  let  us 
approach  to  within  about  two  hundred 
paces  and  then  fired;  it  was  a  very 
critical  moment,  then — suddenly  the 
enemy's  line  in  its  turn  wavered,  and 
ran  away  ;  we  followed  shouting  and 
firing  all  the  time. 

We  had  now  approached  to  within  about 
five  hundred  paces  of  Elasshausen,  the 


The  British  Officer  and  his  Foreign  Critics. 


217 


point  d'appui  of  the  French ;  on  our  left 
was  the  Nieder  Wald.  Here  we  received 
such  a  hail  of  bullets  that  to  press  for- 
ward was  impossible,  and  we  all  sought 
cover.  A  long  fire-fight  now  ensued,  and 
our  situation  was  momentarily  becom- 
ing more  unpleasant.  The  men  looked 
anxiously  round  to  see  if  any  supports 
were  coming, — but  in  vain ;  the  officers 
could  hardly  keep  them  still  in  position 
owing  to  the  disappearance  of  many  of 
their  comrades,  and  the  duration  of  the 
combat  which  had  now  lasted  several 
hours;  in  fact  they  were  thoroughly 
depressed.  .. 

We  then  distinctly  saw  some  French 
battalions  in  close  order  approaching  to 
the  attack.  This  was  too  much  for  the 
men  ;  they  turned  about,  all  our  efforts  to 
detain  them  were  in  vain,  and  though  we 
did  not  actually  run  away  the  whole  line 
fell  slowly  back.  We  gave  way  step  by 
step,  followed  by  the  attacking  enemy. 
I  looked  upon  the  battle  as  lost,  for  there 
were  no  reserves  to  be  seen  which  could 
have  supported  us.  We  had  already 
retired  some  hundred  and  fifty  paces  in 
this  manner  when  all  at  once  we  heard 
sounded  "  The  whole  line  will  advance" 
and  on  all  sides  the  call  was  taken  up  by 
the  buglers.  This  gave  the  men  fresh 
courage  and  their  retreating  movement 
ceased ;  at  the  same  moment  we  saw 
some  closed  battalions  of  Wurtembergers 
approaching,  which  was  sufficient  to  send 
us  all  forward  with  renewed  life.  We 
advanced  against  the  enemy  with  ever- 
increasing  speed.  The  French  turned 
once  more,  hesitated,  turned  again,  and 
ran. 

This  proved  to  be  the  end  of  the 
battle ;  the  French  had  broken  and 
run,  and  the  Germans  remained  the 
victors,  more  by  good  luck  apparently 
than  by  good  management. 

In  neither  of  the  above  instances 
did  the  troops  specified  form  part  of 
a  beaten  army,  or  even  of  one  very 
heavily  engaged.  It  was  merely  fair 
average  fighting,  neither  more  nor 
less,  and  was  very  different  from  what 
happened  when  things  for  a  time 
went  badly,  as  at  Gravelotte  and 
Mars  la  Tour.  Yet  who  can  doubt 
that  these  men,  "  squatting  like  hares 
in  the  furrows,"  would  not  very 
readily  have  acceeded  to  the  invita- 


tion to  "  put  up  their  hands  "  had  the 
general  situation  allowed  or  favoured 
their  being  surrounded  ? 

With  reference  to  current  military 
opinion  as  expressed  by  the  corres- 
pondents of  our  daily  Press,  is  it  not 
obvious  that  such  incidents  are  likely 
to  occur  when  these  correspondents 
are  doing  their  best  to  shake  the 
confidence  of  the  men  in  their  leaders 
by  unrestrained  and  ignorant  criticism 
of  matters  beyond  their  intellectual 
horizon?  The  Germans  and  French 
had  been  frightened  into  cowardice 
by  the  gruesome  tales  of  the  terrible 
power  of  the  new  weapons  which 
had  been  diligently  circulated  through- 
out the  Fatherland  by  unprincipled 
sensation-mongers,  and  they  skulked 
and  stayed  behind  because  they  went 
into  action  with  the  idea  that  all 
frontal  attacks  were  foredoomed  to 
failure  from  the  outset.  Their  busi- 
ness, as  they  understood  it,  was 
primarily  to  take  good  care  of  their 
own  skins,  and  they  were  only  con- 
scious of  showing  a  high  degree  of 
individual  intelligence  in  the  efforts 
they  made  to  avoid  all  danger. 

Hence  such  scenes  as  those  de- 
scribed will,  and  must,  remain  common 
on  every  battle-field,  whatever  the 
nationality  of  the  troops,  until  the 
instruction  of  tactics  is  based  on 
the  firm  ground  of  mathematical  in- 
vestigation, and  not  on  the  wild 
assertions  of  neurotic  inventors  born 
of  the  result  of  experiments  at  the 
target. 

With  reference  to  the  many  sur- 
prises which  have  befallen  our  own 
troops  it  is  curious  that  their  frequency 
has  been  very  largely  due  to  the  in- 
fluence of  German  example  in  1870  ; 
and  had  the  latter  been  in  our  place 
in  South  Africa  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  they  would  have  proved  even 
more  unfortunate  than  ourselves. 

In  1870  the  German  cavalry  so 
quickly  acquired  a  crushing  superiority 


218 


The  British  Officer  and  his  Foreign  Critics. 


over  that  of  their  enemy  that  they 
swept  the  country  for  miles  in  front 
of  the  infantry,  who  for  greater 
convenience  and  freedom  of  move- 
ment soon  abandoned  the  use  of  their 
usual  elaborate  precautions  on  the 
march.  This  it  was  perfectly  safe 
for  them  to  do  against  a  slow-moving, 
uniformed  army,  because  when  the 
cavalry  had  once  scoured  a  whole 
wide  district  and  found  it  vacant, 
there  was  no  possibility  of  any 
dangerous  bodies  of  troops  suddenly 
occupying  it,  and  consequently  the 
practice  of  trusting  all  to  the  care 
of  the  cavalry  insensibly  crept  into 
all  armies. 

Unfortunately  in  South  Africa  it 
was  the  cavalry  which  was  the 
slowest  force  in  respect  to  the  enemy, 
and  the  fact  that,  say,  at  ten  in  the 
morning,  ground  was  reported  clear 
was  no  guarantee  that  at  noon  it 
might  not  be  swarming  with  Boers 
who  had  raced  in  twenty  miles  whilst 
our  men  had  moved  perhaps  eight. 

Then  further  there  was  the  diffi- 
culty of  distinguishing  between  the 
effusively  loyal  colonist  who  only 
waited  for  the  disappearance  of  our 
troops  to  take  down,  or  dig  up,  his 
rifle  and  become  a  dangerous  enemy  on 
flank  or  in  rear,  and  the  men  we  could, 
as  the  event  proved,  really  trust. 

When  the  Franc-Tireurs  arrived 
on  the  scene  in  1870  the  conditions 
of  warfare  became  more  like  those 
at  present  rife  in  South  Africa,  and 
the  surprises  of  patrols  and  small 
bodies  up  to  the  size  of  a  company 
or  squadron  became  by  no  means  un- 
common. In  all,  Major  Kunz  tabu- 
lates from  official  diaries  no  fewer 
than  forty-six  of  these  incidents,  in 
only  six  of  which  did  the  Germans 
succeed  in  beating  off  their  assailants ; 
and  the  total  casualty-list  under  this 
heading  for  six  months  amounted  to 
thirty  officers,  six  hundred  and  forty- 


three  men  and  eight  hundred  and 
fifty  horses,  figures  which  compare 
very  unfavourably  with  our  own 
losses  when  the  far  wider  area  of 
ground  covered  by  us  with  the  same 
numbers,  and  the  rapidity  of  the 
Boers'  movements  added  to  their  ab- 
solute knowledge  of  every  inch  of  hill 
and  veldt  are  brought  into  consid- 
eration, and  finally  by  their  practice 
of  appropriating  our  dead  soldiers' 
uniforms  and  passing  themselves  off 
as  our  own  men. 

In  the  face  of  these  facts,  and  con- 
sidering the  tremendous  responsibility 
of  those   who  disseminate  "wisdom" 
which  George  Eliot  once  defined    as 
"  dwelling  in  minds  attentive  to  their 
own  "  (thoughts  and  theories),  would 
it  not  be  better,  and  at  least  more 
humane,  if  they  gained  more  accurate 
"  knowledge,"  which,  in  the  same  sen- 
tence, she  says  is  "  replete    with  the 
thoughts  of  other  men ;  "  if,  that  is  to 
say,  they  should  study  sound  military 
history,  understand  something  at  least 
of    military  mathematics,  learn    how 
to  weigh  evidence,  reason  out  tangled 
problems,    and    should    refrain    from 
turning  their  fellow-men  into  cowards, 
a  proceeding  which  has  and  will  cost 
the  life  of   many  a  good  fellow,  who 
has  to  lead,  in  the  past  and  future  1 
Might  it  not  also  be  well  for  those  in 
authority  over  us  to  ignore  the  men 
in    the    street,    both    at    home   and 
abroad,  who  constitute  themselves  as 
amateur    critics,    and     to    fearlessly 
follow    sound    precedent    in    dealing 
with  rank  disloyalty,  as  the  Germans 
dealt  with  the  French  Franc-Tireurs  1 
It  is  unpleasant  counsel  perhaps,  but 
it  saves  life  in  the  end  on  both  sides ; 
and  a  good  many  men  and  officers  we 
could  ill  spare  would  be  alive  now  for 
further  useful  work   had   this  policy 
been   rigorously   enforced    from    the 
beginning. 

F.  N.  MAUDE, 
Lt.-Col.  late  Royal  Engineers,  p.s.c. 


219 


FORECASTS   OF   THE   FUTURE. 


ALTHOUGH   its  first  year  has  now 
passed    into   the   domain    of   history, 
social  and  political  seers  are  still  en- 
gaged   in  casting  the    new   century's 
horoscope.        Not   only   the    Utopian 
romancers,    whom    we     always    have 
with   us,  but   even    more   sober   and 
practical   minds  are,  at    the  opening 
of  fresh  eras,   tempted    to   make   ex- 
periments   in   prophecy.      The   twen- 
tieth   century    loomed    so    big    with 
portents  for   humanity    that    it   was 
inevitable     its    signs    of     the     times 
should   be    closely    scanned    for  indi- 
cations   of  the   direction   which    pro- 
gress was   likely    to  take   during   its 
course.     All    through  the  past  year, 
for   instance,   Mr.    H.    G.   Wells   has 
been  laboriously  expounding  his  gen- 
erally entertaining  and  often  curious 
ANTICIPATIONS    in    the    pages    of    a 
monthly  review,  and  has  now  repub- 
lished  them  in  a  substantial  volume. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  Mr.  Wells  has 
made,  for  a  prophet,  the  very  serious 
mistake  of  too  minutely  condescending 
to  particulars  (to  use  the  Scottish  legal 
phrase) ;  and  hence,  while  some  of  his 
predictions  may  prove  happy  guesses 
at    the    probable    trend     of    events, 
others,  more  fanciful   and  less  fortu- 
nate,   have    no    better    prospect    of 
realisation  than  the  mechanical  social 
arrangements  devised  by  the  late  Mr. 
Edward  Bellamy  for  the  New  Boston 
of  the  year  2000. 

But  other  serious  prophets  have 
been  in  the  field,  and  during  the 
past  few  years  a  number  of  forecasts 
of  Britain's  future  have  been  made, 
some  of  which  had  no  special  refer- 
ence to  the  new  chronological  cycle 
down  whose  grooves  the  great  world 


is  now  spinning.  They  are  nevertheless 
of  more  than  usual  interest  in  view 
of  streams  of  tendency  which  are 
not  only  attracting  general  attention, 
but  in  some  quarters  causing  much 
concern. 

In  the  domain  of  scientific  progress, 
certain    conclusions    as    regards    the 
course  of  events  during    the  present 
century   are    almost   obvious.      That 
electricity  will  be  the  chief  mechanical 
power  of  the    twentieth    century,   as 
steam  has  been  that  of  the  nineteenth  ; 
that  before  many  years  are  over  we 
shall    probably   be   travelling  at   the 
rate  of  a  hundred  miles  an  hour,  and 
upwards,  by  rail,  and  at  thirty  miles 
an  hour,   or   more,  by  motor-car  on 
ordinary  roads  ;  that,  as  one  effect  of 
the  increasing  speed  of  locomotion  our 
cities  will,  as  Mr.  Wells  points  out, 
become   more   diffused,    so    that    the 
suburbs  of  London  may  spread  over 
about  a  third  of  the  area  of  England  ; 
that  the  problem  of  aerial  locomotion 
will  be  solved  before  the  century  is 
old, — if    indeed    M.    Santos-Dumont 
has  not  already  solved   it — and  air- 
cars  become  as  common  as  motor-cars 
are   now ;   that    the  approaching  ex- 
haustion of  our  coal-fields  will  bring 
into  use  fresh  kinds  of  fuel  and  new 
methods   of   generating    heat, — these 
are    all     possibilities    of    the    future 
which  need  no  great  imaginative  power 
or  phenomenal  acuteness  of  vision  to 
foresee.     It  is  certain  that  the  century 
will  do  wonders  in  economising  both 
time   and  labour,    by  means  of   new 
mechanical    inventions   alike  for   the 
workshop,  travel,  and  the  household. 
The  anticipation   of   one  writer  that 
before  the  century's  close  every  family, 


220 


Forecasts  of  the  Future. 


however  humble,  will  have  its  own 
motor-car,  seems  over-sanguine ;  were 
the  prediction  realised  it  might  entail 
the  gradual  atrophy  of  the  human 
organs  of  locomotion,  a  result  hardly 
desirable. 

In  the   political  sphere    there  are, 
unhappily,  no  indications  at  present 
visible    that   the    new    century   will 
usher  in  the  Golden  Age  of  Universal 
Peace,  and  men  have  almost  ceased  to 
predict  the  coming  of  the  Millennium. 
War   is  doubtless  revolutionising  its 
methods,    but  it    has    not    (with    all 
respect  to  M.  Jean  de  Bloch)  become 
impossible.     Imperial  Federation  may 
find   its  full  fruition  even  while  the 
century  is  yet  young.     There  is  little 
doubt  also  that  the  movement  among 
the  Great  Powers  towards  what  Mr. 
Benjamin  Kidd  calls  the  Control  of 
the   Tropics,  will   complete  itself  by 
the  annexation   of   all    the   hitherto 
unappropriated  portions  of  the  earth's 
surface.      Every   possible    land-claim 
for    posterity,    even    those    centring 
upon  the  as  yet  undiscovered  poles, 
will    probably   have    been,    as   Lord 
Rosebery  calls  it,  pegged  out  before 
the  year  1902  is  turned.     "With  the 
filling  up  of  the  temperate  regions," 
says  Mr.  Kidd,  "  and  the  continued 
development  of  industrialism  through- 
out the   civilised  world,    the   rivalry 
and    struggle   for    the    trade   of    the 
Tropics   will,   beyond  doubt,    be   the 
permanent    underlying    fact    in    the 
foreign    relations     of     the    Western 
nations    in    the    twentieth    century." 
This    conclusion    can   hardly  be   dis- 
puted. 

Turning  our  glance  homeward 
again,  questions  as  to  the  probable 
advent  of  Socialism  have  been  asked 
and  variously  answered,  according  to 
the  proclivities  of  the  prophet  who 
gives  the  answer.  There  are  those 
who  assure  us  that  the  tide  has  now 
set  in,  if  not  for  the  full  flood  of 
Social  Democracy,  at  least  for  a  more 


or  less  complete  inundation  of  Muni- 
cipal Socialism.     A  close  and  impartial 
review  of  the  course  of  recent  events 
will,   however,   suggest  many  doubts 
as  to  whether  this,  after  all,  is  the 
direction   in    which    social    evolution 
will  lead    us.     It  would  need   some- 
thing like  a  miraculous  upheaval,   a 
revolutionary  cataclysm,   to   establish 
Social  Democracy  in  the  Seats  of  the 
Mighty  during    the  present  century. 
Ten  years  ago  Socialism  appeared  to 
be  much  nearer  realisation  than  it  is 
to-day.     Its  advocates  then  had  the 
popular  ear ;  the  working-classes  were 
much   taken  with   their  glowing  pic- 
tures of  the  future,  and  in  the  absence 
of    any    effective    reply    the    Social 
Revolution    seemed   at    hand.       But 
since     then    the    proposals     of     the 
Socialists   have   been  subjected    to  a 
sharp  fire  of  criticism  from  more  than 
one  quarter,  and  the  fallacies  of  Marx 
have  been  so  thoroughly  riddled  that 
they    are    now    discarded     even    by 
Socialists  themselves.      Mr.    Bernard 
Shaw  announced  some  time  ago,  on 
behalf  of  the  Fabians,  that  this  in- 
fluential  section   of    the   school   had 
disowned     the     doctrines     of     their 
founder.     Mr.  H.  M.  Hyndman,  the 
leader  of  the  English  Social  Democrats, 
has,  after  more  than  twenty  years  of 
active  propagandist  effort,  both  in  the 
press   and    on    the   platform,    retired 
dispirited  from  his  post,  despairing  of 
the  success  of  a  class- warfare  in  this 
country.     Even  the  Social  Democrats 
of    Germany    have    very    materially 
modified  their  programme  ;  several  of 
their    leaders    have   announced    that 
they  no  longer  look  for  the  realisation 
of  their  Utopian  dreams,  and  Edward 
Bernstein  has  almost  demolished  Karl 
Marx.     We  may  have  various  trials 
of   Municipal    Socialism,    or   gas-and- 
water  Socialism,  as  it  has  been  dis- 
paragingly called,  during  this  century ; 
but    there   are    not    wanting    indica- 
tions that  the  workers  are  beginning 


Forecasts  of  the  Future. 


221 


to  realise  that  a  pure  Socialism  and 
liberty  stand  at  opposite  poles,  and 
that  increasing  State-control  means 
increasing  curtailment  of  the  natural 
rights  of  the  citizen.  If  this  convic- 
tion once  takes  hold  of  the  working- 
classes,  as  Dr.  Schaffle  years  ago  pre- 
dicted it  would,  there  is  likely  to  be  a 
revolt  against  further  progress  towards 
Socialism.  We  may  be  carried  by 
new  political  currents  further  away 
from  Social  Democracy  in  the  new 
century  than  we  were  in  the  old. 
That  which  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer 
spoke  of  as  the  coming  slavery,  may 
not  come  at  all ;  but  instead  thereof, 
we  may  see  new  efforts  to  reconcile 
liberty  with  that  equality  of  oppor- 
tunity which  professes  to  be  one  of 
the  chief  aims  of  Socialism,  but  which 
ought  to  be  attainable  without  the 
irritating  espionage  and  interference 
of  the  State. 

In  the  economic  sphere  more  serious 
portents  are,  however,  threatening  us. 
The  late  Dr.  Charles  Pearson,  in  his 
NATIONAL  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER,  first 
published  some  ten  years  back,  pre- 
dicted that  the  Yellow  Men  of  the  Far 
East  would  increase  and  multiply 
to  such  an  extent  as  to  overrun  the 
Western  Continents,  and  that  their 
peaceful  but  resistless  invasion  would 
seriously  peril  Britain's  future.  To 
some  extent  this  prediction,  though 
much  criticised  at  the  time,  is  in  pro- 
cess of  fulfilment.  Both  China  and 
Japan  are  now  competing  with  us  in 
various  industries,  while  Chinamen 
are  already  overrunning  the  American 
States  and  even  invading  our  own 
labour-market.  A  French  writer, 
M.  Gustave  le  Bon,  has  gone  even 
further  than  Dr.  Pearson  in  this  line 
of  pessimistic  prophecy.  He  predicts 
that  the  opening  of  China  to  Western 
civilisation  will  be  followed  by  Pekin's 
becoming  the  "  bourse  of  the  world," 
and  that  soon  "  European  workmen 
will  be  begging  for  work  on  any 


terms,  owing  to  the  deluge  of  Chinese 
low-priced  labour."  The  spectre  of 
the  Yellow  Peril  has  begun  to 
materialise  somewhat  menacingly  of 
late,  though  these  alarming  vaticina- 
tions may  prove  exaggerated. 

It  is  in  connection  with  the  indus- 
trial and  economic  changes  which 
appear  to  threaten  our  commercial 
supremacy,  that  the  more  thoughtful 
forecasts  of  our  country's  future  will 
probably  attract  most  attention.  In 
view  of  the  increasing  keenness  and 
success  of  foreign  competition,  and 
the  ousting  of  British  manufactures 
from  various  markets,  what  fate  do 
the  signs  of  the  times  portend  for 
Great  Britain  ?  We  can  no  longer 
claim  to  be  the  workshop  of  the 
world.  Other  nations  have  gone 
into  the  business,  and  in  future  we 
can  only  expect  a  share  of  the  world's 
orders.  The  rapidly  growing  excess 
of  imports  over  exports,  though  par- 
tially explained  by  what  are  called 
invisible  exports,  points  to  a  pending 
change  in  the  commercial  relations  of 
our  own  and  other  countries.  What 
is  the  nature  of  that  change?  Has 
our  industrial  supremacy  gone  for 
ever  ?  Must  we  write  up  Ichabod 
over  our  factories  and  ship-yards?  Is 
the  new  world,  as  has  been  hinted 
by  one  writer,  about  to  buy  up  the 
old,  and  will  the  centre  of  the  Uni- 
verse be  transferred  from  London  to 
New  York  ?  There  are  not  wanting 
doleful  prophets  who  are  ready  to 
answer  these  questions  in  the  affirma- 
tive, and  who  predict  the  rapid  in- 
dustrial decadence  of  Great  Britain. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  at  least  two 
recent  writers,  who  have  been  closely 
watching  economic  tendencies,  tell  us 
that,  although  a  change  is  pending, 
it  will  not  necessarily  be  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  our  country,  and  may 
indeed  be  greatly  to  its  advantage. 

The  two  distinctive  forecasts  of 
Britain's  future  which  these  writers 


222 


Forecasts  of  the  Future. 


have  put  forward  are  novel,  plausible, 
and  ingenious ;  and  they  seem  to  be 
deserving  of  more  consideration  than 
the  majority  of  guesses  at  the  future 
which  the  birth  of  the  new  century 
has  evoked.  Mr.  Marcus  Dorman, 
in  a  recent  work  on  the  tendencies  of 
popular  thought,  denies  that  manu- 
facture is,  as  was  generally  supposed, 
the  backbone  of  English  industry. 
Analysing  the  census  figures  of  the 
occupations  of  the  people  in  1891, 
he  shows  that  the  proportion  of  the 
population  which  lives  by  making 
goods  for  exportation  is  only  from  ten 
to  twenty  per  cent.,  and  as  this  pro- 
portion was  then  decreasing,  it  is  pro 
bably  much  less  now.  The  economic 
tendency  in  these  days  is  to  manu- 
facture nearer  the  raw  material  than 
hitherto.  Many  of  our  own  capital- 
ists have  established  cotton- mills  in 
India,  and  those  of  America  have 
built  factories  in  the  Southern  States, 
which  are  competing  successfully  with 
the  older  mills  in  Massachusetts. 
Manufacture  will,  Mr.  Dorman  main- 
tains, "gradually  leave  this  country 
and  seek  its  home  on  the  site  Nature 
has  indicated  by  her  raw  products." 
England  will  still  remain  in  the 
business,  only  her  capitalists  will 
carry  it  on  in  other  lands ;  we  shall 
supply  alike  the  capital,  the  brains, 
and  the  hands  for  factories  and  works 
all  over  the  world.  Both  capitalists 
and  workers  will  in  future  make  their 
money  abroad,  but  they  will  return 
home  to  spend  it.  Though  we  cease 
to  manufacture  in  Great  Britain,  we 
shall  direct  and  control  the  lion's 
share  of  the  industry  and  commerce 
of  the  world.  Most  of  the  monetary 
business  will  be  transacted  here,  and 
London  will  remain  the  world's  finan- 
cial centre.  In  short,  in  course  of 
time,  Great  Britain  will  become  a 
"  huge  market  clearing-house  and 
bank,  where  the  majority  of  its 
workers  will  be  engaged  in  exchange, 


or  in  organising  and  managing  in- 
dustries carried  on  elsewhere."  The 
British  workman  will  not  altogether 
find  his  occupation  gone  when  this 
change  comes.  "  The  English  artisan 
thus  displaced  will,"  our  prophet  tells 
us,  "gradually  assume  some  other  role 
in  life,  developing  into  perhaps  an 
administrator  or  director  of  mechan- 
ical labour  abroad,  for  which  he  has 
already  proved  himself  superior  to 
any  other  race,  or  will  be  occupied 
in  the  purely  financial  and  executive 
work  at  home."  In  this  particular 
the  prediction  has  been  in  course  of 
fulfilment  for  some  years  past.  Skilled 
artisans  from  Lancashire,  Yorkshire, 
and  the  north  of  the  Tweed  have  been 
in  demand  as  foremen  and  managers 
of  mills  established  mainly  by  British 
capital  in  North  and  South  America, 
India,  China,  Japan,  and  Russia,  while 
numbers  of  our  clever  mechanics 
and  engineers  have  gone  out  to  take 
charge  of  machinery  in  pretty  nearly 
every  foreign  land.  They  obtain  good 
salaries,  which  enable  them  in  a  few 
years'  time  to  return  to  their  native 
country.  To  facilitate  a  greater  em- 
ployment of  British  workmen  in  this 
way  still  ^further  attention  will,  of 
course,  have  to  be  given  by  us  in  future 
to  secondary  and  technical  education. 
To  expert  and  educated  young  workers 
the  prospect  so  opened,  though  it  may 
entail  some  years  of  residence  abroad, 
is  by  no  means  unattractive. 

A  similar  forecast,  but  varied  in 
some  of  its  features,  was  drawn  by 
the  late  Mr.  William  Clarke  in  an 
article  published  in  THE  CONTEM- 
PORARY REVIEW  some  months  back. 
Mr.  Clarke  appears  to  agree  with 
Mr.  Dorman  so  far  as  to  hold  that 
our  country  will  become  less  and 
less  a  manufactory  for  the  world ; 
nor  does  he  think  that  our  industrial 
supremacy  will  be  saved  by  any  de- 
velopment of  markets  in  our  colonies. 
They  also  are  beginning  to  manufac- 


Forecasts  of  the  Future. 


223 


ture  for  themselves.  Thus,  Canada 
is  entering  the  lists  as  a  competitor 
in  iron  and  steel,  and  in  some  spe- 
cialities of  machinery.  India,  though 
not,  of  course,  a  colony,  but  only  a 
dependency,  has  for  years  been  a 
competitor  with  us  in  textiles,  and 
Lancashire  has  felt  keenly  the  activity 
of  the  Bombay  mills.  What  is  more, 
our  colonies  are  quite  as  ready  to 
buy  their  wares  from  foreign  nations 
as  from  the  mother  country, — like 
us  they  seek  the  cheapest  markets. 
What  South  Africa  may  yet  do  for 
us  it  is  hard  to  say.  We  have  there, 
it  is  true,  great  undeveloped  estates ; 
but  our  older  South  African  colonies 
have  also  begun  to  manufacture  for 
themselves,  and  they  too  patronise 
our  competitors,  America  and  Ger- 
many. 

Mr.  Clarke's  conclusion,  from  a 
careful  review  of  existing  economic 
conditions,  is  that  schemes  for  main- 
taining Britain's  industrial  supremacy 
"  are  all  doomed  to  failure,"  and  that, 
in  course  of  time,  "  we,  in  this  island 
country,  shall  retire  from  the  race  1  " 
What  then  ?  Is  industrial  ruin  the 
fate  in  store  for  the  old  country  1 
No ;  like  Mr.  Dorman,  Mr.  Clarke, 
taking  an  independent'  view  of  his 
own,  has  consolations  for  us  in  the 
changing  conditions  of  the  century. 
He  sees  a  new,  and  in  some  respects 
even  a  brilliant  future  for  our  country. 
Britain  is  to  become,  is  even  now 
becoming,  the  "  pleasure-ground  of 
English-speaking  peoples,  the  summer- 
resort  to  which  increasing  multitudes 
will  repair  to  find  rest  and  recreation 
and  to  drink  in  those  ancient  historic 
influences  so  greatly  needed  by  a  not 
very  imaginative  population  living  in 
new  countries  void  of  human  interest, 
devoted  to  daily  gain,  and  dominated 
by  rather  commonplace  and  at  times 
distinctly  sordid  and  vulgar  aims." 
Thus,  according  to  this  hypothesis,  the 
mass  of  the  English  common  people, 


without    being    relegated    necessarily 
to    entirely    servile    positions,  "  will 
more    and     more    tend    to    be    the 
ministers   in   some  way  of    this  new 
rich  class  of  English-speaking  peoples, 
who  will  repair,  for  purposes  of  health 
or  culture,  to  their  ancestral    seats." 
There    is    even    now    to    be    seen    a 
decided  movement,   increasing  yearly 
in  strength  and  volume,  in  this  direc- 
tion.    Crowds  of  wealthy  Americans 
and    Colonials    are   in    the   habit   of 
repairing  to  the  old  country  for  health 
or  pleasure  year  after  year.     A  num- 
ber of  American  millionaires,  like  Mr. 
Astor  and  Mr.    Carnegie,  have    now 
settled  residences  in  this  country,  while 
many  others,  and  even   visitors  from 
the  Continent,  also  make  long  annual 
sojourns  in  our  land.      Every  summer 
the  number  of  American  visitors  to 
spots  rich  in  natural  beauty  or   his- 
toric associations,    in   England,   Scot- 
land and  Ireland,  is  increasing,  and 
at  some   of    these   places   they  even 
outnumber  the  English  visitors.      Of 
course  they  usually  make  a  longer  or 
shorter  stay  in  the  metropolis.      Rich 
Americans   seem    to   find    the    social 
amenities  and  pleasures  of  life  more 
to  their  taste  in  this  country  than  in 
their  own,  and  so  each  year  more  and 
more   of    them   are   setting    up    per- 
manent   establishments     here.       The 
multiplication  in  late  years  of  huge 
hotels  in  London  and  in  most  of  our 
pleasure-resorts  is  largely  due  to  these 
American  visitors.    These  facts  testify 
to   the  growing  popularity  of  Great 
Britain  as  a  world's  pleasure-resort. 

The  increasing  attention  given  to 
sanitary  and  hygienic  improvement 
throughout  the  country,  and  the  cor 
responding  fall  in  the  death-rate,  are 
other  circumstances  enhancing  the  at- 
tractions of  these  islands  for  foreign 
visitors  and  residents.  Mr.  Clarke 
remarks  on  this  prospect  that,  as 
compared  with  our  black,  dingy  indus- 
trialism, "  it  will  not  be  unwelcome  to 


224 


Forecasts  of  the  Future. 


many.  Artists,  quiet  people  who  are 
weary  of  the  present  din,  the  growing 
number  of  Ruskin's  followers,  would 
not  be  sorry  to  see  once  more  a  clean, 
healthy  England,  cleared  of  her  pall 
of  smoke,  with  pure  streams  and 
pleasant  red-tiled  towns  instead  of 
our  black  '  hell-holes.'  They  would 
not  be  sorry  to  see  the  growth  of 
the  London  octopus  arrested  and 
the  general  encroachment  of  sprawl- 
ing cities  on  green  nature  stopped." 
Along  with  the  increasing  tendency 
of  men  of  wealth  and  culture  to  re- 
sort to  this  country  for  pleasure  and 
health,  there  would  be  a  large 
growth  of  the  professional,  artistic, 
and  literary  classes,  as  well  as  of 
the  shopkeeping,  catering,  and  other 
trades  which  live  by  administering  to 
those  who  have  money  to  spend. 

Of  the  political  aspects  of  these 
predicted  changes  it  is  unnecessary 
here  to  speak,  further  than  to  say 
that  the  author  of  this  forecast  con- 
siders the  new  social  conditions  un- 
favourable to  Democracy.  On  the 
other  hand,  however,  with  the  check 
to  industrialism,  and  to  the  growth 
of  factories,  many  of  the  social  pro- 
blems that  now  perplex  us,  such  as 
the  housing-question,  would  tend  to 
their  own  solution.  Britain  would, 
politically  and  industrially,  have  en- 
tered upon  an  epoch  of  rest.  This 
picture  of  our  social  future,  it  will  be 
seen,  might  easily  be  made  to  fit  in 
with  Mr.  Dorman's  forecast  of  the 
industrial  and  commercial  future, 
though  it  is  not  drawn  entirely  on 
the  same  lines.  Not  only  so,  but 
Mr.  Wells  also,  in  his  ANTICIPATIONS, 
working  on  still  other  grounds,  leads 
his  readers  to  expect  a  state  of 
society  very  much  resembling  that 
of  Mr.  Clarke's  social  forecast.  He 
anticipates  a  large  increase  in  the 
wealthy  shareholding  class,  the  class 
which  lives  upon  its  investments  in 
all  parts  of  the  world,  without  taking 


a  direct,  active  part  in  the  manage- 
ment or  working  of  the  enterprises 
from  which  its  members  derive  their 
income.  Along  with  this  there  will 
be  an  enormous  growth  of  the  expert 
engineering  class,  for  Mr.  Wells's 
main  point  is  the  remarkable  multi- 
plication of  machines  for  saving 
labour  and  time  which  is  coming. 
In  a  "  world  which  is  steadily 
abolishing  locality,"  he  thinks,  "  there 
will  be  no  great,  but  many  rich.*' 
Then  "the  practical  abolition  of  dis- 
tances and  the  general  freedom  of 
people  to  live  anywhere  they  like 
over  large  areas,  will  mean  very 
frequently  an  actual  local  segrega- 
tion." These  segregations  will  be 
literary,  artistic,  scientific,  engineer- 
ing, and  so  on.  "  The  best  of 
the  wealthy  will  gravitate  to  their 
attracting  centres,"  and  "  unless  some 
great  catastrophe  break  down  all 
that  man  has  built,  these  great 
kindred  groups  of  capable  men  and 
educated,  adequate  women  must  be 
the  element  finally  emergent  amidst 
the  vast  confusions  of  the  coming 
time."  The  prospect,  therefore,  is 
hopeful,  even  according  to  Mr. 
Wells,  who  writes  as  regards  the 
great  masses  of  the  people  in  a 
somewhat  pessimistic  tone,  and  goes 
so  far  as  to  predict  the  passing 
of  Democracy  with  the  first  great 
war,  and  the  emergence  of  a  New 
Republic  of  Intellect. 

Whether  the  prognostications  by 
Messrs.  Dorman  and  Clarke  of 
Britain's  industrial  future,  or  those 
of  Mr.  Wells,  will  be  considered 
attractive,  or  the  reverse,  will  de- 
pend upon  the  turn  of  the  mind 
which  contemplates  them.  Of  course, 
no  one  need  be  too  ready  to  accept 
such  generalisations  as  certain  to  be 
verified,  for  even  when  a  stream  of 
tendency  appears  tx>  have  set  strongly 
in  one  particular  direction,  at  that 
very  moment  cross-currents  may  be 


Forecasts  of  the  Future. 


225 


making  which  will  either  divert  it 
from  its  goal,  or  cause  it  to  break  up, 
like  the  gulf-stream.  Hence,  though 
some  of  the  predictions  of  our  social 
and  political  seers  may  be  fulfilled, 
or  partially  fulfilled,  very  few  will  be 
carried  out  wholly,  nor  is  any  one 
of  them  likely  to  be  realised  to  the 
letter. 

In  any  case,  if  our  sons  strive  to 
do  their  duty  in  the  present,  and  to 
equip  themselves  to  the  utmost  as 
socially  efficient  units  of  our  civilisa- 
tion, whatever  direction  that  civilisa- 
tion may  take,  they  need  have  no 
fear  of  their  country's  future.  It 
may  be  something  very  different  from 
even  the  most  plausible  and  probable 
forecast  yet  put  forward,  though 
certain  elements  of  more  than  one 
such  may  be  woven  into  its  fabric. 
We  may  say  of  these  forecasts,  as 
Dr.  Pearson  wrote  of  his  own  some- 
what more  pessimistic  predictions  a 
dozen  or  so  years  ago,  "  Should  it  be  so 
that  something  like  what  the  Norse- 
men conceived  as  the  twilight  of  the 


gods  is  coming  upon  the  earth,  and 
that  there  will  be  a  temporary  eclipse 
of  the  higher  powers,  we  may  at  least 
prepare  for  it  in  the  spirit  of  the 
Norsemen,  who,  as  the  YNGLINGA 
SAGA  tells  us,  deemed  that  whether 
God  gave  them  victory  or  called  them 
home  to  Himself,  either  award  was 
good.  .  .  .  Simply  to  do  our 
work  in  life,  and  to  abide  the  issue, 
if  we  stand  erect  before  the  eternal 
calm  as  cheerfully  as  our  fathers 
faced  the  eternal  unrest,  may  be 
nobler  training  for  our  souls  than 
the  faith  in  progress."  While  bracing 
ourselves  to  meet  thus  manfully  any 
changes  which  impend  there  is  no 
sufficient  reason  for  a  feeling  of  de- 
spondency, or  even  of  apprehension, 
as  regards  the  future.  We  have 
naturally  entered  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury with  both  hopes  and  fears  for 
our  country ;  but  who  shall  say  that 
the  indications,  fairly  looked  in  the 
face,  do  not  give  us  most  ground  for 
hope? 

JESSE  QUAIL. 


No.  507.— TOL.  LXXXV 


226 


HIS    LAST    LETTER 


[THIS  letter  came  into  my  hands 
among  the  papers  of  the  late  eminent 
judge,  Sir  John  Holland,  whose  standard 
work  upon  THE  LAW  OF  DOMICILE  has 
made  his  name  familiar  to  every  student 
of  English  jurisprudence.  The  writer 
was  his  elder  brother,  Colonel  Molland, 
of  the  East  India  Company's  Service, 
who  was  in  command  of  the  115th 
Bengal  Native  Infantry,  when  they 
mutinied  at  Sigrapore  on  their  march 
to  Delhi.  Colonel  Molland  was  one  of 
the  few  officers  who  escaped  on  that 
occasion ;  he  subsequently  served  with 
great  distinction  at  the  siege  of  Delhi, 
and  was  killed,  in  the  assault  on  that 
city,  at  the  head  of  the  column  which 
carried  the  Water  Bastion.  Miss  Dan- 
vers,  who  is  mentioned  in  the  letter, 
afterwards  made  a  very  brilliant  mar- 
riage, and  was  a  prominent  figure  in 
London  society  some  forty  years  or  so 
ago.— J.  B.  H.J 

The  Ridge  before  Delhi, 

September  13th,  1857. 
My  Dear  Jack, 

Our  correspondence  of  late  years 
has  been  so  very  intermittent,  through 
my  own  fault,  no  doubt,  for  I  have  no 
wish,  at  the  present  moment,  to  say 
anything  which  can,  by  any  possi- 
bility, be  twisted  into  a  reproach — 
so,  you  may  be  sure  that,  if  I  thought 
you  were  in  the  least  to  blame  for  it, 
I  should  not  make  any  allusion  to  the 
subject;  but  it  has  been  so  very  in- 
termittent that  you  will,  perhaps,  be 
surprised  to  hear  from  me  now. 

You  will  be  still  more  surprised, 
when  you  learn  the  especial  distinc- 
tion I  am  conferring  on  you  ;  for  this 
epistle,  wildly  scrawled  with  a  stumpy 
quill,  by  the  light  of  one  wretched 
candle  perpetually  spluttering  with 
frizzling  flies,  will  probably  be  my 
last  effort  at  prose  composition. 


The  General  has  at  last  made  up 
his  mind,  or  had  it  made  up  for  him, 
— it  doesn't  make  much  difference 
which — to  prefer  a  chance  of  defeat 
to  the  certainty.  We  assault  to- 
morrow at  daybreak,  instead  of  wait- 
ing till  the  sick-list,  which  has  already 
reduced  our  effective  strength  by  one 
half,  has  grown  big  enough  to  absorb 
the  whole  of  his  command.  We 
assault,  I  say,  to-morrow  at  daybreak, 
and  we've  got  to  win, — we  shall  win, 
unless  the  Pandies  shoot  straight 
enough  to  account  for  every  man  in 
our  force,  because,  from  what  I've 
seen  of  our  fellows,  I'm  convinced 
that  there  is  no  way  to  beat  them 
except  by  exterminating  them.  To- 
morrow, I  repeat,  we  must  and  shall 
be  masters  of  Delhi ;  but,  how  many 
of  us  will  be  left  to  congratulate 
ourselves  on  that  victory  is  another 
question,  and  one  upon  which  I'm 
not  at  all  prepared,  or  inclined,  to 
prophesy.  There  is  a  grim  sugges- 
tiveness  about  the  orders  we  shall 
have  to  read  to  the  men  presently, 
when  they  parade :  "  No  man  is 
to  leave  the  ranks  to  attend  to 
the  wounded.  The  wounded,  officers 
and  men  alike,  must  remember 
that,  if  we  are  victorious,  they  shall 
receive  every  possible  attention,  at 
the  earliest  opportunity  ;  if  we  fail, 
wounded  and  unwounded  must,  alike, 
prepare  for  the  worst."  But  we  shall 
not  fail,  we  cannot  afford  to  fail ;  the 
lives  of  all  the  Europeans  between 
Peshawur  and  Calcutta  depend  on 
our  carrying  the  city  to-morrow,  and 
we  will  carry  it.  The  odds  are,  as 
nearly  as  we  can  calculate,  five  to 
one  against  us,  and  the  five  are 


His  Last  Letter. 


227 


fighting  from  behind  stone  walls ; 
but  we  have  right,  British  pluck, 
and  Nicholson  on  our  side,  and  that 
more  than  evens  the  odds. 

I  trust  that  England  will  some  day 
realise  and  appreciate  the  work  that 
our  little  army  has  been,  and  is,  doing 
here.  For  nearly  three  months  they 
have  been  fighting,  every  day  and 
most  of  every  day,  against  tremendous 
odds.  They  have  only  laid  aside  their 
muskets  to  labour  with  pick  and 
shovel  in  the  trenches,  till  they 
dropped  from  sheer  fatigue.  Fever, 
dysentery,  and  cholera  have  laid  their 
grip  on  one  man  out  of  every  two, 
but  there  is  no  complaining,  and 
there  is  no  giving  in.  I  cannot  sum 
up  their  exploits  better  than  by  say- 
ing that  I  shall  start  for  the  fearful 
ordeal  of  to-morrow  in  absolute  con- 
fidence that  some  of  us  will  stand  in 
the  King's  Palace  as  conquerors.  But, 
who  among  us,  and  how  many  1  And 
I  can  hardly  count  upon  being  one. 

Nor  can  I  say  that  I  mind  about 
myself,  very  much.  Of  course,  life  is 
dear  to  every  man,  and  I  am  sorry 
for  the  grief  it  will  cause  to  so  many 
of  you  at  home  ;  but  my  heart  broke 
when  the  dear  old  regiment  mutinied. 
Oh,  Jack  !  How  could  they  ?  How 
could  they?  When  I  think  of  all 
they  had  endured  and  wrought  to- 
gether,— of  those  forced  marches  in 
1845,  so  nobly  borne, — of  that  night 
of  over-wrought  waiting  on  the  field 
of  Ferozeshah,  when,  amid  the  heaps 
of  still  bleeding  slain,  friend  and  foe 
sank  to  rest  within  pistol-shot  of  each 
other, — of  that  resolute  advance 
through  the  baffling  jungle  at  Chil- 
lianwallah, — of  all  the  varied  incidents 
of  the  fifteen  years  I  have  spent  with 
the  colours  in  peace  and  war, — how 
could  they?  How  could  they  1  I  grow 
almost  hysterical  when  I  think  about 
them,  but  I  won't  cross  out  what  I've 
written,  so  that  you  may  know  that, 
if  I  do  fall  to-morrow,  you  must  not 


grieve  for  me,  as  for  one  taken  from 
life  when  it  was  sweet  to  him.  But, 
please  God,  I  sha'n't  get  my  death  from 
a  115th  musket!  That  would  be  a 
little  too  hard  on  me,  when  there  are 
thirty  other  regiments  of  mutineers 
in  Delhi. 

Perhaps  you  are  surprised  at  my 
picking  you  out  to  receive  this  "  last 
dying  speech  and  confession,"  since, 
gloze  it  over  as  you  will,  that  is  what 
it  amounts  to  ;  but  one  of  my  chief 
reasons  for  doing  so  is  because  I 
haven't  heard  from  you  lately.  You 
can  have  no  idea  what  a  torture  my 
English  letters  have  been  to  me  for 
the  past  four  months.  Of  course,  it 
wasn't  the  writers'  fault ;  they  didn't 
know  what  they  were  doing,  and 
could  never  have  guessed  that,  by 
writing  in  high  spirits,  they  were  not 
doing  their  best  to  keep  me  in  high 
spirits  too ;  but  there  has  been  some- 
thing supremely  horrible  in  their 
cheerful,  prattling  gossip  about  dances 
and  concerts  and  such  things,  at  a 
time  when  we  never  went  to  bed 
without  expecting  that  our  bungalows 
would  be  ablaze  before  morning. 

If  you  had  to  watch  by  the  death- 
bed of  a  dear  old  friend,  you  would 
not  like  the  people  next  door  to  choose 
that  night  to  give  a  dance ;  and 
English  India,  since  the  storm  burst 
at  Meerut,  has  been  one  vast  chamber 
of  death,  where,  however,  the  watchers 
cannot  count  on  a  much  longer  life 
than  the  dying.  I  can  assure  you, 
Jack,  during  the  terrible  ordeal  of 
this  summer,  my  home-letters  have 
been  more  of  a  pain  than  a  pleasure 
to  me. 

Don't  think  that  I'm  one  whit  less 
fond  of  you.  I  love  you  all  as  much 
as  ever,  from  Aunt  Elspeth  in  her 
moss-grown  Galloway  manse,  to  Jessie's 
latest  infant  phenomenon  in  her  smart 
bassinnetle ;  but,  one  and  all,  they  have 
got  upon  my  nerves  to  a  frightful 
extent, — though,  on  that  score,  it  is 

Q  2 


228 


His  Last  Letter. 


the  merest  justice  to  acquit  Jessie's 
baby  and  her  immediate  contempo- 
raries— while  they  thought  they  were 
cheering  the  lonely  hours  of  my 
Indian  exile ;  but,  if  they  had  only 
known !  The  day  I  got  Jessie's 
minute  account  of  Madge's  wedding, 
I  saw  the  murdered  bodies  of  poor 
Duberfield's  wife  and  child  lying  by 
the  still  glowing  ashes  of  his  bungalow ; 
on  the  day  which  brought  me  Nellie's 
"  full,  true  and  particular  "  narrative 
of  the  Brendons'  fancy-dress  ball,  we 
buried  Tom  Hardy,  the  brightest, 
jolliest  subaltern  who  ever  neglected 
his  regimental  duties  to  go  pig-sticking. 
The  contrast  of  their  frivolous  gaieties 
at  home  with  the  deadly  earnestness 
of  our  struggle  for  life  out  here  has 
thrown  me  out  of  touch  and  sympathy 
with  my  usual  home-correspondents. 
I  know  it's  foolish  of  me ;  they  meant 
nothing  but  what  was  kind  and  loving, 
and  for  the  world  I  would  not  have 
them  know  what  I  feel ;  but,  as  I 
said,  I'm  thrown  out  of  touch  with 
them,  and  I  can't  sit  down  and  write 
to  them  as  fully  and  frankly  as  I 
should  like,  just  now ;  so,  I'm  writing 
to  you. 

I  can  see  you,  dear  old  Jack,  with 
a  suspicious,  Old  Bailey  sort  of  smile 
curling  up  the  corners  of  your  legal 
mouth,  as  you  say  to  yourself,  "  He 
must  be  very  much  in  a  corner, 
before  he's  driven  to  plead  such  a 
lame  excuse  as  that";  but  it  is  my 
real  motive,  or,  if  I  have  another,  it 
doesn't  weigh  with  me  so  much,  at 
least,  I  don't  think  it  does,  and  I've 
no  reason  for  attempting  to  deceive 
you  now.  But  I  do  not  see  why  I 
need  be  ashamed  of  the  other  reason 
even  if  it  were  my  only  one,  which,  as 
I've  already  told  you,  it  isn't. 

I  rather  gathered  from  some  ex- 
pressions Mrs.  Jack, — I  will  not  say 
"your  wife,"  because  I  want  to  dis- 
sociate you  as  much  as  possible  from 
the  opinions  which  you  must  teach 


her  not  to  hold — from  some  expres- 
sions Mrs.  Jack  used  in  her  last  letter, 
that  she  was  inclined  to  think  that 
Mary  Danvers  had  treated  me  badly, 
when  I  was  over  in  England  on  fur- 
lough. I  don't  want  to  turn  mawkish 
or  sentimental,  so  I  won't  appeal  to 
any  touching  recollections  of  our 
earlier  years,  but,  if  we  were  ever 
good  friends,  Jack, — and  I  cannot 
remember  our  ever  having  been  any- 
thing else  —  don't  let  her  think  so. 
What's  the  good  of  a  husband,  if  he 
can't  make  his  wife  think  as  he  does  ? 
If  I  fall  to-morrow — and  the  sound  of 
the  jackals  howling  over  the  carnage 
of  the  last  sortie  reminds  me  of  the 
likelihood  of  such  an  issue  without  at 
all  increasing  my  appetite  for  it — 
but  if  I  fall,  do  not  allow  your  wife 
to  let  any  memory  of  me  come 
between  her  and  the  bravest  and 
unluckiest  girl  in  the  world,  who  has 
no  other  friend  left ;  because  I'm  not 
worth  it, — whatever  the  partiality  of 
friends  and  relations  may  lead  them 
to  think  about  me,  I'm  not  worth  it. 
Besides,  I  owe  Mary  Danvers  a  great 
deal  more  pleasure  than  pain ;  I  owe 
her  some  pain,  I  confess,  but  it  was  of 
my  own  seeking,  whereas  the  pleasure 
she  bestowed  upon  me  was  her  own 
free  gift. 

Yes,  after  all  this  preamble,  Jack, 
I  have  arrived,  at  last,  at  something 
honest  and  definite ;  perhaps,  the  real, 
sole  object  of  this  letter.  I  don't  want 
to  spend  this  last  night  telling  my 
relatives  that  I  love  them, — I  trust 
they  know  that — or  promising  them 
to  try  and  do  my  duty, — I  hope  they 
will  take  that  for  granted ;  but,  I 
do  beg  of  you  to  be  kind  to  Mary 
Danvers,  for  my  sake.  If  I  live  to 
see  her  again,  which,  of  course,  is 
possible,  and,  if  she  would  accept  it, 
which  is  most  improbable,  all  I  possess 
should  be  hers  ;  so,  at  least,  let  me 
leave  her  the  one  legacy  she  will  not 
refuse  and  which  she  so  sorely  needs, 


His  Last  Letter. 


229 


the  friendship  of  all  who  will  befriend 
her  for  my  sake ;  and  first  among  that 
number,  Jack,  I  trust  I  may  reckon 
you  and  your  wife. 

It  was  not  her  fault !  It  was  not 
her  fault  !  If  I  thought  that  repeti- 
tion would  bring  that  truth  home  to 
you,  I  would  go  on  writing  it,  like  the 
text  in  a  copy-book,  till  the  time  for 
falling-in.  It  really  was  not  her 
fault. 

How  was  she  to  guess,  in  the  inno- 
cence of  her  seventeen  years,  that  the 
withered,  grey-moustachioed,  middle- 
aged  Indian  soldier  could  care  for 
her,  except  as  an  uncle,  or,  at  the 
utmost,  as  a  father  ?  So  she  accepted 
all  my  attentions  with  a  frank  un- 
questioning affection,  which  bore  as 
much  resemblance  to  love  on  the 
surface,  as  it  was  fatally  and  hope- 
lessly different  from  it  in  reality  ; 
and,  when  the  true  state  of  affairs 
revealed  itself  to  her,  as  if  an  earth- 
quake had  opened  the  ground  before 
her  feet,  it  hurt  her  even  more  than 
it  hurt  me ;  and,  God  knows,  it  hurt 
me  badly  enough. 

Be  kind  to  Mary,  Jack,  and 
don't  be  jealous  of  her,  even  if,  this 
last  night,  my  thoughts  do  turn  to 
her  in  preference  to  all  my  home- 
circle.  She  has  come  in  between  me 
and  them,  and  blotted  them  all  out, 
but  she  never  wished  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  kind  ;  it's  only  my  folly 
which  has  placed  her  on  a  pedestal, 
where  she  shuts  out  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  from  my  eyes.  My  folly, — 
but,  after  all,  Jack,  it's  a  folly  I 
wouldn't  change  for  wisdom.  I  ask 
for  no  better  company  in  my  tent 
to-night  than  my  memories  of  her, — 
of  the  quiet,  rather  plain,  sharp-nosed 
little  girl  with  flowing  hair,  whom 
Lady  Turnbull  brought  to  the  Hos- 
pital concert, — of  the  very  shy  and 
silent  debutante  in  white,  whom  your 
wife  committed  to  my  charge  at  that 
ball  of  yours,  with  the  request  that 


I  would  see  that  she  got  plenty  of 
partners,  —  of  the  unconventional, 
jolly  little  maiden  who  stayed  with 
you,  that  summer,  at  Combe-Martin. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  sounds  outside 
which  warn  me  that  the  men  are 
getting  their  arms  ready  for  the 
great  hazard  of  to-morrow,  I  could 
almost  fancy  myself  back  at  Combe- 
Martin  now. 

Those  sweet  and  bitter  days  at 
Combe-Martin  !  There  was  one  hat 
she  used  to  wear  there,  a  perfectly 
bewitching  hat ;  I  could  never  see 
her  in  it,  without  feeling  an  almost 
irresistible  desire  to  clasp  her  in  my 
arms,  and  claim  her  as  mine  against 
all  the  world.  Indeed,  at  last  I 
had  to  caution  her,  to  tell  her  never 
to  wear  that  particular  hat  when 
she  was  going  out  with  me.  "  Why  ? 
*  Don't  you  think  it's  pretty  ? "  "  Oh, 
yes,  pretty  enough."  "  Then,  why 
shouldn't  I  wear  it  ? "  "I  can't  tell 
you  ;  some  day  perhaps  you'll  know, 
or,  at  least,  guess."  I  wonder  if 
she  recollects  that  conversation ;  it 
was  enigmatical  enough  to  fix  itself 
in  any  one's  memory.  But  how 
trivial  all  this  is,  and  what  dread- 
ful drivel  it  must  sound  to  you. 
Jack! 

Still,  I  cannot  deny  myself  the 
pleasure  of  setting  down  one  more 
picture  of  her  in  black  and  white. 
It  was  the  day  before  I  sailed,  when 
I  forgot  everything,  my  years,  my 
life  of  exile,  her  position, — I  must 
have  been  a  brute  to  have  forgotten 
that — and  spoke.  Her  cry  of  genuine 
misery  and  horror — "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  I  never  thought  of  that !  " — 
is  ringing  in  my  ears  still ;  even  now 
I  can  see  her  bent  over  the  arm  of 
the  big  chair  in  your  study,  sobbing 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  No ! 
Mary  Danvers  never  treated  me 
badly  ;  I  treated  her  selfishly, 
brutally, — fiendishly,  if  you  like — I, 
the  man,  who  should  have  kept  pain 


230 


His  Last  Letter. 


from  her,  the  woman, — I  who  would 
gladly  have  died  to  save  her  a  single 
pang. 

But  it  is  best  as  it  is.  "We  must 
march  up  the  breach  to-morrow  with- 
out casting  a  look  back  over  our 
shoulders  at  the  world  we  may  never 
.see  again.  There  is  an  empire  to 
redeem,  there  are  lives,  hundreds  of 
lives,  of  our  countrymen  and  country- 
women in  imminent  peril.  Many 
there  are  among  us  who  will  find  it 
bitterly  hard  to  turn  their  backs  for 
ever  on  wife,  on  children,  on  home  ; 
had  I  any  prospect  of  winning  Mary's 
love,  the  world  would  seem  too  bright 
for  me  to  quit,  without  such  a  regret 
as  we,  the  enfants  perdus  of  British 
rule  in  India,  must  not  allow  our- 
selves to  feel. 

My  time  grows  short  now,  and  this 
candle  is  guttering  its  last.  Good- 


bye dear,  dear  old  Jack  !  Be  kind 
to  Mary  Danvers ;  she  is  my  dying 
charge  to  you.  Give  my  love  to  all 
at  home,  from  the  Scotch  aunts  to 
Jessie's  wonderful  infant,  of  whom 
I  have  heard  so  much,  but  whom  I 
shall  never  see.  If  they  like  to  add 
my  name  to  the  family  tablet  in 
the  old  church  at  home,  let  them 
carve  after  it  Fell  at  Delhi  and 
nothing  more  ;  no  man  could  ask 
for  a  nobler  epitaph. 

Please  ask  your  wife  to  let  Mary 
know, — if  she  thinks  it  will  not  hurt 
her  too  much, — that  my  love  for  her 
has  never  changed,  and  never  could 
change,  and  that  I  thank  the  pro- 
vidence of  Heaven  that  has  let  me 
know  and  feel  her  excellence.  And 
don't  forget  that  I  owe  her  nothing 
but  good. 

The  men  are  falling-in. 


231 


THE    REVIVAL    OF    A    LANGUAGE, 


THE  modern  conception  of  civilisa- 
tion seems  to  involve  the  agglomera- 
tion of  communities  into  vast  masses, 
all  governed  by  the  same  institutions 
and  all  speaking  the  same  language  ; 
and  there  are  those  who  exult  in  the 
fact  that  English,  of  all  competitors, 
has  the  best  chance  to  become,  in 
the  cant  term,  a  world-speech,  doing 
away  with  the  curse  of  Babel,  to  the 
immense  advantage  of  people  who 
buy  and  sell.  I  cannot  understand 
this  enthusiasm.  Neither  the  pidgin- 
English  of  China,  nor  the  trade- 
English  of  West  Africa,  nor  the 
delectable  dialect  of  the  Wall  Street 
broker,  kindles  in  me  the  least 
glow  of  satisfaction.  I  am  a  Little 
Englander  in  the  matter  of  lan- 
guage ;  and  every  extension  of  a 
speech  beyond  the  limits  in  which 
it  originally  took  shape  seems  to 
take  from  it  something  of  its  essential 
character  and  beauty.  It  becomes 
less  and  less  an  appropriate  instru- 
ment for  embodying  thought  and 
imagination,  and  more  and  more  a 
convenient  tool  in  the  business  of 
barter  and  money-making.  Latin  and 
Greek  literature  ceased  to  be  interest- 
ing in  proportion  as  the  languages 
grew  cosmopolitan.  The  great  things 
of  the  intellectual  world  have  been 
done  mostly  by  the  small  communities. 

On  the  other  hand,  many  people 
in  many  parts  of  the  world  are 
possessed  with  the  desire  to  resist 
the  progress  of  the  great  steam-rollers 
that  are  flattening  out  racial,  local, 
and  parochial  differences.  They  do 
not  want  to  see,  in  Musset's  phrase, 
a  world  beardless  and  hairless  spin 
through  space  like  a  monstrous 


pumpkin.  In  certain  cases,  as  in 
Finland  for  example,  the  struggle 
has  a  political  complexion ;  a  subject 
people  holds  to  what  it  believes  will 
be  the  key  to  deliver  it  from  its 
chains.  But  in  most  instances  the 
motives  are  merely  sentimental,  a 
local  patriotism  such  as  preserves  the 
speech  and  the  literature  of  Wales  ; 
and  the  most  remarkable  of  all 
these  revivals,  that  of  the  Provengal 
tongue,  is  perfectly  free  from  any 
suggestion  of  a  racial  hostility.  "I 
love  my  village  more  than  thy 
village,  I  love  my  Provence  more 
than  thy  Province,  I  love  France  more 
than  all,"  writes  Felix  Gras,  one  of 
the  leaders  in  the  movement,  quoted 
by  Mr.  Downer  in  his  excellent 
little  book  on  Frederic  Mistral.1 
And  Mistral  himself,  so  eloquent 
on  the  need  for  fostering  the  local 
life,  is  eloquent  too  upon  the  need 
for  racial  union. 

For  the  brook  must  flow  to  the  sea, 
and  the  stone  must  fall  on  the  heap  ;  the 
wheat  is  best  protected  from  the  treacher- 
ous wind  when  planted  close ;  and  the 
little  boats,  if  they  are  to  navigate  safely, 
when  the  waves  are  black  and  the  air 
dark,  must  sail  together.  For  it  is  good 
to  be  many,  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  say, 
"  We  are  children  of  France." 

Unluckily,  the  movement  nearest 
to  my  mind,  the  revival  of  the 
Gaelic  tongue  in  Ireland,  springs 
under  less  kindly  auspices.  Dislike 
of  England  as  well  as  love  of  Ireland 
enters  into  it.  Nevertheless,  the 
resentment  that  encourages  Irishmen 

1  FREDERIC  MISTRAL,  POET  AND  LEADER 
IN  PROVENCE  ;  by  Charles  Alfred  Downer. 
London,  1901. 


232 


The  Revival  of  a  Language. 


to  promote  national  industries,  to 
revive  their  ancient  tongue,  and  to 
study  their  past  history  and  store 
of  legends,  is  a  very  much  more 
useful  feeling  than  the  resentment 
which  sits  sullenly  asserting  that 
nothing  but  the  Act  of  Union  stands 
between  Ireland  and  the  millennium. 
And  it  would  be  misleading  to  assert 
that  the  feeling  against  England, 
rather  than  the  feeling  for  Ireland, 
has  been  the  spring  of  the  move- 
ment. Protestants  and  Unionists 
have  been  prominent  in  it.  In  Bel- 
fast, where  the  Gaelic  League  has 
several  thousand  members,  the  presi- 
dent of  the  League  is  a  Protestant ; 
and  one  of  the  best  known  opponents 
of  Home  Rule,  the  late  Dr.  Kane, 
joined  the  League,  saying  that  he 
might  be  an  Orangeman,  but  he  did 
not  wish  to  forget  that  he  was  an 
O'Cahan.  And  many  Irishmen,  and 
others  interested  in  the  Celtic  revival, 
will  find  in  Mr.  Downer's  account  of 
Mistral  and  the  Felibrige  a  suggestive 
parallel  which  I  shall  endeavour  to 
draw  out,  while  giving  some  account 
of  the  Felibrige  itself. 

The  Proven9al  speech,  once  the 
vehicle  of  a  great  literature,  had 
lapsed,  after  the  devastation  of  the 
Albigensian  wars,  into  the  position 
of  a  mere  patois.  A  few  peasant 
songs  were  still  written  in  it,  and 
before  the  efforts  of  Mistral  and  his 
fellows,  Jasmin  had  composed  in  it 
poems  which  won  the  praise  of 
Sainte-Beuve.  Roumanille,  a  native 
of  Saint-Remy,  born  in  1818,  con- 
ceived definitely  the  idea  of  saving 
from  destruction  the  beautiful  langue 
cFoc ;  and  providence  threw  in  his 
way  the  instrument.  In  1845  he 
met  with  Frederic  Mistral,  then  a 
boy  of  fifteen,  son  of  a  farmer  whose 
home  lay  near  the  village  of  Mail  lane 
in  the  plain  at  the  foot  of  the 
Alpilles.  The  boy  had  already  a 
tenderness  for  the  speech  in  which 


his  mother  sang  her  songs  to  him, 
and  the  ridicule  of  his  class-mates 
in  the  school  at  Avignon  only 
strengthened  this  feeling.  Already 
he  was  trying  to  render  into  Pro- 
ven9al  the  Eclogues  of  Virgil  which 
recalled  so  vividly  to  his  mind  the 
life  on  the  plains  of  Maillane.  Then 
he  met  Roumanille,  who  showed 
him  his  poems  Li  MARGARIDETO  (Les 
Marguerites,  the  Daisies).  Before 
this,  any  passage  of  modern  Pro- 
ven£al  that  he  had  met  in  print  had 
been  only  given  as  the  grotesque 
dialect  of  clowns.  He  went  home 
and  began  a  poem ;  but  his  father 
sent  him  (like  Ovid)  from  verse- 
making  to  study  law.  He  returned 
home  licencie"  en  droit  (called  to  the 
Bar,  as  we  should  say),  and  was 
given  his  freedom.  Then  the  young 
man  devoted  his  life,  just  fifty  years 
ago,  to  the  glorification  of  his  native 
tongue.  Mistral  set  to  work  on 
the  composition  of  MIR^IO,  which 
appeared  in  1859  and  was  hailed 
with  acclamation  by  Lamartine, 
crowned  by  the  Academy,  and  made 
the  subject  of  Gounod's  opera.  The 
language  was  lucky ;  it  had  found  a 
poet,  who  from  the  very  first  raised 
modern  Provencal  literature  into  an 
indisputable  existence. 

Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  who  is  the  recog- 
nised leader  of  the  Gaelic  movement 
in  Ireland,  as  Mistral  of  the  Provengal, 
has  not  only  collected  folk-song,  but 
has  written  many  lyrics,  and  one 
charming  poetic  comedy ;  but  there 
has  not  yet  been  accorded  to  his 
work  any  of  the  recognition  which 
was  from  the  first  bestowed  by 
great  writers  on  the  author  of 
MIREIO,  for  the  excellent  reason  that 
hardly  any  critic  is  in  a  position  to 
judge  it  except  through  the  medium 
of  a  translation.  Irish  literature  will 
have  a  harder  fight  to  establish  itself 
than  the  ProvenQal.  The  Irish,  in  so 
far  as  they  are,  or  have  been,  or  may 


The  Revival  of  a  Language. 


233 


become,  a  bi-lingual  people,  are  so  in 
a  very  different  sense  from  the  Meri- 
dionaux  of  France.  Any  one  who 
knows  French  and  Italian  can  with 
a  dictionary  and  a  few  hints  spell  out 
the  meaning  of  what  Mistral  writes ; 
and  the  idiom,  according  to  Mr. 
Downer,  is  so  near  the  French  that 
translation  is  nearly  a  substitution 
of  word  for  word.  The  spelling  too, 
as  in  all  Latin  tongues,  offers  no 
difficulty.  But  Irish  is  of  course  a 
language  differing  entirely  in  construc- 
tion and  vocabulary  from  English, 
and,  to  add  to  the  trouble,  is  en- 
cumbered with  a  system  of  ortho- 
graphy subtle  and  logical  indeed, 
but  elaborate  and  cumbrous.  The 
difference  in  the  written  character 
makes  another  obstacle,  though  a 
slight  one.  Practically,  therefore, 
one  may  be  sure  that  any  prose  or 
poetry  produced  in  Irish  will  only 
be  read  by  Gaelic  speakers ;  if  it 
makes  its  way  to  English  students 
of  literature,  it  will  be  only  known 
as  the  Polish  is  through  the  medium 
of  translations.  But  literature  is  not 
produced  for  export,  and  the  greatest 
poets  have  written  for  a  public  that 
was,  so  far  as  they  knew,  strictly 
limited  in  numbers.  It  is  safe  to  say 
that  either  of  two  things  would  save 
the  Irish  tongue  from  all  danger  of 
dying  out.  The  first  cannot  be  looked 
for, — a  prohibition  of  its  use.  On 
the  second,  therefore,  all  hopes  must 
be  founded, — the  appearance  of  a 
really  great  writer  who  should  write 
in  Gaelic. 

That  is,  as  has  been  said,  where  the 
revival  in  Provence  was  lucky.  The 
poet  came  to  hand  at  once ;  and, 
apart  from  MIR£IO  no  one  who  reads 
even  in  a  translation  the  noble  PENI- 
TENTIAL PSALM  called  forth  by  the 
war  of  1870  can  question  the  genius 
of  its  author.  But  failing  this  special 
intervention  of  providence  on  behalf 
of  a  language,  organisation  has  a 


power,  and  there  is  much  of  interest 
and  of  profitable  example  in  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Felibrige.  What 
exactly  is  meant  by  this  mysterious 
word  most  people  are  in  doubt.  Ety- 
mologies from  the  Greek,  the  Spanish, 
the  Irish  even,  have  been  offered, — 
philabros,  philebraios,  feligres  (that  is 
filii  ecclesice),  and  so  on.  But  the 
essential  fact  is  that  Mistral  found  an 
old  Provengal  hymn  describing  hqw 
the  Virgin  came  upon  Jesus  among 
"  the  seven  Felibres  of  the  Law,"  and 
adopted  the  word  to  designate  the 
seven  poets  who  came  together  on 
May  21st,  1854,  to  consult  for  the 
rehabilitation  of  the  Provengal  tongue. 
The  Felibrige,  or  League  of  the 
Felibres,  was  not  founded  till  more 
than  twenty  years  later. 

What  then  was  Mistral's  procedure  1 
He  took,  to  begin  with,  a  living  lan- 
guage that  was  spoken  about  him. 
The  dialect  of  the  troubadours  was, 
it  appears,  the  Limousin.  Mistral 
took  the  dialect  of  Saint-Bemy,  or 
rather  of  Maillane.  But  the  first 
meetings  of  the  Felibres  were  held 
to  discuss  questions  of  grammar  and 
orthography ;  for  the  language  they 
were  to  work  in  was  one  that  had 
long  ceased  to  be  used  for  any  literary 
purpose.  Taking  a  single  dialect  for 
basis,  this  is  what  according  to  Mr. 
Downer  they  have  done. 

They  have  regularised  the  spelling,  and 
have  deliberately  eliminated  as  far  as 
possible  words  and  forms  that  appeared 
to  them  to  be  due  to  French  influence,  sub- 
stituting older  and  more  genuine  forms, 
—  forms  that  appeared  more  in  accord 
with  the  genius  of  the  langue  d'oc  as  con- 
trasted with  the  langue  d'oil.  .  .  .  The 
second  step  taken  arose  from  the  neces- 
sity of  making  this  speech  of  the  illiterate 
capable  of  elevated  expression.  Mistral 
claims  to  have  used  no  word  unknown  to 
the  people  or  unintelligible  to  them,  with 
the  exception  that  he  has  used  freely  of 
the  stock  of  learned  words  common  to 
the  whole  Romance  family  of  languages. 
These  words,  too,  he  transforms  more  or 


234 


The  Revival  of  a  Language. 


less,  keeping  them  in  harmony  with  the 
forms  peculiar  to  the  langue  d'oc.  Hence, 
it  is  true  that  the  language  of  the  Feli- 
bres  is  a  conventional  literary  language 
that  does  not  represent  exactly  the  speech 
of  any  section  of  France,  and  is  related 
to  the  popular  speech  more  or  less  as 
any  official  language  is  to  the  dialects  that 
underlie  it. 

The  same  may,  however,  be  said 
of  any  written  language,  and  it  is  to 
be  noted  that  as  the  movement  has 
spread  the  different  dialects  included 
in  its  sphere  have  asserted  their  own 
claims,  and  since  1874  have  been 
admitted  in  the  competitions.  But 
the  point  to  emphasise  is  that  the 
language  of  Mistral  is  based  on 
a  dialect,  but  a  dialect  purified  and 
enlarged.  For  the  poet,  in  his  enthu- 
siasm for  the  tongue  of  his  birthplace, 
did  not  limit  himself  to  demonstrating 
its  fitness  for  literary  uses.  He  spent, 
Mr.  Downer  tells  us,  a  quarter  of  a 
century  "journeying  about  among  all 
classes  of  people,  questioning  workmen 
and  sailors,  asking  them  the  names 
they  applied  to  the  objects  they  use, 
recording  their  proverbial  expressions, 
noting  their  peculiarities  of  pronun- 
ciation, listening  to  the  songs  of  the 
peasants."  The  result  was  his  great 
dictionary  Lou  TRESOE  DOU  FELIBRIGE, 
which  professes  to  contain  all  the 
words  used  in  Southern  France,  with 
the  dialect  forms  of  each,  their 
etymology,  and  synonyms.  Grammar 
is  included  by  giving  the  conjugation 
of  the  verbs,  etc.  ;  so  are  explana- 
tions as  to  customs,  manners,  tradi- 
tions and  beliefs.  In  short,  Mistral 
made  a  dictionary  not  only  of  the 
language  but  of  the  culture  of  the 
people,  which  aims  at  including  all 
that  is  necessary  to  the  understand- 
ing of  modern  Provengal  literature. 

This  brief  account  indicates  suffi- 
ciently, I  think,  the  character  of  the 
literary  language  written  by  the 
Felibres,  and  the  means  taken  to 
develope  it.  The  facts  have  a  certain 


resemblance  to  those  of  the  Gaelic 
revival,  but  the  difference  is  to  the 
advantage  of  the  Irish.  If  the  Pro- 
vengal tongue  be  worth  reviving,  then 
the  Irish  is  much  more  worth  reviving, 
as  being  the  richest  in  records  of  any 
of  the  old  Celtic  tongues,  any  one  of 
which  has  a  continuous  history  going 
back  for  many  ages  before  the  dialects 
of  Latin  took  shape  even  in  common 
speech.  Yet  nothing  is  more  hotly 
debated  in  Ireland  than  just  this 
point, — the  value  of  the  language. 
In  the  summer  of  1900  a  Vice- Regal 
Commission  sat  to  enquire  into  the 
subject,  and  the  evidence  given  before 
it  is  vastly  entertaining.  It  may  be 
divided  into  two  parts, — the  evidence 
of  Dublin  University  against,  and  the 
evidence  of  other  Gaelic  scholars  in 
Ireland  and  on  the  Continent  for  the 
popular  study  of  the  language.  So 
far  as  the  outside  public  can  gather, 
the  history  of  Irish  falls  into  three 
parts.  First,  that  of  the  Old  Irish, 
spoken  and  written  before  the  great 
Danish  invasions  of  about  the  ninth 
century.  This  tongue  survives  only 
in  certain  glosses  on  the  margin  of 
Latin  manuscripts,  but  its  linguistic 
perfection  is  the  joy  of  philologists. 
Dr.  Atkinson,  the  main  champion  of 
the  Trinity  College  point  of  view, 
would  desire  to  encourage  the  learning 
of  Irish  among  students  of  philology 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  these  remnants. 
Secondly,  there  is  the  Middle  Irish 
spoken  and  written  by  all  men  in 
Ireland,  settlers  as  well  as  natives, 
from  the  tenth  century  to  the  close 
of  the  sixteenth.  In  this,  which  is 
apparently  related  to  the  Old  Irish  as 
the  tongue  of  Chaucer  is  to  the  Anglo- 
Saxon,  there  survives  admittedly  a 
very  copious  literature,  much  of  it 
probably  dating  from  centuries  earlier, 
but  re-shaped  into  the  modified  speech. 
This  literature  is  of  undoubted  in- 
terest to  archaeologists  ;  but  about  it 
two  questions  are  raised.  First,  is  it 


The  Bevival  of  a  Language. 


235 


desirable  that  a  knowledge  of  it  should 
form  part  of  an  Irishman's  education  ? 
Secondly,  will  an  Irishman  be  better 
qualified  to  understand  it  by  knowing 
the  existing  Gaelic  1  Upon  the  first 
point  Dr.  Atkinson  is  emphatic.  He 
is  worth  listening  to,  for,  unlike  Dr. 
Mahaffy  who  testified  in  the  same 
sense,  he  knows  the  books  about 
which  he  is  talking  ;  and  in  his 
opinion  it  was  difficult  to  find  a  book 
in  the  older  (that  is  the  Middle)  Irish 
"  in  which  there  was  not  some  passage 
so  silly  or  indecent "  as  to  give  Mr. 
•Justice  Madden  (his  questioner)  "  a 
shock  from  which  he  would  never 
recover  during  the  rest  of  his  life." 
He  offered  to  bring  Judge  Madden, 
or  any  of  the  Commission,  to  his 
rooms  in  college  and  administer  to 
them  a  series  of  these  shocks,  but  it 
is  not  recorded  in  the  Report  whether 
or  not  they  went.  All  Irish  literature 
he  went  on  to  say  (by  implication)  is 
folk-lore,  and  all  folk-lore  (he  said 
expressly)  is  "  abominable."  This  is 
one  of  the  opinions,  and  Dr.  Atkinson 
is  apparently  unique  in  it  and  not 
a  little  droll.  To  a  certain  extent, 
Trinity  College  has  dissociated  itself 
from  this  wholesale  condemnation  of 
a  literature  which  many  distinguished 
members  of  its  body  have  endeavoured 
to  make  known.  The  normal  opinion 
of  scholars,  who  have  either  not  felt 
or  have  recovered  from  the  shock,  is 
that  the  traditional  Irish  sagas,  as 
they  have  come  down  to  us,  contain 
much  that  is  of  interest  and  not  a 
little  beauty  for  any  reader.  And  for 
the  ordinary  Irishman  or  Irishwoman, 
whom  it  is  proposed  to  educate,  or 
merely  to  delight,  by  the  revival  of 
these  old  tales,  it  will  be  found,  I  think, 
that  the  literature  has  a  special  appeal. 
I  judge  by  myself ;  the  memories  that 
haunt  the  Irish  mountains  and  shores, 
from  Ben  Bulben  to  Ben  Edair, 
waken  my  imagination  with  a  more 
living  touch  than  all  that  is  told  with 


greater  art  of  an  alien  Thessaly,  and 
Tara  is  more  to  me  than  Camelot. 
France  may  admire  Mistral ;  but  it  is 
for  Provence  that  he  describes  the  life 
and  scenery  of  Provence,  and  for 
Provence  that  he  weaves  into  his 
poems  the  history  and  traditions  of 
his  own  country.  The  value  of  a 
literature  lies  in  its  power  to  interest, 
and  no  literature  and  no  history  can 
be  to  any  country  what  are  the  his- 
tory of  its  own  race  or  the  litera- 
ture that  sprang  from  its  soil.  Few- 
serious  thinkers  will  deny  that  every 
civilised  man  should  be  familiar  with 
the  history  of  his  own  race,  and 
it  is  at  least  doubtful  whether  that 
familiarity  is  possible  without  a  know- 
ledge of  the  racial  tongue.  And  it 
is  not  history  alone  that  is  needed. 
M.  Darmesteter  writes  in  a  fine 
passage,  translated  by  Mr.  Downer  : 

A  nation  needs  poetry  :  it  lives  not  by 
bread  alone,  but  in  the  ideal  as  well. 
Religious  beliefs  are  weakening;  and  if 
the  sense  of  poetic  ideals  dies  along  with 
the  religious  sentiment,  there  will  remain 
nothing  among  the  lower  classes  but 
material  and  brutal  instincts. 

Whether  the  Felibres  were  conscious 
of  this  danger,  or  met  the  popular  need 
instinctively,  I  cannot  say.  At  any  rate, 
their  work  is  a  good  one  and  a  whole- 
some one.  There  still  circulates,  down 
to  the  lowest  stratum  of  the  people,  a 
stream  of  poetry,  often  obscure,  until 
now  looked  upon  with  disdain  by  all 
except  scholars.  I  mean  folklore,  beliefs, 
traditions  and  popular  tales.  Before  this 
source  of  poetry  could  disappear  com- 
pletely, the  Felibres  had  the  happy  idea 
of  taking  it  up,  giving  it  a  new  literary 
form,  thus  giving  back  to  the  people, 
clothed  in  the  brilliant  colours  of  poetry, 
the  creation  of  the  people  themselves. 

With  very  few  alterations,  this 
should  hold  good  of  the  work  that  is 
being  done  by  the  Gaelic  revival  in 
Ireland.  It  will  be  asked  by  English- 
men why  these  people,  all  of  whom 
speak  English,  cannot  find  their 
account  in  English  poetry.  The 


236 


The  Revival  of  a  Language. 


simplest  answer  is  the  fact :  they  do 
not,  and  they  cannot.  What  they 
take  from  England  is  the  worst,  not 
the  best ;  and  that  is  true  even  of  the 
men  of  genius  among  them.  Neither 
Carleton  nor  Banim  was  able  to 
assimilate  the  virtues  of  English  litera- 
ture; the  merit  in  their  tales  lies  in  the 
Irish  qualities,  the  defects  lie  in  the 
tawdry  and  superficial  tricks  of  style 
picked  up  from  the  flashiest  models. 
Nor  is  this  only  true  of  Ireland.  Mr. 
Baring  Gould,  in  a  recently  published 
BOOK  OP  BRITTANY,  devotes  a  page  to 
Theodore  Botrel,  the  son  of  a  black- 
smith, and  a  Breton  poet.  And  this 
is  M.  Botrel's  account  of  his  own 
objects. 

We  are  menaced  with  a  great  evil. 
Not  only  is  the  Breton  tongue  threatened, 
but  the  Breton  soul  itself.  That  flower 
of  sentiment  which  was  its  beauty  is 
ready  to  shrivel  up  at  contact  with  a 
materialistic  civilisation.  Vulgar  songs 
are  penetrating  throughout  the  land  of 
the  saints,  brought  home  from  the 
barrack  and  dropped  by  commercial 
travellers.  I  have  done  what  I  can  to 
substitute  for  these  depressing  composi- 
tions something  that  shall  smell  of  the 
broom  and  contain  a  waft  of  the  soil. 

The  reason  for  the  fact  here  attes- 
ted, and  attested  by  many  witnesses 
in  Ireland,  is  I  think  admirably  given 
in  a  passage  from  Alphonse  Daudet's 
words  in  commendation  of  Mistral's 
work,  rendered  by  Mr.  Downer. 

It  is  a  bad  thing  to  become  wholly 
loosened  from  the  soil,  to  forget  the 
village  church-spire.  Curiously  enough, 
poetry  attaches  only  to  objects  that  have 
come  down  to  us,  that  have  had  long  use. 
What  is  called  progress,  a  vague  and  very 
doubtful  term,  rouses  the  lower  parts  of 
our  intelligence.  The  higher  parts 
vibrate  the  better  for  what  has  moved 
and  inspired  a  long  series  of  imaginative 
minds,  inheriting  each  from  a  predecessor, 
strengthened  by  sight  of  the  same  land- 
scapes, by  the  same  perfumes,  by  the 
touch  of  the  same  furniture  polished  by 
wear.  Very  ancient  impressions  sink 
into  the  depth  of  that  obscure  memory 


which  we  may  call  the  race-memory,  out 
of  which  is  woven  the  mass  of  individual 


memories. 


That  is  the  plea  for  the  study  of  a 
literature  based  on  the  old  traditions, 
the  old  history,  and  the  old  beliefs  of 
the  race,  and  written  in  the  old  tongue, 
but  in  the  modern  form  of  that  tongue. 
Here  again  there  is  a  conflict  of 
opinion  over  the  value  of  Irish.  The 
written  language  altered  materially 
after  the  break-up  of  the  old  order 
when  Ireland  was  completely  crushed 
and  conquered  under  Elizabeth  and 
James.  Up  to  that  time  the  order 
of  the  bards  had  subsisted  as  a  pro- 
fessional literary  class,  and  had  rigidly 
maintained  a  literary  idiom  growing 
gradually  more  and  more  divorced 
from  common  speech.  In  the  first 
half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  in 
the  general  break-up,  a  man  called 
Keating  departed  from  the  tradition 
and  wrote  in  popular  Irish  a  history 
of  Ireland,  and  other  works.  That 
was  the  beginning  (according  to  Dr. 
Hyde)  of  '  a  new  literature  which 
circulated  surreptitiously  in  manuscript 
throughout  Ireland,  and  received  con- 
tinual additions  both  in  prose  and 
verse.  These  manuscripts  abounded 
all  over  the  country  but  more  specially 
in  Munster  ;  poverty,  and  the  apathy 
born  of  poverty,  did  their  work  in 
Ulster  and  Connaught.  Then  came 
the  blow  of  the  famine,  which  fell 
chiefly  on  the  Irish  speakers,  and  the 
continuity  of  the  literary  tradition 
was  for  the  first  time  snapped.  The 
heart  was  out  of  the  people,  and  for  a 
time  they  made  up  their  minds  that 
the  way  of  salvation  lay  in  becom- 
ing Anglicised.  The  institution  of 
National  Schools  killed  out  the  hedge- 
schoolmasters,  many  of  whom  had 
taught  in  Irish  ;  the  parents  opposed 
themselves  strongly  to  the  use  of  Irish 
by  their  children,  and  a  generation 
brought  up  without  a  knowledge  how 


The  Revival  of  a  Language. 


237 


to  read  or  write  Irish  l  lost  the  respect 
for  the  Irish  manuscripts  which  were 
destroyed  by  thousands.  Still  the 
tongue  survived,  and  as  the  people 
gradually  recovered  from  the  terrible 
blow,  racial  pride  began  to  reassert 
itself ;  for  this  language-movement, 
whether  in  Ireland  or  Provence,  is  an 
expression  of  the  love  of  country  and 
tends  to  foster  that  historic  spirit  of 
true  nationality  which  Lord  Beacons- 
field  once  attributed  to  the  Irish. 
But,  as  was  natural  in  the  absence  of 
a  written  literature,  divergence  of 
dialects  accentuated  itself ;  and  one 
of  the  questions  hotly  fought  out 
before  the  Commission  concerned  the 
very  existence  of  the  language.  Dr. 
Atkinson  denied  that  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  a  standard  of  the  tongue ; 
he  refused  the  title  of  Irish  to  what 
Dr.  Hyde  wrote,  it  was  "  an  imbroglio, 
a  melangef  an  omnium  gatherum." 
Dr.  Hyde  retorted  that  an  Ulster 
and  a  Kerry  peasant  talking  Gaelic 
together  differed  no  more  in  speech 
from  one  another  than  they  would 
have  differed  when  talking  English  ; 
and  further,  that  what  he  wrote  in  the 
idiom  used  by  educated  Connaught 
men  could  be  understood  and  enjoyed 
by  Gaelic  speakers  in  any  part  of  the 
island.  He  cited  testimony  which 


1  The  rules  of  the  Board  of  Education 
everywhere  permitted  a  teacher  to  teach 
Irish-speaking  children  in  Irish,  but  no 
attempt  was  made  to  see  that  this  was 
done,  nor  to  provide  Irish-speaking  teachers, 
though  the  advisability  of  doing  so  was 
repeatedly  urged.  The  practice  was  almost 
universally  to  teach  children  who  had  never 
heard  English  spoken  till  they  came  to 
school  the  rudiments  of  reading  and  writ- 
ing in  English.  The  result  was  that  the 
scholars  learned  little,  forgot  quickly  what 
they  learned,  and  became  the  illiterate 
peasantry  that  they  are  to-day.  Now  some 
attempt  is  being  made  to  follow  the  pre- 
cedent which  has  been  set  with  great  success 
in  Wales,  and  teach  Irish  speakers  through 
the  medium  of  Irish.  The  Board  of  Educa- 
tion is,  however,  sluggish  in  the  matter, 
and  the  outlying  peasantry  are  as  will  be 
seen  little  touched  by  the  revival  as  yet. 


seems  conclusive.  It  is  much  to  be 
wished  that  Dr.  Atkinson,  who  knows 
all  languages,  would  institute  a  com- 
parison between  the  Provengal  as  it 
was  when  Mistral  and  his  fellows  took 
it  in  hand  and  the  Irish  when  Dr. 
Hyde  began  his  work.  To  judge  from 
Mr.  Downer's  book  it  would  appear 
that  the  notion  of  using  Provengal 
as  a  literary  medium  had  dropped  out 
of  men's  minds  altogether  till  first 
Jasmin,  and  then  Roumanille,  took  it 
up ;  whereas  in  Ireland  there  still 
was  in  oral  circulation  a  large  body 
of  folk-song,  and  in  manuscript  a 
considerable  quantity  of  stories  and 
histories. 

The  question  for  the  educational 
authorities  to  consider,  whether  they 
should  or  should  not  encourage  the 
study  of  Irish  among  young  people 
not  born  to  speak  it,  has  been  re- 
duced to  three  heads.  First,  that  of 
practical  or  commercial  utility,  which 
may  be  at  once  set  aside.  Considera- 
tion of  these  ends  usually  defeats 
itself ;  and  in  any  case  I  doubt  very 
much  whether  the  man  who  starts 
his  career  in  Ireland  would  not  be 
more  helped  by  a  slight  knowledge  of 
Gaelic  than  by  a  similar  knowledge 
of  French  or  German.  None  of  the 
three  will  however  probably  ever 
bring  him  in  a  penny;  shorthand 
would  be  more  marketable.  Secondly, 
that  of  the  language's  value  as  an 
exercise  for  the  mind.  Here  the 
Trinity  College  experts  deny  its 
fitness  to  be  a  subject  for  study,  while 
half  a  score  of  eminent  scholars  on 
the  Continent,  and,  what  is  more  to 
the  point,  eminent  Celtic  scholars  with 
Welsh  experience,  affirm.  Thirdly, 
that  of  its  use  as  a  key  to  literature. 
Here  no  one  proposes  to  put  it  into 
serious  comparison  with  French  or 
German.  But  it  may  be  urged  that 
the  experts  overlook  altogether  the 
special  value  that  Irish  literature  has 
for  Irish  people.  The  study  begun 


238 


The  Revival  of  a  Language. 


at  school  or  college  is  by  no  means  so 
likely  to  be  dropped  in  later  life  as 
that  of  any  foreign  language;  of  its 
power  of  stimulating  interest  and 
intellectual  enthusiasm  the  Gaelic 
League  is  there  to  testify. 

This  League  is  the  most  interesting 
and  significant  outgrowth  of  National- 
ism that  Ireland  has  seen  in  my 
time.  It  is  not  political,  but  it  is 
national ;  that  is  to  say,  it  aims  at 
fostering  by  all  means  the  distinct 
and  separate  national  life  of  Ireland. 
It  is  in  close  sympathy  with  the 
industrial  movement  led  by  Mr. 
Plunket,  and  aspires,  like  Mr. 
Plunket,  to  keep  Irishmen  in  Ireland 
by  making  life  there  more  prosperous 
and  more  attractive.  These  two 
movements  differ  from  others  in  that 
they  are  constructive  not  destructive  ; 
they  do  not  cry  Down  toith  every- 
thing, or  anything ;  they  try  to  build 
or  rebuild.  In  a  sense  the  Gaelic 
League  is  the  more  interesting,  as  it 
is  the  less  utilitarian,  though  any  one 
who  has  followed  the  work  of  Mr. 
Plunket  and  his  associates  knows 
well  that  they  appeal  to  men's  more 
generous  emotions  as  well  as  to  their 
pockets.  But,  grossly  considered, 
the  industrial  movement  is  like  the 
Land  League  and  its  successors,  a 
movement  to  put  money  into  the 
pocket  of  Irish  farmers  and  peasants. 
It  differs  from  them  in  not  proposing 
to  do  this  by  taking  it  out  of  the 
pockets  of  landlords.  The  Gaelic 
League  aims  at  an  object  which  is 
partly  sentimental,  if  you  like,  but  in 
reality  educational  in  the  highest 
degree, — at  a  revival  of  the  national 
life  on  its  intellectual  side.  It  ap- 
peals to  Nationalism  in  its  finest 
form,  and  it  has  met  with  most 
response  where  Nationalism  has  in 
the  past  been  least  profitable.  The 
townsmen  have  made  nothing  out  of 
their  principles,  the  farmers  have 
pocketed  a  solid  reduction  in  rent, 


and  a  solid  lump  sum  for  tenant-right. 
It  is  the  townsmen  who  are  support- 
ing the  Gaelic  League.  Especially 
the  whole  class  of  Government  ser- 
vants, post-office  clerks  and  the  like, 
who  were  debarred  from  joining  any 
political  organisation,  have  thrown 
themselves  into  this  with  enthusiasm. 
The  meetings  of  the  different  branches 
have  of  course  a  social  character 
which  has  been  heightened  by  the 
inclusion  of  the  national  songs  and 
dances  as  part  of  the  study,  and  a 
very  excellent  part.  But  substan- 
tially you  find  in  Dublin,  in  Belfast, 
and  in  any  other  considerable  town, 
groups  of  clerks,  shopmen  and 
domestic  servants,  coming  together 
evening  after  evening  to  work  at  the 
rudiments  of  a  very  difficult  language 
which  to  at  least  nine  in  ten  of  them 
is  as  strange  as  to  any  Englishman. 
The  little  primer  SIMPLE  LESSONS  IN 
IRISH  by  the  Rev.  Eugene  O'Growney, 
which  I  bought  the  other  day  (and 
a  better  planned  introduction  to  the 
study  of  a  language  I  have  never 
come  across)  was  marked  121st 
thousand.  It  is  fair  to  add  that  the 
fifth  part  of  the  same  work  was  only 
in  the  thirteenth  thousand.  But  let 
it  be  remembered  that  this  whole 
movement  is  a  growth  of  the  last 
few  years.  Fifteen  years  ago,  ten 
even,  Dr.  Hyde  was  a  voice  crying 
in  the  wilderness.  Now  he  has  not 
only  his  League  with  its  far-reaching 
organisation  (even  here  in  London  it 
has  a  membership  of  twelve  hundred) 
but  he  has  the  Church  at  his  back. 
Readers  of  Father  Sheehan's  MY 
NEW  CURATE  will  remember  the 
priest's  opinion  of  the  cheap  literature 
that  is  hawked  about ;  and  the  Church 
had  wisely  accepted  the  best  means 
of  combating  this  vulgarising  and 
demoralising  agency.  And  lastly  the 
League  has  secured  at  least  the 
formal  support  of  Mr.  Redmond  and 
his  party,  many  of  whom  are  already 


The  Revival  of  a  Language. 


239 


strong  for  it,  though  many,  and  those 
not  the  least  influential,  are  by  long 
habit  inclined  to  think  of  nothing 
but  the  land-question  in  all  its  de- 
tails, and  (in  shadowy  outline)  the 
parliament  on  College  Green. 

The  movement,  like  everything  else 
in  Ireland  (or  for  that  matter  like  any 
other  product  of  a  generous  enthu- 
siasm) has  its  droll  side ;  a  new 
Daudet  has  a  new  Tarascon  before 
him.  On  the  whole  I  do  not  know 
that  anyone  connected  with  it  is  more 
ridiculous  than  the  literary  gentleman 
who  perorates  or  writes  in  good  set 
phrase  for  or  against  a  language  of 
which  he  knows  nothing;  this  essay, 
some  may  say,  is  not  a  bad  illustra- 
tion. However,  we  shall  probably  all 
be  compelled  to  come  in,  even  Mr. 
George  Moore  and  Dr.  Mahaffy.  We 
are  run  hard,  though,  by  the  Pan- 
Celts,  who  not  contented  with  reviv- 
ing the  language,  the  airs,  and  the 
step-dances,  seek  also  to  resuscitate, 
or  re-invent,  the  costume.  Mr.  W.  B. 
Yeats,  who  has  a  fine  vicarious  sense 
of  humour,  solemnly  warned  the  Pan- 
Celts  that  they  were  heading  straight 
for  collision  with  a  force  that  could, 
if  it  knew  its  strength,  wreck  any 
movement  and  would  certainly  wreck 
theirs.  They  had  reckoned,  be  told 
them,  without  the  Small  Boy,  and  on 
the  Small  Boy  they  would  come  to 
ruin.  But  Mr.  William  Gibson,  Lord 
Ashbourne's  son  (for  this  seed  sprouts 
in  the  most  unlikely  and  most  embar- 
rassing places)  defies  the  Small  Boy, 
not  only  of  London  but  his  more  for- 
midable congener  of  Dublin.  I  hasten 
to  add  that  the  Dublin  street  arab  sees 
no  joke  in  the  interchange  of  Gaelic 
salutations  and  (I  am  sure)  smokes 
"  Slainte "  cigarettes  with  delight. 
We  have  not  yet  reached  the  stage 
when  the  names  of  all  streets  and 
railway-stations  will  be  written  up  in 
Irish,  but  town-councillors  who  object 
to  gladden  the  Gael  with  an  alterna- 


tive version  incur  a  disagreeable 
publicity,  and  at  least  one  railway- 
company  has  yielded  to  persuasion. 
Cricket  is  threatened  with  taboo  (but 
the  Irish  climate  already  goes  far  in 
that  direction)  and  so  is  Rugby  foot- 
ball, a  sport  in  which  the  Irish  excel. 
Those,  however,  who  advocate  the 
disuse  of  the  latter  plead  for  some 
mitigation  of  the  severity  of  the 
Gaelic  game. 

But  these  absurdities  are  only  on 
the  surface.  Fundamentally  the  move- 
ment is  admirable.  It  is  allied 
with  the  industrial  propaganda  which 
every  sensible  Irishman  applauds  ;  it 
is  allied  with  a  crusade  against  the 
curse  of  drunkenness ;  it  is  allied 
with  the  attempt  to  create  a  national 
dramatic  literature  (as  I  have  at- 
tempted to  show  in  THE  FORTNIGHTLY 
REVIEW  for  last  month)  ;  it  is  giving 
to  the  people  a  keen  intellectual 
interest,  which  is  all  the  more  likely 
to  thrive  because  it  is  taken  partly  as 
a  pastime,  partly  as  an  expression  of 
the  most  genuine  patriotism.  And 
though  the  peasantry  who  have  the 
language  actually  in  their  keeping, 
who  are  the  true  repositories  of  the 
national  tradition,  are  slow  to  move, 
in  Ireland  as  elsewhere,  yet  it  is 
impossible  that  they  can  be  long 
indifferent  to  the  renewal  of  their 
language  which  they  habitually  dis- 
cuss and  appreciate  as  few  English- 
men, but  many  Frenchmen,  discuss 
and  appreciate  their  own  speech. 
More  than  once  I  have  heard  a 
Connaught  man  speak  of  the  pleasure 
it  was  to  hear  such  a  one  of  his 
acquaintance  recite  a  poem  in  Irish  : 
"  He  had  the  right  way  of  it,  surely." 
And  again  and  again  I  have  heard 
them  deplore  the  falling  off  among 
the  younger  folk  in  correctness  of 
diction  and  even  in  accent.  "  They 
do  not  seem  to  be  able  to  twisht  their 
tongues  round  it,  the  way  we  used 
to,"  one  of  them  said  to  me  the  other 


240 


The  Revival  of  a  Language. 


day.  And  in  the  last  twelve  months 
the  change  is  notable  :  last  summer 
in  the  West  of  Donegal  no  one  had 
heard  of  the  movement ;  this  year  in 
Donegal  and  Mayo  alike  there  was 
nothing  the  people  were  more  ready 
to  discuss  than  the  Irish  teaching  in 
the  schools.  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt, 
but  every  reason  to  believe  that  there 
will  come  into  being  a  new  literature 
in  the  old  tongue ;  and  that  litera- 
ture will  be  as  it  was  in  Provence, 
the  work  of  men  with  whom  poetry 
or  writing  is  a  cult  or  passion,  not  a 
trade.  Such  men  will  turn  with  hope 
and  emulation  to  survey  the  work 
done  by  Mistral  and  his  fellow- 
workers  ;  and  to  them  may  be  com- 
mended the  sonnet  prefixed  by 
Mistral  to  his  great  dictionary.  I 
transcribe  the  sestet  of  it,  to  give 
the  reader  some  notion  of  this 
splendid  daughter  of  the  Latin,  with 
its  sonorous  double  rhymes  and  pro- 
fusion of  stately  words.  Mistral 
speaks  of  his  own  work,  and  gives 
thanks  like  the  ploughman  or  the 
shepherd  on  the  eve  of  St.  John. 

En  terro,  fin  qu'au  sistre,  a  cava  moun 

araire ; 
E  lou  brounze  rouman  e  1'or  dis   em- 

peraire 


Treluson  au  souleu  dintre  lou  blad  que 
sort.     .     .     . 

0  pople   dou   Miejour,  eseouto  moun 

arengo  : 

Se  vos  reconquista  1'emperi  de  ta  lengo, 
Per  t'arnesca  de  n6u,  pesco  en  aqueu 

Tresor. 


My  plough  has  dug  into  the  soil  down 
to  the  rock  ;  and  the  Roman  bronze  and 
the  gold  of  the  Emperors  gleam  in  the 
sunlight  among  the  growing  wheat. 

Oh  people  of  the  South,  heed  my  say- 
ing :  If  you  wish  to  win  back  the  Empire 
of  your  language,  equip  yourselves  anew 
by  drawing  upon  this  Treasury. 


Under  the  speech  of  the  peasants, 
the  speech  that  grows  like  corn  in 
the  fields,  lie  buried  treasures  from 
an  older  world  of  great  kings  and 
great  artists,  the  words  and  the 
phrases  and  the  thoughts  of  an 
ancient  and  illustrious  civilisation ; 
and  these  Mistral  has  brought  again 
to  the  light  of  day,  no  longer  to  "rust 
unburnished,"  but  to  "  shine  in  use." 
Under  the  soil  in  Ireland  also  there 
lie  bronze  and  gold,  and  Dr.  Hyde  in 
his  ploughing  may  be  as  fortunate 
as  Mistral. 

STEPHEN  GWYNN. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


FEBRUARY,    1902, 


PRINCESS   PUCK. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


IT  was  in  June  when  the  accident 
happened,  early  June,  but  the  season 
was  warm  that  year  and  already  the 
little  white  roses  were  in  bloom. 
They  were  in  bloom  the  year  of 
Theresa's  marriage, — white  roses  for 
the  wedding,  and  now,  with  but  one 
other  June  to  intervene,  white  roses 
for  the  burying.  It  was  Bill  who 
thought  of  this,  not  Theresa,  although 
Theresa,  smelling  the  scent  of  the 
flowers  under  the  window,  thought  of 
her  wedding-day  as  she  sat  waiting 
that  night. 

She  shivered  a  little  as  she  recol- 
lected ;  it  may  have  been  at  her 
thoughts,  it  may  have  been  with  cold 
for  the  air  was  chilly.  It  was  very 
late;  she  rose  and  going  to  the  win- 
dow closed  it,  shutting  out  the  sweet 
scents  of  the  night.  Then  she  glanced 
at  the  clock, — how  late  it  was  ! — past 
twelve, — Robert  had  never  been  so 
late  before.  Surely  nothing  could 
have  happened  to  him  1  Nothing  ever 
happened ;  he  was  late,  that  was 
all,  and  she  sat  down  again  with 
a  set  look  on  her  face. 

There  was  a  letter  in  her  work- 
basket  ;  she  had  read  it  once,  but 
something  made  her  put  her  sewing 
down  and  take  it  from  its  envelope 
to  read  again.  It  was  from  Bella, 
who  had  gone  to  spend  a  few  days 
with  some  relations  of  her  husband's 
No.  508. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


at  Kensington.  How  happy  Bella 
seemed !  How  delighted  that  Jack 
was  going  to  join  her  that  day  !  It 
was  such  a  pleasant  letter,  though  it 
told  little.  Theresa  read  it  and  folded 
it,  smiling  as  she  did  so  ;  then  for 
a  moment  she  sat  listening,  thinking 
she  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet. 
The  road  was  not  near,  but  the  night 
was  so  still  that  she  could  almost  have 
heard  in  her  present  state  of  tension. 
She  might  be  mistaken,  but  there 
was  certainly  a  sound  of  some  kind. 
Wheels, — someone  driving  home — 
then  she  was  mistaken,  for  Robert 
was  riding  to-night ;  this  must  be 
some  other  wayfarer,  perhaps  Gil- 
christ  Harborough  come  down  by  the 
mail  from  London.  She  set  herself  to 
listen  again ;  the  sound  of  the  wheels 
had  passed  now,  the  vehicle  may  have 
driven  out  of  earshot,  or  it  may  have 
paused  by  the  gate  where  the  road 
was  dark.  The  last  must  have  been 
the  case  for,  after  a  moment,  she 
caught  the  sound  again ;  perhaps  the 
horse  started  suddenly,  for  the  noise 
was  much  plainer  now.  It  was  com- 
ing nearer — surely  there  was  not  some 
one  driving  up  to  the  house  1 

She  rose  quickly,  a  nameless  dread 
at  her  heart,  and  went  into  the  hall. 
There  she  paused  a  moment  listening; 
the  noise  of  wheels  came  nearer,  then 
ceased,  and  through  the  closed  door 
she  heard,  or  her  over-wrought  senses 
told  her  she  heard,  the  sound  of  a 


242 


Princess  Puck. 


horse  breathing.  A  man  came  up 
the  steps ;  she  heard  him  as  she 
stood  there,  her  hand  upon  the  door, 
nerving  herself  to  meet  she  knew  not 
what.  He  stopped,  aud  she  opened 
the  door  to  find  herself  face  to  face 
with  Gilchrist  Harborough. 

For  a  second  he  shrank  from  her, 
and  in  the  starlight  she  saw  it. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked  with  lips 
that  seemed  too  dry  to  speak. 

"  Robert  has  been  hurt,"  he  an- 
swered, avoiding  her  eyes.  "  I — I 
have  brought  him  home." 

"Hurt?" 

Her  voice  rang  distinct,  almost 
sharp,  and  Harborough  knew  the 
question  she  was  asking  herself, 
although  she  was  too  loyal  to  put 
it  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  meeting  her 
eyes  now ;  "  he  has  been  hurt,  badly 
hurt,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Badly  ?  How  badly  1 "  Fear  was 
whitening  her  face  and  quickening 
her  perceptions.  "  You  don't  mean 
— oh  Robert ! — Why,  I  can  see  him 
out  there  !  Robert ! " 

She  passed  Harborough  and  would 
have  gone  down  the  steps  but  he 
stopped  her.  "That  is  Dr.  Bolton," 
he  said  gently  ;  "I  brought  him  with 
me.  Robert  is  there, — but, — you 
can't  see  him." 

She  leaned  against  the  door-post  and 
caught  her  breath,  searching  his  face 
with  questioning  eyes.  "He  is  dead  ?" 

He  felt  the  words  were  spoken, 
though  he  hardly  heard  them.  "  Come 
in  here,"  he  said  gently.  He  led  her 
to  the  room  she  had  just  left,  and  put 
her  unresisting  in  a  chair. 

"  Dead,"  she  whispered,  "  dead  !  " 
Her  breath  was  coming  in  gasps,  and 
she  shook  a  little,  but  she  did  not 
cry  or  faint.  For  some  reason 
Gilchrist  was  afraid  to  look  at  her  ; 
he  moved  to  the  door.  "Are  you 
going  to  bring  him  in  ? "  she  asked 
in  that  same  low,  breathless  voice. 


"  Yes." 

"Up-stairs?" 

"  It  would  be  better."  That  was 
the  doctor's  voice  outside ;  both  the 
doors  were  open  and  he  had  heard 
what  was  said. 

"You  will  want  a  light;  there  is 
none  in  the  room." 

She  had  risen  as  she  spoke,  but  the 
doctor,  seeing  her  white  strained  face, 
said :  "  No,  no,  wait  here ;  Har- 
borough will  go  up  first,  and  set  a 
light." 

She  paid  no  heed  to  him,  but  tried 
to  light  a  little  hand-lamp.  Gilchrist 
took  the  matches  from  her  trembling 
fingers  and,  lighting  it  for  her,  put 
it  into  her  hand.  She  gave  him  a 
look  of  thanks  and  then  went  slowly 
up-stairs. 

It  was  early  the  next  morning 
when  Bill  received  the  telegram  that 
summoned  her  to  Ashelton.  That 
Bill  should  be  summoned  both  an- 
noyed and  surprised  Polly  ;  she 
objected  to  parting  with  her  for  one 
reason,  and  for  another  she  considered 
that  she  herself  was  the  right  person 
to  be  sent  for  in  an  emergency.  "  I 
don't  see  what  good  you  can  do,"  she 
said. 

But  Bill  did  not  argue  the  point ; 
she  looked  at  the  time-table,  and  then 
went  up-stairs  to  dress  for  the  journey. 
Polly  picked  up  the  telegram  and 
having  read  it  again  followed  Bill. 
"  '  Come  at  once,  Mrs.  Morton  wants 
you.  Harborough.' "  She  read  the 
message  aloud  to  Bill  when  she 
reached  her  room.  "  What  has  Gil- 
christ got  to  do  with  it,  I  should  like 
to  know  ? " 

"  Robert  is  ill,  I  expect,"  Bill  said. 
"  If  it  were  Theresa,  Robert  would 
have  sent  the  telegram ;  but  as  neither 
of  them  did  I  expect  Robert  is  ill." 

"  Robert  ill ! "  Polly  sniffed  con- 
temptuously, then  with  the  air  of  a 
prophet  who  sees  his  evil  prognosti- 
cations fulfilled,  she  added :  "  It  is 


Princess   Puck. 


243 


very  likely  you  are  right ;  he  never 
was  much  good.  Still  I  don't  see 
why  Gilchrist  Harborough  should 
telegraph  for  you  ;  he  has  no  con- 
nection with  the  matter,  neither  have 
you." 

"Jack  and  Bella  are  away.  I 
expect  Gilchrist  is  looking  after 
things ;  he  would  be  very  good  in 
an  emergency." 

Bill  got  her  dress  out  of  the  cup- 
board as  she  spoke,  and  Polly  looked 
at  the  telegram  again.  "  Robert's 
not  ill,"  she  said  with  sudden  convic- 
tion ;  "he's  dead!"  Bill,  from  the 
•wording  of  the  telegram,  thought  it 
just  possible  too;  still  she  did  not 
say  so,  and  Polly  went  on  :  "I  always 
said  he  would  die  young  and  die 
suddenly ;  now  he  has  done  it,  and 
probably  left  Theresa  very  badly  off." 

Bill  was  used  to  seeing  Polly  in 
moral  undress  by  this  time ;  the  elder 
cousin  did  not  always  think  it  neces- 
sary to  keep  up  appearances  with  the 
younger  now  that  she  knew  how  little 
the  girl  appreciated  or  was  deceived 
by  them.  Bill  had  so  often  been 
treated  to  Polly's  unvarnished  opinion 
of  late  that  she  was  not  much  sur- 
prised by  her  way  of  regarding  the 
possible  death  of  Theresa's  husband. 

"  Really  I  never  saw  anyone  so  un- 
lucky as  we  are,  "  Polly  was  saying  ; 
"no  sooner  do  we  get  Bella  settled 
than  we  have  Theresa  thrown  back  on 
our  hands.  It  is  hard,  just  as  we 
are  beginning  to  get  on  a  little  too, 
and  make  things  pay.  You  and  I 
have  worked  things  up  and  managed 
splendidly,  and  this  is  our  reward ! 
It  seems  to  me  that,  manage  as  we 
may,  we  shall  never  reap  any  benefit 
from  it.  We  can  work,  and  it  seems 
we  always  may.  As  for  those  War- 
ings,  I  have  no  patience  with  them  !  " 

"  So  it  seems,  since  you  won't  wait 
to  hear  how  Robert  is  before  deciding 
not  only  his  death  but  his  widow's 
future  as  well." 


"Oh,  I  know  he  is  dead,"  Polly 
said  irritably  as  she  followed  the 
younger  girl  down-stairs.  And  Bill 
felt  nearly  sure  of  it  too,  even  before 
she  got  to  Wrugglesby  station  and 
saw  Sam,  who  had  been  sent  to  meet 
her.  When  she  saw  him  there  was 
room  for  doubt  no  longer. 

On  the  homeward  drive  he  told 
her  all  he  knew  about  the  accident. 
The  master  had  gone  to  Wrugglesby 
yesterday  and  returned  late ;  he  was 
riding  a  skittish  young  horse  and 
must  have  been  thrown  and  probably 
killed  on  the  spot.  Mr.  Harborough, 
who  had  come  from  London  by  the 
mail-train,  drove  home  along  the 
same  road  and  found  him,  but  it  was 
thought  he  must  have  been  lying 
there  for  several  hours.  Dr.  Bolton 
had  been  called  up  and  came  with 
Mr.  Harborough  to  Haylands ;  but 
it  was  quite  useless,  the  master  was 
beyond  help  when  he  was  found ; 
"  and  the  Missus " — so  Sam  con- 
cluded— "  was  somethin'  terrible, 
quite  stunned,  not  sheddin'  so  much 
as  a  tear." 

Bill  could  believe  that;  it  seemed 
to  her  quite  natural  that  Theresa 
should  be  stunned.  But  when  she 
reached  Haylands  it  seemed  just  as 
natural  that  Theresa,  when  she  met 
her  and  put  her  arms  round  her, 
should  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  weep- 
ing. Bill  wept  with  her  of  course  ; 
it  was  her  nature ;  but  she  wept  for 
the  pity  of  life's  tangle,  while  Theresa 
wept  for  the  husband  dead  last  night 
and  the  lover  dead  months  ago,  for  the 
widowhood  of  name  which  had  fallen 
upon  her  now  and  the  widowhood  of 
heart  which  had  fallen  long  before ; 
wept  for  her  grief  and  her  loss  and 
her  double  grief  that  the  loss  and 
grief  were  not  greater,  and  for  all 
combined  till  thought  was  vague  and 
her  heart  was  eased. 

So  she  wept,  and  no  longer  dreaded 
that  the  world,  seeing  her  grief, 


244 


Princess  Puck. 


should  also  see  that  which  lay  behind. 
She  had  feared  lest  the  secret  she  had 
guarded  during  Robert's  life  should 
be  revealed  after  his  death.  It  was 
for  this  reason  she  would  not  have 
Polly  or  Bella  or  anyone  but  Bill, — 
Bill  whose  eyes  were  not  quick  to 
mark  anything  amiss.  The  others 
might  discover  or  think,  but  Bill — 
no  one  minded  Bill.  And  then, 
when  Bill  came  with  her  sympathy 
and  her  pliant  changing  nature,  there 
suddenly  seemed  no  secret  to  hide, 
nothing  amiss  which  could  be  marked 
—  all  was  melted  in  a  gush  of 
tears. 

Thus  Theresa  became  widow  in- 
deed, and  though  she  sorrowed  as 
such  she  was  all  the  better  for  the 
sorrowing.  Quite  unconsciously  she 
turned  to  the  girl,  whom  she  still 
persisted  in  regarding  as  a  child,  for 
comfort  and  help.  Bill  gave  all  the 
comfort  she  could,  listened  when 
Theresa  told  her  how  Robert  went 
out  yesterday  and  she  had  not  said 
good-bye ;  wept  when  Theresa  wept 
over  this  omission  and  over  the 
hundred  trifles  which  seemed  to  speak 
of  his  presence  still  near, — his  pipe 
on  the  mantelpiece,  his  whip  behind 
the  door,  his  dog  waiting  wistfully 
in  the  hall.  Bill  listened  but  she 
also  worked,  for  that  suited  her  best. 
Theresa  was  really  prostrate  with 
grief ;  so  Bill  assumed,  by  the  quiet 
right  of  the  one  who  can,  the  manage- 
ment of  the  household,  and  the 
management  so  assumed  remained 
with  her  some  time. 

It  was  during  the  days  which 
followed  that  Gilchrist  Harborough 
found  himself  thinking  that  Bill, 
viewed  in  a  light  other  than  that  of 
prospective  wife,  had  something  to 
recommend  her.  He  had  not  seen 
her  since  the  December  day  when 
she  cancelled  their  engagement;  but 
in  the  time  that  followed  Robert's 
death  he  saw  her  often,  for  she 


stayed  at  Ashelton  till  the  summer 
was  well  advanced.  Polly  wanted 
her  back  in  town,  but  she  was 
obliged  to  allow  that  Theresa  needed 
her  more  at  Haylands.  Very  re- 
luctantly she  gave  permission  for 
Bill  to  remain  ;  very  reluctantly, 
with  the  wages  Bill  forfeited  by 
absence,  she  hired  a  girl  to  help 
with  the  work.  And  Bill  spent 
a  second  June  at  Haylands,  very 
unlike  the  first,  excepting  only  that 
she  saw  Gilchrist  Harborough  often, 
though  even  in  seeing  him  there  was 
one  great  and  essential  difference, 
for  they  met  now  on  a  new  footing, 
a  footing  much  nearer  equality. 

Jack  was  a  good  brother-in-law, 
but  Greys  was  some  way  from  Hay- 
lands  and  he,  being  but  recently 
married  and  having  besides  a  great 
deal  of  land  to  look  after,  found  it 
somewhat  difficult  to  give  Theresa's 
farm  the  supervision  it  required. 
Harborough,  living  much  nearer,  had 
more  time  and  possibly  more  inclina- 
tion, for  the  lawsuit  did  not  occupy 
so  much  -of  his  attention  just  now; 
therefore  he  came  often  to  Haylands 
that  summer,  and  in  coming,  met 
Bill  often,  but  always  in  her  working 
capacity  ;  a  capacity,  he  thought, 
which  suited  her  so  well  that  he 
wondered  how  he  had  ever  come  to 
think  of  her, — the  most  able  colla- 
borator man  could  wish, — as  wife. 

But  Theresa's  domestic  arrange- 
ment, admirable  as  she  found  it, 
did  not  suit  Polly  at  all.  To  begin 
with  she  did  not  find  the  girl  at  all 
an  efficient  substitute  for  Bill,  and  to 
go  on  with  she  "  wanted  to  know 
how  it  was  all  going  to  end."  Bill 
also  wanted  to  know  that,  not  be- 
cause she  found  the  arrangement  any 
less  pleasant  than  did  Theresa,  but 
because  it  was  her  custom  to  plan 
several  miles  in  advance  of  the  elder 
cousin's  range  of  vision.  So,  before 
Theresa  had  contemplated  the  future 


Princess  Puck. 


245 


as  a  working  possibility,  Bill  had 
answered  Polly's  enquiries. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  so  she  wrote,  "  things 
are  not  much  better  than  you  ex- 
pected ;  Theresa  will  be  left  very 
badly  off.  Still,  I  think  she  will  most 
likely  have  a  little,  so  there  is  a  certain 
amount  of  choice  as  to  what  is  to  be 
done ;  I  have  not  properly  talked  it 
over  with  her  so  I  do  not  know  if  she 
has  any  wishes.  As  far  as  I  can  see 
we  three  (she  and  you  and  I)  must 
live  together;  we  can't  afford  two 
houses,  but  together  I  believe  we 
might  live  here  or  in  town.  If  we 
stop  here  we  should  have  to  give  up 
most  of  the  land,  only  keeping  enough 
for  a  certain  amount  of  dairy  work. 
The  dairy,  with  pigs,  poultry,  and 
vegetable  -  growing,  I  reckon  would 
keep  us  in  food  and  pretty  well  pay 
the  rent — I  believe  this  could  be 
made  to  answer.  We  could  have  a 
boarder  in  the  summer  if  you  liked. 
Of  course  the  other  choice  is  for  you 
and  me  to  go  on  as  before  and  take 
Theresa  in  ;  I  don't  know  what  else 
can  be  done,  unless  she  goes  to  Jack 
and  Bella,  which  seems  hardly  fair." 

Polly  read  this  letter  and  digested 
it  thoughtfully,  and  her  thoughts,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  were  not  so  much  for  the 
common  good  as  for  her  own  personal 
comfort,  and  that  did  not  incline  her 
towards  going  to  Ashelton.  She  pre- 
ferred town  to  country ;  she  liked 
her  present  life  in  many  respects, 
and  she  certainly  did  not  relish  the 
idea  of  making  pigs  and  poultry  pay 
with  Bill's  assistance,  not  because  she 
thought  they  would  not  pay  but 
because  she  knew  quite  well  that  the 
assistance  would  be  on  the  wrong 
side  in  such  a  venture.  Theresa  she 
did  not  consider  in  the  matter,  and 
fortunately  for  her  Theresa  had  no 
very  strong  wishes  ;  she  did  not 
greatly  care  whether  she  remained 
at  Haylands  or  went  to  London  ;  it 
seemed  to  her  that  her  life  had  been 


snapped  and  could  go  on  as  well,  or 
as  ill,  in  one  place  as  another.  Jack 
was  in  favour  of  giving  up  the  farm, 
pronouncing  Bill's  scheme  to  be  a 
mad  one.  Gilchrist,  who  knew  Bill 
better,  was  not  so  sure  of  that ;  but 
he  saw  that  it  would  entail  much 
hard  work  on  all,  on  Theresa,  who 
in  his  opinion  was  not  fit  for  it,  as 
well  as  on  Bill  who  was.  Therefore, 
as  the  general  voice  was  with  Polly, 
she  carried  the  day,  to  her  own  great 
satisfaction,  and  at  Michaelmas  the 
farm  was  given  up. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Bill 
remained  undisturbed  at  Haylands  all 
the  summer.  She  was  merely  keeping 
Theresa  company,  and  when  Bella's 
husband  spared  her  to  do  that  for  a 
time,  Bill,  very  reluctantly,  returned 
to  town,  to  Polly  and  her  domestic 
difficulties.  It  is  hard,  when  one  can 
do  work  and  has  half  done  it,  that  it 
should  be  taken  away  and  given  to 
another,  who  not  only  cannot  do  it 
but  does  not  recognise  that  it  exists 
to  be  done.  Bill  did  not  want  her 
work  recognised,  but  she  did  want  to 
finish  it ;  but  since  that  was  impos- 
sible there  was  no  choice  but  to 
silently  resign  it  half-finished,  with- 
out a  hope  of  its  being  anything  but 
wasted  by  the  one  who  came  after. 
So  she  went  back  to  town,  and  Bella, 
it  is  to  be  feared,  fulfilled  her  antici- 
pations ;  the  seed  plants  died,  the 
vegetables  languished,  the  ducks  laid 
away,  and  the  poultry  intermarried 
disastrously.  Later  on  Polly  went 
down  to  Haylands,  for  a  rest,  she 
said  :  and  Bill  did  not  ask  her  to 
look  after  any  of  her  pet  projects, 
thinking  perhaps  that  it  would  only 
be  useless.  When  Polly  returned  she 
did  enquire  how  the  fruit  was  that 
year,  and  was  told  that  the  trees  were 
breaking  with  the  weight  of  plums. 

"  Does  no  one  pick  them  ? "  Bill 
asked. 

"Some  of  them,"   Polly  told  her; 


246 


Princess  Puck. 


"  but  fruit  fetches  so  little  this  year; 
it  is  not  worth  a  man's  time  to  pick 
it,  at  least  so  Gilchrist  says,  and  he 
is  managing  everything,  you  know." 

Bill  was  not  thinking  of  Gilchrist's 
management  but  of  private  enterprise ; 
Polly  was  thinking  of  something  quite 
different  and  it  was  she  who  spoke 
first.  "  Did  it  strike  you,  Bill,"  she 
said,  "  that  Gilchrist  takes  a  great 
interest  in  Theresa  and  her  affairs  1 " 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  he  likes  manag- 
ing, and  he  does  it  thoroughly." 

But  this  was  not  what  Polly  meant 
at  all  and  she  said  so.  "  What  I 
want  to  know,"  she  concluded,  "  is, 
why  did  he  begin  it  1  Why  does  he 
doit?" 

"  Because  it  wanted  doing,  and 
because  he  can  do  it.  Somehow  or 
other  the  people  who  can  do  things 
always  have  to  do  them  whether  it 
is  their  business  or  not ;  they  have  a 
sort  of  right  to  the  jobs  that  want 
doing." 

This  was  not  Polly's  opinion.  "  It's 
my  belief,"  she  said,  "  that  he  has  an 
interest  in  what  he  does." 

"  An  interest  ?  He  does  not  get 
the  profits." 

"No,"  Polly  retorted  impatiently, 
"but  Theresa  does;  that's  his  interest." 

"  Do  you  mean  he  is  fond  of 
Theresa  ? "  Bill  asked  in  astonishment. 

Polly  did,  and  explained  herself  at 
some  length,  without  convincing  Bill 
who,  when  she  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  this  was  only  one  of 
Polly's  fancies,  went  back  to  the 
subject  of  the  plums.  Polly  was  not 
interested  in  plums,  and  when  Bill 
asked  if  she  and  Theresa  picked  any, 
answered  snappishly,  "  No,  we  did 
not ;  we  did  not  choose  to  spend  our 
days  up  ladders." 

A  recollection  of  last  year  lent 
viciousness  to  this  remark  ;  Bill  re- 
membered last  year  too  and  sighed. 
Had  she  been  at  Ashelton  early 
enough  very  likely  there  would  have 


been  a  repetition  of  the  plum-selling. 
But  she  was  not  there  in  time  to  do 
anything,  for,  though  she  did  go  down 
to  Haylands  to  help  Theresa  to  pack 
at  the  last,  the  fruit  was  practically 
over.  It  was  a  bad  year  for  apples  ; 
there  were  hardly  any  in  the  orchard 
at  Haylands,  and  Bill  saw  at  once, 
when  she  went  to  look  round,  that 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  with 
them.  As  for  the  plums,  they  were 
a  real  grief  to  her  when  she  saw  them 
lying  rotten  on  the  grass  beside  the 
branches  which  the  heavy  fruit  had 
broken  down. 

"  Gilchrist  could  not  look  after 
everything,"  she  told  herself,  "and 
Theresa  would  not  know." 

After  all,  the  waste  of  the  plums 
did  not  trouble  her  so  much  as  did 
the  sight  of  the  withered  plants  in 
the  garden,  and  the  raspberry-canes, 
still  loaded  with  shrivelled  fruit,  dried 
up  for  want  of  water.  But  bad  as 
the  garden  was,  it  was  not  the  worst, 
for  in  one  short  tour  of  the  stackyard 
she  found,  besides  the  feathers  of 
many  untimely  victims  of  stray  cats, 
five  lots  of  addled  eggs  laid  and  lost 
in  the  summer  months.  She  had  her 
last  find  of  eggs  in  a  basket  on  the 
Saturday  afternoon  when  she  went  to 
the  orchard  to  look  for  fallen  apples. 
There  were  not  many,  but  she  picked 
up  what  there  were  and  took  the  eggs 
to  the  ditch  to  throw  them  away  to 
make  room  for  the  apples. 

It  was  just  then  that  Mr.  Stevens 
came  by.  He  was  a  busy  man  but 
he  sometimes  allowed  himself  a  little 
holiday  on  Saturdays  in  September  to 
shoot  a  friend's  partridges ;  he  had 
been  shooting  partridges  that  day  and 
very  good  sport  he  had  had  to  judge 
from  the  beaming  good  humour  he 
was  carrying  back  to  Wrugglesby. 

When  he  saw  Bill  he  pulled  up. 
"  Good-afternoon,"  he  cried ;  "  I 
didn't  know  you  were  back.  You 
haven't  been  over  to  see  me ;  don't 


Princess  Puck. 


247 


you  want  to  have  a  talk  about  your 
affairs  1 " 

Bill  came  to  the  gate.  "There  isn't 
much  to  say  about  them,  is  there  ? " 
she  asked.  "  I  thought  nothing  much 
could  be  done  at  this  time  of  year." 

"  Well,  no,  not  much  certainly ; 
everybody  is  out  of  town  now.  Still, 
if  you'd  like  to  have  a  chat  you  might 
look  in  when  you're  in  Wrugglesby ; 
I'm  not  very  busy  just  now." 

"  Thank  you,  I  will  if  I  have  time ; 
I  am  only  here  for  a  few  days  just  to 
help  Theresa  to  pack." 

"  Ah,  of  course,  she  is  leaving  soon, 
poor  thing.  Going  to  live  in  London 
with  you,  isn't  she "?  " 

Mr.  Stevens  felt  very  sorry  for 
Theresa,  of  whose  affairs  he  knew  all 
that  was  commonly  reported  and  a 
little  more  besides.  He  felt  sorry  for 
Bill,  too,  that  afternoon  ;  she  did  not 
seem  to  be  so  cheerfully  and  com- 
pletely satisfied  with  life  as  usual. 

"  We  must  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
job,"  he  said  encouragingly,  "and 
look  for  better  times.  Let's  hope 
your  business  will  be  through  before 
Christmas,"  and  he  shook  his  reins 
as  if  he  were  going  on. 

"  Do  you  think  it  could  be  done  so 
soon  as  that  ? "  Bill  asked  with  ani- 
mation. 

"  I  dare  say  ;  I  don't  see  why  not, 
or  at  the  latest  early  in  the  new  year. 
Woa,  my  beauty  ! "  and  he  pulled  up 
again.  "  Mr.  Briant  is  a  rich  man 
and  can  afford  to  fight  as  a  poorer 
man  could  not ;  but  you're  too  strong 
for  him,  and  since  the  business  of  the 
divorce  and  remarriage  was  settled 
he  knows  it.  It's  my  belief — though 
as  I'm  not  professionally  connected 
with  the  case  perhaps  you  will  say 
I  have  no  right  to  an  opinion — it's 
my  belief  Briant  never  suspected  a 
second  marriage.  But  owing  to  the 
rector's  help  you  have  incontestable 
proofs,  and  the  other  side  haven't  a 
case  worth  mentioning." 


"  Then  you  think  it  will  be  settled 
soon?"  Bill  asked.  "I  am  very 
glad  ;  and  I  am  glad,  too,  that  Mr. 
Briant  is  so  rich  that  one  need  not 
much  mind  taking  money  from  him  ; 
even  if  I  win  he  will  still  have  plenty 
left." 

Mr.  Stevens,  though  he  was  amused 
by  her  scruples,  assured  her  that  she 
might  be  quite  easy  on  that  score. 
"  He'll  have  plenty,"  he  said,  "  plenty, 
seeing  that  he  has  neither  son  nor 
daughter  to  take  it  after  him.  Bless 
my  soul,  he  ought  to  be  quite  pleased 
to  make  provision  for  a  young  lady  in 
that  way  ! " 

The  lawyer  laughed  as  he  spoke 
and  Bill  laughed  too.  "  I  am  afraid 
he  won't  see  it  in  that  light,"  she 


"I'm  afraid  not  either.  No;  I 
think  if  you  win  your  case  you  will 
have  to  thank  your  good  aunt's  care 
in  keeping  old  bills  and  letters  and 
recipes  for  herb-tea.  That  is  what 
will  have  the  most  to  do  with  it, 
since  she  managed  to  keep  with  them 
several  of  old  Roger's  useless  docu- 
ments, and  one  valuable  one.  Yes, 
you  will  have  to  thank  her  for  her 
care  and  Mr.  Dane  for  his  generosity. 
Good-bye,  and  a  speedy  success  to 

you." 

CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

BELLA'S  baby  was  born  in  January, 
and  Theresa  went  to  Greys  for  the 
event.  Indeed  she  went  there  a  good 
deal  before  the  event,  for,  if  the  truth 
must  be  known,  life  in  London  with 
Bill  and  Polly  was  not  entirely  suc- 
cessful. Two  women  who  have  each 
had  a  home  of  their  own  do  not 
always  get  on  when  they  come  to 
share  one  between  them.  Bella  wrote 
in  November  inviting  Theresa  to  come 
to  her,  and  Polly  urged  the  acceptance 
of  the  invitation  with  unnecessary 
warmth,  Theresa  hesitated  a  while 


248 


Princess  Puck. 


as  to  her  duty  and  then  finally  ac- 
cepted it  and  went.  "And  a  good 
thing  too,"  Polly  said  frankly. 

She  said  this  to  Bill  when  they 
were  at  tea  on  the  afternoon  Theresa 
left.  Polly  sat  at  her  ease  with  her 
feet  on  the  fender  and  her  tea-cup  on 
the  hob ;  she  liked  this  position,  and 
she  liked  the  table  drawn  on  to  the 
hearth-rug  so  that  she  could  sit  be- 
tween it  and  the  fire.  Theresa  did 
not  approve  of  such  things;  she  did 
not  exactly  say  so,  but  she  looked  it, 
and  when  she  set  the  tea-things  she 
never  pulled  the  table  up. 

"It's  all  very  well,  Bill,"  Polly 
went  on  to  say.  "Theresa  may  be 
a  very  nice  person, — I  dare  say  she  is, 
but  she  does  not  do  here,  and  if  she 
is  going  to  live  here  she  will  have  to 
alter  a  good  deal." 

"  She  will  settle  down  in  time." 

Polly  had  her  doubts  about  that 
and  expressed  them  ;  she  also  ex- 
pressed a  hope  that  Theresa  would 
stay  with  Bella  while  the  settling 
process  went  on.  "The  longer  she 
stays  there  the  better,"  she  concluded. 
"  Perhaps  if  she  is  there  long  enough 
and  Gilchrist  Harborough  sees  her 
often  enough,  he  may  marry  her  and 
take  her  to  Wood  Hall  where  she 
could  be  as  elegant  as  she  pleased 
•without  interfering  with  me." 

Bill  laughed.  "  You  are  in  rather 
a  hurry,"  she  observed.  "  Theresa 
has  only  been  a  widow  six  months, 
and  Gilchrist  has  not  by  any  means 
got  Wood  Hall  yet.  You  finish  things 
off  rather  too  quickly." 

"  I  wish  somebody  else  would,"  and 
Polly  turned  up  her  gown  to  preserve 
it  from  the  fire. 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  T.,"  Bill 
said  rather  sadly.  "  I  don't  believe 
she  is  more  particular  than  she  used 
to  be  ;  she  always  was, — well,  you 
used  to  call  it  ladylike." 

Polly  ignored  her  own  past  atti- 
tude with  regard  to  Theresa  and  only 


remarked :  "I  could  be  ladylike  if 
someone  else  did  the  dirty  work.  I 
should  like  to  be  ladylike  ;  but  some 
people  can't  have  what  they  wish  in 
this  world ;  they  have  to  work  that 
others  may." 

"  Poor  old  Polly !  I'm  so  sorry 
you  have  had  to  do  the  stoves  lately. 
That  place  on  my  finger  is  nearly 
well,  and  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to 
do  them  again  to-morrow." 

"I'm  not  grumbling  about  you," 
Polly  said  magnanimously. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  grumbling 
about  anything?"  Bill  asked.  "It 
may  let  off  steam,  but  I  believe  it 
rusts  the  pipes.  Don't  let's  talk 
about  Theresa ;  let  us  talk  about 
hats." 

Millinery  was  a  subject  of  peren- 
nial interest  to  Polly,  but  to-night 
she  refused  to  discuss  it.  "I  don't 
know  anything  about  hats,"  she  said  ; 
"  how  should  I  ?  I  haven't  seen  any- 
thing but  these  four  walls  since  I 
don't  know  when." 

"Why  not  go  to  Regent  Street 
to-morrow  afternoon1?  "  Bill  suggested. 
"  My  finger  is  really  quite  well,  so 
I  can  do  the  work  and  you  have  not 
been  out  for  ages ;  take  an  omnibus 
to  Oxford  Circus  and  go  and  look  at 
all  the  shops." 

This  was  Polly's  favourite  recrea- 
tion and  invariable  panacea  for  dul- 
ness,  but  she  still  refused  to  be 
cheered,  "  What  is  the  use  1 "  she 
said.  "  I  shall  only  see  a  hat  I  want 
and  can't  afford." 

"  You  will  see  some  new  way  of 
trimming  up  your  old  one,"  Bill 
assured  her ;  and  though  Polly  per- 
sisted that  she  would  not  go,  when 
the  afternoon  came  she  changed  her 
mind  and  went. 

It  was  during  Polly's  absence  that 
the  great  news  came  to  Bill.  Mr. 
Dane  brought  it ;  he  had  come  to 
town  for  a  few  days  on  business,  he 
said,  probably  on  her  business.  At 


Princess  Puck. 


249 


all  events  it  was  fortunate  that  his 
coming  to  town  was  at  this  time,  for 
he  was  able  to  bring  the  news  to  Bill 
in  person.  Of  course  Polly  received 
a  formal  intimation  ;  Polly  always 
received  formal  intimations  and  re- 
quests from  the  lawyers  as  did  Mr. 
Dane;  she  was  the  guardian  of  the 
plaintiff,  a  person  of  importance,  and 
he  was  a  great  factor  in  the  case, 
more  especially  as  the  lawyers  were 
his  lawyers  and  the  money  his  money. 
But  Bill  was  only  the  "infant,"  so 
she  was  not  greatly  troubled  with 
intimations  and  consultations ;  and 
she,  in  the  first  instance,  was  not  the 
person  to  be  formally  acquainted  with 
the  decision  of  the  court.  Neverthe- 
less she  was  the  person  to  whom  Mr. 
Dane  came,  even  before  Polly  had 
received  her  legal  information  and 
while  that  lady  was  out  looking  at  the 
bonnet-shops  in  Regent  Street. 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  Mr.  Dane 
came.  Bill  had  no  idea  of  seeing  him 
when  she  went  to  answer  his  knock ; 
and  the  sight  of  him  standing  on  the 
doorstep  in  the  November  dusk  was 
so  unexpected  that  she  forgot  in  her 
delight  to  wonder  why  he  had  come. 
She  led  him  to  the  kitchen,  their 
living-room  now,  and  gave  him  Polly's 
shabby  old  armchair.  She  never 
thought  of  apologising ;  it  was  the 
best  she  had  to  offer  and  so  needed 
no  apology ;  moreover  he  was  her 
friend  and  would  expect  none. 

"  Well,  Princess,"  he  said  at  last, 
— at  first  it  had  not  seemed  possible 
to  speak  of  his  errand — "  what  do  you 
think  brings  me  here  to-day  ? " 

Bill  looked  at  him  doubtfully  for  a 
moment.  "  I  have  something  to  tell 
you,"  he  went  on,  and  then  her  whole 
face  became  illuminated  with  under- 
standing. "Oh,  Monseigneur  !"  she 
said,  clasping  her  hands  with  an 
eagerness  begotten  half  of  hope,  half 
of  fear. 

"Yes,   my  child,"  he  said   gently, 


"yes,  you  have  won.  That  which 
Roger  Corby  gave  as  a  price  for 
wrong  is  paid  back  a  hundred-fold  ; 
and  you,  you  little  Bill,  are  an  heiress 
in  your  own  right." 

Bill  gave  a  great  gasp.  "Thank 
God,"  she  said,  "  it  is  in  time  !  Thank 
God,  thank  Him  very,  very  much  ! " 
And  there  followed  a  pause ;  perhaps 
she  thanked  the  God  who  always 
seemed  so  close  to  her.  When  she 
spoke  again  it  was  in  hushed  tones. 
"  It  seems  very  wonderful,"  she  said. 
And, — and  I  owe  it  to  you  !  " 

But  Mr.  Dane  did  not  think  she 
owed  it  all  to  him ;  perhaps  he  shared 
Mr.  Stevens's  opinion  and  thought 
she  was  the  stuff  that  wins  in 
any  circumstances.  As  for  the  par- 
ticular circumstances  of  this  case  he 
set  them  aside,  and  when  she  per- 
sisted, her  voice  quivering  with  emo- 
tion as  she  recounted  all  he  had  done, 
he  still  set  them  aside.  "  It  seems  a 
great  thing  to  do,  does  it  1 "  he  said 
at  last.  "  Ah,  you  are  young ;  things 
look  different  when  you  are  young. 
I  am  old  and  I  have  lived  much  and 
loved  much,  and  outlived  much  too 
perhaps,  and  to  me," — and  he  put  a 
tender  hand  on  the  glowing  hair — "  to 
me  it  does  not  seem  such  a  very  great 
thing  to  do  for  the  child  of  my  past, 
the  daughter  of  consolation  to  me." 

Then  she  said  no  more,  but  she 
kissed  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Afterwards  they  talked  of  this  for- 
tune, and  what  it  would  mean,  and 
the  debt  that  Bill  thought  she  owed 
to  the  Harboroughs — to  Peter  Har- 
borough,  shot,  to  hide  whose  death 
the  price  which  was  the  founda- 
tion of  her  fortune  had  been  paid 
— to  Kit  Harborough,  whose  rival 
through  an  act  of  hers  had  learned 
the  claim  that  he  had  made, — and  to 
the  old  man,  last  of  the  Harboroughs 
of  Gurnett,  who  slept  in  the  little 
churchyard  among  the  ferns  where 
Roger  Corby  lay. 


250 


Princess  Puck. 


It  was  past  five  o'clock  before  Polly 
returned.  Mr.  Dane  had  left  only 
a  little  while  before,  and  she  must 
have  almost  passed  him  at  the  end 
of  the  street,  though,  if  she  did,  she 
failed  to  recognise  him.  She  did  not 
notice  anything  particularly  until  she 
reached  her  own  house,  and  was 
surprised  to  see  there  were  no  lights 
at  any  of  the  windows.  Miss  Scrivens, 
who  now  occupied  the  drawing-room, 
must  have  fallen  asleep  and  forgotten 
to  ring  for  the  lamp ;  and  Polly 
decided,  with  some  satisfaction,  that 
Bill  for  once  had  followed  her  instruc- 
tions and  not  taken  the  light  until  it 
was  rung  for.  With  a  gratified  feeling 
at  this  unusual  display  of  obedience 
she  let  herself  in  and  went  up-stairs  ; 
while  she  was  up-stairs  the  drawing- 
room  bell  rang  sharply  and  Bill  went 
to  answer  it.  She  was  still  attending 
to  the  lamp,  or  the  lady,  when  Polly 
entered  the  kitchen  and  found  to 
her  surprise  that  the  tea-tray  was  not 
set. 

"  What  has  the  girl  been  doing  ? " 
she  muttered  as  she  went  to  the 
dresser.  She  was  reaching  up  to  get 
a  jug  from  a  high  hook  when  there 
came  a  dancing  step  behind  her  and, 
before  she  could  look  round,  Bill's 
arms  were  thrown  round  her  neck 
from  behind  and  Bill's  strong  hands 
took  hers  prisoner. 

"  Polly  !  "  she  exclaimed,  possessing 
herself  of  the  jug  and  then  twisting 
Polly  round.  "  Polly,  dear  old  Polly  ! 
It  has  come  at  last !  You  shall  have 
the  finest  hat  in  all  Regent  Street 
even  if  it's  a  salad  of  roses  with 
a  cockatoo  rampant  on  the  top  ! 
You  shall  have  it  and  we  will  drive 
all  the  way  in  a  hansom  cab  to  buy 
it!" 

"Bill!  What  is  the  matter  with  the 
girl?  Bill,  put  down  that  jug  and 
tell  me  what  you  mean  !  " 

"I  mean," — but  Bill  did  not  put 
down  the  jug,  she  filled  it  with  milk 


instead — "I  am  going  to  get  Miss 
Scrivens's  tea,"  she  said.  "I  ought  to 
have  got  it  before  only  I  have  been 
hindered  this  afternoon,  and  I'm  crazy, 
I  think.  But,  oh,  Polly  !  I've  got  it, 
got  it  at  last ;  the  money  I  mean,  or 
at  least  as  good  as  got  it,  it  is  going 
to  be  mine.  I  expect  you  will  have 
to  do  things  and  sign  things  first,  but 
the  case  is  decided  for  us  and  it  is  all 
as  good  as  mine  already  !  " 

"  My  dear  Bill  !  "  Polly  was 
momentarily  overwhelmed  by  the 
news,  then  she  recovered  herself  and 
fetched  a  tin  of  sardines  from  the 
cupboard.  "  Oh,  well,"  she  said,  "  if 
that's  the  case  we  can  afford  to  have 
a  relish  with  our  tea." 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

IN  the  opinion  of  certain  members 
of  the  Chancery  bar  the  conclusion  of 
the  Harborough  case  was  disappoint- 
ing, for  from  a  legal  point  of  view 
there  was  no  conclusion.  In  spite  of 
all  that  had  been  said  on  both  sides, 
all  the  facts  and  traditions  and  curious 
crooks  that  had  come  to  light,  the 
case  was  in  the  end  as  far  from  a 
legal  decision  as  ever ;  it  was  merely 
withdrawn.  This  was  the  best  thing 
possible  for  the  litigants  and  certainly 
the  wisest;  still,  it  was  to  be  de- 
plored, for  a  decision  would  have 
been  interesting.  Apart  from  the 
legal  aspect  the  conclusion  could  not 
be  regretted ;  the  buying  of  the 
claimant  was  undeniably  wise,  and 
at  the  same  time  almost  romantic, 
for  there  was  something  of  mystery 
about  it.  Nobody,  not  even  the  Har- 
boroughs,  knew  who  paid  for  it. 
Someone,  whose  name  was  not  men- 
tioned and  who  apparently  had  no 
personal  interest  in  the  case,  found 
the  money,  which  Gilchrist  accepted 
in  lieu  of  his  chance  of  the  Gurnett 
estates,  and  for  the  consideration  of 
which  he  duly  undertook  that  neither 


Princess  Puck. 


251 


he  nor  his  should  ever  raise  the  claim 
again. 

Thus  it  happened,  when  the  case 
was  well  on  in  its  second  year,  that 
all  ended  and  came  to  nothing,  and 
Kit  Harborough  found  himself  very 
much  where  he  used  to  expect  he 
would  be;  but  with  an  addition  he 
did  not  expect  in  those  days,  —  a 
certain  price  to  pay  for  having  de- 
fended his  right  to  be  there.  Gilchrist 
had  something  to  pay  too,  but  it  did 
not  so  much  matter  to  him  for  he  had 
thought  of  the  costs  when  he  bar- 
gained for  the  price  of  his  withdrawal. 
On  the  whole  he  was  satisfied  with 
the  terms ;  they  were  not  so  high  as 
he  had  tried  to  get,  but  they  were  all 
his  chance  was  worth  to  him,  and  all, 
apparently,  that  the  benevolent  person 
unknown  was  willing  to  pay. 

There  was  one  man,  in  no  way  con- 
nected with  the  case,  who  took  a  keen 
interest  in  that  benevolent  person 
unknown;  not  so  much  at  the  time, 
but  a  little  later.  In  the  light  of 
subsequent  events  Mr.  Stevens  chose 
to  find  that  individual  most  interest- 
ing. "  Unless  I  am  much  mistaken," 
he  once  said,  though  wisely  in  no  one's 
hearing  but  his  own,  "there  is  stuff 
for  a  good  Chancery  suit  in  that 
buying  off  of  Gilchrist  Harborough. 
Certain  persons  have  been  juggling 
with  the  law,  or  I'm  a  Dutchman  ; 
persons,  too,  who  should  have  been 
above  suspicion.  Mistress  Wilhel- 
mina  has  a  deal  to  answer  for,  bless 
her  wicked  little  heart  !  I  wonder 
how  it  was  done  1  I'd  give  something 
to  know."  But  he  never  did  know ; 
only,  in  later  years,  he  used  some- 
times to  doubt  if  there  had  been 
much  juggling  with  the  law  after  all ; 
if  it  had  not  been  that  a  certain 
childless  old  man,  who  was  so  much 
richer  than  most  people  knew,  had 
not  chosen  secretly  to  serve  a  girl  in 
his  life  instead  of  benefiting  her  after 
his  death.  But  of  this  fancy  Mr. 


Stevens  never  spoke,  for  he  knew,  if 
it  were  true,  that  it  was  a  secret 
hidden  even  from  the  girl  herself, 
and  he,  though  only  a  country  lawyer, 
was  a  man  possessed  of  that  best 
wisdom,  the  knowledge  when  to  keep 
silent. 

But  all  this  was  long  after ;  at  the 
time  when  the  Harboroughs'  suit  was 
concluded  no  one  even  suspected  who 
their  benefactor  might  be.  The  Har- 
boroughs themselves  puzzled  over  it 
for  some  time  and  then,  as  is  the 
nature  of  man,  turned  to  the  con- 
sideration of  their  own  affairs.  Those 
affairs  were  identical  for  both  of  them 
in  one  particular  at  least, — the  ques- 
tion of  Gilchrist's  return  to  Australia. 
It  was  generally  understood  among 
those  whom  it  concerned  that  Gil- 
christ was  going  back  to  Australia  ; 
he  had  said  he  should  go  so  soon  as 
the  case  was  settled,  but  now  when 
it  came  to  the  point  he  did  not  seem 
so  sure  about  it.  Kit  took  a  most 
Surprising  interest  in  his  rival's  depar- 
ture, and  he  noticed  his  hesitation 
directly  the  subject  was  introduced. 
There  was  only  one  occasion  when 
the  two  Harboroughs  spoke  of  the 
matter,  the  only  occasion  on  which 
they  met  on  purely  social  terms,  the 
day  they  lunched  together  at  Wood 
Hall.  Kit  had  invited  Gilchrist 
there  as  it  were  to  shake  hands  after 
the  fight,  possibly  feeling  it  his  duty 
to  do  so.  Gilchrist  accepted  the 
invitation,  partly  for  similar  reasons, 
and  partly  because  he  had  never  been 
inside  Wood  Hall  and  thought  he 
would  rather  like  to  see  the  old  house 
for  which  he  had  been  fighting ;  com- 
ing with  this  motive,  there  is  no  doubt 
he  also  came  prepared  to  observe 
critically  and  to  put  a  market-value 
on  all  he  saw. 

"I  think  I  have  the  best  of  the 
bargain,"  he  told  Theresa  afterwards  ; 
"  the  place  is  in  bad  repair  and  at 
the  best  of  times  would  take  a  lot 


252 


Princess  Puck. 


of  keeping  up.  Still,  I  admit  it  has 
a  charm  of  its  own,  a  charm  which 
cannot  be  bought  or  exchanged,  and 
would  not,  I  believe,  stand  a  change 
of  ownership.  If  the  house  were  mine 
I  should  do  it  up,  and,  I  suppose, 
change  its  nature ;  since  it  is  his,  he 
will  let  things  remain  as  they  are  ;  he 
can't  afford  to  do  anything  else,  poor 
beggar  !  But  he  will  keep  the  charm 
and  a  few  absurd,  inimitable,  medieval 
prejudices  which  even  an  enlightened 
education  cannot  make  us  altogether 
despise. " 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Gilchrist 
was  not  far  from  the  truth  in  his 
estimate  of  the  poverty  likely  to  reign 
at  Wood  Hall.  The  estate,  crippled 
before,  could  ill  afford  the  money 
spent  in  defence  of  its  owner's  claim 
to  it.  Kit  knew  this,  and  knew  that 
the  Australian  was  quick  to  mark 
signs  of  prosperity  or  decay. 

The  two  Harboroughs  did  not 
lunch  in  the  big  dining-room  where 
Kit  had  sat  with  Bill  on  the  day  that 
old  Mr.  Harborough  died,  but  in  a 
smaller,  more  modern  room  where 
neither  length  of  possession  nor  short- 
ness of  means  stood  out  so  plainly. 
There  was  little  here  to  suggest  that 
evil  days  had  fallen  upon  the  old 
place,  excepting  only  the  view  from  the 
windows.  Gilchrist  glanced  out  once ; 
the  pale  February  sunlight  was  wan 
on  the  crack  in  the  stonework  of  the 
terrace,  on  the  unswept  leaves  of  the 
autumn  and  the  untouched  borders 
by  the  wall.  Unconsciously  he  looked 
towards  his  host  and  observed  him 
curiously — the  well-bred,  stoical  face, 
the  grave  eyes,  the  well-finished  hands 
— the  whole  man  which  told  so  little. 

"  Are  you  going  to  live  here  1 "  he 
asked  suddenly. 

"  Probably  not." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 
Kit  was  evidently  not  communicative 
on  that  subject,  and  Gilchrist  looked 
out  of  the  window  again  before  giving 


expression  to  the  thoughts  in  his 
mind.  "Pity  the  old  place  should 
go  to  pieces  !  "  he  said  at  last.  "  I 
could  have  saved  it — spoiled  it,  per- 
haps you  would  have  said — still, 
saved  its  life  after  a  fashion,  but 
you—" 

"  I  shall  probably  go  abroad  for 
the  next  twenty  years;  after  which, 
if  I  am  not  an  inveterate  wanderer 
by  that  time,  I  shall  come  home  and 
think  about  getting  some  bricks  and 
mortar  to  mend  the  hole  in  the  ter- 
race which  we  can  see  so  well  from 
here." 

Gilchrist  laughed,  although  he  was 
a  little  annoyed ;  he  had  felt  vaguely 
sorry  for  Kit  and  the  decline  of  the 
house  of  Harborough.  But  Kit  kept 
him  well  at  arm's  length,  and  the 
house  of  Harborough  was  plainly  not 
his  concern,  so  he  withdrew  his  sym- 
pathy from  the  end  he  had  himself 
hastened,  and  the  subject  was  pursued 
no  further. 

It  was  then  that  Kit  enquired  con- 
cerning the  return  to  Australia,  and 
learned  that  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  uncertainty  connected  with  the 
date  of  Gilchrist's  departure  ;  indeed, 
it  seemed  almost  possible  that  he 
would  not  leave  England  at  all  that 
year.  Kit  did  not  ask  why ;  he 
knew  that  it  was  a  woman's  will  and 
a  woman's  preparations  that  ruled 
the  time  of  the  Australian's  going. 
Herein  he  was  quite  right,  though  he 
was  not  right  in  thinking  that  woman 
Bill  Alardy.  Bill's  preparations,  like 
her  will,  were  never  long  in  making ; 
but  the  woman  for  whom  Gilchrist 
waited  was  different ;  who  is  to  hurry 
a  nine  months'  widow,  and  who  make 
love  to  the  wife  of  a  man  whose  grave 
has  not  long  been  green  ? 

But  of  this  difficulty  Kit  knew 
nothing,  and  since  he  was  very  well 
aware  that  Bill's  betrothal  was  of  a 
private  nature,  he  could  not  make 
any  remark  upon  it  even  had  he 


Princess  PucJc. 


253 


wished.  So  he  was  still  unenlight- 
ened as  to  the  name  of  the  woman 
whose  pleasure  Gilchrist  waited  when 
a  little  later  the  Australian  took  his 
leave. 

Kit  went  to  the  door  with  him, 
stood  on  the  step  looking  after  him 
even  when  he  was  out  of  sight,  stood 
there  until  the  sound  of  his  horse's 
feet  had  died  away  in  the  distance. 
The  sun  was  gone  now ;  ashy  clouds 
had  crept  over  the  sky,  and  all  the 
world  was  still  and  grey  with  the  soft, 
tired  look  of  endless  afternoon.  Kit 
passed  down  the  steps  and  walked 
slowly  past  the  west  front  of  the 
house ;  once  he  glanced  up  at  the 
crooked  windows  and  the  sloping, 
many-peaked  roof,  but  he  looked 
away  again  quickly  as  if  the  sight 
hurt  him.  He  reached  the  end  of 
the  terrace  but  he  did  not  go  back ; 
instead  he  wandered  aimlessly  across 
the  lawn,  down  the  rose-walk,  past 
the  box-edged  beds  and  the  yew  trees 
once  trimly  clipped  into  quaint  de- 
vices. The  devices  were  lost  now,  the 
clipping  having  been  left  undone  for 
many  years.  Bill  had  once  said  that, 
were  the  trees  hers,  she  would  learn 
to  clip  them  herself  rather  than  that 
they  should  be  neglected.  So  she 
would,  too ;  she  would  have  clipped 
the  trees  and  weeded  the  paths  and 
saved  the  house  from  its  approaching 
decay.  Gilchrist  had  said  that  day 
he  would  have  saved  it;  how  could 
he  fail  to  save  it  with  her  for  wife  1 
Old  Harborough  himself  had  testified 
that  she,  and  such  as  she,  penniless 
though  they  might  be,  alone  could 
save  an  exhausted  family,  a  proud, 
poor,  worn-out  race. 

Kit  had  come  to  the  outskirts  of 
the  wood  now ;  he  stopped  for  a 
moment,  not  from  indecision  as  to 
which  path  to  follow  but  because  he 
wished  to  call  a  halt  in  his  mind  and 
force  himself  to  face  the  truth.  Why 
should  he  pretend  to  look  upon  Bill 


as  the  saviour  of  his  family,  the  prop 
of  his  house?  It  is  true  she  could 
have  been  all  that,  but  it  was  also 
true  that  she  was  something  else  to 
him ;  not  prop  nor  saviour,  but  the 
only  woman  the  world  held.  He  had 
been  but  a  boy  eighteen  months  ago 
when  he  first  looked  into  her  eyes; 
he  had  grown  to  manhood  in  those 
eighteen  months,  but  it  did  not 
matter,  the  look  thrilled  him  still.. 
He  had  not  seen  her  since  that 
October  day  when  they  pledged  each 
other  to  duty,  but  he  had  not  for- 
gotten ;  he  would  never  forget ;  there 
are  some  it  is  not  easy  to  forget. 

He  had  been  following  the  footpath 
that  led  from  the  gardens  to  the  little 
church,  but  he  turned  away  before  he 
reached  the  low  boundary  wall  and 
wandered  on  through  the  waste  of 
dead  bracken  till  he  struck  the  public 
footpath  which  gave  upon  the  lane 
by  a  swing-gate.  There  was  someone 
standing  by  the  gate,  someone  with 
arms  resting  upon  the  topmost  bar, 
and  eyes  fixed,  not  upon  the  path 
with  its  approaching  figure,  but  upon 
the  leafless  tree-tops  of  the  wood. 

For  half  a  second  Kit  paused,  a 
sensation  almost  of  fear  at  his  heart 
— how  could  she  be  here  in  the  flesh  ? 
Then,  at  a  bound  he  had  reached  the 
gate ;  flesh  or  phantom,  he  must  see 
her,  must  touch  her  hand  once  again. 

"  Bill ! " 

He  had  put  his  hand  on  the  hands 
on  the  gate.  They  were  warm,  living 
hands ;  he  held  them  fast  and  there 
was  no  effort  made  to  draw  them 
away.  She  did  not  start  nor  cry 
out ;  she  did  not  move  at  all ;  she 
only  looked  up  at  him,  silent  yet  with 
throbbing  breast.  So  they  stood,  the 
gate  between  them,  for  the  space  of  a 
full  minute,  and  the  world  seemed  to 
hold  but  them  alone. 

From  the  main  road  there  came  the 
sound  of  horse's  feet,  steady,  slow- 
going,  some  farm-horse  on  its  way  to 


254 


Princess  Puck. 


the  blacksmith's  in  the  village.  The 
sound  of  hoofs  recalled  to  Kit  the  last 
time  he  had  heard  it  and  recalled  also 
the  thought  of  the  man  who  had 
ridden  away  from  his  house  not  an 
hour  ago.  He  dropped  the  hands  he 
held  almost  as  if  they  burnt  him. 

"  He  cannot — shall  not  have  you  ! " 
The  words  were  hardly  spoken  ;  they 
seemed  wrung  from  him  against  his 
will. 

The  discarded  hands  pulled  a 
splinter  off  the  gate.  "  He, — he 
doesn't  want  me "  —  their  owner 
seemed  much  interested  in  the 
splinter. 

"  Not  want  you  1     You—" 

The  gate  was  between  them  no 
longer. 

A  while  later,  the  farm-horse, 
having  been  to  the  blacksmith's, 
was  led  home  by  way  of  the  lane ; 
the  man  who  led  him  saw  no  one 
about  the  lonely  spot ;  there  was  no 
one  by  the  swing- gate  or  on  the  foot- 
path going  to  the  church,  no  one 
visible  at  all.  In  the  shelter  of  the 
leafless  wood,  however,  there  were 
two  who  explained  many  things. 
There  were  many  things  which 
needed  explanation  they  found, — 
the  mystery  of  Bill's  freedom,  for 
one,  and  Kit's  ignorance  of  it,  for 
another.  The  first  was  easy  to  re- 
count ;  the  second  Bill  found  harder 
to  explain. 

"  I  could  not  tell  you,"  she  said  at 
last ;  "  of  course  I  could  not  tell  you. 
Do  you  know  the  feeling,  the  con- 
sciousness, almost,  that  you  can  have 
and  get  whatever  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  have  ?  That  has  been  my 
feeling  so  long  ;  but  I  was  afraid  to 
seek  for  this  ;  I  wanted  it  to  be  the 
free  gift  of  God  to  me;  I  wanted  it 
an  unsought  gift  or  not  at  all.  Do 
you  understand  what  I  mean  1 "  And 
in  case  he  did  not  she  went  on  to  give 
another  reason.  "I  have  been  getting 
so  much  lately,"  she  said,  flashing  a 


shy  smile  at  him  ;  "  getting  and  will- 
ing and  taking  that  I  think  I  wanted 
someone  to  take  me." 

And  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  Kit 
understood  the  art  of  taking  her,  for 
the  next  explanation  did  not  follow 
immediately.  When  it  did  come  it 
had  reference  to  Bill's  unexpected 
appearance  at  the  gate  that  after- 
noon. 

"  There  is  no  mystery  about  that," 
Bill  said.  "  I  came  to  look  at  a 
house  at  Sales  Green.  We  are 
thinking  of  moving  in  the  spring  or 
early  summer  and  we  are  looking 
out  for  a  house  with  a  large  garden 
somewhere  in  this  part — the  garden 
is  for  me,  the  house  for  Polly,  the 
part  for  Theresa  who  wants  to  be 
near  Bella.  However,  the  Sales 
Green  house  is  no  good  at  all;  we 
shall  have  to  look  out  for  another." 

"  Did  you  come  from  town  to-day?" 

"  Yes ;  Bella  met  me  at  Wrugglesby 
and  drove  me  to  look  at  the  house 
and  then  home  with  her  to  lunch. 
Afterwards  I  started  to  walk  to  the 
rectory,  having  promised  to  go  to  tea 
with  Mr.  Dane ;  he  is  going  to  drive 
me  to  the  station  this  evening." 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  have  chosen 
a  very  direct  route  to  the  rectory." 

"  No,"  Bill  was  obliged  to  admit ; 
"but  I  thought  I  would  like  to  go 
down  the  lane  once  more  and, — and 
I  did  not  know  you  were  at  home." 

Kit  showed  the  utmost  satisfaction 
in  having  been  at  home  on  this  occa- 
sion, and  they  passed  on  to  the  next 
explanation  which  was  of  a  different 
nature  and  was  given  by  Kit.  It 
had  to  do  with  his  prospects  and  the 
narrow  means  he  had  to  offer ;  the 
thought  of  them  made  him  remember, 
now  it  was  too  late,  that  he  had  but 
small  right  to  ask  her  to  share  his 
lot. 

"  Don't  you  know  1  "  Bill  ex- 
claimed eagerly  almost  before  she 
had  heard  him  out.  "  Haven't  you 


Princess  Puck. 


255 


heard  1  I  have  got  money  now, — 
oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  I  thought  per- 
haps Mr.  Briant  would  have  told 
you,  but  I  suppose  he  thought  you 
had  worries  enough  of  your  own." 

Perhaps  this  was  the  case ;  at  all 
events,  as  Mr.  Briant  had  not  told 
the  tale  in  full,  Bill  told  it  now,  and 
with  it  the  name  of  the  unknown 
benefactor  who  had  put  an  end 
to  the  Har  borough  suit.  Possibly 
she  did  not  tell  it  well,  certainly 
Kit  was  astonished  almost  beyond 
comprehension. 

"  You  ? "  he  said  and  he  stood  to 
look  at  her.  "You  did  it?" 

"Yes,"  and  she  stood  still  too, 
twisting  a  dry  twig  she  held.  She 
snapped  the  brown  thing  nervously. 
"  I'm  sorry,  Kit,"  she  said  humbly. 
She  knew  that  it  is  not  always  easy 
to  receive  a  favour.  "  I'm  sorry, 
but  there  did  not  seem  anyone  else 
to  settle  it,  and  it  had  to  be  done. 
I  know  it  is  hard  to  take  things 
from  a  woman  but, — do  you  mind  so 
very  much  from  me  ?  " 

Kit's  throat  swelled  painfully. 
After  all,  he  was  very  much  a  boy 
still ;  but  he  took  the  favour  and 
the  giver  of  the  favour  all  in  one. 

Later,  as  they  went  up  the  forest 
path  together,  he  asked  her  what 
she  would  have  done  had  he  not  met 
her  at  the  gate  that  day.  "It  is  all 
very  well,"  he  said,  "  to  say  that  you 
have  saved  Wood  Hall  for  yourself  as 
well  as  for  me,  but  supposing  I  had 
not  met  you  to-day,  supposing  I  had 
never  learned  you  were  free  ?  " 

"Then  I  should  have  gone  to  live 
in  a  house  with  a  big  garden  and 
grown  tons  of  cabbages." 

Kit  laughed.  "But  tell  me,"  he 
persisted,  "  would  you  have  never  let 
me  know  ? " 

She  shook  her  head.     "  I  had  made 


up  my  mind  to  tell  no  one,"  she  said, 
"  only  Polly  assured  me  that  if  ever 
I  married  I  would  have  to  tell  my 
husband;  for  one  reason  because  he 
might  find  out  if  I  did  not,  for 
another  because  it  would  be  wrong 
to  hide  things  from  him.  For  the 
first  reason  I  do  not  care,  I  would 
have  risked  that ;  but  for  the  second 
it  is  different.  I  am  not  afraid  that 
you  will  misunderstand,  and  it  seems 
a  pity  to  begin  with  secrets." 

"  Yes ;  " — Kit  had  possessed  him- 
self of  the  small  strong  hand, — "  a 
great  pity  since  we  are  to  have  all 
things  in  common." 

And  so  they  passed  through  the 
silent  wood  where  the  shadows  lay, 
brown  and  purple  and  deepest  blue  ; 
they  followed  the  wet  path  still 
studded  with  the  autumn's  funguses, 
crossed  the  deep  hollows  where  last 
year's  leaves  glowed  in  the  even 
light,  under  the  old  trees,  twisted 
pollards  and  stately  beeches,  and  so 
on,  up  the  hill.  Once  a  startled  jay 
flashed  from  the  covert  of  a  thorn- 
bush  low  down  across  their  path ; 
once  a  rabbit  looked  out  from  among 
the  beech-roots ;  nothing  else  moved, 
and  in  the  stillness  of  a  holy  world 
they  came  to  the  gardens  and  to  the 
house. 

Together  they  went  by  the  western 
front  to  the  great  door  still  open  as 
Kit  had  left  it ;  together  they  entered 
the  wide,  d  im  hall.  Kit  turned  as  he 
stood  on  the  threshold  and  looked  up 
at  the  old  house.  "Not  yours  nor 
mine,"  he  said,  "  but  ours,  sweetheart." 

But  the  diamond-buckles  came  to 
Kit  Harborough's  wife  after  all,  for 
they  were  given  to  her  on  her 
wedding-day  by  one  who  still  called 
her  "  Princess  Puck,  child  of  the 
Lord's  consolation." 


THE  END. 


256 


THE    CAPTURE    OF    HASSEIN. 


(SOME  NOTES  OP  A  CRUISE  IN  EASTERN  WATERS.) 


ATHWART  the  course  of  the  Out- 
ward Bound  in  the  dim  and  distant 
East  stands  an  outpost  of  the  British 
Empire.  Strong  with  the  strength 
of  a  natural  position  it  has  been 
made  yet  stronger  by  the  hand  of 
man,  who  has  called  in  all  that 
modern  science  can  achieve  to  make 
it  an  impregnable  barrier  to  the  foe. 
Here,  as  in  the  Island  Valley  of 
Avilion, 

There  falls  not  rain  nor  hail  nor  any 

snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly. 

But  here  resemblance  ceases,  for  the 
demon  of  heat  has  chosen  this  great 
fortress  as  his  own  especial  domain. 
Sometimes  in  London  we  seem  to 
think  that  we  know  what  heat  is 
when  the  thermometer  turns  into  the 
eighties,  and  street  and  square,  man- 
sion and  office,  park  and  garden,  ay, 
even  the  river  itself,  seem  to  melt 
with  fervid  heat.  And  at  these 
times  it  undoubtedly  is  hot,  and  one 
cannot  wonder  if  the  world  grumbles. 
But  it  is  a  phase,  it  passes  ;  there 
comes  a  thunderstorm  and  heavy 
rain,  and  we  are  all  out  and  about 
congratulating  one  another  on  the 
freshness  of  the  atmosphere  after  the 
great  oppression. 

But  what  of  the  place  of  which  I 
speak  ?  Let  us  call  it  Paradise,  as 
one  name  will  do  as  well  as  another. 
Here  heat  is  normal  and  coolness 
never.  It  is  true  that  winter  is  not 
so  hot  as  summer,  but  it  is  a  deal 
hotter  than  one  could  wish  for,  and 


the  mischief  is  that  you  know  that 
it  is  certain  to  be  hotter,  and  you 
feel  at  the  same  time  a  maddened 
impatience  with  the  knowledge.  Out 
of  the  smooth  oily  sea  Paradise 
flings  its  giant  bulk  a  sheer  three 
thousand  feet  towards  the  burning 
sky.  No  tender  green  veils  its  rugged 
slopes ;  no  snowy  cap  delights  the 
eye  with  a  suggestion  of  coolness. 
Stark  and  bare  the  black  volcanic 
mass  receives  the  heat  of  the  tropic 
sun  all  day,  and  all  night  it  gives 
forth  what  it  has  absorbed.  On  one 
side  is  a  bay,  on  the  other  the  open 
sea,  and  on  a  third  burning  desert- 
sand, — everywhere  sand  and  black 
jagged  volcanic  rock,  an  aching, 
glaring  desolation.  Such  is  Paradise. 
And  of  the  inhabitants  thereof  1 
An  outpost  really  of  the  Indian  Em- 
pire, it  is  governed  from  India.  There 
is  a  Governor,  there  are  the  political 
or  Civil  Service  men,  the  Army,  the 
Navy,  and  the  natives.  Let  us  take 
them  in  rotation.  The  Governor 
comes  first,  an  Indian  Brigadier,  up- 
right, slightly  grizzled,  with  the  hair 
a  little  worn  at  the  temples  from 
much  use  of  the  solar  topee ;  cour- 
teous, debonnair,  a  perfect  host,  a 
type  of  how  India  turns  out  a  soldier 
and  an  English  gentleman.  Then 
comes  the  Civilian,  silent,  strenuous, 
self-denying.  These  men  know  re- 
sponsibility, of  which  they  have  much, 
power,  of  which  they  have  little,  and 
work  of  which  they  have  a  super- 
abundance. Also  they  know  fever 
occasionally,  and  prickly  heat  always, 
and  maddening,  torturing  boils,  the 


The  Capture  of  Hassein. 


257 


outcome  of  the  climate.  I,  who  write, 
have  known  all  these  three  and  it 
has  not  diminished  my  admiration  of 
the  Civilian  and  the  way  he  works 
through  them  all.  Enter  his  office; 
it  is  ten  in  the  morning ;  outside  the 
rocks  quiver  and  glow  in  the  shade- 
less  glare  and  the  sand  burns  one's 
white  shoes.  There,  in  what  shade 
they  can  get,  proof  against  sun  and 
heat,  loll  native  orderlies  and  mes- 
sengers, barefooted  and  in  quaint  uni- 
forms. Inside  the  darkened  room 
the  thermometer  marks  98°,  and  the 
heavy  leathern  punkah  paddles  the 
lifeless  air.  At  his  desk  sits  the 
Civilian  and  on  his  left  stands  the 
Babu  or  Parsee  clerk  with  papers,  and 
papers,  and  ever  more  papers.  The 
Civilian's  hair  is  turning  grey,  but 
more  from  toil  than  age.  All  day 
this  cog  in  the  great  wheel  of 
administration  is  grinding  the  mill 
of  government,  and  when,  tired-eyed 
and  sweating,  he  enters  the  club  at 
six  in  the  evening  he  counts  himself 
a  fortunate  man  if  he  is  not  going  to 
be  at  his  desk  again  after  dinner  until 
midnight. 

Then  the  Soldier ;  infantry,  British 
or  Native,  gunner,  sapper,  depart- 
mental man,  all  have  their  work  to 
do,  and  do  it.  Undefeated  as  ever, 
the  officers  play  polo  on  most  indif- 
ferent ponies,  rackets  in  a  court  which 
is  more  like  the  hottest  room  of  a 
Turkish  bath  than  anything  else, 
and  shoot  clay  pigeons  on  the  beach. 
Sometimes  they  go  on  leave  to  the 
mainland  and  shoot  many  lions.  I 
know  one  subaltern  who  shot  eighteen 
in  a  fortnight, — but  that  was  a  record. 
I  also  know  one  into  whose  tent  at 
night  came  a  wandering  lion.  The 
beast  made  a  grab  in  the  dark, 
grabbed  the  pillow  from  under  the 
young  man's  head  and  then  retired 
to  eat  it.  The  subaltern  did  not 
grudge  his  pillow ;  he  said  that  it 
must  have  been  such  a  jolly  sell  for 
No.  508. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


the  lion  !  Also  I  know  a  colonel, — 
only  the  lion  caught  him  and  bit  him 
clean  through  the  middle  of  his  right 
hand — that  was  all.  Old  shikarries 
at  Paradise  laughed  grinily  and  told 
him  that  it  was  damned  lucky  it 
wasn't  a  Bengal  tiger,  as  he  would 
not  have  been  content  with  a  hand 
only.  These  may  sound  like  travellers' 
tales,  but  I  can  only  say  that  they 
are  all  literally  true.  Somehow  one- 
never  meets  the  fashionable  regiments 
at  Paradise ;  His  Majesty's  Guards 
do  not  affect  it,  nor  do  any  of  those 
others  which  we  could  all  name,  an 
we  had  a  mind  to.  But  Infantry  of 
the  Line,  Gunners,  and  Sappers  have 
to  put  in  a  spell  there,  and  so  to 
those  whose  friends  are  not  in  high 
places  falls  the  lot  of  guarding  this 
priceless  possession.  The  life  of  the 
British  private  cannot  be  of  much 
value  to  its  owner  at  Paradise. 
Parades  and  bathing,  a  certain 
amount  of  languid  cricket,  and  as 
much  cool  drink  as  his  limited  re- 
sources admit  of,  must  make  up  the 
sum  total,  varied  by  those  periodical 
visits  to  hospital  in  which  all  the 
inhabitants  share. 

The  natives,  who  all  appear  so 
much  alike  to  the  eye  of  the  casual 
steamship  passenger  are  in  reality  of 
many  and  varied  races, — Jews  and 
proselytes,  Cretes  and  Arabians,  from 
all  the  knowable  and  unknowable  parts 
of  the  adjacent  continent  they  come, 
a  strange,  many-coloured  crowd  ex- 
hibiting an  extraordinary  diversity  of 
savage  and  semi-civilised  life.  But 
the  native  proper  of  Paradise  is  a 
fine  fellow,  copper-coloured,  erect,  and 
muscular,  he  has  the  swing  of  the 
free  man  in  his  gait,  the  look  of  the 
free  man  in  his  eye.  Many  Eastern 
native  races  take  a  beating  from  a 
white  man  as  a  matter  of  course;  but 
the  white  man  who  raises  a  hand 
against  a  native  of  Paradise  does  so 
at  the  risk  of  a  broken  head. 


258 


The  Capture  of  Hassein. 


Of  the  ladies  who  have  been  con- 
demned by  Fate  and  their  husbands' 
fortunes  to  live  at  Paradise  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  speak  without  a  lump  in  one's 
throat.  That  men  of  our  race  should 
endure  such  things  is  inevitable ;  but 
to  see  delicately  nurtured  women 
suffering  that  awful  climate  is  a 
thing  to  weep  over.  Brave,  stead- 
fast, and  uncomplaining,  they  face  it 
and,  uncheered  by  the  presence  of 
their  children,  they  live  from  day  to 
day  an  example  of  the  heroism  which 
suffers  and  endures. 

I  have  left  the  Navy  until  the  last 
as  although  it  forms  an  integral  por- 
tion of  the  life  at  Paradise,  still  the 
units  which  compose  it  are  only  visi- 
tants to  her  shores.  A  stay  of  some 
months,  and  then  a  joyful  farewell 
and  the  ship  is  off  to  new  scenes  and 
better  climates.  Some  years  ago  a 
great  European  Republic  entered  into 
war  with  an  Eastern  Potentate,  and 
this  war  necessitated  the  readjustment 
of  the  hairspring  balance  of  Naval 
Power.  In  the  course  of  this  read- 
justment the  ship  which  I  then  com- 
manded was  ordered  from  a  more 
desirable, — a  very  much  more  desirable 
— station  to  Paradise.  Long  and  loud 
were  the  repinings  in  the  officers' 
mess,  and  lurid  were  the  adjectives 
on  the  lower  deck.  However,  in  the 
Navy  "  we  growls  and  goes  "  as  Jack 
says,  and  one  fine  morning,  about  two 
hours  after  sunrise,  we  found  ourselves 
steaming  into  the  bay  at  Paradise. 
The  signalman,  who  has  had  his  glass 
glued  to  his  -eye  for  the  last  ten 
minutes,  skips  up  the  bridge-ladder 
and  salutes  the  First  Lieutenant. 

"  SEA  SERPENT  at  anchor,  sir,  flying 
'  the  demand.'  " 

"  Hoist  our  number,"  says  that 
officer,  and  three  round  balls  wriggle 
quickly  up  to  the  mainmast  head  ;  ar- 
riving there  they  break  and  three  flags, 
announcing  our  name  to  our  senior 
officer,  flutter  out  on  the  light  breeze. 


"  Signal  to  anchor  as  convenient, 
sir,"  reports  the  signalman,  and 
shortly  after  the  best  bower  takes 
the  water  with  a  mighty  splash.  The 
Captain's  galley  comes  alongside  and 
a  few  minutes  after  I  am  shaking 
hands  with  my  brother  Captain  of  the 
SEA  SERPENT  on  his  quarter-deck. 

"  Well,  thank  God  you've  come,  and 
I'll  be  out  of  this  the  first  thing  to- 
morrow morning,"  says  that  worthy. 
"  But  come  down  below  and  I'll  tell 
you  all  that  you're  likely  to  have  to 
do  here." 

A  steward  appears  with  a  tray. 
"  Say  when, — got  enough  ice  ?  Now 
sit  down  in  that  long  chair  and  light 
a  cigar,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
Ever  heard  of  Oolad  Boaziz  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I ;  "  is  it  a  new 
American  drink  ? " 

My  host  grinned.  "It's  something 
a  dashed  site  hotter  than  that;  it's 
a  coast  tribe  in  these  parts  who 
don't  seem  to  appreciate  the  bless- 
ings of  diplomatic  intercourse  with 
the  British  Raj." 

"  What  have  they  been  up  to  1 " 
I  interjected. 

"  Well,  you  see  it's  like  this ;  they 
are  the  proud  possessors  of  a  chieftain 
called  Hassein,  and  I  must  say  that 
for  a  native  of  the  boundless  and 
burning  desert,  who  never  wore  a 
pair  of  trousers  in  his  life  or  slept 
under  a  roof,  he  displays  an  abnormal 
and  very  creditable  amount  of  cun- 
ning. The  Oolad  Boaziz  live  along 
the  coast  here  about  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  to  the  eastward,  —  you 
know  how  straight  the  coast  runs 
hereabouts  1  " 

I  signified  assent. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "just  where 
these  gentry  have  their  headquarters 
a  bluff  of  sand  runs  out  at  right 
angles  to  the  coast  and  juts  into  the 
sea,  and  at  the  base  of  this  bluff 
stands  a  fort  which  is  owned  by 
Hassein,  the  chief  of  the  tribe.  What 


The  Capture  of  Hassein. 


259 


the  fort  is  composed  of  I  don't  know, 
but  from  Hassein's  swagger,  which  I 
am  just  going  to  tell  you  about,  we 
think  that  he  has  at  all  events  good 
rifles  and  could  stand  a  long  time 
against  infantry.  You  know  that  on 
the  mainland  the  Great  Republic  has 
acquired  several  posts  on  the  littoral 
and  hold  as  much  of  the  hinterland 
as  the  native  nigger  will  let  them  ; 
and  you  are  also  aware  of  the  in- 
convenient manner  in  which  they 
stravague  about  hoisting  their  flag 
in  all  sorts  of  inconvenient  places. 
It  occurred  to  the  Powers  that  Mr. 
Hassein's  fort  might  prove  a  very 
convenient  place  for  one  of  these 
hoistings;  accordingly  we  entered 
into  a  convention  with  Hassein  to 
the  effect  that  we  would  pay  him 
thirty  rupees  a  month,  and  that  in 
return  he  should  on  the  approach  of 
any  vessel  near  his  fort  hoist  a  Union 
Jack  with  which  he  was  provided 
for  the  purpose.  A  rumour  somehow 
got  about  that  Hassein  had  gone  over 
to  the  mainland,  and  was  intriguing 
with  the  agents  of  the  Great  Republic. 
Accordingly  a  ship  was  sent  to  the 
fort  to  find  out  if  Hassein  was  there, 
and  if  there,  what  he  was  doing.  It 
appears  that  it  was  right  enough 
about  Hassein's  intriguing  with  the 
foreigners,  but  the  agents  of  the 
Great  Republic  are  a  bit  more  wide- 
awake than  Mr.  Hassein  had  bar- 
gained for,  for  they  knew  all  about 
his  convention  with  us,  and  kicked 
him  out  contemptuously.  Accord- 
ingly Hassein  returned  home  in  a 
very  evil  frame  of  mind.  You  see, 
he  thought  that,  if  one  party  was  fool 
enough  to  give  him  thirty  rupees  a 
month  to  hoist  a  flag,  perhaps  he 
might  find  the  other  party  equally 
idiotic,  and  naturally  he  had  a  com- 
plete disregard  for  the  colour  of  the 
flag  he  hoisted.  So  when  the  vessel 
arrived  at  the  fort  to  make  investiga- 
tions, not  only  did  Hassan  refuse  to 


hoist  the  flag,  but  he  roundly  declared 
that,  if  they  did  not  clear  out,  he 
would  fire  upon  them.  The  ship,  not 
being  a  man-of-war,  naturally  retired 
discomfited,  and  now  the  Governor 
has  decided  to  bring  Hassein  to  his 
senses,  and  has  asked  for  the  co- 
operation of  the  Navy  for  that  pur- 
pose. There,  that's  the  whole  yarn 
and  a  precious  long  one  it  is,  but  I 
could  not  pitch  it  any  shorter." 

Very  early  next  morning  the  SEA 
SERPENT  departed,  and  we  were  left 
the  only  representative  of  the  Navy 
at  Paradise.  Then  ensued  councils 
of  war  as  to  how  to  catch  the  wily 
Hassein,  the  great  thing  being  not 
to  scare  the  bird  beforehand,  as  if  he 
made  tracks  for  the  interior  we  should 
never  see  him  again.  Accordingly 
we  arranged  that  a  party  of  soldiers 
should  be  embarked  and,  steaming 
along  the  coast  in  the  dark,  should 
effect  a  landing  on  the  peninsula  and 
surround  the  fort  before  daybreak. 
Our  part  was  to  arrive  off  the  fort  at 
early  dawn,  and  hold  ourselves  ready 
for  contingencies.  With  us  came  the 
Political  Officer  who  was,  of  course, 
really  in  charge  of  the  whole  expedi- 
tion. So  arranged,  so  done, — and 
when  we  arrived  we  found  a  close 
cordon  of  Native  Infantry  soldiers 
squatting  round  on  the  sand  encircling 
the  fort,  and  a  group  of  bewildered 
Oolad  Boaziz  chattering  in  their  midst. 
Having  anchored  as  near  to  the  shore 
as  the  water  permitted,  which  was 
quite  close  in,  the  Navigating  Lieu- 
tenant and  I,  who  had  been  up  all 
night,  dropped  down  the  bridge-ladder 
in  search  of  baths  and  breakfast. 
These  important  matters  disposed  of, 
I  was  requested  by  the  Political  Officer 
to  accompany  him  on  shore. 

"What  do  you  want  me  for?"  I 
said.  "  It's  your  show  now,  and  I'm 
only  here  to  knock  the  fort  down  in 
case  you  consider  it  necessary." 

However,  seeing  that  he  was  bent 

s  2 


260 


The  Capture  of  Hassein. 


upon  my  coming,  I  gave  in  and  having 
manned  and  armed  a  cutter  we  pulled 
to  the  shore. 

"  I  see  that  the  durbar  has  begun," 
said  the  Political. 

"  The  what  ?  "  said  I. 
"  The  durbar,"  he  replied. 
Oh,  for  one  more  shattered  illusion  ! 
I  had    always  pictured    a  durbar  as 
something  connected  with  palm  trees, 
elephants,   golden  howdahs,  gorgeous 
turbans,  the  light  of  the  harem,  &c., 
The   reality   now   in  view,   consisted 
of  a  Captain  of  Native  Infantry,  an 
interpreter,    and   a   sub-chief    of   the 
Oolad  Boaziz  sitting  on  biscuit-boxes 
on  the  verge  of  a  howling  desert  and 
surrounded  by  naked  savages.      The 
Political  and  I  landed  and  joined  the 
durbar,  but  before  assuming  my  seat 
on  my  allotted  biscuit-box,   I  called 
the  crew  out  of  the   boat  and  told 
the  coxswain  to  station  his  men  all 
round   me  and  the  other  officers.     I 
had  known  a  brother-officer   stabbed 
to  death  in  the  back  by  savages  on 
the  coast  of  Madagascar  some  years 
before,  and  thought  it  well  to   take 
precautions,  especially  in  view  of  our 
mission.     And  so  began  the  durbar. 
The    sub-chief,    Mahomed,    a    rather 
handsome,  middle-aged  man  and  look- 
ing much  less  of  a  savage  than  the 
rest  of  his  tribe,  began  the  proceedings 
with  the  rather  superfluous  observa- 
tion that  it  was  a  fine  day.     As  the 
thermometer    would    probably     have 
burst  like  a  shell  had  it  been  exposed 
to  the  sun  that  we  were  sitting  in, 
no  one  gainsaid  the  proposition.     He 
next  observed    that  he  was    glad    to 
see  us  and  expended  a  good  deal  of 
Eastern  hyperbole  in  statements  which 
were  so  obviously  untrue  as  to  need 
no  comment.      The  Political  cleared 
his  throat  and  twisted  his  moustache. 
"  Interpreter." 
"  Sahib  ? " 

"  Tell  that  man  that  we  have  come 
here  to  find  Hassein." 


"  Yes,  Sahib." 

Here  ensued  a  prolonged  colloquy 
between  the  chief  and  the  interpreter. 
"Well,"    said     the    Political     im- 
patiently "  what  does  he  say  1  " 

"  He  say,"  slowly  repeated  the 
interpreter  in  an  exasperating  drawl, 
"  he  say  his  name  Mahomed  and  he 
uncle  to  Hassein." 

To  the  unprejudiced  listener  Maho- 
med seemed  to  have  taken  a  con- 
siderable time  to  make  this  simple 
statement. 

"You  tell  him,"  roared  the  now 
justly  incensed  Political,  "that  I 
don't  want  to  know  anything  about 
Hassein's  relations.  I  want  to  know 
where  he  is." 

Once  more  the  interpreter  returned 
to  the  charge,  and  much  conversation 
ensued. 

"  Well,  what  does  he  say  now  1  " 
"  He  say,"  replied  the  interpreter 
in  his  maddening  drawl,  "that  one 
time  ship  come  here,  belong  to  Great 
Republic.  Captain  he  come  on  shore 
give  him  one  big  bag  of  dollars  and 
gold  ting,  and  he  say  that  Great 
Republic  Captain  he  very  like  the 
Captain  Sahib  over  there,"  pointing 
to  me. 

To  detail  the  futilities  that  ensued 
would  be  to  weary  the  reader  to 
no  purpose.  To  all  questions  as  to 
Hassein's  whereabouts  Mahomed  re- 
plied that  Hassein  was  a  brave  man, 
that  he  loved  the  English  very  much, 
that  he  had  gone  on  a  journey,  that 
he  had  enjoyed  his  dinner,  that  he 
slept  sometimes  in  the  heat  of  the 
day,  &c.,  &c.,  all  this  filtering  slowly 
through  the  interpreter.  The  sand 
danced  and  quivered  in  the  awful 
heat,  the  glare  from  the  sea  was  as 
blue  fire,  and  I  noticed  the  brown 
hands  of  my  armed  boat's  crew  slip- 
ping up  and  down  their  rifle-bands 
as  the  metal  became  too  hot  to 
handle.  But  I  now  became  aware 
that  heat  and  exasperation  were 


The  Capture  of  Hassein. 


261 


putting  a  keener  edge  on  the  Politi- 
cal's temper.  With  studied  slowness 
he  said  to  the  interpreter  :  "  Tell 
that  doubly  distilled  monkey-faced 
abomination  that  if  I  don't  know  at 
once  where  Hassein  is  that  there  will 
be  trouble." 

Whether  friend  Mahomed  thought 
that  the  game  was  up  at  last,  I  do 
not  know,  but  the  answer  came  crisp 
and  short.  "  He  say  Hassein  in  the 
fort." 

"  Then  send  a  man  at  once  and  tell 
him  to  come  here." 

Then  there  was  more  talk,  the  pur- 
port of  which  appeared  to  be  that 
Hassein  was  a  reckless  daredevil,  that 
he  had  twenty  men  armed  with  rifles 
with  him  in  the  fort  all  sworn  to  do 
or  die,  and  so  brave  and  so  determined 
was  he  that  none  of  the  Oolad  Boaziz 
dared  to  approach  and  order  him  to 
come  out.  We  seemed  to  be  at  an 
impasse,  but  at  last  one  man  detached 
himself  from  his  fellows  and  spoke. 
He  explained  that  Hassein  was 
terrible  in  his  wrath,  so  terrible  that 
he,  the  speaker,  felt  his  heart  flutter- 
ing like  a  little  bird;  this  he  illus- 
trated in  pantomime,  but  that  he, 
he  also  was  a  brave  man,  and  besides 
he  was  a  man  of  intelligence  and  he 
knew  that  what  the  Captain  Sahib 
said  must  be  obeyed ;  consequently 
he  would  take  upon  himself  the  des- 
perate venture  of  summoning  Hassein 
to  surrender. 

In  the  light  of  subsequent  events, 
what  followed  might  be  classed  as 
comedy  of  a  very  high  order.  Ad- 
vancing gingerly  over  the  sand  until 
he  had  detached  himself  some  twenty 
yards  from  the  waiting  group  our 
heart-fluttering  friend  stopped.  Then 
he  looked  round  with  high  resolve 
and  daring  purpose  in  his  steadfast 
eye.  A  sort  of  sigh  went  up  from 
the  Oolad  Boaziz  as  of  admiration  for 
the  temerity  of  their  countryman. 
The  messenger  surveyed  us  long  and 


gravely,  then  turning  once  more  in 
the  direction  of  the  fort  he  advanced 
a  few  paces,  took  a  deep  breath  and 
then  leaning  on  his  long  Arab  gun 
he  called,  "Hassein,  a-a-a-h,  a-a-h 
Hassein,"  with  a  dying  cadence  on 
the  last  syllable.  Twice  the  cry 
palpitated  through  the  scorching  at- 
mosphere and  the  silence.  No  sound 
came  from  the  fort  and  in  the  tense, 
burning  hush  that  followed  the  call 
the  imagination  pictured  Hassein 
and  the  dauntless  twenty  lying  finger 
on  trigger,  well  concealed,  and  deter- 
mined to  die  at  their  posts.  The 
interpreter  stirred  uneasily  and  mut- 
tered "  Hassein,  he  very  brave  and 
terrible."  Once  again  pealed  out 
"  Hassein  a-a-a-h,  a-a  a-h  Hassein," 
and  in  the  silence  that  ensued  you 
could  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  my 
coxswain,  "  but  one  of  the  men  says 
that  he  seen  an  old  chap  with  a  white 
beard  looking  out  of  one  of  them  there 
loopholes  in  the  fort." 

"  Then  I'm  afraid  the  old  gentle- 
man is  in  for  an  uncomfortable  time 
presently,"  I  answered. 

"  Would  you  allow  me  to  storm  the 
fort,  sir  ? "  said  the  Captain  of  Native 
Infantry  turning  to  the  Political,  his 
eyes  dancing  at  the  prospect. 

"  Excuse  me,"  I  said,  "  but  if  they 
have  got  twenty  riflemen  in  that  fort, 
you'd  lose  half  your  men  before  you 
got  them  out,  and  one  common  shell 
from  the  ship  will  settle  their  hash 
for  good  and  all." 

"The  boat's  crew,  sir,"  said  my 
paymaster,  who  had  come  ashore  to 
see  the  fun,  "  say  that  if  you'll  let 
them  do  it,  they'll  put  down  their 
rifles  and  pull  Hassein  out  with  their 
hands." 

"  Tell  the  boat's  crew  to  shut  their 
silly  mouths  and  when  I  want  advice 
from  them  I'll  ask  for  it,"  I  answered. 
"  I  think,"  I  went  on  to  the  Political, 
"that,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will 


262 


The  Capture  of  Hassein. 


now  take  a  hand  in  the  game ;  we 
can't  sit  on  the  beach  all  day,  and  if 
Hassein  won't  come  out,  he  must  be 
made  to.  Interpreter,"  I  said,  with 
just  that  ring  of  the  quarter-deck  in 
my  voice  that  causes  the  disciplined 
man  to  skip,  "tell  Mahomed  that  I 
go  back  now  to  my  ship  ;  when  I  get 
there  I  hoist  a  red  flag  at  the  main 
and  ten  minutes  after  that,  if  Hassein 
and  his  following  are  not  out  of  the 
fort,  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
them,  for  I  won't.  Explain  carefully 
that  I  shall  fire  at  the  fort  and  in 
a  very  few  moments  there  won't  be 
one  stone  left  upon  another.  I  have 
spoken.  Boat's  crew,  in  your  boat. 
Will  you  kindly  clear  all  these  people 
out  of  danger  of  an  exploding  shell  ? " 
I  asked  of  the  Infantry  Captain. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  stepped  on 
the  quarter-deck.  "Sound  general 
quarters  and  pass  up  filled  common 
shell  and  percussion  fuses,"  was  the 
order  I  gave  to  the  First  Lieutenant. 
I  just  caught  the  look  of  beatitude  in 
the  Gunner's  eye  as  he  dived  to  his 
magazines  at  the  sound  of  the  bugle. 
But  it  was  written  that  no  desperate 
action  was  to  be  fought  with  Hassein. 
Ere  the  last  note  of  the  bugle  had 
died  away  a  signal  came  from  the 
shore,  "  We  have  got  the  man." 

"  Very  remarkable,"  I  muttered,  as 
stepping  once  more  into  my  boat  I 
was  pulled  ashore  to  the  scene  of  the 
durbar. 

"  Where  the  devil  was  the  fellow  ? " 
I  asked  the  Political. 

The  latter  who  possessed  a  sense 
of  humour  was  shaking  with  laughter. 
"  You  see  that  tent,"  he  answered, 
pointing  to  a  miserable  erection  where 
a  few  goat-skins  were  stretched  upon 
some  sticks. 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  Hassein  was  in  there  all 
the  time  we  have  been  sitting  and 
blethering  here  on  the  beach." 

The  humour  of  the  situation  now 


struck  me,  The  tent,  if  such  you  can 
call  it,  was  within  five  yards  of  where 
we  had  been  sitting,  and  in  it  had 
been  crouching  all  the  time,  the 
brave,  the  sanguinary,  the  implacable 
Hassein  !  Long  and  loud  was  the 
laughter  at  the  conclusion  of  our 
desperate  enterprise,  and  our  hilarity 
was  not  diminished  when  on  explor- 
ing the  fort  "  the  old  chap  with  the 
long  beard  "  who  had  been  spotted  by 
the  lynx-eyed  Blue-jacket  turned  out 
to  be  a  venerable  billy-goat  who 
was  the  sole  occupant  of  that  ma- 
jestic structure.  Hassein,  a  miser- 
able, under-sized  little  wretch  of 
eighteen  years  of  age  was  marched 
on  board  the  steamer  a  prisoner  ;  the 
troops  re-embarked,  and  the  expedi- 
tion was  over.  The  Political  wiped 
his  eyes. 

"  I've  seen  many  a  fine  bit  of  act- 
ing both  on  and  off  the  stage,  old 
chap,"  said  he,  "  but  for  the  gifts  of 
imagination  and  realistic  insight  I 
never  saw  the  equal  of  Mahomed ; 
and  as  for  our  heart-fluttering  friend, 
there's  not  a  comedy  actor  in  London 
fit  to  black  his  shoes,  if  he  had  any." 

Six  weeks'  imprisonment  in  a  stone 
block-house  at  Paradise  nearly  made 
an  end  of  Hassein ;  after  which  a  pater- 
nal Government  administered  a  lecture 
on  the  folly  of  intrigue,  a  lesson  on 
the  colours  of  national  flags,  and  a 
warning  that  he  wouldn't  be  let  off 
quite  so  easily  next  time.  Hassein 
departed  to  rule  once  more  over  the 
country  of  the  Oolad  Boaziz  and  to 
meditate  upon  the  incomprehensible 
behaviour  of  European  Governments. 
And  the  Expedition  (with  a  large  E) 
came  back  to  Paradise  and  the 
Governor  asked  us  to  dinner  and 
laughed  till  he  cried.  The  club 
chaffed  us  unmercifully,  and  I  wrote 
an  official  despatch,  and  such  is  the 
injustice  of  man  I  was  not  promoted 
on  the  spot.  But  on  board-ship  we 
had  one  consolation.  In  that  climate 


The  Capture  of  Hassein. 


263 


no  fog  comes  rolling  up  out  of  the 
deep  to  turn  your  polished  steel  and 
brass  and  copper  all  the  colours  of 
the  rainbow.  No  rain  mars  the  ar- 
tistic effort  of  the  Blue- jackets'  paint- 
brush, and  so  at  the  end  of  a  few 
days  and  a  little  hard  work,  we  were 
able  to  look  at  our  ship  with  a  certain 
amount  of  satisfaction.  In  the  Navy 
come  first  discipline,  then  smartness, 
and  then  the  beauty  and  cleanliness 
of  the  ship ;  and  where  discipline  is 
strung  exactly  at  the  right  pitch, 
where  smartness  in  every  drill  and 


exercise  is  a  rushing,  tearing,  be- 
wildering wonder  to  the  uninitiated, 
there  you  will  find  the  most  loving 
care  expended  on  every  detail  which 
will  add  to  the  appearance  of  the 
vessel.  And  so  when  the  First 
Lieutenant  modestly  says,  "  I  think 
you'll  find  her  all  right  next  time 
you  go  round,  sir,"  you,  knowing 
your  man  and  knowing  your  crew, 
know  also  that  you  will  see  the 
most  perfect  thing  in  an  imperfect 
world, — a  well  ordered  British  man- 
of-war. 


264 


ON    THE    WELSH    MARCHES. 


THERE  are  certain  Scottish  coun- 
ties concerning  which  the  irreverent 
Southron  is  apt  to  make  almost  a 
parade  of  his  ignorance, — Clackman- 
nan and  Kirkcudbright  for  instance. 
Now  I  have  a  notion  that  little  Rad- 
nor, despite  its  comparative  propin- 
quity, enjoys,  though  to  a  modified 
extent,  something  of  the  same  dis- 
tinction, or  rather  lack  of  it.  Such 
oblivion  is  at  any  rate  undeserved, 
for  a  more  delightful  county,  taken  as 
a  whole,  does  not  exist  short  of  what 
one  may  describe  as  the  really  moun- 
tain districts  of  these  islands.  By 
those  curious  in  statistics,  moreover, 
Radnorshire  should  be  accounted  a 
treasure.  For,  though  in  area  equal 
to  Bedfordshire  or  Surrey,  her  whole 
population  is  very  much  less  than  that 
of  the  former's  county  town,  or  in 
other  words  a  trifle  of  some  twenty 
thousand  souls.  This  would  suggest 
almost  more  than  the  loneliness  of 
Mayo  or  some  Hebridean  island  ;  but 
as  a  matter  of  fact  the  mid  Welsh 
shire  appears  to  the  casual  traveller 
as  populous  and  civilised  as  Devon- 
shire, to  which  notable  county  indeed 
it  bears  no  little  resemblance. 

These  dry  figures  have,  however, 
some  human  interest  as  illustrating 
the  influence  of  towns  and  villages 
on  census  returns.  Radnorshire  has 
practically  none  of  the  first,  and 
scarcely  her  full  share  of  the  second. 
There  is  a  common  notion  that  medi- 
eval England,  with  its  population 
of  two  or  three  millions,  must  have 
presented  almost  everywhere  a  wild 
and  unpeopled  look.  Modern  Rad- 
norshire in  this  particular  of  souls  to 
the  square  mile  might  fairly  represent 


an  average  slice  of  Chaucer's  England, 
and  it  is  instructive  to  note  what  a 
show  of  life,  both  animal  and  human, 
so  minute  a  population,  when  wholly 
engaged  on  agriculture,  makes  upon 
so  reasonably  large  an  area. 

There  is  an  ancient  bit  of  doggrel, 
familiar  enough  on  the  Welsh  border 
and  somewhat  compromising  to  the 
former  dignity  of  the  little  county, 
which  runs  thuswise. 

Radnorsheer,  poor  Radnorsheer, 
Never  a  park  and  never  a  deer, 
Never  a  squire  of  five  hundred  a  year, 
But  Richard  Fowler  of  Abbey-cwm-hir. 

I  should  hasten  to  remark  that  this 
uncivil  reflection  on  the  ancient  armi- 
gers  of  Radnorshire  is  sometimes  at- 
tributed to  a  Cromwellian  rhymester, 
— no  less  a  person  indeed  than  the 
Protector's  agent,  whom  he  sent  down 
to  see  what  fines  could  be  extorted 
from  the  already  impoverished  and 
always  malignant  Welsh  gentry.1 
There  are  plenty  of  parks  nowadays 
in  Radnorshire,  though  not  many  per- 
haps that  aspire  to  the  dignity  of 
antlered  herds,  and  many  snug  coun- 
try seats,  and  a  general  air  of  home- 
liness which,  in  spite  of  the  great 
wedges  of  moorland  thrust  through 
the  land,  seems  curiously  to  belie  its 
eccentric  spareness  of  people. 

Offa's  dyke  runs  through  the  eas- 
tern edge  of  the  county,  and  there 
is  always  a  fine  flavour  of  romance 
about  its  neighbourhood,  whether  in 
the  north  towards  the  Dee  estuary, 


1  I  think,  however,  that  the  Fowlers, 
wealthy  traders,  did  not  come  in  till 
James  the  Second. 


On  the  Welsh  Marches. 


265 


or  farther  south  where  it  wanders 
over  hill  and  dale  towards  the  Severn 
Sea.  The  Scottish  border  has  hither- 
to almost  monopolised  that  class  of 
literature  which  deals  in  popular 
fashion  with  border  conflict.  The 
hundred  and  fifty  or  so  ruined  castles 
of  the  Welsh  Mai-ches  may  some  day 
perhaps  be  galvanised  into  life  and 
made  to  tell  their  stirring  tale  of 
racial  strife  to  a  public  outside  the 
societies  of  antiquaries.  The  castles 
of  North  Wales  are  magnificent, 
but  they  are  comparatively  few  in 
number,  and  the  great  masterpieces 
among  them  were  built  by  the  first 
Edward  bo  signalise  and  secure  his 
conquest.  Those  of  South  Wales,  on 
the  other  hand,  were  themselves  the 
engines  of  its  gradual  subduction,  are 
far  more  numerous,  and  have  seen 
for  the  most  part  much  wilder  work. 
But  the  intelligent  travelling  public 
does  not  patronise  South  Wales, 
greatly  to  its  own  loss.  When  it 
does,  there  will  surely  be  some  curi- 
osity concerning  these  eloquent  and 
splendid  piles,  these  "wrecks  of  for- 
gotten wars,"  and  the  stirring  tale  of 
the  slow  conquest  by  the  Norman 
barons  of  Central  and  South  Wales 
may  dawn  in  men's  minds  as  a  strangely 
overlooked  chapter  of  British  history. 
Now  on  the  precise  line  that 
separates  Radnor  from  Hereford 
there  are  the  scant  remains  of  a 
Norman  fortress.  Architecturally  it 
is  nothing,  a  mere  block  or  two  of 
rent  and  rugged  masonry,  softened 
here  and  there  by  thick  festoons  of 
ivy.  Everything  else  has  gone  long 
ago  to  mend  roads  or  build  cow-sheds. 
It  is  the  site  that  holds  our  fancy 
with  its  commanding  outlook  and  its 
geographical  appropriateness.  How 
it  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of 
Scott,  whom  one  need  hardly  remind 
the  reader  fell  at  once  under  the  spell 
of  the  Marcher  Castle  in  his  only  visit 
to  Wales. 


For  lo  1  the  martial  vision  fails, 

The  glimmering   spears    are   seen  no 

more ; 

The  shouts  of  war  die  on  the  gales, 
Or  sink  in  Severn's  lonely  roar. 

Whatever  the  shortcomings  of  THE 
BETROTHED,  it  has  an  undying  in- 
terest if  only  on  this  account.  But 
there  was  here  none  of  the  splendour 
of  Powis  Castle,  which  would  seem  to 
have  been  in  Scott's  mind  when  he 
wrote  his  Welsh  romance.  No  throngs 
of  gaily  dressed,  pleasure  -  seeking 
knights  and  dames,  either  Welsh  or 
English,  crossed  the  drawbridge  of 
this  fierce  old  stronghold  among  the 
clouds.  It  was  given  up  wholly  to 
the  grim  business  of  war.  Set  on  the 
crown  of  a  great  prehistoric  tumulus, 
which  itself  fills  the  head  of  a  narrow 
glen,  and  some  thousand  feet  or  more 
above  the  sea,  this  ghost  of  a  fortress, 
which  once  breathed  defiance  to  the 
west  and  secured  protection  for  the 
east,  affords  a  rare  perch  on  a  warm 
spring  day  for  the  dreamer  of  dreams. 
Idle  and  purposeless  no  doubt  they 
will  be,  but  at  least  as  profitable  as 
attempts  to  catch  trout  in  the  Arrow, 
trickling  down  yonder  with  thin 
streams  and  glinting  in  the  glare 
of  a  midday  sun  and  an  azure  sky. 
The  ruin  itself  is  in  Herefordshire, 
but  a  noisy  rivulet  in  the  dingle 
below,  over  which  you  could  pitch  a 
stone,  marks  the  line  between  Eng- 
land and  Wales.  To  the  right  and 
left  lofty  ridges,  chequered  in  some 
places  to  their  summits  with  en- 
closures, in  others  baring  their  heads 
shaggy  with  gorse  and  heather  to  the 
wind,  push  out  like  huge  buttresses 
into  the  glowing  rosy- tinted  low 
grounds  of  Hereford.  Between  them 
joyous  streams,  born  somewhere  away 
in  the  wilds  of  Radnor,  go  hurrying 
down  to  meet  the  Wye.  Behind  us  the 
ground  rises  quickly  and  steeply  to  a 
cold  borderland,  from  whose  brow  you 
may  overlook  no  insignificant  portion 


266 


On  the  Welsh  Marches. 


of  South  Wales.  Yonder,  for  instance, 
within  a  dozen  miles,  is  the  long  dark 
rolling  ridge  of  the  Black  Mountains 
of  Brecon.  In  the  deep  hollow  on 
the  hither  side  of  them,  the  Wye 
is  urging  its  restless  streams,  now 
swishing  under  red  banks,  now 
clamorous  over  wide  shingly  shallows. 
Hay  is  down  there,  and  no  great  way 
from  us,  though  tucked  out  of  sight 
by  its  commanding  hills ;  an  old  and 
straggling  Welsh  townlet,  with  its 
great  castle  still  dominating  the 
narrow  tortuous  streets  in  "  English  " 
and  "  Welsh,"  scene  of  a  hundred 
bloody  struggles,  the  Berwick  of  the 
Southern  Marches.  Close  by  too,  on 
the  river  bank,  are  the  fragments  of 
Clifford  Castle,  whence  came  "  that 
rose  of  the  world,  that  rare  and 
peerless  piece,"  Fair  Rosomond. 
Westward  on  the  verge  of  sight  rise 
the  pointed  summits  of  the  Brecon 
beacons,  whose  somewhat  inadequate 
English  name  makes  one  prone  to 
overlook  their  rank,  and  to  forget 
that  it  is  on  a  par  with  that  of 
Helvellyn  and  Cader  Idris.  Below 
us  spread  the  fruitful  fields  and 
pleasant  woodlands  of  nearer  Radnor, 
bounded  from  north  to  south  by  the 
green  walls  and  the  rolling  heath-clad 
summits  of  the  forest  of  that  name. 

Up  here  on  this  dividing  ridge  one 
seems  to  be  on  the  very  roof  of  the 
world, — curlews  and  plover,  rending 
the  air  with  their  wild  and  melan- 
choly cries,  its  only  tenants.  Modern 
progress,  however,  or  to  speak  more 
correctly,  the  progress  which  the  condi- 
tions of  thirty  years  ago  encouraged,  is 
with  us  even  thus  high.  The  heather 
has  been  banished,  and  thin  pale- 
complexioned  grasses  make  a  doubtful 
fight  against  wandering  gorse-brakes 
and  encroaching  rush-beds.  Bank 
fences,  laboriously  made  in  days  when 
the  landowner's  and  the  farmer's  hopes 
ran  high,  now  show  sad  breaches 
beaten  out  by  the  feet  of  hungry  and 


agile  stock.  Loose  rusty  wires  hum 
in  the  wind  upon  their  tops,  where 
last  year's  beech-leaves  still  rustle  on 
the  struggling  wind-beaten  plantings. 
There  is  an  air  of  despondency  and 
regret,  a  look  of  failure  and  mis- 
directed energy  about  this  half -tamed 
moorland.  The  very  larches  that  have 
survived  the  tempest  look  in  their  woe- 
begone nakedness  as  if  they  were  tired 
of  a  life  that  had  no  respite  from 
every  blast  that  blew. 

But  to  drop  down  again  to  the  ruin 
on  the  English  slope  of  the  ridge : 
there  is  no  object  in  dwelling  either 
on  the  traces  of  its  moat  and  outer 
works,  of  its  crumbled  towers  and 
curtains,  nor  yet  on  its  owners,  of 
which  there  is  a  long  and  distin- 
guished list.  It  will  do,  however,  as 
well  as  any,  and  better  than  most 
places  to  gossip  for  a  page  or  two  on 
the  strange  conditions  that  once  ob- 
tained in  all  this  country  lying  to 
the  south  and  west  of  us.  The  brook 
that  sings  in  the  dingle  beneath  is 
after  all  but  a  modern  boundary  fixed 
by  the  surveyors  of  Henry  the  Eighth 
when  he  turned  that  chaotic  region 
known  as  the  Marches  of  Wales  into 
royal  counties  and  closed  its  long 
story  of  tyranny  and  disorder. 

No  excuse  is  needed,  I  am  sure,  for 
reminding  a  great  many  readers  that 
the  Marches  of  Wales,  though  originally 
what  the  name  implied,  soon  ceased  to 
mean  the  border  of  the  two  countries, 
but  all  that  part  rather  of  Wales 
which  was  conquered  by  Norman 
adventurers  or  Norman  kings  from 
the  native  princes.  Henry  the  Eighth 
is  a  luminous  character.  Ever^  one 
is  familiar  with  his  matrimonial 
irregularities,  while  his  ecclesiastical 
policy  is  a  bone  of  contention  to 
thousands  who  read  very  little  history 
bearing  on  other  subjects.  Even  his 
caperings  on  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold  linger  in  the  mind  as  a  sort  of 
legacy  of  the  nursery  period.  But 


On  the  Welsh  Marches. 


267 


who  remembers  that  this  bluff  Blue- 
beard actually  brought  about  the 
genuine  union  of  England  and  Wales 
to  thp  ^normous  benefit  and  great 
satisf  ,ion  of  both  countries  ?  Pro- 
babl  only  a  Tudor  could  have  done 
it,  so  powerful  were  the  private 
interests  in  the  old  order.  For  it 
was  he  who  extinguished  two  or 
three  score  independent  potentates, 
and  who  changed  Wales  from  a 
turbulent  ill-governed  appanage  into 
an  integral  and  peaceful  part  of 
England.  It  was  Henry,  too,  who 
in  the  course  of  this  really  great 
achievement,  created  the  modern 
counties  of  Montgomery,  Denbigh, 
Radnor,  Monmouth,  Brecon,  Glamor- 
gan, and  Pembroke,  and  brought 
them  into  line  with  those  created  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years  earlier  by 
Edward  the  First. 

Some  special  claim,  moreover, 
dating  from  another  period,  has  this 
very  ground  we  are  standing  on. 
For  in  the  only  approach  to  anything 
like  a  real  conquest  of  Wales  by  the 
Saxons,  namely  that  of  Harold,  ifc 
was  retained  by  that  distinguished 
soldier  and  attached  to  the  earldom 
of  Hereford.  He  also  planted  an 
industrial  colony  of  Saxons  on  the 
Radnor  side  of  Offa's  dyke ;  the  only 
instance,  I  believe,  with  one  doubtful 
exception,  of  such  a  proceeding  prior 
to  the  Norman  Conquest,  which  tem- 
porarily obliterated  all  trace  of  the 
Saxon  in  Wales  and  changed  him 
from  an  object  of  dread  or  rivalry  to 
one  of  something  like  contempt. 

No  ordinary  mortal  could  be  ex- 
pected to  burden  his  mind  with  the 
struggle  of  Celt  and  Saxon  on  the 
Welsh  border.  It  was  continuous 
and  fierce,  and  after  four  centuries 
left  off  very  much  where  it  began. 
The  pressure  was  perhaps  just  begin- 
ning to  bear  somewhat  hardly  upon 
the  Welsh,  when  the  collapse  of  the 
Saxon  power  brought  such  profound 


relief  that  their  three  kingdoms  fell 
to  fighting  one  another  with  a  gaiety 
stimulated  by  the  extinction  of  the 
common  foe. 

But  if  this  period  may  fairly  be 
left  to  the  specialist,  the  attitude  of 
the  Norman  towards  Wales,  when  he 
had  finished  with  England,  does  really 
seem  to  me  to  be  something  more 
than  an  obscure  backwater  of  British 
history.  Wales  was  not  barbarous 
like  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  or 
semi- barbarous  like  Ireland.  It  was 
an  old  civilisation,  as  things  then  went 
in  Western  Europe,  and  numerically 
a  more  important  slice  of  Britain 
than  now.  Moreover  its  people  were 
passionately  warlike.  Its  conquest 
hardly  seems  to  have  been  part  of 
William's  scheme.  When  he  found 
himself  confronted  by  another  race, 
speaking  a  strange  tongue  and  fighting 
under  conditions  of  which  he  had  no 
experience,  he  would  almost  appear  to 
have  given  the  business  up.  He  is 
always  said  to  have  referred  to  the 
Welsh  on  his  deathbed  as  "  a  people 
with  whom  I  have  held  perilous  con- 
flicts." It  was  reserved  for  Rufua  to 
commence  operations  some  twenty  to 
thirty  years  later,  and  this  he  did,  after 
some  personal  failure,  by  proxy  and 
in  somewhat  unheroic  fashion.  In 
brief,  he  gave  a  licence  to  those  of  his 
needier  or  more  adventurous  barons 
to  carve  out  for  themselves  such  terri- 
tories as  they  could  win  and  hold  by 
the  sword  from  either  of  the  three 
kingdoms  of  Wales.  Bernard  de  New- 
march  was  one  of  the  first  of  these 
noble  adventurers,  and  after  much 
bloodshed  managed  to  possess  himself 
of  Brycheiniog,  a  fief  of  South  Wales 
now  roughly  represented  by  the 
county  of  Brecon.  Newmarch  par- 
celled it  out  among  his  followers,  and 
castles  rose  upon  its  hill-tops  and 
beside  its  fords.  Having  married,  as 
many  of  his  type  did,  a  Welsh  lady  of 
royal  lineage,  he  reserved  for  his  own 


268 


On  the  Welsh  Marches. 


enjoyment  the  very  tract  we  are  now 
standing  on,  and  probably  built  the 
castle. 

But  Glamorgan  was  the  most 
notable  of  these  annexations,  since  it 
was  not  a  case  of  mere  unprovoked 
aggression,  but  to  a  certain  extent 
invited  by  the  Welsh  themselves.  For 
in  the  year  1090  or  thereabouts,  the 
sub-prince  of  Glamorgan  (or  Morganwg 
as  it  was  then  called)  had  a  disagree- 
ment with  his  suzerain  Rhys  ap 
Tudor,  ruler  of  South  Wales.  Passing 
over  details  which  are  complex  and 
disputed,  the  Normans  were  sum- 
moned in  a  weak  moment  by  the 
intractable  princeling  to  his  assist- 
ance, and  arrived  by  sea  in  the  shape 
of  thirteen  knights  with  a  strong  force 
at  their  back.  The  leader  of  the 
expedition  was  a  certain  Fitzhamon, 
who,  with  his  friends,  was  to  be  paid 
for  his  services  in  cash  or  its  equiva- 
lent. Their  assistance  was  effectual, 
so  far  as  the  original  quarrel  was 
concerned ;  but  the  richness  of  the 
country  proved  altogether  too  great 
a  temptation  for  their  predatory  in- 
stincts, and  the  drama  of  Vortigern 
and  his  Saxon  allies  was  reacted  in 
the  vale  of  Glamorgan.  'Aided  some- 
what by  local  faction  Fitzhamon  and 
his  twelve  knights  now  turned  on 
their  Welsh  allies,  and  succeeded  in 
wresting  from  them  the  better  part 
of  their  territory.  Fitzhamon  then, 
under  conditions  of  knight  fealty  and 
service,  divided  the  province  among 
his  followers,  who  proceeded  forthwith 
to  erect  one  or  more  strong  castles 
upon  their  several  domains.  Their 
chief  himself  held  from  the  King, 
became  Earl  of  Gloucester,  and  from 
his  strong  castle  at  Cardiff  ruled  his 
new  territory,  not  as  his  contem- 
poraries ruled  their  English  earldoms, 
by  proscribed  laws,  but  as  a  monarch, 
independent  and  absolute.  Monthly 
courts  were  held  at  Cardiff,  where 
appeals  were  heard  against  his  subor- 


dinate barons  who  exercised  jurisdic- 
tion each  in  his  own  lordship.  This 
sounds  simple  in  the  narration,  but  it 
proceeded  amid  the  almost  continuous 
clash  of  arms,  and  the  lordships  were 
only  maintained  by  the  power  of 
impregnable  castles  and  bands  of 
armed  mercenaries.  In  the  end  com- 
parative peace  was  only  obtained  by 
granting  the  Welsh  tenantry  their 
own  laws  and  their  own  law-courts. 
Some  of  the  native  nobles  too  held 
sub-fiefs  from  Marcher  over-lords ;  and 
in  later  generations  several  of  them 
became  through  marriage  or  otherwise 
Lords-Marchers  themselves,  returning 
as  it  were  through  Norman  channels 
to  their  old  positions,  though  holding 
them  of  the  King  of  England  instead 
of  their  own  prince. 

A  pretty  tale  is  told  of  one  of  these 
same  Fitzhamon  knights,  Paine  Tur- 
berville,  whose  descendants  to  this 
day  keep  the  ancient  name  alive  in 
Glamorganshire.  Turberville  seems 
to  have  been  left  out  in  the  partition, 
and  with  much  justice  made  complaint 
of  his  treatment  to  Fitzhamon.  The 
latter  replied  curtly,  "  Here  are  arms 
and  men ;  go,  take  what  you  can." 
Turberville  then  selected  for  his  opera- 
tions the  lordship  of  Coity,  the  ruins 
of  whose  castle  still  survive  near 
Bridgend.  It  belonged  to  a  Welsh- 
man, Morgan  ap  Meurig,  who  being 
summoned  to  surrender  came  out  of 
the  gates  to  every  one's  surprise  lead- 
ing his  daughter  by  his  left  hand  and 
grasping  his  sword  with  his  right. 
Then  passing  through  the  army  he 
came  to  Turberville  and  informed  him 
that  if,  like  an  honest  man,  he  would 
take  his  daughter  in  marriage,  he 
should  inherit  his  castle  and  manor ; 
but  otherwise,  rather  than  spill  the 
blood  of  so  many  men,  they  two 
would  decide  the  ownership  by  single 
combat.  Turberville  chose  the  lady 
and  the  gentler  method,  after  which 
he  dismissed  his  Anglo-Norman  troops 


On  the  Welsh  Marches. 


269 


and  engaging  a  force  of  two  thousand 
Welshman  became  the  champion  of 
native  rights  in  that  stormy  corner  of 
the  world. 

The  story  of  Glamorgan,  on  a  lesser 
scale  and  in  more  fragmentary  fashion, 
became  the  story  of  more  than  half 
Wales.     After   nearly  two    centuries 
of  constant  fighting  a  moiety  of  North 
Wales  and  portions  of  Cardigan  and 
Carmarthen    were   all    that   was    left 
to  the   native  princes.     The  rest   of 
the   country  was  a  mosaic  of   palat- 
inates,    chief    of     which     were    the 
great  earldom    of   Glamorgan,  second 
to   none   in    the    kingdom,    and    the 
Anglo-Flemish  lordship  of  Pembroke.1 
In    recalling   old   Wales   the  present 
counties  must  be  forgotten ;  they  did 
not,  as  such,  exist.     But  it  must  be 
remembered    that    Cheshire   too   was 
a  palatinate,  having  been  designedly 
created    one    by    William    the    Con- 
queror  as    a   protection   against    the 
Welsh.     Its  turbulence  was  of  course 
notorious.     The  pride  its  people  took 
in  their  independence  was  insufferable 
to  other  Englishmen:  "These  common 
people,"  says  one  sore-headed  chroni- 
cler   in    the    time   of    Richard    the 
Second,  "  think  themselves  better  than 
the  great  lords  of   other  countries." 
After  all,  the  anomaly  of  this  strange 
state   of   things    does    not   lie  in  its 
existence   while    England   itself    was 
still  making,  but  that  it  should  have 
survived   in   Wales    so    late   as    the 
second    Tudor.      The    fact    is    that 
Edward    the   First,    in   his    conquest 
and    settlement   of   what    the  native 
princes  still   ruled    of   their  country, 
dared    not    venture    to    disturb   the 
hornets'  nest  that  lay  outside  those 
narrow   limits,   or    touch    the    sword- 
Avon    rights   of   this   horde   of    petty 
kings  who  in  foreign  affairs  were  on 

1  The  word  palatinate  is  used  for  con- 
venience ;  in  a  strictly  legal  sense  it  is,  I 
believe,  incorrect.  There  were  in  all  nearly 
one  hundred  and  fifty  of  these  petty  States. 


his    side.     Thus,    when    he    created 
the  northern  counties  of  Carnarvon, 
Anglesey,  Merioneth,  and  Flint  with 
Cardigan  and    Carmarthen,   and    put 
them  under  county  government,  the 
larger  part  of  what  is  now  called  the 
Principality  was    left   to   the  tender 
mercies,  the  quenchless  jealousies,  the 
quarrels  and  tyrannies  of  the  Marcher 
barons.     The  Principality,  which  be- 
came   the   heritage   actually,    not   as 
now   titularly,  of   the  eldest  sons  of 
the   Kings  of   England,  was   the  six 
counties  only.    The  Prince  of  Wales's 
rule  had  no  more  concern  with  Mont- 
gomery or  Brecon  than  it  had  with 
Durham.     The  March  of  Wales  had 
long  ceased  to  mean  the  border.     It 
had  become  no  small  slice  of  Britain, 
and  more  powerful  even  than  its  size 
implied    from    the    independence    of 
its  baronage.     The    Greys,    the  Des- 
pencers,  the  Clares,  the  Nevilles,  the 
de  Bohuns,  the  Beauchamps  and  last, 
though  anything  but  least,  the  mighty 
Mortimers,  are  a  few  of  the  potent 
names  that   recall  the  power  of   the 
country    west  of   the    Severn  in  the 
days    of    old.     Edward    the    Fourth 
tried  to  curb  its  abuses  by  instituting 
a  Court  of  Appeal  at  Ludlow  for  the 
Welsh  Marches.     Henry  the  Seventh, 
by  whose  time   the  system  was   be- 
coming intolerable,  had  no  difficulty 
in  further    strengthening   this  court. 
It  remained  for  his  son,  however,  to 
take  the  bull  by  the  horns  and,  with 
but  slight  opposition  from  the  privi- 
leged  class,    to  reduce   them   to   the 
condition  of  ordinary  landowners,   to 
the  immense  relief  of  the  gentry  and 
commons  whose   petitions    are    really 
precious  in  the  all  too  scanty  evidence 
we    have    of    social    life    in    ancient 
Wales. 

In  spite  of  all  this  it  will  be  well 
to  remember  that  there  can  be  but  a 
trifling  strain  of  Saxon  blood  in  any 
part  of  Wales  save  southern  Pem- 
broke, which  is  not  Welsh  at  all. 


270 


On  the  Welsh  Marches. 


Its  conquerors  were  Norman  barons, 
and  though  Saxons  formed  beyond 
a  doubt  an  element  of  their  immediate 
following,  they  were  mostly  groups  of 
soldiers  who  built  up  small  towns 
under  the  shadow  of  the  greater 
castles,  did  not  seriously  mix  with 
the  hostile  population  round  them, 
and  indeed  almost  disappeared  in  the 
course  of  generations,  giving  place 
to  Welshmen. 

The  long  wars  with  France  occu- 
pied the  swords  of  thousands  of 
Welshmen,  turned  their  attention 
from  domestic  wretchedness,  and  some- 
what softened  their  hatred  of  the  Con- 
queror. Every  Marcher-lordship  had 
its  own  laws  and  customs,  its  judges, 
chancellor,  officers,  and  sometimes  its 
own  mint,  with  sole  appeal  to  a 
capricious  and  absolute  chieftain. 
Their  jealousies  and  feuds  were  bitter 
and  abiding.  To  shelter  each  other's 
felons  was  almost  a  point  of  honour. 
The  vassals  of  one  lordship  had  to 
keep  the  road  as  they  passed  through 
a  neighbouring  territory.  In  a 
bounded  forest  a  man  found  ten 
paces  from  the  track  was  liable  to 
the  loss  of  all  portable  property,  and 
for  the  second  offence  of  a  limb. 
The  roaming  of  cattle  across  this  lace- 
work  of  boundaries  was  the  cause,  as 
may  be  readily  imagined,  of  inces- 
sant blood-feuds.  The  Marches  had 
not  the  advantages  of  the  royal 
counties  which,  after  Edward  the 
First's  conquest,  though  unrepre- 
sented in  Parliament,  were  governed 
as  a  crown-colony, — to  use  a  suffi- 
ciently accurate  modern  parallel — the 
heir  to  the  English  throne  being  by 
custom  appointed  governor.  Several 
of  the  Marcher  barons  had  the  right 
of  sitting  in  Parliament,  and  they  also 
claimed  the  privilege  of  supporting 
the  canopy  at  coronations  with  silver 
spears.  To  increase  the  confusion  in 
Mid  and  South  Wales  many  of 
the  Marcher  lordships  had  come,  as 


Cheshire  eventually  did,  into  the 
possession  of  the  Crown  as  private 
fiefs,  and  were  governed  by  bailiffs  as 
agents  for  the  King.  Monmouthshire, 
or  to  speak  generally,  the  Gwent  of 
former  days,  was  parcelled  into  lord- 
ships, while  considerable  tracts  of 
modern  Shropshire  and  Herefordshire 
lay  then  within  the  Marches  and 
outside  the  King's  writ. 

All  over  the  region,  here  spread  like 
a  map  beneath  us,  east  and  west  as  far 
as  the  sight  can  range,  the  great  name 
of  Mortimer  must  loom  large  in  any 
vision  that  tries  to  recall  the  feudal 
ages  and  rebuild  its  mouldering  castles. 
Deep  into  the  broken  surface  of  Radnor 
and  far  into  Hereford  spread  the  Mor- 
timer tenantry  in  the  days  of  Glen- 
dower.  Innumerable  castles  held  their 
knights  and  captains.  Many  thousand 
tenants,  Saxon  and  Celt,  ploughed 
their  red  lands  on  the  lower  Wye  or 
grazed  their  green  pastures  on  the 
uplands  of  Radnor.  It  was  from 
here  that  one  of  the  last  of  the 
long  line,  the  luckless  Edmund, 
with  every  man  in  the  country 
he  could  raise,  went  out  to  fight 
Glendower  and  to  meet  his  curious 
fate.  The  place  of  their  meeting  is 
in  fact  not  much  over  a  dozen  miles 
from  this  very  castle.  It  was  a 
memorable  encounter,  and  made  the 
second  of  June,  1402,  a  day  to  be 
long  remembered  upon  the  Hereford 
marches.  Mortimer's  Radnor  levies 
were,  it  is  said,  half-hearted  or  worse, 
and  eleven  hundred  knights,  squires, 
and  churls  of  Hereford  bit  the  dust 
upon  the  Hill  of  Pilleth.  Mortimer 
was  captured,  won  over  to  the  cause 
of  his  conqueror,  and  soon  after 
wedded  to  his  daughter,  dying  six 
years  later  (of  starvation  so  says  tra- 
dition) within  the  walls  of  beleaguered 
Harlech. 

There  is  little  doubt  but  that  a 
request  for  information  upon  the 
battle  of  Pilleth  would  carry  dis- 


On  the  Wehh  Marches. 


271 


may  into  any  history-class;  but  the 
oblivion  which  has  closed  over  the 
memory  of  this  savage  fight  is  no 
measure  of  the  stir  it  made  in  its 
day.  Its  consequences,  which  have 
no  concern  with  us  now,  were  con- 
siderable, and  in  no  battle  probably 
of  that  age,  save  Shrewsbury,  did  so 
many  Englishmen  fall  on  their  own 
soil. 

After  this  I  must,  for  modesty's  sake, 
hasten  to  say  that  special  circumstances 
had  made  me  familiar  with  all  that 
there  is  to  be  known  about  this  bloody 
rout  and  slaughter,  which  is  not  indeed 
very  much.  For  myself  the  site  of  a 
battle  of  any  importance  has,  I  con- 
fess, an  immense  attraction,  wholly 
one  of  imagination  or  sentiment  or 
whatever  may  be  the  exact  note  of 
those  strange  chords  that  vibrate  so 
curiously  and  fitfully  within  us.  For 
years  I  had  cherished  a  vague  hope 
of  some  day  hunting  out  the  field  of 
Pilleth,  that  Majuba  of  Henry  the 
Fourth,  which  Shakespeare  at  any 
rate  had  not  forgotten.  It  seemed  a 
fine  opportunity  when  staying,  not 
a  great  while  ago,  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  this  old  Mortimer  castle 
and  surrounded,  no  doubt,  by  the 
descendants  of  the  very  men  who 
marched  with  Sir  Edmund  and  fell 
so  thickly  round  him.  I  consulted 
my  host.  He  had  never  heard  of 
Pilleth.  though  he  had  taken  honours 
in  history  at  Oxford ;  but  he  was 
anxious  to  further,  and  also  to  assist 
at  any  reasonable  adventure,  and 
though  Pilleth  might  sound  vague,  it 
meant  a  pleasant  journey  at  a  theo- 
retically pleasant  time  of  year  through 
an  ever-charming  country. 

We  took  down  Shakespeare  from 
the  shelf,  and  opened  it  at  that 
scene  in  HENRY  THE  FOURTH  where 
the  King,  indulging  in  his  favourite 
dream  of  a  crusade,  is  rudely  brought 
back  to  stern  facts  by  the  entry  of 
Westmoreland  announcing, — 


A  post  from  Wales  laden  with  heavy 
news ; 

Whose  worst  was,  that  the  noble 
Mortimer, 

Leading  the  men  of  Herefordshire  to 
fight 

Against  the  irregular  and  wild  Glen- 
dower, 

Was  by  the  rude  hands  of  that  Welsh- 
man taken, 

A  thousand  of  his  people  butchered. 

The  next  thing  was  the  ordnance 
map,  where  Pilleth  was  marked  sure 
enough,  though  in  small  characters, 
and  appeared  to  be  some  fourteen 
miles  off. 

It  was  a  bright  May  noon  when  we 
descended  the  bank,  as  everything 
short  of  a  mountain  is  called  on  the 
Welsh  border,  and  dropped  down 
several  hundred  feet  into  Radnorshire. 
The  method  of  our  progress,  I  need 
hardly  say,  was  the  inevitable  bicycle, 
though  it  may  be  worth  while  noting 
that  Wales  seems  to  be  the  only 
country  where  you  may  still  see 
bodies  of  farmers  travelling  on  horse- 
back. Our  road  for  a  time  led  us 
through  deep  valleys  whose  hill-born 
streams  raced  by  our  side  or  rippled 
over  meadows  where  sturdy  red  and 
white  Herefords  crunched  greedily  at 
the  still  chary  pasture.  We  climbed 
over  the  feet  of  ridges  that  swept  far 
upwards,  soft  carpets  of  green  turf 
and  ferns  and  scattered  thickets  of 
birch  or  thorn  whence  sounded  the 
cuckoo's  tireless  song.  We  passed 
through  small  hamlets,  rich  in  the 
black  and  white  architecture  of  the 
Welsh  border  and  dominated  by 
churches  wearing  a  look  of  dignified 
authority  very  far  removed  from  the 
harassed  and  chapel-smothered  aspect 
common  to  those  of  wilder  Wales. 
There  were  clog-makers  at  work  with 
their  white  tents  pitched  among  the 
alders  and  stacks  of  wooden  shoes 
destined  for  shipment  to  northern 
towns.  A  characteristic  old  border- 
industry  this,  and  I  thought  of  George 


272 


On  the  Welsh  Marches. 


Borrow  and  his  clog-making  friends 
in  the  vale  of  the  Ceiniog.  We 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  look  inside 
the  stately  and  ancient  church  of 
old  Radnor,  nearly  all  indeed  that 
remains  of  one  of  those  Welsh  town- 
lets  that  Leland  curtly  dismisses,  as 
he  passes  them,  with  "deflor'd  by 
Glindor."  Perched  in  striking  fashion 
upon  an  outstanding  ledge  on  the 
hillside  the  battlemented  church  over- 
looks a  stretch  of  fruitful  and  well- 
wooded  low  ground,  bounded  by  the 
long  rolling  ridges  of  Radnor  forest, 
suggesting  in  every  particular  of 
height,  colour,  and  contour  a  curious 
parallel  to  Dartmoor.  Yonder  too, 
where  the  shadow  lay  thick  on  a 
gorge  in  the  green  wall  of  moorland, 
we  could  note  signs  of  New  Radnor 
slumbering  in  remote  obscurity.  A 
much  bigger  town  was  this  one  than 
the  other,  though  long  shrivelled  to  a 
village.  It  too  was  "  deflor'd  by  Glin- 
dor," and  to  some  purpose.  On  a 
height  above  we  could  just  make  out 
the  site  of  a  once  famous  castle,  on 
whose  ramparts  the  Welsh  national 
hero  hanged  the  whole  garrison  as  an 
encouragement  to  the  other  castles 
who  defied  him. 

Welsh  enough  in  name  and  stock 
are  the  people  on  the  road,  whether 
horse  or  foot,  but  not  a  glimmer  of  the 
ancient  tongue  remains  in  these  parts. 
The  intonation  of  course  is  there,  and 
a  soft  western  voice  with  a  slight 
touch  of  Saxon  burr,  perhaps  upon  the 
whole  the  most  pleasing  vernacular 
of  English-speaking  Britain.  Some 
maintain  that  the  people  themselves 
are  the  most  pleasant  of  all  rural 
stocks  to  have  to  do  with. 

Now  Pilleth  was  marked  upon  our 
map  with  a  cross  (denoting  a  church), 
and  as  we  dropped  down  a  big  bank 
into  the  valley  of  that  famous  trout 
and  grayling  stream,  the  Lugg,  the 
scent  was  beginning  to  grow  hot. 
As  we  crossed  the  Lugg  the  glory  of 


the  day  had  gone,  and  clouds  were 
banking  up  from  the  west.  We  knew 
by  the  map  that  the  object  of  our 
journey  must  be  within  a  couple  of 
miles,  and  looking  up  the  narrow 
valley  there,  sure  enough,  at  the 
very  spot  it  ought  to  be,  a  bold  and 
lofty  hill  reared  its  head  upon  the 
northern  bank  of  the  stream.  I 
knew  by  instinct  this  was  the  Bryn 
Glas,  the  green  hill  of  the  old 
chroniclers  down  which  the  Welsh 
army  rushed  on  Mortimer's  English- 
men. A  flash  of  forked  lightning  at 
this  moment  split  the  dark  curtain 
of  sky  behind  it,  and  an  ominous  peal 
of  thunder  gave  us  much  cause  of 
congratulation  that  we  were  entering 
a  small  village,  and  still  more  that 
the  signboard  of  a  homely  tavern 
hung  just  in  front  of  us.  While  the 
rain  was  falling  heavily,  mine  host 
informed  us  that  Pilleth  consisted  of 
a  ruined  church  and  a  farmhouse  some 
two  miles  up  the  valley.  A  battle? 
"Yes,  sure,  there's  the  tracks  of  battles 
all  the  way  up  the  river."  But  he  had 
never  heard  of  Glendower,  degenerate 
Welshman  that  he  was,  and  the  signs 
of  strife  he  alluded  to  were  camps 
and  tumuli  of  a  period  compared  to 
which  that  of  Edmund  Mortimer  was 
as  yesterday. 

When  the  storm  was  over  we 
pressed  on  up  the  valley,  and  the 
hill  of  battle,  about  which  I  felt  no 
doubt,  soon  confronted  us ;  a  green 
sweep  to  its  summit  with  a  solitary 
spinney,  set  somewhat  inconsequently, 
we  thought,  on  its  face.  A  large 
farm-house,  evidently  once  a  manor, 
and  a  ruinous  church  lay  at  its  foot. 
A  shepherd  was  counting  a  flock  of 
Shropshire  ewes  and  lambs  through 
a  gate  into  the  road,  and  the  task 
completed,  he  informed  us  that  this 
was  certainly  Pilleth ;  but  he  had 
never  heard  of  any  battle  there.  The 
hill  was  commonly  called  Pilleth  Hill, 
though  he  believed  it  might  once 


On  the  Welsh  Marches. 


273 


have  been  called  Bryn  Glas  "  or 
somethen."  No  sentence,  I  may 
remark,  is  ever  quite  fully  rounded 
in  the  ears  of  the  rustic  borderer 
without  this  qualifying  termination. 

Addressing  ourselves  to  the  farm- 
house as  the  most  likely  source  of 
information,  we  pulled  at  the  door-bell 
till  we  were  tired  of  its  mocking 
echoes.  We  then  in  despair  sought 
the  back  premises,  where  a  dairy- 
woman  was  settling  down  to  the 
task  of  milking  a  half  score  of  well- 
furnished  cows.  The  master,  she  told 
us,  had  gone  to  Knighton,  and  it  was 
with  slight  expectation  of  any  answer- 
ing glimmer  of  light  that  I  sounded 
this  stalwart  Phyllis  on  the  subject 
of  our  quest.  She  was  a  long  way  in 
advance  of  both  the  publican  and  the 
shepherd.  Yes,  sure,  there  had  been 
a  great  battle  on  that  hill  behind  the 
house  in  Glendower's  time,  she  had 
heard ;  but  she  apologised  for  burden- 
ing her  memory  with  such  useless 
rubbish  by  a  reference  to  her  husband 
as  "a  great  hand  at  these  things." 
We  pricked  up  our  ears  at  once  and 
enquired  the  whereabouts  of  this 
village  antiquary.  He  was  ploughing 
in  a  field,  some  half  a  mile  off,  she 
said,  and  giving  us  the  line  we  even- 
tually, after  some  very  sticky  cross- 
country work,  ran  into  him  ridging 
up  turnip-land.  Our  rustic  was  pro- 
perly astonished  at  being  thus  sought 
out  in  the  seclusion  of  his  turnip-field 
by  two  strangers,  and  when  the  object 
of  our  visit  was  disclosed  he  was  still 
more  so.  It  was  apparently  unique 
in  his  experience  of  Pilleth,  which  he 
informed  us  was  coeval  with  his  life. 
His  knowledge  proved  rather  practical 
than  historical,  and  more  to  the  point 
than  we  could  have  ventured  to  hope. 
The  hill  of  Pilleth,  or  Bryn  Glas, 
hung  right  above  us,  and  he  drew  our 
attention  to  the  spinney  on  its  face. 
Some  twenty  to  thirty  years  ago,  it 


seems,  the  tenant  broke  up  the  pasture, 
and  on  the  spot  now  marked  by  the 
plantation  his  ploughs  drove  into 
quantities  of  human  bones,  evidently 
the  burying-place  of  a  battle  not  too 
remote.  Upon  this  the  plot  of  ground, 
perhaps  half  an  acre  in  extent,  was 
withdrawn  from  cultivation  and  by 
a  singularly  happy  inspiration,  of  the 
landlord's  presumably,  planted  with 
the  clump  of  trees  which  so  strikingly 
marks  the  resting-place  of  part  at 
any  rate  of  the  eleven  hundred  men 
of  Hereford,  whose  post-mortem  ill 
treatment  cast  such  a  slur  upon 
the  ladies  of  Radnor.  All  ac- 
counts say  that  the  English  were 
caught  in  a  gorge  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  and  thus  cramped  in  their 
powers  of  either  fighting  or  running 
away.  The  valley  of  the  Lugg  on  the 
south  side  seems  a  thought  too  wide 
for  such  a  state  of  affairs.  There  is 
a  dingle,  however,  upon  the  other  that 
might  well  have  proved  a  death-trap 
to  a  panic-stricken  army. 

Our  ploughman  attributed  his  anti- 
quarian tastes  to  the  schoolmaster  of 
the  village  we  had  lunched  at.  So 
on  returning,  we  at  once  sought  out 
this  gentleman,  whom  we  found  re- 
leased from  his  labours  and  tying  up 
roses  in  a  delightfully  old-fashioned 
garden,  before  a  house  in  thorough 
keeping  with  it.  He  was,  I  think, 
originally  from  Cardiganshire,  that 
prolific  nursery  of  parsons  and  teachers, 
and  was  as  well  versed  in  local  lore  as 
we  could  have  desired,  and  substan- 
tially confirmed  the  ploughman's  tale. 
We  encountered  too  at  his  hands  a 
hospitality  that  would  positively  take 
no  denial,  and  around  the  grateful 
and  unexpected  teapot  discussed  not 
only  the  mishap  of  the  noble  Mortimer 
but  many  other  matters  of  interest  in 
which  this  little  known  but  delightful 
country  abounds. 

A.  G.  BRADLEY, 


No.  508. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


274 


THE   STAMPEDE   OF    THE   BLACK   RANGE   CATTLE. 


ACROSS  the  Queensland  border-line 
the  big  mobs  of  cattle  come  down 
year  by  year  to  New  South  Wales 
for  sale.  Far  away  up  in  the  centre 
and  north  of  Queensland  are  the 
runs  where  these  cattle  are  bred,  runs 
comprising  hundreds  of  square  miles 
of  unfenced  untra veiled  Bush  where 
thousands  of  half-wild  beasts  roam  at 
large,  each  mob  keeping  fairly  well  to 
its  own  part  of  the  runs  and  having 
its  own  centre,  or  camp,  to  which 
they  are  always  driven  when  mustered 
for  any  purpose.  The  stations  are 
worked  by  a  few  white  men  with  the 
assistance  of  the  smartest  natives  of 
the  district,  and  month  in  and  month 
out  there  is  a  constant  branding  of 
calves.  These  stations  are  so  far  from 
the  market  that  it  would  be  useless 
to  send  down  fat  cattle  from  them 
for  sale,  as  the  beasts  would  lose  all 
their  condition  on  the  road  ;  they  are 
therefore  sent  in  mobs  of  four  or  five 
hundred  at  a  time  in  what  is  called 
store  condition,  driven  down  to  the 
settled  districts  and  sold  there  in  lots 
to  the  smaller  land-holders  who  fatten 
them  up  for  the  market.  The  cattle 
are  not  taken  down  by  the  station- 
hands  but  by  drovers  who  know  their 
business  thoroughly ;  and  indeed  to 
manage  some  hundreds  of  fierce-eyed, 
vindictive  Queensland  cattle,  wild  as 
hawks  and  fast  as  racehorses,  on  a 
journey  lasting  perhaps  six  months, 
is  no  light  undertaking.  The  drovers 
must  know  the  ways  of  cattle  as  they 
know  the  ways  of  their  own  brothers  : 
they  must  know  the  laws  of  the  Over- 
land which  are  few  but  effective, — so 
many  miles  to  be  travelled,  so  much 
notice  to  be  given,  so  much  spread 


allowed  the  mob  when  travelling ; 
and  they  have  to  be  untiring  in  their 
vigilance,  because  for  every  beast 
that  dies  or  is  lost  on  the  road  so 
much  is  deducted  from  their  pay. 

In  the  day-time  the  cattle  travel 
quietly  enough,  with  one  drover  riding 
on  ahead  to  steady  their  pace  and 
make  them  spread  out  to  graze,  while 
another  rides  on  each  flank  of  the 
mob  and  a  couple  more  bring  up  the 
rear.  But  at  night  the  cattle,  timid 
and  suspicious  by  nature,  are  uneasy 
and  restless  ;  a  constant  watch  has  to 
be  kept  over  them  lest  they  should 
rush  off  their  camp  and  get  lost 
in  the  pathless  Bush.  Even  after 
they  have  been  weeks  on  the  road 
any  strange  sound  or  sight  will 
send  them  off  their  camp  in  a 
panic.  Sometimes  they  seem  to  see 
ghosts  :  they  will  not  rest  on  their 
camp,  though  there  is  apparently 
nothing  to  disturb  them ;  then  the 
drovers  must  ride  round  them  all 
night  calling  to  them  and  trying  to 
steady  their  nerves.  An  Australian 
poet,  Barcrof  t  Boake,  has  written  it : 

Only  the  hand  of  night  can  free  them, 

That's  when  the  dead  men  fly ; 
Only  the  frightened  cattle  see  them, 

See  the  dead  men  go  by. 
Cloven  hoofs  beating  out  one  measure, 
Bidding  the  drovers  know  no  leisure, 
That's  when  the  dead  men  take  their 

pleasure, 
That's  when  the  dead  men  fly. 

Some  camps  are  noted  above  others 
for  their  ghostly  influences,  and  the 
drovers  would  never  use  them  only 
that  they  cannot  get  water  anywhere 
else.  This  will  explain  how  it  was 
that  the  Black  Range  Cattle,  five 


The  Stampede  of  the  Black  Eange  Cattle. 


275 


hundred  strong,  in  charge  of  such  an 
experienced  drover  as  Red  Mick 
Conroy,  found  themselves  drawing 
into  camp  at  the  Dead  Man's  Water- 
hole  which,  as  every  drover  knows, 
is  haunted,  and  on  which  cattle  can 
no  more  lie  down  and  rest  than  they 
could  on  a  battle-field. 

Red  Mick  was  a  little  grizzled  old 
man  who  had  been  droving  for  half 
a  lifetime.  Many  and  many  a  mob 
of  the  fierce-eyed,  pike-horned  Black 
Range  cattle  he  had  safely  convoyed 
down  to  civilisation,  and  many  and 
many  a  long  weary  night-watch  he 
had  spent  with  them.  Mark  him  now 
as  he  rides  slowly  across  the  sunlit 
plain  on  his  old  white  horse,  his  keen 
grey  eyes  peering  out,  as  he  notes 
each  well  known  sign  in  the  camp. 
He  sits  close  down  on  his  rough 
weather-beaten  old  saddle,  while  his 
legs  fit  round  the  sides  of  his  horse 
as  if  he  had  been  modelled  on  the 
animal  :  a  battered  old  cabbage-tree 
hat  is  on  his  head ;  he  is  dressed  in 
moleskin  trousers  and  shirt,  for  his 
coat  is  strapped  across  the  front  of 
his  saddle ;  and  in  his  right  hand  he 
carries  the  short-handled,  long-thonged 
stock-whip  with  which  he  can  cut 
through  the  hair  and  hide  of  a  bullock. 
His  old  horse  picks  his  way  through 
the  mud  to  the  edge  of  the  water- 
hole,  and  plunging  his  head  in  over 
the  nostrils  drinks  with  much  noise 
and  gasping.  Behind  him  come  the 
cattle,  gaunt,  upstanding,  long-horned 
beasts  "  spear-horned  and  curly,  red, 
spotted  and  starred."  They  are  spread 
about  over  the  plain  but,  as  they 
scent  the  water,  they  draw  together 
and  stare  fiercely  at  the  drover  and 
his  horse,  waiting  till  he  has  finished 
before  they  will  go  up  to  drink  ;  they 
have  not  been  long  enough  on  the 
road  yet  to  drink  alongside  a  human 
being.  At  the  back  of  the  mob  are 
two  more  slouching  figures  on  horse- 
back sitting  silent  and  motionless 


waiting  for  the  cattle  to  draw  in  to 
water.  One  is  young  Red  Mick 
Conroy,  the  old  man's  son,  a  slight 
wiry  youth  of  about  eighteen,  already 
one  of  the  finest  rough-riders  and 
best  hands  with  cattle  in  all  Australia ; 
his  mate  is  a  quiet,  mild-eyed,  black- 
bearded  bushman  known  as  Silent 
Jim,  of  whom  it  is  recorded  that  one 
of  the  longest  speeches  he  ever  made 
was  when  he  said  "  not  guilty "  in 
answer  to  a  charge  of  cattle-stealing 
at  Dubbo  Circuit  Court.  Behind 
them  again  comes  a  cart  with  a 
white  tilt,  jolting  along  over  the 
cattle-trodden  plain.  It  is  drawn 
by  one  blear-eyed  old  horse,  and  in 
it  sits  a  black  figure,  apparently  a 
man  for  it  is  dressed  in  moleskin 
trousers  and  shirt,  wears  a  slouch  hat 
on  its  head,  and  is  smoking  a  pipe ; 
but  it  is  really  Maggie,  a  black  girl 
who,  with  her  husband  Derrybong,  has 
been  persuaded  to  leave  the  delights 
of  their  native  Black  Range  station 
and  come  on  this  journey  with  the 
cattle,  allured  by  the  prospect  of 
"plenty  feller  tobaccer,  plenty  feller 
rum,  plenty  tucker  all  the  time." 
Behind  the  cart  lags  a  pack-horse, 
strolling  along  at  his  ease  picking  at 
the  grass,  and  behind  him  comes  a 
long  wiry  black  man  with  bare  feet 
and  hair  blowing  in  the  wind,  riding 
a  snorting  terrified  colt.  The  black 
fellow's  face  is  expanded  in  a  broad 
grin  as  his  body  sways  and  bends  to 
each  bound  of  the  horse  ;  the  reason 
of  the  animal's  excitement  is  that  the 
rider  is  carrying  a  large  mud-turtle 
which  he  has  just  caught,  and  as 
he  holds  it  by  the  head,  its  heavy 
sheM  and  body  sway  about  wildly  at 
the  end  of  its  long  neck  while  its 
feet  paw  the  air  feebly;  a  state  of 
things  that  makes  the  colt  half  frantic 
with  terror. 

"What  yer  got,  Derrybong?"  drawls 
young  Mick  in  the  slow  nasal  twang 
of  the  Monaro  mountaineer.  "Not 

T  2 


276 


The  Stampede  of  the  Black  Range  Cattle. 


goin'  to  eat  him  are  yer  1 "  he  says, 
as  the  black  fellow  throws  the  turtle 
down  beside  the  halted  cart  and  care- 
fully descends  from  the  snorting  and 
suspicious  colt.  The  turtle  imme- 
diately tucks  in  all  his  members  under 
his  shell,  fully  convinced  that  he  is 
thereby  making  all  snug  for  the  night : 
old  black  Maggie  descends  from  the 
cart  and  unharnesses  the  blear-eyed 
horse ;  Derrybong  makes  a  fire ;  the 
three  drovers  halt  the  cattle  under  a 
big  clump  of  trees  with  an  open  space 
all  round,  and  sit  motionless  on  their 
horses  waiting  for  the  beasts  to  settle 
down.  The  sun  has  sunk,  leaving  a 
red  blaze  of  glory  in  the  west ;  a  cool 
breeze  springs  up,  and  over  the  great 
stretch  of  plain  there  rises  a  mingled 
perfume  of  crushed  grasses,  scented 
trees,  and  the  breath  of  cattle ;  and 
then,  suddenly,  the  velvety  darkness 
closes  down,  the  tilt  of  the  cart  begins 
to  show  ghostly  white,  the  water  of 
the  Dead  Man's  Lagoon  to  glimmer 
with  stars,  and  the  subdued  murmur 
of  the  restless  cattle  is  the  only  sound 
that  breaks  the  silence. 

It  is  a  glorious  night ;  the  velvet 
of  the  sky  is  spangled  with  stars,  and 
the  silence  is  wonderful.  Yet  the 
cattle  will  not  settle ;  they  stir  about 
restlessly,  now  and  again  breaking  out 
into  low  moanings  like  creatures  in 
pain.  The  three  drovers  ride  round 
them  keeping  them  within  the  limits 
of  their  camp,  but  they  seem  to  scent 
trouble  in  the  air.  As  they  ride  to 
and  fro  young  Mick  and  his  father 
meet  and  separate  again,  and  at  inter- 
vals they  exchange  a  few  words  of 
conversation. 

"Ain't  this  where  the  Pikes  was 
murdered  ?  "  says  young  Mick. 

"  Yes,"  says  the  old  man  uneasily, 
his  Irish  breeding  making  itself  felt. 
"  There's  the  fince  that  was  round 
their  yarrd.  And  a  felly  come  along 
and  he  driv'  up  in  a  cart  widout  a 
horse, — at  least  there  was  never  no 


tracks  of  a  horse;  and  he  cut  all 
their  treats  with  a  shear-blade  and 
was  took  and  hanged ;  and  they  do 
say  the  Pikes'  ghosts  walks  here  of 
a  night;  but  we  had  to  camp  here, 
there's  no  other  water  wid'in  fifteen 
mile." 

This  speech  was  delivered  bit  by 
bit  as  father  and  son  met  and  sepa- 
rated again,  as  they  did  sentry-go 
round  the  mob. 

"Do  you  believe  all  that  rot?" 
said  the  son  scornfully,  he  being  a 
true  Australian  absolutely  devoid  of 
superstition.  The  old  man  answered 
nothing,  but  when  the  cattle  had 
settled  a  little  he  rode  over  to  the 
fire  and  sat  down  to  get  something 
to  eat,  leaving  the  other  two  to  watch 
the  mob.  He  let  his  horse  graze 
about  with  the  bridle  trailing,  while 
he  applied  himself  to  the  cold  beef, 
damper,  and  black  tea,  which  Maggie 
had  prepared.  He  was  just  pouring 
himself  out  a  pannikin  of  scalding 
tea  from  the  big  billy-can  when  he 
suddenly  caught  sight  of  a  brown 
snake-like  head  with  two  evil  little 
eyes  not  half  a  foot  from  his  leg.  He 
gave  a  yell  like  a  Comanche  Indian, 
dropped  the  billy-can,  spilling  the 
scalding  tea  on  his  leg,  and  seizing 
the  tomahawk  with  which  Maggie 
had  been  cutting  firewood  he  made 
a  terrific  blow  at  what  he  thought 
was  a  snake ;  but  the  stroke  descended 
on  our  unfortunate  friend  the  turtle, 
crushing  his  armour  in  like  an  egg- 
shell, and  though  nothing, — not  even 
cutting  his  head  off — will  kill  a  turtle 
right  out,  at  any  rate  this  one  was 
so  badly  damaged  that  he  became 
demoralised,  walked  into  the  fire  and 
fizzled  there,  working  his  feet  con- 
vulsively and  kicking  up  the  ashes 
like  a  volcano  while  old  Mick  sprang 
up  into  the  cart  in  an  ecstacy  of 
terror.  The  two  black  fellows  laughed 
heartily,  for  like  all  their  kind  they 
dearly  loved  a  joke,  and  when  they 


The  Stampede  of  the  Black  Range  Cattle. 


277 


could  speak  for  laughing  they  said  : 
"  Baal  tnake, — that  fellow  durtle  !  (it 
isn't  a  snake,  it's  a  turtle)." 

The  old  man  came  down  from  his 
perch  quite  crestfallen,  and  with  his 
nerves  very  much  shaken.  "  What 
der  yez  want  to  bring  him  here  for  ?  " 
he  said  roughly,  as  he  kicked  the 
ruins  of  the  turtle  far  into  the  dark- 
ness. "  Go  and  get  some  more  water, 
Maggie ;  the  tea's  all  spilt."  But 
Maggie  only  grunted  and  wriggled 
about  uneasily ;  the  black  folk  are 
all  more  or  less  afraid  of  the  "  debbil 
debbil"  after  dark,  and  the  unrest  of 
the  cattle  had  impressed  her  with  the 
idea  that  the  place  was  uncanny. 

"  Well,  you  go,  Der ry bong,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  You  aren't  such  a 
fool  as  Maggie  to  be  afraid  of  the 
devil.  Take  my  horse." 

Derrybong  somewhat  unwillingly 
took  the  can,  climbed  on  to  the 
patient  old  horse,  and  jogged  him 
off  towards  the  water,  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards  or  so  distant.  In  the 
lagoon  a  few  frogs  croaked  plain- 
tively, while  away  under  the  trees 
the  cattle  still  moaned  and  trampled, 
goring  each  other,  and  keeping  up 
a  perpetual  eddy  of  motion.  All 
around  for  miles  and  miles, — to  the 
end  of  the  world  as  it  seemed — there 
brooded  the  deep  mysterious  silence 
of  the  Australian  plain. 

Suddenly,  from  far  across  the  plain, 
in  the  direction  where  the  white 
streak  of  road  disappeared  in  the 
night,  there  came  the  faint  but  clear 
sound  of  a  bell ;  ding-cling  it  came, 
a  sweet  silver  sound,  that  floated 
musically  through  the  night.  For 
three  or  four  seconds  no  living  thing 
moved  on  the  camp  ;  men,  cattle,  and 
horses  held  their  breath  ;  then  again 
it  came,  clearer  and  stronger  and 
much  closer,  ding-cling,  ding-ding. 
Then  a  hoarse  inarticulate  blare, 
booo-ah  !  booo-ah  !  roared  across  the 
silence  of  the  night,  and  far  away, 


where  the  road  turned  into  the 
trees,  there  showed  a  flaming  eye  of 
fire,  an  eye  that  swept  down  on  the 
camp  at  terrific  speed  and  with  noise- 
less movement ;  and  again  there 
burst  out  the  ding- ding,  booo-ah  ! 

Then    things     began    to     happen. 
From  the  lagoon  at  full  gallop  came 
the  black  man,   Derrybong,  with  his 
face  a  dull  grey  from  fear,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  old  horse  starting  out  of 
his    head ;     the    horse     instinctively 
stopped  dead  beside  the  cart  for  one 
second,  just   long  enough  for  Derry- 
bong to  point  a  rigid  arm  up  the  road 
and  gasp  out   in  inarticulate  terror, 
"  Hooooh  !  what  name  !  what  name  !  " 
Then  Maggie,  seeing  no  other  means 
of  escape,  made  one  spring  up  behind 
her  husband,  clasped  him  round  the 
waist,    and    the    old    horse    with    his 
double   burden    shot   away   into    the 
darkness.     Right  in  front  of  him  was 
the  ruined  fence  that  had  once  been 
the  house-yard  of  the  murdered  Pikes  ; 
neither  the  horse  nor  his  two  riders 
had  ever  negotiated  a  fence  in  their 
lives;  but  the  three  of  them  cleared 
this  with  hardly  a  rap  and  disappeared 
into  the  night.     As  they  dashed  at 
the  fence  the  mysterious  visitor  came 
sweeping    down    on    to    the     camp. 
Cling-cling,   cling    cling  cling !   booo- 
-ah  !    boooo-ah  !    booo  -  ah  !     The   old 
man,  after  one  look,  sprang  up  into 
the  cart  with  a  leap  that  would  have 
done   credit   to  a  kangaroo,  and  he, 
staring   with    fixed    and    glassy   eyes 
over  the  dashboard,  is  the  only  wit- 
ness as  to  what  followed.     According 
to  him,  he  saw  a  figure  with  no  face, 
but  with  a  pair  of  big  goggle  eyes  and 
a  black  shapeless  mask  where  his  face 
should  have  been,  riding  in  a  chariot 
of    fire,    drawn    by   no    horses    but 
moving  with  incredible  swiftness,  and 
puffing  out  jets  of   smoke,  while  the 
figure  pulled  and  hauled  at  the  front 
of   the   vehicle    as    though   trying  to 
control  the  fiends  that  were  running 


278 


The  Stampede  of  the  Black  Range  Cattle. 


away  with  him.     The   effect   of  this 
apparition  on  the  cattle  was  instan- 
taneous.    At    the    first    faint    sound 
they  were  all  on  their  feet, — for  it  is 
a  curious  thing  about  cattle  that  at 
one  second  they  may  be,  half  of  them, 
walking   about,    and   the    other   half 
lying  down,  with  their  heads  pointing 
different  ways,  yet  in  one  instant,  as 
if  at  a  given  signal,  they  will  all  be 
on  their  feet  and   all  going   in   the 
same   direction.     So    it   was  in   this 
case.     The  first  ding-cling  seemed  to 
hold   them   spell-bound,    but    at   the 
second   ring    and    at   the   awful   yell 
which  accompanied  it,  the  whole  mob 
made  one  grand  stampede,  sweeping 
through  the  trees  like  an  avalanche, 
smashing  stumps  and  saplings,  break- 
ing their  own  ribs  and  legs  and  horns, 
leaving  a  wake  of  crippled  beasts  and 
smashed  timber  behind  them,  getting 
wilder  and  more  frantic  as  they  went. 
Right  in  the  front  of  them,  sick  with 
fear,    with   his    head   buried    in    his 
horse's  neck  raced  young  Red  Mick, — 
the  man  who  didn't  believe  in  ghosts  ! 
Away   across    the   plain    by   himself 
spurring    his   horse   like    a   madman 
sped  Silent  Jim,  silent  no  longer  but 
making  the  plain  echo  with  his  yells. 
In  less   than  ten  seconds   the  whole 
thing  was  over, — men  and  cattle  were 
out  of  sight  and  out  of  hearing,  except 
for   a    dull    roar   where    the    beasts 
crashed    through    the    scrub.       The 
ghostly  visitor  had  swept  on    at   in- 
credible   speed,  keeping  to  the  main 
road  and  his  ding-ding  dying  away  in 
the  distance ;  the  old  man,  cowering 
in  the  cart,  was  the  only  living  thing 
left  on    Dead   Man's  Camp,    and    he 
only  stayed  there  because  he  had  no 
horse  to  ride,  and  was  too  paralysed 
with  fear  to  run. 

All  night  long  he  sat  and  shivered 
in  the  cart ;  at  dawn  a  wan  figure  on 
a  terrified  horse  came  circling  about 
the  horizon  till  the  old  man  gathered 


courage  with  the  daylight,  and  waved 
it  up.     It  was  young  Mick,  and  later 
on    Silent   Jim   also    cast    up,    more 
silent    than    ever ;     neither    of    the 
blacks  folk,  nor  their  horse,  was  ever 
seen  again.     It  is  supposed  that  they 
either  rode  into  a  gully  in  the  night 
and   were  killed,  or   else  they  never 
stopped  going  till  they  got  right  away 
out  of  civilisation  altogether.      Only 
about  half   the   cattle  were  ever  re- 
covered.    The  rest  were  killed,  crip- 
pled,  lost,   or   stolen ;    and   the   half 
that  were  recovered  were  so    shaken 
and  terrified  that  if  a  bird  chirruped 
in  the  night  they  would  be  off  their 
camp,    and     they    were    accordingly 
sold  to  the  first    local   squatter    who 
made  an    offer  for    them.     The   Con- 
roys,  father  and  son,  have  a  kind  of 
mysterious  elation    in    the   fact  that 
they  had   been  privileged  to  see  the 
murderer  of   the    Pikes  going  off  to 
punishment  in  the  devil's  own  patent 
horseless  carriage.   On  this  point  there 
could  be   no   mistake,  because   there 
were  the   wheel-tracks    clear    enough 
but  never  the  mark  of  a  horse's  foot ; 
and  a  faint  smell  of  petroleum  that 
lingered  about    the   lagoon  for  some 
hours  was    ample  testimony, — if  any 
were  needed — as  to  the  supernatural 
character  of  the  vision. 

The  Conroys  gave  up  droving  after 
this,  and  settled  down  on  their  farms 
in  the  mountains.  They  never  see 
any  English  papers,  which  is  a  pity  as 
they  might  have  been  interested  in  an 
article  called  THE  FIRST  MOTOR-CAR 
IN  THE  BACK-BLOCKS  in  which  occurs 
this  passage :  "  The  appearance  of 
the  car  at  night,  and  the  ringing  of 
the  bell  and  the  sounding  of  the 
alarm,  caused  quite  a  commotion 
among  a  lot  of  cattle  which  were 
sleeping  by  the  wayside  under  the 
care  of  their  stockmen." 

A.  B.  PATERSON. 


279 


RED    TORCHES    AND    WHITE. 


THE  literature  of  the  open  air  and 
the  literature  of  fictitious  psychology 
run  a  close  race  to-day  for  public 
favour.  The  bulk  indeed  is  not 
large,  but  the  books  on  either  side 
win  attention  and  carry  a  far-reaching 
influence.  The  exponents  of  beauty 
and  the  anatomists  of  deformity  bid 
each  for  a  hearing,  as  did  nearly  three 
hundred  years  ago  certain  pure  lovers 
of  Nature  and  a  brotherhood  of  writers 
who  were  frankly  licentious  in  their 
tastes.  Yet  then  as  now  a  clean  and 
true  spirit  asserted  itself  against  the 
unchaste  and  unsound.  To  hold  up 
the  white  torch  of  Nature  in  her  own 
world  is  ever  the  vocation  of  those 
who,  living  in  that  world,  find  it  full 
of  light  and  beauty,  of  freshness,  and 
strength,  and  rest.  The  antithetical 
school,  from  other  perceptions,  make 
a  study  of  the  ugly,  mysterious,  or 
tragic  features  of  human  nature,  trac- 
ing relentless  delineations  of  character 
(commonly  feminine)  with  the  pre- 
sentment of  bizarre  personalities,  till 
the  very  word  bizarre,  following  a 
suggestive  title,  gives  promise  of  a 
study  of  the  lower  nature,  and  casts 
a  flash  of  scarlet  upon  the  imagination. 

Not  long  ago  some  women  of  leisure 
made  a  fashionable  occupation  of  what 
was  known  in  the  cant  of  the  day  as 
slumming.  It  was  a  piquant  inspec- 
tion of  squalid  corners.  To  inter- 
pose a  "  slummy  afternoon  "  between 
luncheon  and  dinner  gave  an  excite- 
ment and  shock  to  the  nerves  that 
was  pleasantly  allayed  by  the  after 
contrast  with  refinement.  Now, 
through  the  same  intent,  what  may 
be  called  mental  slumming  has  a 
vogue,  and  women  of  the  hour  make 


pastime  with  sexual  problems  and 
social  questions  as  their  great-grand- 
mothers did  with  the  strings  of  their 
harps  and  the  silks  of  their  tambour-, 
frames.  It  is  true  that  in  those  times 
there  were  pioneers,  at  whom  some 
shook  their  side-curls  about  their  faces, 
and  cried  fie  !  while  yet  a  few  pursued 
their  noble  way  superior  alike  to  folly 
and  to  weakness, — for  nothing  is  new 
in  human  nature  but  the  manner  of 
its  expression.  The  first  pioneer  was 
Eve,  not  only  by  primogeniture,  but 
by  her  desire  to  know,  a  characteristic 
that  cost  her  Paradise,  as  it  has  cost 
many  of  her  daughters  their  happi- 
ness since.  After  her  we  may  trace 
a  succession  of  like  spirits  throughout 
the  ages,  but  at  certain  epochs  some 
marked  craze  has  broken  out  and  run 
its  course  to  extinction,  and  while  it 
lasted  it  drew  about  every  twentieth 
woman  into  the  excitement  of  the 
pioneering  it  called  for,  if  she  did  not 
actually  become  a  pioneer. 

When  the  history  of  mental  epi- 
demics is  written  it  will  be  seen  that 
never  have  women  appeared  to  less 
advantage  than  in  this  craze  of 
psychology.  Zola,  Ibsen,  and  others, 
who  make  of  humanity  one  huge 
muck-heap,  lead  a  train  of  them  in 
their  wake,  peering  into  dark  places 
to  find  curiosities  of  wickedness  or 
perversion,  and  incontinently  putting 
their  discoveries  into  print,  when  they 
vie  one  with  another  in  the  distaste- 
ful pictures  they  present  of  their  own 
sex. 

Such  employment  may  be  called 
mental  slumming,  and  it  is  worse 
than  the  parish  slumming  because 
that  often  led  to  altruism  and  useful- 


280 


Red  Torches  and  White. 


ness,  while  this  makes  for  egotism 
and  all  uncharitableness.  And  the 
books  "  teach  men  so."  "  I  wonder 
if  people  realise  how  dangerous  they 
may  be  in  their  writings,"  says  Lady 
Locke  in  THE  GREEN  CARNATION. 
"  One  has  to  choose  between  being 
dangerous  and  being  dull,"  she  is 
answered.  Pioneers  must  be  heard 
one  above  the  other,  and  there  are 
many  in  the  field,  so  their  books  are 
not  dull  any  more  than  they  are 
sound  or  honest.  Thoreau,  out  of 
his  WALDEN,  in  the  spirit  of  whole- 
some nature,  expresses  the  effect  of 
literature  upon  the  normal  mind  when 
he  says :  "  All  health  and  success 
does  me  good,  however  far  off  and 
withdrawn  it  may  appear ;  all  disease 
and  failure  helps  to  make  me  sad  and 
does  me  evil,  however  much  sympathy 
it  may  have  with  me  or  I  with  it." 

Apart  from  the  personal  result  in 
money  and  notoriety  of  fictitious 
psychology,  what  purpose  does  it 
serve?  Its  authors  would  say  they 
open  subjects  which  must  be  faced. 
But  if  Ibsen  and  his  followers  prove 
anything  they  prove  that  these  ques- 
tions could  hardly  arise  but  for  a 
previous  swerving  of  the  individual 
from  the  standard  of  right  and 
honour.  Consider  THE  DOLL'S  HOUSE. 
Questions  that  involve  the  denial  of 
God,  of  the  recognised  virtues,  or  of  a 
Supreme  Power  over  the  life  of  man, 
are  best  answered  by  the  results  of 
the  situations  the  questioners  imagine 
for  the  actors  in  their  dramas.  So 
much  for  atheistic  individualism.  Let 
each  man's  opinion  be  what  it  may, 
he  must  at  least  allow  that  the  well- 
being  of  the  community  is  implied  in 
St.  Augustine's  precept,  "  Love  God 
and  do  as  you  please."  With  self  in 
the  seat  of  God,  self  ruled  by  the 
senses,  self  absolved  from  all  moral 
law,  what  promise  is  given  for  the 
world's  f uture  1  Yet  what  bizarre 
situations  are  supposed,  what  attrac- 


tive demonstrations  against  conven- 
tion both  social  and  religious,  what 
likeable  characteristics  in  the  Devil's 
disciples,  what  justifications  of  ego- 
tism. So  specious  are  some  of  the 
arguments  that  we  recall  by  an  effort 
the  beginning  of  things,  when  the 
first  Egotist  set  himself  in  opposition 
to  God,  yet  could  not  by  rebellion 
achieve  independence,  nor  in  the 
after-time  entirely  corrupt  the  world. 
His  own  kingdom  is  the  realisation 
of  individualism.  Nothing,  indeed, 
brings  out  more  strongly  the  happi- 
ness of  solidarity  and  the  misery  of 
individualism  than  our  conception  of 
the  constitution  of  Heaven  and  of 
Hell.  The  Place  where  the  joy  of  one 
will  be  the  joy  of  all  contrasts  with 
the  Place  where  the  misery  of  one 
will  be  independent  of  the  misery  of 
all. 

But  the  psychologic,  or  realistic, 
or  individualistic  novel  is  not  only 
written  upon  slippery  premises,  it 
has  also  the  disadvantage  of  being 
profoundly  dispiriting  in  its  present- 
ment of  life.  Why,  while  we  pas- 
sionately desire  happiness  should  we 
persistently  regard  sorrow,  and  ignore 
that  realism  must  have  its  sunlit 
scenes  (even  if  they  cannot  be  put 
upon  paper)  as  well  as  its  murky 
twilights  ?  Why  should  we  generally 
mean  something  nasty  or  boding  when 
we  proclaim  psychology,  forgetting 
that  the  World-Tree  has  beautiful 
dew-dropping  branches  that  are  still 
fresh,  still  inspiring,  despite  the  age- 
long gnawing  of  beasts  at  its  trunk 
and  of  Nidhogg  at  its  roots  1  Why 
should  we  call  a  spade  a  spade  where 
the  mention  of  one  at  all  is  at  least 
unnecessary,  and  why  should  we  talk 
of  facing  things,  when  we  look  at 
them  only  through  prepared  peep- 
holes as  at  a  Wiertz  show  ?  Women, 
— the  pity  of  it ! — provide  some  of 
these,  by  which  we  see  merciless 
travesties  of  their  own  hearts, — the 


Red  Torches  and  White. 


281 


heart  of  womanhood — displayed  for 
the  world  to  jeer  at. 

As  hearts  laid  bare  such  pictures 
are  too  often  accepted,  but  they 
resemble  an  autopsy  only  in  their 
loathsomeness ;  they  are  not  real. 
And  the  same  may  be  said  of  morbid 
diaries,  letters,  and  auto-delineations. 
No  one  betrays,  consciously,  the  secret 
of  his  heart.  The  heart  jealously 
guards  its  innermost  intent  even  from 
the  mind  in  the  same  body.  It  may 
be, — it  often  is — surprised  ;  it  is 
never  unlocked.  The  beings  we  see 
through  peep-holes  of  their  own  mak- 
ing afford  studies  of  minds  that, 
under  the  defect  of  physical  degenera- 
tion, should  figure  only  in  technical 
treatises ;  through  the  peep-holes  of 
fiction  they  bear  as  much  relation  to 
flesh  and  blood  as  did  Frankenstein's 
monster,  and  the  value  of  their  pre- 
sentment is  naught. 

Apart  from  unhealthy  sensation, 
far  better  material  for  thought  may 
be  found  in  the  characters  of  men  and 
women  who  were  actual  psychological 
phenomena.  Take  Cowper,  Shelley, 
Mme.  Guyon,  Robespierre,  and  count- 
less personages  of  absorbing  interest. 
So  may  be  seen  the  true  proportion 
of  other  lives  to  one  life,  with  the 
full  value  of  the  circumstances  that 
beset  it  for  good  and  ill.  In  fiction, 
where  the  author  plays  the  part  of 
a  creative  providence,  everything  his 
imagination  sets  down  is  out  of  a 
phase  of  his  own  individuality.  It  is 
like  a  man  playing  chess  with  him- 
self. In  other  words  his  creations 
are  peculiar  to  himself,  and  are  not 
in  the  least  like  the  creations  of 
anyone  else,  unless  through  imita- 
tion. Even  when  they  are  after  his 
idea  of  some  real  personality,  they 
are  still  strictly  within  the  bounds  of 
his  conception  of  that  personality. 
The  Realist,  like  many  a  consulting 
physician,  looks  for  the  manifestations 
of  the  special  disorder  that  his  brain 


has  been  occupied  with,  and  his  work- 
ing field  grows  to  a  length  and 
breadth  that  threatens  to  represent 
to  himself  humanity  in  full.  As 
Max  ISTordau  puts  it  in  an  extreme 
instance  : 

A  Zola,  filled  from  the  outset  with 
organically  unpleasant  sensations,  per- 
ceives in  the  world  those  phenomena 
alone  which  accord  with  his  organically 
fundamental  disposition,  and  does  not 
notice,  or  take  into  consideration  those 
which  differ  from,  or  contradict  it.  .  .  . 
Zola's  novels  do  not  prove  that  things 
are  badly  managed  in  this  world,  but 
merely  that  Zola's  nervous  system  is  out 
of  order. 

It  is  different  with  real  lives ;  only 
as  we  glean  them  it  is  more  en- 
lightening to  read  last  of  all  such  of 
a  man's  works  as  were  written  to 
impress  the  public  with  his  own  per- 
sonality, because  these  are  naturally 
exaggerations  of  himself.  Sometimes 
people  remain  enigmas  for  the  reason 
that  we  have  no  other  personal  testi- 
mony of  their  characters  than  their 
self-conscious  writings.  Marie  Bash- 
kirtseffs  journal  was  written  for  the 
public  eye.  She  had  admittedly  the 
desire  to  present  a  unique  personality 
to  fame,  and  while  she  wrote  that 
end  was  in  view.  She  took  care 
never  to  be  dull.  Her  aim  was  to 
leave  her  woman's  mark  on  her  times, 
that  her  name  might  "  not  be  barely 
inscribed  on  her  tombstone."  What 
was  her  innermost  self?  We  know 
little  more  than  the  froth  of  her.  It 
is  only  certain  that  she  was  brilliantly 
clever,  with  an  immense  desire  to 
be  thought  so,  and  that  she  had 
(with  Mr.  Shaw's  permission)  a  very 
womanly  disposition,  in  spite  of,  and 
partly  by  virtue  of,  her  attempt  to 
hide  it.  Surely  all  confessions  and 
most  autobiographies  are  poses  ;  the 
inevitable  exaggeration  of  a  man's 
consciousness  of  his  attitude  towards 
his  public.  There  must,  naturally, 


282 


Red  Torches  and  White. 


be  an  attitude.  It  is  a  garment  for 
the  mind — a  bolt  for  the  door — a 
curtain  before  the  window.  To  have 
none  is  to  be  at  some  disadvantage 
in  the  world.  No  doubt  Robinson 
Crusoe  posed  a  little  for  Man  Friday. 

But  enough  of  literature  that  is 
far  more  disquieting  in  its  nature 
than  the  old  sensational  novel  full 
of  unslaked  horrors,  whose  theme  was 
of  impulsive  action  rather  than  of 
closely  analysed  motive.  We  still 
have  clean  fiction,  the  work  of  men 
and  women  who  are  artists,  but  it  is 
beside  the  purpose  of  this  paper  to 
touch  upon  it,  or  to  recall  the  classic 
novels  of  the  first  half  of  the  last 
century.  The  psychological  novel  was 
not  then  known  in  England,  and  few 
of  those  who  feed  their  imagination 
upon  it  would  have  an  appetite  for 
WAVERLEY  or  THE  NEWCOMES. 

The  natural  rebound  from  unwhole- 
some human  nature  should  be  healthy 
wild  nature.  A  friend,  in  speaking 
to  the  writer,  lately  denounced  the 
newest  indecency  of  one  of  our  female 
novelists  and  then  said,  not  inconse- 
quently :  "  Have  you  read  ELIZABETH 
AND  HER  GERMAN  GARDEN  ? "  It  was 
like  sweet  washing  water  to  the  mind 
after  contact  with  unsanitariness  of 
thought. 

Whenever  we  will  we  may  dwell 
upon  some  sunless  aspect  of  misery. 
But  where  in  literature  is  unalloyed 
happiness  to  be  seen  ?  Human  his- 
tories do  not  show  it.  In  fiction  it 
is  (or  was)  suggested  in  the  last 
chapter,  as  fairy  tales  proclaim  in 
six  final  words, — "  And  they  lived 
happily  ever  after."  No  one  will 
aiise,  as  Mr.  Hubert  Crackenthorpe 
proposed,  to  satisfy  us  with  a  "  study 
of  human  happiness  as  fine,  as  vital, 
as  anything  we  owe  to  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant or  to  Ibsen."  To  begin,  we 
must  translate  happiness  into  a  larger 
term  to  compare  with  these  authors' 
fine  and  vital  studies  of  misery,  and 


language  has  coined  no  such  word  for 
our  use.  Happiness  springs  from  no 
vital  spark.  It  is  a  calm,  if  not  a 
philosophical,  state  of  mind  induced' 
by  a  combination  of  fortuitous  cir- 
cumstances. Serenity  might  express 
it.  Etymologically,  it  approaches  us 
from  outside  in  the  garb  of  luck  or 
chance,  and  we  grasp  it  and  make  it 
our  own.  Joy,  on  the  other  hand, 
springs  within  and  is  like  the  leaping 
of  a  flame,  the  glow  of  a  blush.  It  is 
no  state  to  be  analysed,  and  classified, 
and  preserved  without  complete  loss 
of  colour  and  perfume.  We  cannot 
go  on  feeling  joy  ;  where  it  becomes 
more  than  a  hint  of  possibilities,  it 
kills.  When  Adam  and  Eve  were 
barred  out  of  Paradise  surely  joy  was 
barred  in,  that  it  might  nevermore 
visit  humanity  as  a  state,  but  only  as 
a  recollection,  or  a  rainbow  token  of 
a  promise  to  be  fulfilled  hereafter.  By 
these  tokens  alone  can  we  receive  the 
saying:  "Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear 
heard,  neither  have  entered  into  the 
heart  of  man  the  things  which  God 
hath  prepared  for  them  that  love 
Him."  Without  the  word  joy  there 
is  no  key  to  this  exalted  language, 
and  but  for  our  brief  gleams  of  the 
thing  signified,  we  could  never  sur- 
mise that  some  conception  might  be 
so  much  above  our  minds  and  experi- 
ence. In  speaking  of  temporal  things 
it  may  be  noted  that  the  inspired 
writers  use  the  phrase  "joy  and  glad- 
ness "  as  who  should  say  that  ecstasy 
must  give  place  to  the  more  enduring 
feeling.  Of  eternal  things  they  say, 
"  fulness  of  joy,"  "  everlasting  joy," 
joy  that  cannot  be  conceived.  And 
out  of  this  difference  we  get  the  force 
of  the  promise  that  everlasting  joy 
will  crown  those  who  enter  into  that 
new  Eden,  where  pain  and  sorrow 
and  sighing  shall  have  no  place.  Joy 
will  be  "  upon  their  heads," — no  dia- 
dem to  be  put  on  and  off,  but  to 
be  worn  always,  as  kings  and  queens 


Bed  Torches  and  White. 


283 


wear  their  crowns  in  dreams  of  child- 
land. 

The  realists  have  branded  joy  as 
inartistic,  but  is  not  that  because 
they,  above  all  others,  both  lack  the 
colours  wherewith  to  paint  it,  and 
the  ability  wherewith  to  conceive  it  1 
Neither  realistic  pessimism  nor  mental 
slumming  foster  a  state  able  to  reflect 
gleams  of  illumination  from  the  land 
that  is  very  far  off.  How  should 
those  who  batten  upon  rottenness  in 
humanity  have  gleams  of  a  beauty 
that  belongs  to  a  "  land  of  good 
beyond  the  reach  of  sense  "  ? 

The  word  joy  has  suffered  great 
misuse.  It  is  consecrated  to  the 
highest  and  holiest  emotions  that 
can  be  felt ;  yet  we  are  overjoyed  to 
see  an  acquaintance,  or  to  recover  a 
lost  thimble !  Again,  thoughtfully 
speaking,  unholy  joy  is  a  most  inde- 
fensible expression.  The  word  mirth 
is  at  our  service  ;  cannot  joy  be  left 
to  express  the  "  consecration  and 
the  poet's  dream  "  ?  Assuredly  it  is 
no  subject  to  invite  the  handling  of 
the  realists,  nor  can  the  practical 
moralists  please  our  taste  when  they 
descant  upon  happiness  that  is  like 
a  perpetual  pleasure-party  with  dishes, 
dresses,  and  love-making. 

But  why  should  we  seek  studies 
of  human  happiness  in  a  setting  of 
chairs,  tables,  and  dress,  when  the 
ministers  of  joy  in  Nature  are  always 
trying  to  touch  our  imaginations  with 
their  own  delights,  calling  importun- 
ately upon  us  to  seek  the  fount  of 
their  own  inspiration  ?  It  is  this 
earnest  desire  of  the  inspired  to  open 
minds  in  their  early  freshness  to  the 
perception  of  the  truest  source  of 
gladness,  that  led  Jefferies,  Kingsley, 
Macdonald  and  many  others  to  bend 
their  great  faculties  to  the  level  of  a 
little  child's  understanding. 

"If,"  writes  Richard  Jefferies  in 
DEWY  MORN,  "  you  wish  your  chil- 
dren to  think  deep  things,  to  know 


the  holiest  emotions,  take  them  to 
the  woods  and  hills  and  give  them 
the  freedom  of  the  meadows."  And 
what  is  true  for  children  is  no  less 
true  for  those  of  larger  growth,  only 
they  must  possess  one  characteristic 
of  childhood,  namely,  an  inclination 
towards  "  whatsoever  things  are  pure, 
whatsoever  things  are  lovely."  All 
worshippers  of  wild  Nature  know 
that  she  both  demands  purity  in  her 
lovers  and  confers  it  upon  them. 
She  is  pure  and  wholesome  and  she 
lets  her  children  feel  it,  revolting 
from  such  as  are  perverse  and  un- 
clean. A  pure  mind  goes  to  the 
inner  seeing  of  Nature,  even  as  a 
pure  heart  is  necessary  to  see 
Nature's  God.  It  is  a  pretty  re- 
flection that  Jefferies  takes  from 
the  leaf  of  the  iris  :  "  Pure,"  he  says, 
"  is  the  colour  of  the  green  flags,  the 
slender,  pointed  blades,  —  let  the 
thought  be  pure  as  the  light  that 
shines  through  that  colour."  May 
we  not  also  see  in  the  white  iris,  the 
flower  of  light  (laflambe  blanche),  an 
emblem  of  the  candid  literature  of 
clean  Nature  as  it  shines  forth 
against  the  scarlet  of  that  torch  that 
would  make  inquisition  into  the  dark 
corners  of  human  hearts  and  minds  ? 

Of  the  joy  that  interprets  itself  to 
the  naturalist  let  Richard  Jefferies 
speak  once  more,  out  of  his  great  heart- 
picture  THE  PAGEANT  OP  SUMMER  : 

I  seem  as  if  I  could  feel  all  the  glowing 
life  the  sunshine  gives  and  the  south 
wind  calls  into  being.  The  endless  grass, 
the  endless  leaves,  the  immense  strength 
of  the  oak  expanding,  the  unalloyed  joy 
of  finch  and  blackbird ;  from  all  of  them 
I  receive  a  little.  Each  gives  me  some- 
thing of  the  pure  joy  they  gather  for 
themselves.  In  the  blackbird's  melody 
one  note  is  mine ;  in  the  dance  of  the 
leaf  shadows  the  formed  maze  is  for  me, 
though  the  motion  is  theirs ;  the  flowers 
with  a  thousand  faces  have  collected  the 
kisses  of  the  morning.  Feeling  with 
them,  I  receive  some,  at  least,  of  then- 
fulness  of  life. 


284 


Red  Torches  and  White. 


Here  is  an  arch-minister  -of  the 
woods,  lanes,  and  meadows,  as  they 
appear  in  sun  and  cloud,  in  summer 
and  winter,  in  sabbath  stillness  and 
weekday  stir.  Has  he  missed  one 
beauty  of  the  flower,  or  one  movement 
in  the  wood,  or  one  note  in  the  song 
of  the  bird  ?  Alas,  that  a  corner  of 
earth's  mantle  should  now  cover  him, 
sleeping,  with  all  that  he  might  yet 
have  told  us  out  of  his  fervent  mind  ! 
For  himself  he  lived  long  enough: 
"To  see,"  he  says,  "so  clearly,  is  to 
value  so  highly,  and  to  feel  too 
deeply."  The  enemy  had  sown  tares 
in  his  field.  His  life  was  one  of 
suffering.  He  was  saddened  by  the 
apparent  contradictions  of  a  world 
that  is  not  Eden,  and  his  keen  sur- 
mise of  a  joy  existent  beyond  all  joy 
that  mortal  mind  can  conceive,  made 
him  restless  with  desire  unrealised. 

It  is,  no  doubt,  our  ever-growing 
refinement  that  makes  us  so  sensitive 
to  seeming  contradictions,  and  to  pain 
in  human,  or  wild,  nature.  All  suf- 
fering,— one  might  almost  say  all 
discomfort — offends  our  pampered 
nerves,  till  we  are  tempted  to  deny 
God  because  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse. 
These  temptations  could  never  beset 
a  hardy  people,  who  habitually  held 
their  very  lives  upon  the  tenure  of 
a  day ;  nor  is  it  likely  that  the  Lady 
Jane  Greys,  and  the  Mistress  Eliza- 
beth Pastons,  who  were  treated  daily 
by  their  parents  to  "  nips  and  bobs  " 
and  occasional  broken  heads,  ever 
dreamed  of  disaffection  to  God  on 
account  of  worldly  misery.  In  elimi- 
nating barbarity  we  seem  also  to  have 
eliminated  much  of  our  stalwartness 
of  mind.  Our  sense  of  proportion  is 
weakened,  and  the  Merry  England 
of  plague,  tyrannies,  and  hard  child- 
government  is  become  pessimistic  in 
the  day  of  her  emancipation  from  all 
these  things. 


Shall  we  ever  again  enter  into  the 
true  inheritance  of  the  earth,  now  so 
rich  with  accumulated  treasure  ?  Ours 
are  the  harvests  of  many  labourers, 
some  sad  and  some  glad,  but  all  pure 
and  all  beautiful.  Open  to  us  are  the 
immemorial  windows  whence,  looking 
eastward,  we  may  forget  the  ugly 
things  of  the  night  of  human  life,  or 
be  led  to  regard  them  luminous- eyed. 
Nature  is  the  nurse  of  gladness,  and 
the  mother  of  the  ideal  as  of  the  true. 
Let  realists  scoff  at  our  highest  poets 
and  their  "  respectable  ideals " ;  we 
await  their  own  quota  of  pleasure  to 
aid  the  balance  life  is  always  trying 
to  strike  with  sorrow.  Deep  in  every 
heart  is  the  conviction  that  humanity 
will  never  give  up  its  standards. 
Nature  must  inspire  ideals  while  the 
world  lasts.  A  subtle  influence  is 
even  now  working  against  that  which 
is  unnatural  and  opposed  to  beauty. 
The  very  fashion  of  bilious  literature 
now  prevailing  commands  a  counter 
supply  of  books  of  the  fresh  air,  just 
as  the  late  conditions  of  life  called 
forth  their  antithesis  of  athletic 
exercise  and  outdoor  professions  for 
women.  Part  of  life's  mystery  lies 
in  counter  influences,  which  are  seen 
to  bear  upon  the  race  as  upon  the 
individual.  Just  now  we  all  want 
more  fresh  air,  a  more  healthy,  less 
oblique  outlook,  a  toning  up,  so  to 
speak,  of  minds  and  bodies.  The 
reaction  has  begun.  Books  that  treat 
of  Nature  will  not  fail  to  receive  their 
welcome,  and  do  their  lasting  work, — 
whether  it  be  the  poetry  of  Nature 
or  the  principles  of  gardening,  the 
records  of  a  new  Gilbert  White  or 
Isaac  Walton,  or  the  flower-coloured, 
fresh-air  musings  of  a  daughter  of  the 
sun  like  "  Elizabeth."  These  all  hold 
the  white  torch ;  in  its  light  they 
were  written  and  by  its  light  they 
will  be  read. 


285 


DID    NAPOLEON    MEAN    TO    INVADE    ENGLAND? 


AT  the  end  of  the  twenty-first  book 
of  the  HISTORY  OP  THE  CONSULATE 
AND  THE  EMPIRE,  M.  Thiers  devotes 
a  few  words  to  "  certain  people  who 
will  look  for  mysteries  where  there 
are  none,"  and  who  had  persuaded 
themselves  that  Napoleon's  great 
scheme  for  the  invasion  of  this 
country  was  only  a  feint.  He  dis- 
missed their  super-subtle  interpre- 
tation of  his  hero's  actions  as  a 
mare's-nest.  Nearly  a  thousand  letters 
of  the  Emperor  and  his  ministers 
leave  no  doubt  on  the  subject  in  the 
opinion  of  M.  Thiers,  and  he  decided 
that  the  invasion  was  "  a  serious 
enterprise  pursued  during  several 
years  with  genuine  passion,"  No- 
body who  has  gone  to  the  real 
authority,  that  is  to  say,  to  the  cor- 
respondence of  the  Emperor  and  his 
subordinates,  will  think  the  figure 
named  by  M.  Thiers  exaggerated. 
These  letters  were  not  meant  for 
publication,  or  to  throw  dust  in  the 
eyes  of  dupes  in  London  and  Paris. 
They  are  confidential  papers,  and  they 
are  full  of  the  most  minute  directions 
for  the  armament  and  organisation  of 
troops,  the  purchase  of  material,  the 
construction  of  transports  and  fight- 
ing vessels,  the  movements  of  fleets. 
The  certain  people  who  will  find 
mysteries  at  all  costs,  wish  us  to 
believe  Napoleon  went  through  all 
this  toil  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
frighten  England,  and  mislead  Austria 
as  to  the  use  he  meant  to  make  of 
his  army.  M.  Thiers  had  too  much 
academic  urbanity  to  say  with  Carlyle 
"  to  scrubby  apprentices  of  tender 
years  these  things  may  be  credible, 
to  me  they  are  not  credible  ; "  but 


he  was  equally  unable  to  accept  wire- 
drawn explanations  of  a  policy  which 
is  consistent  and  intelligible  enough 
if  only  it  is  allowed  to  have  meant 
just  what  it  professed  to  mean. 

But  the  scepticism  of  the  ingenious 
persons  who  will  persist  in  trying  to 
produce  better  bread  than  can  be 
made  out  of  wheat,  as  Sancho  Panza 
would  have  put  it,  has  not  been 
silenced  even  by  the  publication  of 
the  Emperor's  correspondence.  Its 
endurance  can  be  understood  when 
we  remember  how  rarely  men  judge 
by  the  evidence  only.  The  common 
delusion  that  it  is  always  clever  to 
assert  the  contrary  of  a  general 
belief  accounts  for  much.  At  all 
times  we  meet  would-be  clever  fellows 
who  find  it  obvious  to  milk  the  cow, 
and  strive  to  impress  us  with  the 
brilliancy  of  trying  to  milk  the  bull. 
English  naval  officers  who  are  con- 
vinced of  the  physical  impossibility  of 
success,  and  clear-headed  politicians 
who  realise  the  awful  risks,  have 
from  the  first  doubted  whether  so 
great  a  military  conqueror  as  Napo- 
leon could  have  meant  to  launch  on 
what  they  are  persuaded  would  have 
been  a  ruinous  adventure.  Metternich 
is  the  weightiest  witness  among  the 
second  class  of  unbelievers.  The  late 
Admiral  Colomb  and  Admiral  Sir  R. 
Vesey  Hamilton  have  in  recent  times 
spoken  for  the  sea-officers,  and  have 
both  shown  themselves  extremely  re- 
luctant to  believe  that  the  scheme  of 
invasion  was  more  than  a  mere  scare- 
crow. The  case  for  the  negative  has 
been  very  fairly  stated  by  Mr.  Sloane, " 
the  author  of  the  latest  Life  of  Napo- 
leon. He  himself  is  among  those  who 


286 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England? 


think  the  endless  bustle  of  preparation 
at  Boulogne,   and  the  elaborate  plot 
for  bringing  a  strong  naval  force  into 
the   Channel,   were   only   screens    to 
cover   the   formation  of  an  army   to 
be  used  against  Austria.     After  com- 
menting on  the  manifest   truth  that 
if  Napoleon  had  landed  he  would  have 
been   cut    off    from    France    by   the 
concentration  of  the  British  fleet,  he 
states  the  grounds  on  which  he  holds 
this    belief.     They   are    substantially 
these  :  that  Napoleon  at  various  times 
asserted  that  he  never  meant  to  carry 
the    invasion     out ;     that    Miot    de 
Melito   and    Metternich   thought    he 
did  not ;  that  he  gave  scant  encour- 
agement to   Fulton,    the   inventor  of 
the  marine  steam-engine,  the  implied 
premiss   being    that    he    would    have 
made   more   use   of  the  new   idea  if 
he  had  been  seriously  intent  on  the 
venture ;   and   that   the   preparations 
were  made  on  a  great  scale  in  order 
to  deceive  so  sagacious  a  people  as  the 
English.     With  the  exception  of  the 
last,  these  reasons  are  extremely  weak. 
Napoleon  was  so  constant  a  liar  in 
word   and   deed   that  his    assertions, 
or  his  silence  where  a  truthful  man 
would  have  spoken,  are  alike  worthless 
as  evidence  when  taken  by  themselves. 
The  opinion  of  Miot  de  Melito  has  no 
weight.     In  his  memoirs  he  says  that 
everybody  did  believe  in  the  invasion, 
and  that  doubts  only  arose  in  later 
years  in    the    minds    of  himself   and 
others.     The  Emperor  was  infallible, 
and  the  scheme  failed.     Therefore  it 
was  no  scheme  of    his.     This  is  the 
reasoning  of  Miot  de  Melito,   and  it 
leads,  when  applied  all  round,  to  the 
remarkable     result    that    the     great 
man  never  went  to  Egypt,  never  made 
his    grab    at    Spain,    never    invaded 
Russia,  never  tried  to  hold   the  line 
of    the    Elbe    in     1813,    and    never 
played  the  stake  of  a  frantic  gambler 
at  Waterloo.     Such  pleas  are  for  the 
scrubby  apprentice  of  tender  years. 


Metternich    was    indeed    a    strong 
man,    and   his   mature    conviction   is 
not  to  be  lightly  dismissed.     But  we 
have  to  consider  how  it  was  formed 
and    confirmed.     We    know    on    his 
own  authority,  which  may  be  accepted 
without  hesitation,  for  his  honour  was 
unimpeachable,  that  he  never  thought 
Napoleon  capable  of  endeavouring  to 
cross  the  Channel.     In    1810,  when 
he  was  in  Paris  after  the   Austrian 
marriage,  he  told  the  Emperor,  while 
they  were  driving  together,  that  this 
had  always  been  his  view,  and    was 
assured  that  he  was  right.     To  this, 
however,  it  has  to  be  answered  that 
one  of   the  elements  of  Metternich's 
strength    was    a   serene  trust   in    his 
own   infallible   insight,   and  that  his 
host    was    a    master    in    the    art    of 
flattery,    when   he   chose,    and    when 
it  was  not  his  cue  to  hector.     "  Ah, 
M.  de  Metternich,  it  is  vain  to  try 
to  deceive  you,"  was  the  delicate  thing 
to    say    in    one    form    of    words    or 
another,  since   it  suited   the  purpose 
in    hand    to    please    the    confidential 
minister   of    his    father-in-law.     Met- 
ternich,  too,   had   stood  upon   Afton 
Down  in  1794,  and  had  watched  Lord 
Howe's  fleet  and  convoy  go  out  from 
the  Solent  and  St.  Helens.     He  had 
been    profoundly    impressed    by    the 
spectacle,  and  could  not  believe  that 
Napoleon   would  put   himself   in  the 
way  of   this    mighty   force.     Yet  he 
acknowledges  that  the  Emperor  was 
not  only  utterly  ignorant  of  the  real 
condition   of    England,    but    was   im- 
pervious to  instruction  on  the  subject. 
He  forgot,  too,  that  he  had  seen  this 
man  during  the    campaign    of    1813 
raging  in  blind  fury  against  all  sense, 
and  the  very  first  principles  of  war, 
under  the  influence  of  his  crazy  pas- 
sions and  the  frantic  imaginations  they 
produced.     Metternich,  in  fact,  could 
never  quite  grasp  a  character  so  alien 
to  his  own  cold  sanity.     Something  is 
wanting    in    the    otherwise    masterly 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England? 


287 


portrait  he  drew  of  the  most  reck- 
less adventurer  the  world  had  known. 
Wellington  supplied  the  deficiency 
when  he  called  Bonaparte  Jonathan 
Wild  the  Great, — a  Jonathan  to  be 
sure  with  an  infinite  capability  for 
work,  a  marvellous  capacity  in  pre- 
paring means  for  the  execution  of  his 
designs,  and  intent  not  merely  on 
living  in  defiance  of  Bow  Street,  but 
on  achieving  an  impossible  dominion 
over  the  world. 

Far  too  much  has  been  made  of 
the  neglect  shown  to  Fulton.  One 
must  look  upon  Napoleon  as  silly, 
which  he  certainly  was  not,  before 
supposing,  as  Mr.  Sloane  and  others 
have  done,  that  he  could  not  see  the 
obvious  truth  that  a  generation,  if 
not  two,  must  pass  before  the  marine 
steam-engine  had  got  beyond  the 
experimental  stage,  and  before  men 
enough  could  be  trained  to  make  the 
machines  and  work  them  in  numbers. 
It  was  a  fleet  he  needed,  not  a  single 
vessel,  and  he  could  not  "tarry  the 
grinding."  Some  force  may  indeed 
be  allowed  to  the  contention  that  the 
scale  of  the  apparatus  collected  does 
not  necessarily  prove  that  the  inva- 
sion would  have  been  attempted.  On 
the  supposition  that  the  object  was 
to  frighten  England,  and  persuade 
the  Continent  that  he  was  intent  on 
this  one  enterprise,  something  more 
was  needed  than  had  been  provided 
under  the  old  monarchy  and  before 
the  peace  of  Amiens.  Nothing  in 
Napoleon's  moral  character  would 
have  made  him  hesitate  to  befool  his 
subjects  out  of  their  labour  and  their 
money.  Yet  he  did  not  like  the 
waste  of  military  resources,  and  on 
this  hypothesis  there  was  colossal 
waste.  His  device  too  must  be  added 
to  the  list  of  his  other  failures, 
for  he  did  not  cow  England,  nor  did 
he  deceive  Austria  and  Russia  into 
neglecting  to  increase  their  armies. 
Moreover,  how  are  we  to  account  for 


his  pertinacious  efforts  to  bring  a  fleet 
together  in  the  Channel  where  it 
could  not  have  escaped  our  blows,  if 
he  did  not  look  to  it  to  giro  him  com- 
mand of  the  water  for  a  brief  space  ? 
Here  he  was  coolly  risking  a  part  of 
his  forces  for  no  good.  In  his  other 
deluded  schemes  there  was  a  false 
appearance  of  a  useful  end  to  be 
achieved.  Here  there  would  have 
been  none. 

There  is  a  passage  in  the  corres- 
pondence which  may  enable  us  to 
correct  his  mendacities  of  one  date 
by  those  of  another.  It  had  been 
already  made  public  by  M.  Thiers, 
else  it  would  probably  have  been  kept 
back  by  the  official  editors  under  the 
Second  Empire,  and  left  to  appear 
in  M.  Lecestre's  collection  of  sup- 
pressed papers.  In  the  beginning  of 
1804  the  conspiracy  of  Moreau, 
Pichegru,  and  Georges  Cadoudal  was 
taking  shape.  As  in  a  famous  case 
in  our  own  history  there  was  a  Main 
and  a  By  in  the  plot.  The  Main  was 
a  scheme  for  military  insurrection ; 
the  By  was  one  for  assassination. 
Napoleon  knew  that  something  was 
being  prepared  against  him,  and  the 
encouragement  given  to  his  enemies 
by  England  was  no  secret.  He  was 
very  eager  to  prove  that  the  British 
Government  was  fomenting  civil 
war  in  France,  and  hoped  most 
ardently  to  secure  some  show  of 
evidence  that  it  was  giving  aid  to 
assassins.  Spencer  Smith,  our  minister 
in  Wurtemberg,  and  Drake,  his  col- 
league in  Bavaria,  presented  the 
astute  ruler  of  France  with  his 
opportunity.  Acting  under  general 
directions  from  home  they  engaged, 
with  the  fussy  solemnity  of  diplo- 
matists who  must  be  doing  some- 
thing, in  cobweb  intrigues.  The 
French  revolutionised  Rome,  and 
were  indeed  for  ever  trying  to  injure 
their  enemies  by  promoting  disorders 
in  their  dominions.  Then  why  should 


288 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England  ? 


not  we  do  the  same,  as  Mr.  Burke 
had  recommended?  It  was  excel- 
lently argued,  if  France  had  not  been 
for  the  time  weary  to  death  of  in- 
ternal confusion,  and  if  Napoleon  had 
been  the  Pope. 

He  laid  a  trap  for  them,  and  they 
walked  into  it  with  a  fatuity  one 
could  enjoy  thoroughly  if  they  had 
not  discredited  their  country.  A 
rascal  named  Mehee  de  la  Touche, 
a  hack  police  author,  and  underspur- 
leather  in  much  grimy  plotting  of 
the  revolutionary  epoch,  was  em- 
ployed to  act  as  decoy.  Drake 
believed  him  to  be  a  genuine  traitor, 
and  sent  him  letters  and  money. 
Mehee  was  allowed  to  keep  the  money 
as  his  reward,  and  the  letters  went 
to  Napoleon.  The  answers  were  of 
course  dictated  by  no  less  an  authority 
than  the  First  Consul.  When  the 
game  had  lasted  long  enough  he  ex- 
posed his  dupes.  Before  this  date, 
on  January  24th,  1804,  he  had 
instructed  Mehee  to  tell  the  British 
Minister  at  Munich,  that  well- 
informed  persons  about  the  First 
Consul  knew  the  Boulogne  prepara- 
tions to  be  a  mere  blind.  The  real 
invasion  was  to  be  made  from  Brest 
and  the  Texel,  and  to  be  directed 
against  Ireland.  Though  the  flotilla 
was  costly  it  was  less  wasteful  than 
might  be  supposed,  since  the  vessels 
composing  it  would  all  be  used  for 
trade ;  and  so  on  through  a  long  string 
of  more  or  less  plausible  lies,  neatly 
constructed  to  persuade  Mr.  Drake 
that  he  was  getting  valuable  infor- 
mation. On  the  theory  formed  by 
Metternich,  and  accepted  by  Mr. 
Sloane  and  others,  Napoleon  was 
trying  to  deceive  the  British  Govern- 
ment by  telling  it  the  truth  in  the 
hope  that  it  would  refuse  to  take 
his  word.  It  is  a  device  which  has 
been  used  at  times  with  shining 
success.  Yet  there  was  a  risk  that 
he  would  over-reach  himself,  and 


defeat  his  own  ends  by  quieting  the 
fears  it  was  his  interest  to  inspire. 
If,  however,  he  aimed  at  throwing 
the  British  Government  off  the  scent, 
and  at  turning  its  attention  away 
from  the  real  line  of  invasion,  this  is 
precisely  what  he  would  have  said  ; 
but  then  we  have  to  conclude  that  he 
really  did  mean  to  try  to  land  an 
army  on  the  coast  of  Kent. 

It  is  always  possible  to  make  out 
a  show  of  a  case  on  any  side  by  quot- 
ing isolated  documents  and  actions, 
without  their  correctives  or  connec- 
tions. The  critical  course  is  to  look 
at  the  whole  body  of  the  evidence, 
which  by  no  means  includes  mere 
expressions  of  opinion  on  the  part 
of  spectators  who,  however  honest 
or  sagacious,  were  not  in  a  position 
to  know  the  truth.  The  evidence 
for  or  against  the  sincerity  of 
Napoleon's  intention  to  invade 
England  if  he  could,  must  be 
sought  in  his  confidential  letters 
to  his  officers,  or  ministers,  and  in 
the  complete  series  of  his  actions. 
The  reader  need  be  in  no  doubt 
where  to  go  for  them.  They  are 
all  to  be  found  in  four  volumes  of 
the  Correspondence  published  by 
order  of  Napoleon  the  Third  and 
numbered  eight  to  eleven.  It  is  well 
to  supplement  them  by  the  first 
volume  of  M.  Lecestre's  edition  of  the 
suppressed  papers.  Of  course  there  is 
much  which  has  no  direct  connection 
with  the  invasion.  The  great  ma- 
jority of  the  documents  relate  to 
general  politics  and  to  administra- 
tion. Weighty  despatches  to  the 
King  of  Prussia,  or  the  Landamman 
of  Switzerland  jostle  orders  on  minute 
points.  The  great  man  is  found 
instructing  his  police  to  discover 
what  some  impudent  journalist  meant 
by  letting  the  public  know  that 
a  negro  potentate  in  Hayti  had 
established  a  Legion  of  Honour. 
The  regenerator  of  France  detected 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England .' 


289 


a  gibe  at  his  own  institution,  and 
was  resolved  to  make  an  example. 
No  jokes  were  to  be  suffered  in 
France  except  on  the  legitimate 
subject  of  the  deluded  ignorance 
of  the  blind  islanders  who  dared  to 
oppose  the  great  nation.  M.  Lecestre 
has  kindly  rescued  an  order  for  the 
application  of  the  thumbscrew  to 
recalcitrant  witnesses,  omitted  by 
the  careful  piety  of  Napoleon  the 
Third.  But  from  May,  1803,  to 
August,  1805,  there  is  a  steady 
flow  of  questions,  orders,  and 
decisions  relating  to  the  invasion. 
Lord  Whitworth  left  France  in  the 
middle  of  May,  1803.  Before  the 
end  of  the  month  instructions  were 
flying  out  to  Barbe"  Marbois,  the 
Minister  of  the  Treasury,  and  to 
Decres,  the  Minister  of  Marine,  to 
repair,  buy,  or  build  flat-bottomed 
boats.  The  series  closes  on  August 
22nd,  1805,  with  the  last  fierce 
order  to  Villeneuve  to  come  on  from 
Brest,  and  appear  in  the  Channel 
if  only  for  a  day,  then — "  England 
is  ours.  We  are  all  ready,  every- 
thing is  embarked." 

The  papers  may  be  classed  under 
two  heads.  One  covers  those  relat- 
ing to  the  construction,  armament, 
and  movements  of  the  flotilla,  and  the 
organisation  of  the  troops  to  be  car- 
ried. Under  the  other  must  be  put 
the  elaborate  plans  for  bringing  about 
a  temporary  concentration  of  a 
superior  naval  force  in  the  Channel 
to  protect  the  invasion.  The  second 
are  on  the  whole  of  the  most  value  as 
evidence  of  Napoleon's  real  meaning. 
By  making  a  great  effort  of  the  kind 
of  sagacity  which  (in  the  usual  as  well 
as  the  ecclesiastical  sense)  invents 
mare's-nests,  it  is  just  possible  to  talk 
oneself  into  an  artificial  belief  that 
Napoleon  spent  millions  of  money  on 
flat-bottomed  boats,  guns,  stores,  and 
coast-batteries  for  his  flotilla,  without 
the  intention  of  sending  it  to  sea.  It 
No.  508. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


is  quite  impossible  to  reconcile  his 
orders  to  Villeneuve  with  the  most 
elementary  common  sense,  unless  he 
is  credited  with  such  wisdom,  and 
honesty,  as  there  was  in  the  readiness 
to  sacrifice  his  fleet,  if  need  be,  in 
order  to  secure  the  passage  of  his 
army.  To  spend  it  for  this  purpose 
might  have  been  the  act  of  a  gambler. 
Egypt  and  Russia  answer  for  his 
capacity  to  play  the  part.  But  to 
bring  the  squadrons,  French  and 
Spanish,  from  Toulon,  Cadiz,  Ferrol, 
Rochefort,  and  Brest  into  the  waters 
between  the  Lizard  and  the  South 
Foreland,  only  to  make  a  demonstra- 
tion, would  have  been  an  act  worthy 
perhaps  of  the  morality  of  Napoleon, 
but  much  more  consistent  with  the 
intelligence  of  Manuel  Godoy,  Duke 
of  Alcudia  and  Prince  of  the  Peace. 
They  would  have  been  rounded  up 
without  a  place  of  refuge  on  a  shallow 
coast  where  the  British  fleet  would 
have  had  them  at  its  mercy.  At  the 
very  best  they  could  only  have  run 
through  the  Straits  of  Dover  before  a 
favourable  westerly  wind  to  take 
hiding  in  the  Scheldt  or  the  Texel. 
Then  England  would  have  been 
relieved  from  the  burden  of  blockade 
elsewhere,  and  would  have  had  all 
her  enemies  in  one  pound,  opposite 
her  own  shores. 

For  my  poor  part,  though  quite 
unable  to  share  the  adoration  for 
Napoleon's  genius  professed  by  many, 
and  more  especially  by  soldiers,  I 
find  it  impossible  to  believe  that  he 
prepared  the  flotilla  in  wanton  waste 
meaning  it  to  be  a  scarecrow  and 
nothing  else.  That  he  said  he  did 
to  Metternich,  or  to  Miot  de  Melito 
(whom  he  described  by  the  way  in 
1814  as  an  imbecile)  is  very  iu 
ligible.  The  scheme  had  failed,  and 
it  was  his  constant  practice  to  falsify 
facts,  or  papers,  in  order  to  con- 
ceal his  mistakes.  We  know,  for 
instance,  how  he  interpolated  pass 

u 


290 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England  ? 


ages  into  despatches  relating  to  the 
seizure  of  Spain  to  show  that  he  had 
foreseen  the  national  rising,  and  that 
he  deceived  Sir  William  Napier.  But 
just  as  his  policy  in  1808  is  incom- 
patible with  any  foresight  of  his  as 
to  its  consequences,  so  his  assertion 
that  he  never  meant  to  sail  for  our 
shores  from  Boulogne  cannot  be 
reconciled  with  his  actions  from  May, 
1803,  to  August,  1805.  In  that 
period  he  prepared  two  thousand  flat- 
bottomed  gun-vessels,  and  gunboats, 
or  transports.  The  fighting  craft  cost 
to  build  from  four  thousand  to  thirty 
thousand  francs  each,  for  the  hull 
alone.  The  transports  cost  to  build, 
to  buy,  or  to  repair,  taking  one  with 
another,  at  least  as  much  as  the 
smaller  sum.  Some  of  these  flat- 
bottomed  boats  and  transports  were 
extorted  from  allies,  or  from  what  he 
was  pleased  to  call  the  voluntary  gifts 
of  his  subjects.  Still  he  knew  that 
what  was  taken  in  this  way  was  to  be 
deducted  from  the  general  resources 
at  his  disposal.  The  direct  cost  to 
him  cannot  have  been  less  than  a 
million  sterling  even  when  we  leave 
aside  the  Dutch  share  and  the  volun- 
tary gifts.  To  this  is  to  be  added  the 
outlay  on  rigging,  fitting,  and  arma- 
ment with  eight  thousand  pieces  of 
ordnance.  Nor  is  this  all.  To  cover 
the  concentration  of  the  flotilla  it 
was  necessary  to  erect  batteries  all 
along  the  coast  from  Havre  to  Bou- 
logne, and  to  clear  out  the  shallow 
sandy  harbours.  Three  thousand  men 
were  ordered  to  be  engaged  in  the 
last  named  work  at  Ambleteuse  alone 
in  January,  1804,  under  the  direction 
of  the  engineer  Sganzin.  And  this 
was  but  a  small  part  of  the  whole 
labour  performed.  The  clearing  out  of 
these  wretched  harbours  was  not  one 
of  those  things  which  were  done  when 
they  were  done.  No  sooner  were 
they  deepened  than  the  drift  of  the 
Channel  began  to  fill  them  again. 


As  much  toil  and  outlay  was  needed 
to  preserve  as  to  make  the  harbours. 
When  the  invasion  scheme  was  really 
given  up  they  soon  filled  again,  and 
the  flat-bottomed  boats  rotted  in,  or 
on,  the  sand.  I  have  to  confess  my 
ignorance  whether  an  exact  calcula- 
tion has  ever  been  made  of  the  out- 
lay on  the  flotilla  and  its  adjuncts, 
apart  from  the  other  expenses  of  his 
government.  Speaking  subject  to 
correction,  I  do  not  think  it  can  be 
put  at  less  than  four  millions  sterling. 
Meanwhile  great  sums  were  being 
spent  at  Brest,  Rochefort,  and  Tou- 
lon to  form  a  powerful  sea-going 
fleet,  while  the  total  revenue  of 
France  was  between  eighteen  and 
nineteen  millions.  To  assume  this 
burden  in  the  hope  of  striking  at  the 
heart  of  England  may  have  been 
mad,  considering  the  magnitude  of 
the  obstacles  to  be  overcome,  but  to 
take  it  for  show  alone,  in  the  deluded 
confidence  that  Perfidious  Albion 
would  be  "frighted  with  false  fires," 
would  have  been  silly. 

If  the  preparations  were  meant  for 
the  home  and  foreign  galleries  only 
they  were  certainly  carried  out  with 
a  most  artistic  finish.  Too  much  need 
not  be  made  of  such  documents  as  an 
order  to  Soult,  commanding  the  camp 
at  Saint  Omer,  and  dated  March  2nd, 
1804.  It  is  one  of  scores  of  the  same 
character  addressed  to  him,  to  Davout, 
to  Marmont,  to  Berthier,  to  Decres, 
Bruix,  and  Ganteaume,  all  confi- 
dential, and  all  entailing  expendi- 
ture of  work  and  money.  The  subject 
is  the  provision  of  horse-boxes  and 
horses,  to  the  number  of  seven  thou- 
sand two  hundred,  to  be  carried  in 
the  flotilla.  There  was  no  necessary 
waste  here,  since,  invasion  or  no 
invasion,  the  boxes  would  always  be 
useful,  and  as  for  the  horses,  no  doubt 
they  trotted  and  galloped  away  from 
Boulogne  to  lay  their  bones  on  the 
roadsides  or  battle-fields  of  Germany, 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England? 


291 


and  in  the  mud  of  Poland,  together 
with  their  drivers  or  riders.  But  what 
are  we  to  make  of  an  order  dated 
October  5th,  1803,  and  sent  to  the 
Ministers  of  the  Treasury  and  of  War? 
It  directs  the  formation  of  a  corps  of 
one  hundred  and  seventeen  guide-in- 
terpreters, all  less  than  thirty-five,  all 
knowing  English  and  having  lived 
in  England.  Irish  exiles  were  to  be 
allowed  to  join.  The  pay  is  on  the 
scale  of  the  dragoons,  and  not  even 
the  very  uniform  is  overlooked.  As 
we  never  had  the  advantage  of  seeing 
these  persons  among  us  the  reader 
may  be  interested  to  learn  that  they 
wore  dragon-green  coats  with  red 
lining,  and  crimson  flaps,  cuffs,  and 
trimmings ;  white  leather  breeches, 
American  boots  with  bronzed  iron 
spurs  finished  off  the  nether  man 
not  without  military  elegance.  Ima- 
gination boggles  at  the  spectacle  of 
the  First  Consul  stopping  in  the 
middle,  or  late  in  the  evening,  of 
the  hardest  day's  work  done  by  any 
man  in  Europe,  to  make  regulations 
for  the  coats,  breeches,  and  even  the 
very  white  hussar  buttons  of  his 
guide-interpreters,  the  whole  thing 
being,  on  the  hypothesis  of  Metter- 
nich  and  "  that  imbecile  Miot,"  part 
of  a  solemn  practical  joke  of  colossal 
scale,  and  costing  millions,  in  the 
manner  of  Theodore  Hook. 

One  must  surely  have  a  diseased 
appetite  for  finding  mysteries  to  see 
in  this,  which  is  but  one  among 
hundreds  of  examples,  anything  but 
proof  of  unresting  attention  to  detail. 
Napoleon  boasted,  and  here  we  can- 
not but  take  his  word  for  we  have 
an  overflowing  measure  of  evidence 
of  its  truth,  that  he  had  never  dis- 
covered the  limit  to  his  power  of 
work.  In  the  end  he  became  lunatic, 
and  his  mind  lived  in  a  world  of 
dreams  spun  by  itself,  but  he 
wrought  for  unattainable  ends  with 
an  inexhaustible  faculty  for  fram- 


ing   the    practical    means.     On    the 
supposition    that    he    really   did   in- 
tend   to   make    his    dash    when   the 
time    came,     nothing     is     easier     to 
understand    than    the    formation    of 
the     guide-interpreters.     It     is    only 
impossible    to   account   for   them    on 
the  theory  that   they  were  never  to 
be    used.      They    are     quoted    here 
simply    as    a   characteristic   specimen 
of  the  thoroughness  of  the  care  shown 
to  fit  the  expedition  down  to  the  last 
button  on  the  gaiters.     It  would  be 
easy,  but  would   also  be  superfluous, 
to  fill  more  pages  than  could  be  spared 
for  the  purpose  with  similar  examples. 
The  number  and  classification  of  the 
vessels  to  be   used   for  fighting   and 
transport,    the   distribution   of    men, 
horses,    and   stores,    the    number    of 
bundles  of  hay  and  rounds  of  ammu- 
nition,   the    order   of    anchorage,    of 
entry  and  of  exit,  are  regulated  with 
an  exactness  only  to  be  appreciated 
from  the  correspondence.     Philip  the 
Second  did  not  organise  his  Armada 
more  minutely,  nor  with  more  toil  to 
himself ;  and  Philip  sat  in  the  middle 
of    his    spider-web    in    the    Escorial 
writing,  writing,  writing.     His  affairs 
were   as    complicated   as   Napoleon's, 
but  he  directed  them  from  his  desk. 
The  Corsican  was  for    ever    on    the 
move,  and  in  the  saddle,  and  yet  he 
wrote  as  much  as  Philip  the  Prudent. 
He  had  Germany  and  Russia  to  watch, 
Switzerland  to  settle,  the  formation  of 
a  code  of  laws  to  overlook,  conspira- 
cies to    crush,  the  Empire  to  found, 
and   the    Pope    to  wheedle.     Withal 
he    looked    into  everything  with  his 
own  eyes,   from   Milan   to  Boulogne. 
And  there  are  those  who  can  believe 
that  in  addition  to  it  all,  he    could 
sacrifice   millions   of    money   for    an 
empty  demonstration,   and    not    only 
so   but   condemn    himself   to  endless 
extra    work,     begun    sometimes     at 
eleven  at  night.     In  one  of  his  letters 
to  his  police  in  these  months  he  gives 

U  2 


292 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England  ? 


them  orders  to  look  into  the  truth 
of  a  rumour  that  a  sect  of  convul- 
sionists  and  flagellants  had  ap- 
peared in  France.  If  any  such 
survivals  of  the  Middle  Ages  did 
indeed  linger  on  they  had  more 
regard  for  their  comfort,  and  were 
less  foolish  than  their  master.  They 
at  least  expected  to  secure  heaven 
by  scoring  their  shoulders  with  a 
discipline  which  is  a  moderate  price 
to  pay  for  everlasting  felicity. 

Let  us  turn  from  the  flotilla  to  the 
orders   given    to    the    fleet,    and    see 
what  can  be  gathered  from  them  as 
to  the  sincerity  of  Napoleon's  resolu- 
tion to  invade.     It  is  known  that  his 
ideas  as  expressed  in  his  letters  and 
by    his    reported    words     underwent 
successive  modifications  between  1803 
and   1805.     At  first  he  planned,  or 
appeared  to  plan,  to  cross  the  Narrow 
Seas  in  a   calm   or   a   fog   with    the 
flat-bottomed  boats  alone.     His  naval 
officers,    headed   by  Decres  who  had 
an  extraordinary  eye  for  the  weak  side 
of  the  designs  of  others,  brought  him 
to  understand  that  the  risk  was  too 
great.     Then  he  began  to  plan  how 
to  gather  a  French  naval  force  in  the 
Channel  so  as  to  obtain  a  temporary 
local  superiority,  and  have  the  means 
of  covering  the  passage.     He  had  at 
first  permitted  Spain  to  keep  what  he 
was  pleased  to  call  her  neutrality  on 
condition  of  the  payment  of  a  heavy 
subsidy.     The   greater    part    of    the 
sums  promised  never  reached  his  ex- 
chequer, and  soon  the  British  Govern- 
ment took  measures  to  see  that  none 
should.     It   seized  Bustamente's  gal- 
leons coming  home  from  Mexico  with 
the  treasure,  and  forced    Spain    into 
war.     The  measure  was  amply  justi- 
fied, and  needs  no  better  excuse  than 
is  supplied  by  the  fury  of  Napoleon. 
The   outbreak    of    the   war   between 
Spain  and   England  deprived  him  of 
all  prospect  of  subsidy,   but  it  gave 
him   the    command    of   the    Spanish 


fleet.  It  was  then  that  his  great  and 
complicated  scheme  for  the  concentra- 
tion of  sixty  French  and  Spanish 
battle-ships  in  the  Channel  took  its 
final  shape.  Ever}7body  knows  its 
main  lines,  how  Villeneuve  was  to 
slip  out  of  Toulon,  sail  for  the  West 
Indies,  come  back  after  misleading 
Nelson,  pick  up  the  ships  of  the  two 
nations  at  Ferrol,  come  on  to  Brest, 
join  Ganteaume,  and  sweep  the 
Channel.  We  know  too  how  it 
failed,  partly  by  the  pusillanimity  of 
Villeneuve,  who  like  Tourville  was 
"  a  coward  in  head  though  not  in 
heart."  There  were  modifications 
in  details,  and  Napoleon  played  with 
subsidiary  schemes  for  expeditions  to 
Ireland,  and  to  the  Indies  East  and 
West.  But  concentration  is  the 
dominating  purpose  all  through.  The 
variation  on  the  surface  of  Napoleon's 
mind,  and  his  habit  of  putting  down 
alternative  plans  on  paper  to  get  them 
clear  to  himself,  very  much  as  Lord 
Burleigh  drew  up  his  elaborate  columns 
of  pros  and  cons,  has  puzzled  some 
students  not  familiar  with  his  ways. 
They  were  also  a  fertile  source  of 
confusion  to  his  officers.  It  is  then 
perhaps  not  surprising  that  there  are 
some  who  cannot  believe  that  a  man 
who  could  propose  so  many  varying 
courses  could  be  serious  as  to  the 
main  end. 

When,  however,  his  habits  of 
work  are  remembered,  it  is  easy  to 
brush  aside  the  irrelevances,  and  to 
separate  the  mere  suggestions  and 
alternative  courses  from  the  central 
idea.  What  that  was  is  stated  in 
unequivocal  terms  in  instructions  to 
Villeneuve  dated  May'  8th,  1805. 
"  The  principal  end  of  the  whole 
operation,"  he  wrote,  "is  to  obtain 
the  superiority  for  us  before  Boulogne 
for  a  few  days."  Two  drafts  of  the 
instructions  were  made,  differing  in 
details,  but  not  in  the  least  in 
essentials.  He  leaves  Villeneuve  a 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England  ? 


293 


wide  latitude  as  to  whether  he  will 
look  into  Rochefort  to  pick  up  the 
ships  there  or  not,  come  close  to 
Brest  to  join  Ganteaume,  or  pass 
north  of  the  blockading  fleet,  slip 
round  the  Lizard  and  so  come  on  to 
Boulogne ;  or  even  whether  he  will 
take  the  route  by  the  north  of  Scot- 
land, rally  the  Dutch  vessels  in  the 
Texel,  and  come  down  from  the  north. 
At  the  end  his  admiral  is  told  that  if, 
in  consequence  of  events  in  America, 
or  on  the  course  of  his  voyage,  he 
cannot  advance  from  Ferrol,  he  is  to 
go  back  to  Cadiz,  and  make  a  fresh 
start,  but  that  the  Emperor  will  hear 
of  his  acting  thus  with  great  regret. 
How  far  this  justified  Villeneuve  in 
turning  to  the  south,  after  the  action 
with  Calder,  whether  that  engagement 
was  such  an  event  as  the  then  newly 
made  Emperor  contemplated  or  not, 
whether  the  artful  devices  for  slipping 
through  the  watch  of  the  British 
navy  and  concentrating  off  Boulogne 
had  any  real  chance  of  success,  are 
disputable  points.  It  would  be  inter- 
esting to  discuss  them,  but  for  the 
present  they  are  not  in  the  reference. 
The  question  is  did  Napoleon  really 
mean  to  try  the  invasion  ?  To  me  it 
seems  clear  that  he  did,  and  that 
unless  he  did,  the  orders  he  un- 
doubtedly drew  up  for  Villeneuve  are 
not  to  be  understood. 

The  sceptics  are  much  given  to 
pointing  out  that  supposing  him  to 
have  landed  and  to  have  beaten  the 
first  army  opposed  to  him,  he  would 
still  have  been  cut  off,  and  finally 
crushed  under  the  might  of  Britain. 
In  later  years  he  talked  in  this  strain 
himself  when  he  wished  to  persuade 
dupes  that  he  had  always  been  right. 
Perhaps,  or  if  patriotism  prefers  to 
have  it  so,  then  certainly  this  would 
have  happened.  We  are  not  con- 
cerned with  our  own  actions,  but  with 
his  beliefs.  Now  it  was  his  conviction 
at  the  time  that  if  he  could  win  a 


great  battle  in  Kent  and  march  to 
London,  the  British  Government 
would  yield.  We  think  that  he  was 
in  error,  and  that  the  proud  energy 
of  our  race  would  have  enabled  us  to 
make  good  the  want  of  those  physical 
advantages  of  space  or  mountainous 
country,  the  thin  population,  and 
the  poverty  which  helped  the 
national  resistance  of  Spain  and 
Russia.  Allow  that  it  was  so,  and 
still  we  may  ask  why  Napoleon, 
who  miscalculated  the  results  of  the 
occupations  of  Madrid  and  Moscow, 
should  not  also  have  been  in  error 
as  to  the  probable  consequences  of 
his  entry  into  London.  The  whole 
of  his  life  is  on  record  to  show  that 
this  was  precisely  the  kind  of  blunder 
he  was  to  be  expected  to  make. 
And  since  he  reasoned  thus,  why 
should  he  have  hesitated  to  run  the 
risk  of  having  his  communications 
with  France  cut?  It  would  have 
been  no  matter  if  they  had  been, 
when  England  was  prostrated  by  a 
blow  at  the  heart.  Her  navy  would 
have  been  paralysed  with  the  rest  of 
the  body  of  the  State.  On  his  hypo- 
thesis, in  fact,  the  peril  of  interrupted 
communications  was  not  worth  con- 
sidering. If  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  he  could  try  to  slip  over  the 
Straits  in  a  small  boat.  He  had 
navigated  the  whole  length  of  the 
Mediterranean  when  it  was  swarm- 
ing with  our  cruisers,  and  could  well 
take  his  chance  of  crossing  the  few 
miles  between  the  east  end  of  Kent 
and  Boulogne.  Smugglers  and  small 
privateers  escaped  our  vigilance  in 
these  very  waters  all  through  the 
war,  as  he  well  knew.  If  he  had 
brought  an  army  over  to  be  locked 
up  and  destroyed,  and  could  have 
got  back  himself,  it  is  very  doubtful 
whether  his  power  in  France  would 
have  been  diminished.  He  had 
already  deserted  one  army  in  Egypt 
and  had  returned  to  become  the 


294 


Did  Napoleon  Mean  to  Invade  England? 


master  of  his  country.  A  few  years 
later  he  was  to  lead  four  hundred 
thousand  Frenchmen  to  perish  miser- 
ably in  Russia,  and  to  find  the  nation 
as  submissive  to  him  as  ever  when 
he  posted  back  to  Paris.  To  make 
England  taste  the  horrors  of  invasion, 
and  shake  her  confidence  in  the 
power  of  the  fleet  to  keep  her  shores 
inviolate,  was  in  itself  an  object 
worth  the  expenditure  of  a  hundred 
thousand  men  to  him.  He  had  pro- 
vided for  giving  Austria  enough  to 
keep  her  busy  in  Bavaria,  if  she  took 
up  arms  during  his  absence.  A  few 
successes  of  hers  to  the  east  of  the 
Rhine  would  have  signified  nothing 
if  England  was  smitten  down. 

The  nature  of  the  preparations 
made  at  Boulogne,  and  their  scale, 
the  toil  undergone  by  Napoleon 
himself  in  his  cabinet,  his  character, 
his  interests,  his  estimate  of  the 


probable  conduct  of  this  country,  all 
work  together  to  confirm  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  intention  to  invade  if  he 
could  obtain  the  few  days  of  security 
required  for  the  passage  of  his 
flotilla.  There  was  nothing  to  give 
probability  to  the  contrary  hypothesis 
but  the  opinion  of  men  who  either 
did  not  know  the  evidence,  or  have 
not  shown  they  could  use  it,  his  own 
declarations  when  he  had  a  motive 
for  altering  the  truth,  and  the  as- 
sumption that  he  never  could  have 
meant  to  try  so  mad  an  enterprise, 
which  would  be  good  in  the  case  of 
Frederick  the  Great,  but  is  contrary 
to  all  probability  with  the  man  who 
brought  himself  to  St.  Helena  by 
frantic  obstinacy  in  trying  to  do 
the  impossible.  The  two  sides  are 
not,  as  Bacon  might  have  said, 
equipollent. 

DAVID  HANNAY. 


295 


NATIONAL   GAMES   AND    THE   NATIONAL   CHARACTER. 


A  GOOD  deal  of  solemn  nonsense 
has  been  talked  on  the  connection  of 
games  and  morality  and  social  deal- 
ing ;  and  the  grandiloquence  has  been 
encouraged  by  the  astonishing  interest 
shown  by  the  public  in  a  race  between 
two  yachts  of  the  New  York  and 
Royal  Ulster  clubs.  It  is  a  pity  that 
men  or  nations  cannot  play  a  game 
together  without  being  convicted  of 
"cementing  the  two  great  branches 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race."  But 
though  the  effect  of  games  on  inter- 
national politics  is  a  subject  that  has 
given  occasion  for  some  extremely 
fatuous  extravagances,  their  value  as 
a  touchstone  of  character  is  another 
matter.  Games  take  men  unawares 
too  often  to  let  hypocrisy  escape,  and 
the  bare  result  of  competition  is 
destructive  of  humbug ;  there  is  room 
in  them  for  bad  temper  and  for  good 
comradeship,  and  they  share  with  the 
weather  the  power  to  bridge  the  con- 
versational difficulty  which  besets  what 
is  called  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  If 
you  travel  in  a  third-class  carriage  on 
a  suburban  line  the  men  will  almost 
always  be  talking  of  one  game  or 
another,  and  the  reason  is  not  so 
much  that  the  interest  is  supreme,  as 
that  the  subject  is  easy  of  approach 
and  common  to  every  grade  of  society. 
In  other  words,  games  are  worth 
serious  consideration  chiefly  by  reason 
of  an  indirect,  unessential  virtue. 
They  constitute  a  sort  of  freemasonry 
between  people  who  could  have  no- 
thing else  in  common,  and,  if  not  the 
cause,  are  often  the  occasion  of  valu- 
able social  amenities.  National,  even 
more  distinctly  than  individual,  char- 
acteristics come  out  in  the  nature 


of  the  national  games  and  in  the 
manner  of  playing  them.  We  do  not 
believe,  for  example,  that  the  Ameri- 
cans will  ever  take  to  cricket  as 
they  have  taken  to  base-ball,  because 
it  gives  insufficient  room  for  either  the 
cunning  or  the  restless  energy  that 
their  athletes  demand.  A  summer's 
day  out  in  the  long  field  to  Shrews- 
bury and  Gunn  would  tear  an 
American  athlete's  patience  to  tatters. 
Thus,  in  spite  of  the  excellence  and 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  gentlemen  of 
Philadelphia,  and  in  spite  of  the 
threat  lately  uttered  by  one  of  the 
Americans  that  they  were  going  to 
learn  cricket  in  order  to  beat  us  at 
that  game  too,  it  is  not  likely  to  grow 
popular  in  America, — till  America 
grows  old. 

We  have  met  Americans  at  most 
other  games, — a  word  which  rightly 
understood  should  include  both  ath- 
letics and  rowing — and  always  their 
national  characteristics  have  appeared 
with  curious  distinctness  and  unifor- 
mity in  their  methods  of  competition. 
On  the  whole  we  are  perhaps  more 
prone  to  misunderstand  Americans 
than  foreigners.  We  expect  them  to 
resemble  us  so  much,  and  the  actual 
resemblance  is  so  little.  They  come 
from  Puritans  and  Quakers,  and  by 
the  possession  of  some  of  the  in- 
herited qualities  suggest  the  posses- 
sion of  the  others, — to  our  disap- 
pointment. 

In  talking  to  their  athletes,  and  iu 
reading  their  athletic  critics,  political 
parallels  are  continually  suggested. 
The  capture  of  Aguinaldo,  smart 
beyond  the  reach  of  dignity,  was 
prepared  on  the  football-field,  —  a 


296 


National  Games  and  the  National  Character. 


parallel  to  Waterloo  and  the  playing- 
fields  of  Eton  ;  and  the  extension  of 
the  Monroe  doctrine  is  suggested  in 
the  preliminaries  of  a  yacht-race.  But 
those  who  have  had  a  glimpse  into 
American  character  through  games 
will  have  a  higher  opinion  of  it 
than  if  the  knowledge  came  through 
politics.  One  sees  in  the  athletes 
that  the  defects  are  the  defects  of 
virtues,  and  the  qualities,  which  seem 
abominable  in  isolation,  may  look 
almost  admirable  when  in  due  rela- 
tion with  character. 

The  intelligent  foreigner  who  comes 
over  to  enquire  into  English  ways  is 
astonished  by  nothing  so  much  as  by 
our  absorbing  interest  in  games.  A 
glance  at  the  papers  on  the  third  day 
of  last  September  would,  could  he 
have  read  them,  have  given  him  a  fine 
illustration  of  the  national  mania.  It 
was  written  how  ten  thousand  people 
had  assembled  at  the  Crystal  Palace 
to  see  a  match  at  football.  There 
were  long  descriptions  of  a  cricket- 
match  at  the  Oval,  where  a  pro- 
fessional player  was  expected  to 
"  establish  a  record  "  ;  there  were 
columns  concerned  with  partridge- 
shooting  ;  there  were  paragraphs 
about  the  visit  of  a  university 
athletic  team  to  Canada ;  there  were 
head-lines  about  the  yacht-race  and 
the  prospects  of  the  COLUMBIA,  CON- 
STITUTION, and  SHAMROCK.  Odd 
corners  were  filled  up  with  the 
results  of  tournaments  at  croquet 
and  tennis,  and  of  local  regattas. 
The  King  was  reported  to  be  playing 
golf  in  Germany.  The  intelligent 
foreigner  might  well  wonder  ;  but 
our  national  keenness  for  games 
would  not  seem  so  extravagant  to  a 
Frenchman  as  American  keenness 
seems  to  an  Englishman.  The  quality 
of  their  keenness  is  on  a  different 
plane.  To  many  Americans  the  win- 
ning of  a  game  has  become  an 
absolute  end  in  itself.  At  the  uni- 


versities, at  Princetown  and  Harvard, 
for  instance,  the  men  train  for  the 
football-matches  with  months  of 
serious  work,  and  on  the  actual  day 
play  with  an  abandon  that  is  unknown 
in  England.  Members  of  a  defeated 
team  will  be  seen  afterwards  in 
almost  a  paroxysm  of  tears,  overcome 
by  the  combination  of  exhaustion 
and  disappointment.  An  American 
who  was  taken  to  the  last  University 
football-match  was  struck  by  nothing 
so  much  as  by  the  appearance  of  the 
men  in  the  interval.  "  But  where 
are  the  stretchers,  the  bandages,  the 
'  refreshers,'  the  spare  men  ?  "  he 
asked ;  and  when  he  was  told  that 
it  was  not  permitted  to  replace  a 
man  who  was  incapacitated,  he  could 
murmur  nothing  but,  "  That  is  a 
feature."  The  permission  to  use  sub- 
stitutes for  wounded  men  was  caused 
in  America  by  a  desire  to  lessen  the 
roughness,  the  help  of  a  fresh  man 
towards  the  end  of  a  game  being  too 
great  an  advantage  to  give  away  if 
it  could  be  helped.  This  playing  of 
games  with  more  than  the  rigour  of 
Mrs.  Battle  has  produced  a  serious 
movement  for  their  suppression.  The 
authorities  absolutely  forbade  football 
in  the  Government  naval  and  military 
schools,  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
bad  both  for  the  body  and  mind. 
Curiously  enough,  almost  at  the  same 
moment  that  this  ban  was  passed 
in  America,  definite  steps  were  being 
taken  in  England  to  encourage  foot- 
ball in  the  corresponding  military  and 
naval  establishments.  Comparative 
statistics  of  this  nature  will  show 
that,  in  spite  of  the  excessive  domin- 
ance of  professionalism  in  England, 
it  is  true  on  the  whole  to  say  that 
the  British  and  American  athletes 
stand  to  each  other  almost  as  ama- 
teurs to  professionals.  Mr.  Gaspar 
Whitney,  in  his  excellent  SPORTING 
PILGRIMAGE,  has  some  sensible  words 
on  this  point. 


National  Games  and  the  National  Character. 


297 


It  is  in  the  lesser  preparation,  and  in 
the  "  business,"  if  I  may  use  the  word, — 
and  I  hope  I  shall  be  correctly  inter- 
preted— that  leads  up  to  and  surrounds 
our  athletic  contests,  that  the  English- 
man sets  us  a  good  example.  Particu- 
larly would  I  like  to  see  its  softening 
influences  at  work  on  the  hard  commercial 
atmosphere  that  envelopes  our  big  foot- 
ball-matches, in  diminishing  the  amount 
of  money  we  annually  expend  fitting 
teams  for  contests,  in  moderating  the 
speculative  eye  we  have  for  large  gate- 
receipts,  and  on  the  mystery  that  un- 
necessarily surrounds  so  much  of  the 
'Varsity  crew's  work  as  ignores  the 
undergraduate,  and  would  leave  him  out 
of  touch  with  it  altogether  but  for  his 
superabundant  enthusiasm  and  loyalty 
that  surmount  all  obstacles.  Here,  I 
think,  we  can  indeed  learn  a  much  needed 
lesson,  nor  can  we  learn  it  too  quickly. 

How  fully  Americans  feel  that  their 
athletics  may  benefit  by  contact  with 
the  English  spirit  has  been  proved 
by  the  anticipatory  discussions  that 
led  up  to  the  recent  athletic  visit 
of  our  two  universities.  Yale  and 
Harvard  wished  to  make  a  stand 
against  prevailing  sentiments,  and  felt 
that  in  their  campaign  on  behalf  of 
the  purity  of  the  athletic  spirit  it 
would  be  an  immense  advantage  to 
have  the  prestige  of  association  with 
Oxford  and  Cambridge.  Yet  we  must 
remember,  while  priding  ourselves  that 
England  is  the  home  of  the  athletic 
spirit,  that  strictly  speaking  every 
man  who  goes  up  to  an  American 
university  is  a  seeker  after  education 
and  an  academic  help  in  his  after 
career  in  a  very  much  more  serious 
degree  than  many  English  under- 
graduates. The  most  obvious  and 
tempting  athletic  distinction  for  any 
boy  who  has  won  eminence  in  his 
school  games  is,  in  the  modern 
jargon,  to  "  get  a  blue,"  to  row 
for  his  university,  that  is  to  say,  or 
to  play  for  it  at  one  of  the  many 
games,  from  cricket,  tennis,  and 
rackets  downwards,  which  now  find 
favour  among  our  "young  barbarians  ;  " 


and  to  this  ambition  a  good  deal  of 
the  excellence  of  university  athletes 
is  due.  This  fact  should  be  put 
against  the  complaint  commonly  raised 
in  England  that  the  American  uni- 
versities have  made  attractive  offers 
to  induce  prominent  athletes  to  be- 
come members  of  their  societies. 

This  professionalism  of  spirit,  if 
the  phrase  be  allowed,  which  seems 
to  Englishmen  to  mark  American 
players  is  in  essence  the  result  of 
keenness  and  courage  and  that  zest 
of  competition  which,  according  to 
M.  Demolins,  is  the  cause  of  "  Anglo- 
Saxon  superiority."  After  an  expres- 
sive phrase  the  American  "means 
winning,"  and  this  purpose  has  be- 
come so  intense  that  it  begins  to 
dominate  all  other  motives.  Per- 
sonal respect,  manly  courage,  in 
some  cases  patriotism,  give  an  added 
glamour  to  the  intention ;  but, 
whether  by  a  perversion  of  natural 
virtues  or  by  their  over- development, 
winning  is  the  dominant  motive  in 
every  American.  One  may  say, — 
the  qualification  will  come  later  — 
that  in  America  only  success  succeeds 
and  only  failure  is  contemptible. 
We  are  fond  of  winning  in  England. 
Alfred  was  lately  held  up  as  the  first 
Englishman  who  did  not  know  when 
he  was  beaten,  and  after  a  thousand 
years  his  successors  are  like  him. 
But  among  English  players  of  games 
there  is  an  ambition,  which  may 
perhaps  be  described  as  aristocratic, 
first  to  play  in  style  and  according  to 
the  strictest  etiquette ;  and  since  this 
aristocratic  emphasis  on  manner  has 
developed  along  with  the  desire  to 
win,  the  two  ambitions  have  con- 
tinued to  qualify  each  other  to  good 
effect.  It  is  true  that  in  some  cases 
both  have  reached  an  extravagant 
pitch ;  some  professionals  strive  to 
win  at  all  hazards  to  honesty,  and 
some  amateurs  to  play  in  form  to 
the  detriment  of  success.  Roughly 


298 


National  Games  and  the  National  Character. 


speaking,  one  may  say  that  the  two 
ambitions  vary  directly  with  the 
proportional  social  positions  of  the 
players.  In  the  game  of  the  people, 
which  beyond  all  question  is  pro- 
fessional football,  the  players  have 
resorted  to  devices  of  such  perverse 
ingenuity  as  would  shame  American 
players.  The  professional  football- 
player,  when  he  can  avoid  the  argus- 
eyed  referee,  will  use  every  trick  he 
knows  to  damage  any  prominent  op- 
ponent he  can.  If  he  thinks  it  worth 
while  to  face  the  penalty  he  will 
openly  commit  his  "  intentional  fouls," 
to  use  the  ugly  phrasing  of  the  foot- 
ball-rules. In  fact  the  rules  of  the 
game  have  here  so  much  altered  to 
check  the  professional's  unqualified 
intention  to  win  by  some  device  or 
other,  that  amateurs  are  protesting 
with  feelings  of  keen  resentment 
against  being  subjected  to  the  same 
code  of  laws.  A  genuine  amateur, 
who  enjoys  an  open  charge,  does  not 
like  to  be  penalised  for  an  intentional 
foul ;  nor  is  it  good  for  the  spirit  of 
the  game  that  he  should  be  subjected 
to  this  obloquy.  To  go  to  the  other 
social  extreme,  a  great  cricketer, 
and  the  most  charming  of  critics, 
has  complained  that  cricketers  at 
Eton  are  taught  to  pay  such  strict 
adherence  to  the  ideal  perfection  of 
style,  as  seen,  let  us  say,  in  a  Palairet, 
that  they  are  becoming  incapable  of 
making  runs  except  under  perfect 
conditions.  Certainly  in  respect  to 
cricket  the  value  put  upon  style  in 
and  for  itself  is  ludicrous,  in  spite 
of  the  prominent  example  of  W.  G. 
Grace,  whom  any  Eton  boy  could 
be  competent  to  correct  for  defects 
of  style. 

These,  however,  are  extreme  cases. 
It  remains  true  that  in  the  normal 
English  athlete  (the  word  is  used 
as  co-extensive  with  77  lyv/nvaa-riKr)) 
the  desire  to  win  is  duly  qualified 
by  two  co-existent  ambitions, — the 


desire  to  play  well  and  the  desire 
to  be  a  gentleman.  In  the  perfect 
sportsman,  as  in  the  Happy  Warrior, 
there  is  a  master  bias  towards  the 
gentle  qualities.  In  the  definition  of 
a  sportsman  the  master  attributes, 
though  all  the  phrases  may  be  dif- 
ferently interpreted,  are  capacity, 
style,  generosity.  But  in  the  first 
place  it  is  essential  that  in  every 
game  the  art  of  winning  should  be 
made  secondary  to  the  development 
of  the  gentle,  or,  if  the  word  is  pre- 
ferred, the  gentlemanlike,  qualities ; 
and  in  the  second  it  is  well  for  the 
game  and  the  player  that  some 
emphasis  should  be  laid  on  the 
etiquette  of  manner.  "Bad  form" 
is  a  true  phrase  of  sportsmanlike 
criticism.  The  French  and  the 
Italians  have  given  a  fine  instance 
of  the  worth  of  etiquette  in  the 
game  of  fencing.  You  are  forced 
to  play  according  to  many  unwritten 
rules,  and  the  written  rules  are  so 
precise  as  to  have  made  the  game, 
in  the  good  sense  of  the  word, 
aristocratic.  No  one  is  accepted  as 
a  player  till  he  has  graduated  in 
manner.  To  give  one  of  many 
examples  you  may  not  "stab," 
though  an  indifferent  player  could 
for  a  little  upset  the  most  skilful 
by  indulging  in  this  natural  mode 
of  attack.  But  no  fencer,  —  in 
the  past,  not  even  for  his  life  — 
dares  to  stab ;  it  is  not  etiquette, 
not  after  the  aristocratic  manner ; 
in  a  double  sense  it  is  bad  form. 
Almost  every  sportsman  in  England 
is  continually  forced  to  conform  to 
a  similar  canon  of  etiquette.  Many 
things  are  regarded  as  bad  form 
which  in  fact  are  natural  and  harm- 
less enough.  Civilisation,  along  with 
its  improvements,  generally  exag- 
gerates its  canons  and  makes  them 
too  artificial ;  just  as  that  curious 
moral  criterion  known  as  schoolboy 
honour  glorifies  actions  which  more 


National  Games  and  the  National  Character. 


299 


natural  moralists,  not  altered  by  the 
artificial  life  of  congregated  youth, 
would  put  down  as  silly,  if  not 
wrong.  But  the  schoolboy  is  made 
by  his  standard  of  honour,  and  may 
be  properly  judged  by  the  measure 
of  his  approach  to  the  standard. 
Just  so  the  character  of  the  British 
sportsman  has  been  maintained  at 
its  high  level  by  the  established 
canons  of  form.  To  avoid  shooting 
birds  that  get  up  nearer  the  next 
gun  is  a  lesson  in  unselfishness;  not 
to  lurk  as  nearly  as  possible  "  off- 
side" is  to  avoid  the  suspicion  of 
unfairness ;  to  send  a  rowing  coach 
to  a  sister  university,  and  to  accept 
the  offer,  is  a  display  of  the  zest  of 
competition  in  which  mere  desire  to 
win  is  not  reckoned  ;  the  refusal,  in 
a  recent  football-match,  of  a  captain 
to  appeal  against  a  try,  though  a 
technical  rule  had  been  broken,  was 
a  really  generous  obedience  to  the 
law  of  form. 

We  do  not  wish  to  say  that  the 
Americans  have  not  an  almost  intense 
admiration  for  the  spirit  of  sport,  but 
America  is  a  new  country;  there  is 
a  lack  of  precedent,  a  lack  of  etiquette, 
a  contempt  of  manner,  a  respect  for 
present  success  which  destroys  admira- 
tion for  past  effort,  and  though  this 
freshness  has  very  great  compensating 
advantages,  we  think  that  American 
sportsmen  suffer  from  want  of  respect 
for  form.  At  any  rate  the  difference 
between  the  two  countries'  ideas  will 
be  clear  in  almost  any  sport  or  game 
that  can  be  mentioned.  In  the  first 
place  there  is  always  an  atmosphere 
of  mystery  about  the  preparation  of 
American  athletes.  In  the  lawn- 
tennis  championship  at  Wimbledon 
last  year  the  two  American  players 
practised  a  good  deal  and  played  many 
games  in  England  before  the  cham- 
pionship ;  but  it  was  bruited  about 
that  they  were  "keeping  a  serve  up 
their  sleeve,"  to  use  the  prevailing 


idiom,  and  in  fact  they  had  studiously 
avoided  giving  away  the  secret  of  this 
strange  device.  Possibly  something 
was  gained  by  this  secrecy ;  indeed  it 
was  apparent  just  at  first  that  both 
their  opponents,  the  Dohertys,  were 
a  little  put  out  by  the  unexpected  way 
the  ball  came  off  the  ground  ;  but  was 
the  odd  point  or  two  worth  the  while  ? 
The  training  performances  of  their 
running  men  are  hedged  in  by  devices 
of  secrecy,  and  the  men  subjected  like 
slaves,  or  professionals,  to  the  rigorous 
dominion  of  the  professional  coach, 
who  as  often  as  not  talks  at  large  to 
reporters  and  boasts,  without  much 
regard  to  fact,  of  the  doings  of  "  my 
men."  As  to  the  mystery  surround- 
ing the  training  of  the  university 
eights  in  America  Mr.  Whitney,  the 
American  Pilgrim,  will  explain  him- 
self. 

I  am  sure  that  throughout  my  study 
of  English  university  athletics  nothing 
made  a  greater  impression  on  me  than 
the  sportsmanlike  feeling  which  exists, 
and  is  perfectly  apparent  to  whosoever 
cares  to  look,  between  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge crews  and  teams.  Whatever  one 
crew  does  at  Putney  the  other  may  see, — 
if  it  likes.  There  is  no  attempt  at  stealing 
away,  no  substitutes  sent  out  to  watch 
and  to  report.  Each  is  on  the  Thames 
to  perfect  its  work,  and  the  other  is  at 
liberty  to  "  size  it  up  "  as  much  as  it  may 
wish.  It  is  quite  common  for  one  crew 
to  follow  in  its  steam-launch  the  rowing 
of  the  other.  Indeed  the  Cambridge 
captain  only  a  few  days  before  the  race 
this  year,  when  asked  if  he  had  any 
objections,  replied :  "  Not  a  bit.  Follow 
all  you  like,  and  say  what  you  please." 
And  he  meant  it.  While  at  Putney 
members  of  the  Oxford  crew  will  occa- 
sionally dine  at  the  Cambridge  training- 
table,  and  the  latter  return  the  courtesy 
in  kind.  The  men  do  not  eye  one  another 
askance,  and  there  is  none  of  the  em- 
barrassment that  attends  the  annual 
Harvard-Yale  visitation  when  the  crews 
are  in  quarters  at  New  London. 

And  again  he  writes  in   the  same 
strain  : 


300 


National  Games  and  the  National  Character. 


I  cannot  refrain  from  recounting 
another  incident  to  yet  further  accen- 
tuate this  sportsmanlike  spirit  and  per- 
fect willingness  that  all  London,  or  the 
whole  world,  should  see  the  crews  at 
practice,  if  it  cared  to  make  the  journey 
to  Putney.  The  first  morning  I  went  to 
Putney,  Mr.  Lehmann,  one  of  the  two 
Oxford  coaches,  whom  I  had  met,  was 
detained  in  town,  and  did  not  turn  up ; 
therefore  I  asked  a  boatman  to  point  out 
to  me  the  other  coach  Mr.  McLean,  and, 
approaching  the  latter,  asked  if  the  crew 
was  going  out,  and  when.  With  recol- 
lections of  New  London  experiences  I 
expected  to  have  a  well-bred,  non-com- 
mittal English  stare  turned  full  upon  me. 
Judge,  then,  my  surprise  when  Mr. 
McLean  informed  me,  with  as  much 
consideration  as  though  I  were  the  most 
honoured  old  "blue,"  that  the  crew  was 
going  out  in  about  half  an  hour  but  only 
for  a  short  paddle,  and  that  if  I  wanted 
to  see  it  at  work,  I  had  better  come  that 
afternoon,  when  the  men  would  launch 
their  boat  at  a  "quarter  before  three." 
And  he  knew  me  at  that  time  only  as  one 
of  the  several  hundred  interested  spec- 
tators standing  on  the  river-bank  waiting 
for  the  crew  to  bring  out  its  boat.  Fancy 
asking  a  Yale  or  Harvard  coach  at  what 
time  the  crew  would  come  out,  and  the 
best  place  to  see  it  at  work !  Perhaps 
a  stranger  would  be  told  all  about  it, — 
per — haps ! 


There  is,  in  a  word,  too  much 
business  about  American  games ;  the 
secrecy,  the  professional  trainers,  the 
length  of  training,  the  value  of  the 
gate-money,  the  amount  spent  by  the 
universities  on  the  clubs,  combine  to 
soil  the  spirit  which  we  call  sports- 
manlike. 

If  we  put  aside  the  professionals, 
a  class  from  whom  American  sport 
is  happily  more  free  than  English, 
players  of  games  may  be  said  to  have 
developed  a  valuable  code  of  honour 
which  may  be  indicated  under  the 
happy  metaphor,  playing  the  game. 
To  play  the  game  is  to  put  aside 
selfishness,  not  only  scrupulously  to 
observe  rules  written  and  unwritten, 
but  to  keep  a  pure  desire  to  regulate 
every  effort  to  victory  by  the  senti- 


ment of  clean  honour.  As  a  fencer 
hands  back  his  weapon  to  the  oppo- 
nent he  disarms,  a  man  who  plays 
the  game  will  love  a  "  fair  field  and 
no  favour  "  more  than  a  victory  won 
by  cunning,  or  what  is  popularly 
known  as  sharp  practice.  There  is 
of  course  as  strict  an  honour  among 
American  athletes  as  among  ours ; 
but  comparing  the  two  codes  it  does 
seem  to  us  that  the  quality  of  cun- 
ning, or  acuteness,  is  recognised  in 
America  as  a  virtue,  almost  without 
qualification.  Americans,  to  quote 
our  previous  example,  would  laud  the 
capture  of  Aguinaldo  as  a  good  typical 
instance  of  playing  the  game.  For  it 
is  a  virtue  to  be  more  acute  than  an 
opponent,  not  only  in  love  and  war 
but  in  games,  in  politics,  in  business. 
The  athlete  conceals  his  skill,  the 
money-maker  makes  a  corner  in  a 
staple  of  life,  the  politician  revokes 
a  treaty. 

Games,  we  have  said,  occupy  to 
an  extreme  degree  the  interests  of 
Americans.  It  is  the  more  impor- 
tant, therefore,  that  those  who  are  in 
authority  over  the  games  of  the  nation 
should  see  to  it  that  the  sportsman- 
like spirit  breathes  through  them  all. 
There  is  in  England  much  reason  to 
regret  the  frequent  presence  of  the 
sort  of  person  who  is  called  idiomati- 
cally the  pot-hunter, — the  pseudo- 
amateur  who  thinks  of  money  first 
and  sport  afterwards.  We  believe 
that  this  sort  of  financial  athlete  is 
much  rarer  in  America ;  his  place  is 
taken  by  the  victory-hunter;  but  it 
remains  that  nowhere  in  the  world  is 
the  spirit  of  sport  more  effective  for 
good  than  in  the  English  universities, 
— the  repositories  of  sporting  honour 
— and  the  more  of  this  spirit  that  is 
spread  abroad  by  international  meet- 
ings the  better. 

We  have  said  that  the  actual 
money-making  amateur  is  rare  among 
Americans,  and  they  also  mean  to 


National  Games  and  the  National  Character. 


301 


prevent  his  development  by  every 
effort  in  their  power.  With  that 
quickness  of  action  which  marks  them 
in  all  departments  of  life  the  fear  of 
the  insinuation  of  the  quasi-amateur 
has  been  followed  immediately  by 
preventive  measures  ;  and  that  in  the 
most  unexpected  of  games.  Golf  has 
grown  popular  in  America  with  even 
greater  suddenness  than  in  England, 
and  mushroom  hotels  have  sprung  up 
at  the  edges  of  the  various  links.  The 
interests  of  the  links  and  the  hotels 
naturally  coincide  and,  in  order  to 
popularise  both,  inducements  of  all 
sorts  have  been  held  out  to  attract 
well-known  players  to  the  several 
spots.  The  most  usual  form  of  in- 
ducement has  been  an  advertisement 
offering  "  board  and  transportation," 
— not  for  life — to  any  well-known 
golf-player  who  will  stay  at  the  hotel. 
The  growing  scandal  of  this  and 
similar  advertisements  was  thought  so 
serious  that  the  authorities  respon- 
sible for  the  regulation  of  the  game 
have  thought  it  necessary  at  all  costs 
to  prevent  the  acceptance  of  any  such 
offer  by  an  amateur.  They  have, 
therefore,  passed  a  law  which  takes 
its  stand  as  the  most  drastic  that  has 
yet  been  known  in  any  game.  By 
the  new  definition  an  amateur  may 
accept  no  expenses  at  all  even  from 
his  club ;  he  may  not  even  occupy 
a  salaried  post  in  connection  with  a 
club,  and  he  may  not  play  the  game 
under  an  assumed  name.  This  may 
be  welcomed  as  a  whole-hearted 
attempt  to  scotch  professionalism ; 
but  the  ruling,  though  perhaps  not 
too  Draconian  in  theory,  carries  its 
qualifications  with  it.  The  post  of 
secretary  to  a  club  often  entails 
arduous  work  and,  while  it  demands 
a  gentleman  to  fill  it,  merits  payment. 


To  give  one  example  of  the  working 
of  the  law :  a  well-known  English 
amateur,  a  champion  at  his  game, 
was  lately  invited  to  go  out  to  New 
York  to  regulate  some  clubs  there 
according  to  English  methods.  He 
gave  his  time  and  interest  to  the  work, 
and  was  doing  valuable  service  which 
was  much  appreciated,  when  he  dis- 
covered that  by  accepting  a  salary  he 
was  losing  his  status  as  an  amateur. 
He  could  not  afford  to  do  the  work 
without  remuneration,  and  found  him- 
self, to  the  disappointment  of  his  hosts 
and  to  his  own  great  disadvantage, 
forced  both  to  give  up  his  salary 
and  to  borrow  money  to  make  good 
what  he  had  already  received.  With 
regard  to  expenses, — the  "  board  and 
transportation  "  of  the  American 
advertisements — many  good  amateurs 
in  England  would  be  unable  to  play 
regularly  for  their  county  clubs  unless 
their  travelling- expenses  were  made 
good, — though  it  must  be  confessed, 
in  cricket  for  example,  that  the  pay- 
ment of  expenses  has  not  always  been 
restricted  to  the  mere  cost  of  travel- 
ling or  of  board.  The  danger  in 
making  these  drastic  laws  is  that 
games  may  become  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  the  rich,  a  worse  result 
than  the  occasional  presence  of  even 
a  professional  amateur.  But  this  is 
a  wider  question.  The  point  of 
immediate  importance  is  that  the 
Americans  are  alive  to  the  danger  of 
professionalism  and  are  taking  charac- 
teristically rigorous  steps  to  prevent 
it.  With  this  as  a  beginning  we  may 
hope  that  those  subtler,  but  not  less 
perilous,  offences  against  the  pure 
sporting  spirit  will  also  be  in  time 
eliminated.  The  knowledge  of  how 
to  play  the  game  is  not  the  least 
valuable  of  national  possessions. 


302 


FOR    THE    HONOUR    OF    THE     CORPS. 


"  LET  'em  all  come !  "  said  the 
hospital -orderly  despairingly.  "An- 
other pack  of  blooming  doolies,  and 
the  first  batch  not  'alf  fixed  yet ! 
Gawd  'elp  us  !  " 

A  long  slow  line  of  stretchers 
trickled  into  the  field-hospital.  Here 
and  there  a  face,  very  white  and  set, 
was  seen  for  a  minute  or  two,  the 
teeth  gnawing  at  the  under  lip  to 
stifle  vain  cries,  or  an  arm  was 
thrown  aloft  to  drop  back  again 
with  limp  impotence.  From  some 
of  the  canvas  troughs  a  little  blood 
dripped  reluctantly,  or  spread  in 
wide  discoloured  patches.  Now  and 
again  an  accidental  jolt  would  knock 
a  scream  from  the  occupant  of  one  of 
the  doolies,  or  the  insistent  moaning 
of  an  unconscious  sufferer  would  be 
heard,  regular  as  a  heart-beat,  and 
inexpressibly  fretting  to  the  nerves  of 
the  stricken  folk  who  lay  around. 

A  gaunt  man,  with  haggard  eyes 
and  deep  hollows  in  his  colourless 
cheeks,  raised  himself  on  his  elbow 
from  the  camp-bed  on  which  he  lay, 
and  panted  questions  to  all  who 
passed  him. 

"  How's  it  going  ?  "  he  asked  again 
and  again,  gasping  between  each  eddy- 
ing gust  of  words.  "  Are  our  fellows 
holding  their  own  1  For  God's  sake 
tell  me  how  it's  going?  Tell  me — " 
He  fell  back  exhausted. 

A  young  soldier,  with  his  right  arm 
in  a  sling,  walked  down  the  ward 
from  the  end  where  the  doctors  were 
toiling  like  men  possessed  by  devils. 
The  sick  officer  on  the  bed  called  to 
him.  "  Here,"  he  gasped,  his  face 
working  with  the  intensity  of  his 
excitement.  "  Here,  I  say,  come 


here,  you, — you  man  of  B  Company, 
— come  here  !  " 

The  private  turned  and  stared  at 
the  speaker.  Then  he  walked  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  attempted  to  lift  his 
injured  arm  in  salute,  and  emitted  a 
gruff  cry,  while  his  face  contracted 
with  pain. 

"I  can't  salute,  sir,"  he  said. 
"  My  harm's  smashed  like,  and  they 
'aven't  time  to  look  to  it  yet,  but  Gawd 
Almighty,  anythink  is  better  than 
the  'ell  our  chaps  is  gettin'  of  up  on 
the  'ill  yonder.  It  won't  take  long 
afore  their  name  is  Walker.  They're 
getting  'ell,  sir,  'ell  with  red  pepper 
to  it."  His  eyes  were  wild  with  fear 
of  the  death  upon  which  they  had 
looked  so  recently ;  his  dominant 
sensation  was  one  of  relief  that  he 
had  escaped  from  that  unspeakable 
inferno  on  the  summit  of  the  hill 
where  what  remained  of  his  regiment 
still  clung  to  the  bullet-smitten  earth. 
The  excitement  which  held  him,  and 
was  increased  by  the  fever  of  his 
undressed  wound,  made  him  careless 
of  his  words  even  though  he  spoke  to 
one  of  his  own  officers. 

"  Damn  you,  sir  !  "  cried  the  sick 
man,  springing  up  in  his  cot,  and 
shaking  a  palsied  hand  at  the  private. 
"  How  dare  you  speak  like  that  of 
the  Blankshires,  how  dare  you  ? " 
He  raved  and  gesticulated  as  though 
only  the  lack  of  strength  restrained 
him  from  tearing  the  life  out  of  the 
soldier  before  him. 

"  I  don't  want  for  to  say  nothink 
agin  the  corpse,  sir,"  said  the 
latter  sulkily,  involuntarily  retreat- 
ing as  he  spoke  from  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  angry  officer.  "You 


For  the  Honour  of  the  Corps. 


303 


'aven't  seen  what  I  seed,  sir.  You 
'aven't  been  in  'ell,  not  like  me. 
My  Gawd,  it  was  hawful,  hawful  ! 
They're  being  picked  hoff  like  rabbits. 
They  can't  stand  it,  'taint  in  'uinan 
natur.  Hi  wouldn't  say  but  what 
they  was  right  if  they  do  bunk  it. 
Gorramercy  !  you  don't  know  what  it 
was,  sir." 

The  officer  fell  back  on  his  cot, 
utterly  exhausted.  The  private,  eye- 
ing him  as  men  eye  a  dangerous 
animal,  sidled  off  on  his  way  down 
the  ward. 

Major  Thorns  of  the  Blankshire 
Regiment,  who  had  been  incapacita- 
ted from  leading  his  men  by  a  severe 
attack  of  dysentery,  lay  panting 
feebly  while  his  mind  raced.  He 
had  learned  that  the  corps,  which 
had  been  the  only  home  that  he  had 
known  for  twenty  years,  had  formed 
part  of  a  column  which  had  seized  a 
hill  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Boer 
lines  before  dawn  that  morning. 
Soon  after  day-break,  when  the  fog 
had  rolled  away,  their  presence  had 
been  greeted  by  the  crackle  of  rifle- 
fire,  furious,  continuous,  and  increas- 
ing in  volume,  punctuated  at  short 
intervals  by  the  louder  reports  of  big 
guns  and  the  sobbing  of  the  pom- 
poms. From  a  mile  or  two  to  the 
rear  of  the  field-hospital  the  British 
guns  roared  a  response,  but  the  tumult 
around  the  hill-top  yonder  had  not 
been  even  temporarily  checked.  All 
this  Thorns  knew,  and  the  never- 
failing  stream  of  shattered  men  that 
flowed  past  him,  that  blocked  the 
doorways,  that  flooded  into  pools  of 
wounded  without  the  tents,  told  him 
the  rest.  The  column,  clinging  de- 
spairingly to  the  hill-top,  was  being 
mowed  down  by  a  converging  fire.  But 
to  Major  Thorns  the  column  repre- 
sented only  the  Blankshires,  and  the 
Blankshires  were  to  him  everything 
that  mattered, — that  he  cared  for.  He 
writhed  as  his  thoughts  tortured  him, 


and  his  accursed  weakness  nailed  him 
to  the  cot.  The  private  had  spoken 
of  the  regiment  as  shaken,  broken, 
perhaps,  ready  to  run  or  at  least  sur- 
render. The  bare  notion  of  such  a 
thing  happening  to  his  fellows,  the 
men  whom  he  had  bred  and  trained, 
turned  him  sick  with  horror.  He 
sat  erect,  and  threw  his  thin  legs  over 
the  side  of  his  cot.  He  leaned  a  little 
of  his  weight  upon  his  feet,  tentatively, 
enquiringly,  and  his  face  wore  the 
expression  of  an  over-anxious  experi- 
menter. 

"  I  must,"  he  said  to  himself,  and 
held  his  breath  for  a  mighty  effort. 
He  had  not  tried  to  stand  erect  for 
days,  but  now  he  staggered  to  his 
feet,  though  his  legs  felt  as  weak  as 
pen-holders,  and  his  shin-bones  ached 
maddeningly.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
or  two,  holding  to  the  side  of  his  bed 
for  support.  His  head  swam  dizzily, 
and  the  world  went  out  before  his 
eyes  in  a  film  of  grey  mist,  but  he 
clung  on  resolutely.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  standing  there  in  a 
murky  darkness,  utterly  isolated  from 
all  created  things,  while  he  fought 
manfully  against  superhuman  forces 
for  life,  for  all  that  life  held  worth 
the  having, — for  the  right  to  rejoin 
his  regiment. 

Slowly  but  surely  the  mist  eddied 
away,  and  the  string  of  laden  bearers 
still  passed  on  up  the  ward.  Every- 
one was  engrossed  by  the  labour  or 
the  pain  of  the  moment ;  nobody  no- 
ticed the  sick  man  groping  his  way 
towards  the  nearest  exit.  He  went 
as  he  was,  bare-footed  and  in  his 
pyjamas,  clinging  first  to  one  cot  and 
then  to  another,  and  more  than  once 
he  grasped  the  arm  or  the  shoulder 
of  a  dooly-bearer,  who  threw  him  off 
roughly  without  even  sparing  him  a 
look.  Thus,  after  what  seemed  an 
incredibly  long  space  of  time,  he  won 
clear  of  the  tent,  wormed  his  way 
through  the  throng  of  whole  and 


For  the  Honour  of  the  Corps. 


wounded  men  without,  and  crawled 
into  some  low  scrub  twenty  yards 
distant  from  the  door  through  which 
he  had  emerged.  Here  for  a  space 
he  lost  consciousness. 

"Major  Thorns  is  missing  from 
'is  cot,  sir,"  reported  a  hospital- orderly 
saluting  stiffly. 

"  How  do  you  mean  missing  1 " 
asked  the  doctor  to  whom  he  spoke, 
never  raising  his  eyes  from  the 
mangled  limb  upon  which  he  was 
operating. 

"  He  ain't  in  his  cot,  sir,"  said  the 
orderly. 

"  Well,  we  can't  spare  the  time  to 
look  for  him  now.  Bear  it  in  mind 
when  we  have  got  through  the  press- 
ing cases,  if  we  ever  do,  and  report 
to  me  again." 

A  gaunt  face,  with  two  hectic 
patches  of  colour  burning  like  sullen 
embers  in  the  deep  hollows  of  the 
cheeks,  reared  itself  out  of  the  scrub, 
and  looked  with  the  eyes  of  a  maniac 
at  the  hill-top  whence  the  roar  of 
battle  came.  Before  those  eyes  there 
lay  a  long  slope,  covered  with  rust- 
coloured  grass  or  mean  scrub,  and 
spattered  with  boulders.  Here  and 
there  the  slope  was  broken  by  facets 
of  earth  or  rock  bare  of  vegetation, 
grey,  brown,  or  almost  black.  Rising 
abruptly  from  the  further  extremity 
of  this  long  hill,  and  standing  out 
prominently  from  the  range  to  which 
it  belonged,  was  a  bold  bluff  whose  sides 
had  a  steeper  grade  and  appeared  in 
many  places  to  be  almost  perpen- 
dicular. On  the  crest  of  this  tiny 
clouds  of  white  smoke  were  visible 
like  snowy  soap-bubbles  forming  and 
vanishing  with  extraordinary  rapidity. 
It  was  to  this  point  that  Major 
Thoms's  eyes  were  glued ;  it  was 
towards  this  that  he  began  to  crawl 
slowly ;  it  was  here  that  his  heart 
was  fixed,  upon  this  that  it  was  set  so 
firmly  that  it  seemed  to  have  flown 
ahead  of  him,  and  was  now  dragging 


his  frail  body  after  it  with  an  over 
powering  force. 

Once  safe  from  the  observation  of 
those  within  the  hospital,  Thorns  rose 
to  his  feet  and  staggered  unsteadily 
up  the  long  slope.  His  strength  had 
to  some  extent  returned  to  him,  but  in 
truth  it  was  only  the  soul  within  the 
man  that  pushed  him  forward.  His 
body  was  a  thing  of  infinite  weight, 
ponderous,  awkward,  yet  so  light  that 
it  took  but  the  swish  of  a  grass-blade 
to  knock  it  off  its  feet.  He  was  con- 
scious of  numbed  pain,  of  achings  in 
every  limb  that  annoyed  him  vaguely, 
much  as  a  disturbing  noise  repeated 
often  annoys  a  sleepy  man.  He  knew 
that  he  was  fighting  desperately  with 
some  unseen  influence,  with  outraged 
nature ;  he  knew  that  his  breath  was 
tearing  through  his  lungs,  bursting 
from  his  lips  in  gusts  that  were 
agonising ;  that  his  sight  was  dim, 
that  sounds  came  to  him  as  from  an 
impossible  distance ;  that  he  was 
light-headed,  that  he  raved  and 
gesticulated  as  he  struggled  onward. 
But  all  the  while  he  was  perfectly 
aware  of  what  he  was  doing.  Never 
for  an  instant  did  he  lose  sight  of 
the  object  of  all  this  furious  effort ; 
never  once  did  the  desire  to  rejoin  his 
men  weaken  or  fade.  The  strain,  the 
weary  toiling,  the  agony,  the  supreme 
physical  exertion,  all  were  things 
realised,  felt,  noted  with  a  sort  of 
wonder,  yet  they  were  to  him  for  the 
moment  only  worthy  of  consideration 
because  they  held  him  back,  impeded 
him,  postponed  the  fulfilment  of  his 
purpose.  It  never  so  much  as 
occurred  to  him  that  such  sufferings 
could  defeat  his  design,  that  he  could 
surrender  to  them.  They,  and  the 
thought  which  he  spared  to  them, 
were  only,  as  it  were,  a  dull  back- 
ground against  which  the  idea  that 
dominated  his  mind  stood  out  in  bold 
relief.  This  was  the  notion  that  he, 
Ralph  Thorns,  was  the  one  man  in 


For  the  Honour  of  the  Corps. 


305 


the  world  in  whom  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  Blankshires  believed  intensely, 
that  he  above  all  others  would  have 
the  power  to  rally  them,  to  keep  them 
steady,  if, — if  he  could  only  get  to 
them  quick  enough !  He  saw  a 
vision,  as  vivid  as  though  it  had  in 
truth  presented  itself  to  his  eyes, 
of  his  men, — his  men — decimated, 
wounded,  maimed,  mangled,  killed, 
stricken  down  in  heaps,  and  of  their 
fellows,  mad — afraid  as  the  young 
private  in  the  hospital  had  been, 
shirking  and  skulking,  ready  for 
flight  or  for  surrender.  The  thought 
of  such  an  awful  culmination  to  the 
punishment  which  the  regiment  was 
receiving,  to  the  agony  it  was  endur- 
ing (the  memory  of  which  hurt  Thorns 
worse  than  any  mere  physical  pang 
could  do),  drove  him  forward  relent- 
lessly. The  honour  of  the  corps  must 
be  saved,  disaster  must  be  averted, 
no  matter  what  the  cost.  And  so, 
tripping  and  staggering,  stumbling 
headlong,  crawling  on  all  fours,  rising 
to  run  unsteadily  to  fall  once  more, 
Major  Thorns  of  the  Blankshires 
wrestled  his  way  in  sore  travail  to- 
wards the  hill-top. 

Often  as  he  went  he  was  forced  to 
hide,  lying  panting  in  the  grass,  while 
doolies  and  their  bearers  trailed  past 
him.  Now  and  again,  as  he  began  to 
creep  up  the  stiffer  ascent  and  to  draw 
nearer  to  the  scene  of  conflict,  he  saw 
stragglers  from  many  regiments  limp- 
ing painfully  to  the  rear.  Some  walked 
with  an  arm  hanging  useless,  some 
were  helped  along  by  uninjured  men 
who  had  seized  the  opportunity  of 
getting  out  of  the  death-trap  above; 
and  once  a  corporal,  who  had  been 
overlooked  by  the  bearers,  crawled  by 
dragging  his  legs  after  him,  his  face 
uplifted  and  tense  with  agony,  while 
blood  from  a  bullet-wound  through 
his  cheeks  poured  on  to  his  breast 
so  that  the  front  of  his  tunic  was 
blackened.  Once  Thorns  saw  three 
No.  508. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


men  of  his  own  regiment  hurry  down 
the  hill,  their  helmets  gone,  their 
rifles  thrown  aside,  their  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  path,  their  shoulders  hunched 
as  though  in  expectation  of  a  blow, 
their  lips  mumbling  nonsense  as  they 
fled  stunned  and  dazed  from  the 
carnage  which  they  dared  face  no 
longer.  It  was  all  Thorns  could  do 
to  restrain  himself  from  ordering 
these  fugitives  to  rejoin  the  firing-line, 
but  he  was  afraid  that  they  might 
combine  to  carry  him  off  to  hospital 
again,  and  he  feared  to  show  himself. 
The  grade  was  very  steep  now,  and 
the  hill-side  was  strewn  with  big 
boulders,  rock  piled  on  rock,  over 
which  the  sick  man  crawled  labori- 
ously with  pants  and  groans.  His  feet 
and  knees  were  cut  and  covered  with 
blood;  the  sweat  was  pouring  from 
his  body;  his  hands  gripped  convul- 
sively at  everything  within  their 
reach ;  his  teeth  were  set  fast  as  a 
vice ;  his  eyes  were  fixed,  desperate, 
brimful  of  the  agony  born  of  the 
unnatural  effort.  With  a  series  of 
dogged  spurts  he  climbed  and  climbed 
till  strength  failed  him,  when  he 
would  lie  motionless  to  recover  force 
for  another  spasm  of  exertion.  It 
seemed  to  him  that,  as  in  some  awful 
nightmare,  he  was  propelling  a  vast 
dead  weight  up  an  endless  staircase. 
A  tag  of  old  heroic  verse  rang  in  his 
head,  keeping  time  to  the  sledge- 
hammer beatings  of  his  heart,  to  the 
fury  of  his  labour. 

With  many  a  weary  step,  and  many 

a  groan, 
Up  a  high  hill  he  heaves  a  huge  round 

stone ; 
The  huge  round  stone,  resulting  with 

a  bound. 
Thunders  impetuous  down,  and  smokes 

along  the  ground. 

The  printed  page  on  which  he  had 
read  it,  during  the  days  when  he  was 
studying  Johnson's  LIVES  OP  THE 


306 


For  the  Honour  of  the  Corps. 


POETS  for  his  examination  for  the 
Service,  rose  up  before  his  eyes.  He 
remembered  the  exact  spot,  near  the 
top  on  the  right  hand  side;  which  the 
quotation  had  occupied,  and  the  in- 
congruity of  such  learning  as  a  pre- 
paration for  the  struggle  that  was 
being  fought  upon  the  hill-top  struck 
him  as  vaguely  humorous.  The  words 
came  to  him  again  and  again,  punc- 
tuated by  his  sobbing  gasps  for  breath. 
The  line  seemed  to  have  become  en- 
tangled with  his  thoughts,  his  hopes, 
his  fierce  battle  with  exhaustion  and 
pain,  with  the  very  essence  of  his 
being.  The  words  maddened  him, 
torturing  his  mind  with  their  per- 
sistent repetitions ;  they  added  to  his 
sufferings  and  to  his  labour,  yet  they 
would  not  be  still. 

Two  or  three  centuries  crawled  past 
after  this,  —  centuries  packed  with 
pain,  made  ghastly  by  frenzied  efforts 
which  attained  to  but  a  moiety  of 
the  object  for  which  he  struggled, 
centuries  during  which  he  wrestled 
against  all  created  things  blindly, 
breathlessly,  fiercely,  —  against  the 
craggy  boulders  which  were  endowed 
with  a  strange  power  to  bruise  and 
smite  him,  against  the  steep  ascent, 
against  the  oppression  of  his  pumping 
lungs,  against  the  dizzy  swimming  of 
his  head,  against  his  mind  which 
broke  loose  from  all  control  and  ran 
hither  and  thither  in  mazes  of  incon- 
sequence exhausting  him  by  its  wan- 
derings, against  the  very  atmosphere 
around  him  which  weighed  upon  him 
with  an  awful  heaviness,  against 
Nature  and  against  himself.  Then, 
almost  suddenly,  the  lip  of  the  table- 
land above  him  showed  very  near. 
Below  it  reserves  were  massed.  The 
men,  lying  on  their  faces,  and  resting 
their  chins  upon  their  folded  arms, 
were  silent,  or  spoke  only  in  short 
jerky  sentences.  Some  among  them 
were  quivering  from  head  to  heel  like 
terriers,  a  few  were  seemingly  asleep, 


some  were  dazed  and  bewildered,  some 
were  sunk  in  a  stupid  stolidity,  some 
were  grimly  alert.  From  time  to  time, 
as  the  word  was  passed  back  from  the 
firing-line,  and  a  sharp  order  was 
given,  little  bodies  of  these  men 
sprang  to  their  feet,  and  doubled  in 
a  thin  spray  over  the  hill-crest, 
vanishing  into  the  unseen  battle 
beyond.  Those  left  behind  grunted, 
and  elbowing  their  neighbours,  edged 
towards  the  places  which  had  been 
occupied  by  the  men  who  had  dis- 
appeared. Whatever  the  attitudes, 
whatever  the  appearance  of  these  wait- 
ing soldiers,  whether  they  lay  still, 
whether  they  crawled  and  jostled 
clumsily,  whether  they  quivered  with 
excitement,  or  seemed  immovable  as 
the  dead,  they  all  were  a  prey  to  the 
same  emotions,  —  expectation,  sus- 
pense, dread  of  what  lay  before  them. 
If  you  could  have  looked  into  their 
minds  you  would  have  found  that 
this  period  of  waiting  and  inactivity, 
although  they  lay  in  safety,  was  more 
appalling  to  them  than  any  battle 
could  be.  In  the  grip  of  a  hard- 
fought  action  men  are  busy,  are  so 
occupied  in  doing  the  thing  which 
lies  to  their  hands,  that  little  time  is 
left  for'  thought  ;  but  now,  their 
imaginations  were  running  free,  were 
conjuring  up  pictures  of  the  horrors 
hidden  by  the  ridge  above,  were  fore- 
casting risks,  and  milking  the  man- 
hood out  of  them  drop  by  drop. 

From  over  the  crest,  beyond  which 
the  little  waves  of  reinforcements  had 
vanished,  there  crawled  a  ghastly 
company.  They  came  slowly,  creep 
ing,  writhing  or  limping, — mangled 
creatures  with  wild  eyes  glaring  out 
of  ashy,  blood-flecked  faces,  faces 
drawn  with  pain.  Here  was  a  man 
with  a  shattered  jaw,  his  chin  hang- 
ing loosely  on  his  breast,  his  silent 
mouth  wide  open  as  though  he 
shouted  ;  there  a  tortured  wretch 
rolled  over  and  over  in  his  agony 


For  the  Honour  of  the  Corps. 


307 


calling  upon  his  friends  by  name,  and 
upon  the  God  who  made  him  to  strike 
him  dead,  to  put  him  out  of  his 
misery ;  here  a  man  walked  nursing 
an  injured  arm,  which  he  examined 
curiously,  as  though  it  were  some 
unusual  object  upon  which  he  had 
lighted  by  chance ;  there  another 
dragged  paralysed  legs  behind  him, 
and  propelled  himself  forward  by  his 
arms  with  slow  effort ;  another  halted 
every  few  paces  to  retch  and  vomit 
violently  and  with  much  noise.  One 
man,  running  at  the  extremity  of  his 
speed,  topped  the  hill  suddenly,  and 
pitched  headlong  into  the  reserve. 
He  was  lashing  out  with  arms  and 
legs,  and  foaming  at  the  mouth  in 
strong  convulsions.  He  had  neither 
bruise  nor  scratch  upon  him,  but  his 
mind  had  given  way  under  the  terrible 
strain  which  all  were  sharing  on  the 
bullet-swept  table-land  yonder.  And 
still  the  word  came  back  with  mo- 
notonous regularity,  "  Reinforce  the 
right!"  "Reinforce  the  left!"  and 
still  the  little  sprays  of  men,  their 
rifles  trailed,  their  bodies  bent  double, 
sprang  forward  to  join  the  fighting- 
line. 

No  one  took  any  note  of  Thorns, 
for  all  were  too  entirely  engrossed  by 
the  emotions  of  the  moment  to  spare 
a  thought  or  a  look  for  anything  save 
the  ridge  ahead  of  them.  The  sick 
officer  crept  on  steadily,  till  he  was 
abreast  of  the  front  line  of  reserves. 
Then  he  lay  flat  for  a  space,  recover- 
ing his  breath,  and  gathering  his 
forces  for  a  final  effort.  The  hill-crest 
which  lay  so  near,  yet  so  completely 
hid  the  battle,  appealed  to  him  as  a 
thing  awe-inspiring,  as  a  vast  curtain, 
drawn  by  the  hand  of  God  Himself 
to  shroud  some  terrific  mystery.  He 
tried  to  picture  to  himself  in  imagina- 
tion what  the  place  was  like  that  lay 
concealed  behind  that  grim  barrier, 
and  in  a  moment  his  mind  had  con- 
ceived a  scene,  complete  to  its  least 


detail,  and  he  was  convinced  that  he 
saw,  as  in  a  vision,  the  battle-field 
that  was  hidden  from  his  physical 
sight.  The  clamour  and  uproar  of  the 
fight  was  borne  to  him,  and  it  stirred 
him  strangely.  It  was  as  though 
there  was  something  superhuman  in 
the  rattle  of  the  musketry,  the  detona- 
tion of  the  guns,  above  which  rose 
cries  and  shouts.  He  was  possessed 
by  a  curious  feeling  that  the  men  who 
fought  yonder  were  not  mere  men, 
but  beings  of  some  separate  creation, 
apart  from  their  kind,  beings  diabolical 
and  awful.  He  was  pricked  by  an 
eager  curiosity  to  see  them,  to  see  the 
scene  of  conflict,  to  join  in  this  Titanic 
warfare,  to  share  the  emotions  of  the 
demons  who  waged  it ;  but  for  the 
time  he  lay  still,  consciously  husband- 
ing his  strength  in  preparation  for  a 
final  effort.  And  all  the  while  he 
was  aware  that  his  mind,  racked  by 
the  physical  strain  to  which  his  whole 
being  had  been  subjected  ever  since 
he  left  the  hospital,  was  playing  him 
queer  tricks,  was  cutting  fantastic 
antics,  was  juggling  with  ideas  which 
were  absurd  and  nonsensical.  He 
found  himself  watching  the  motions 
of  this  mind  of  his,  as  though  he  were 
completely  detached  from  it,  as  though 
it  were  something  apart  from  him, 
over  which  he  exercised  no  sort  of 
control ;  and  yet  the  knowledge  that 
his  men  were  close  at  hand  now,  and 
were  needing  him  sorely,  never  left 
him  for  a  moment,  and  his  determina- 
tion to  join  them,  to  help  them,  to 
endure  with  and  for  them,  never 
slackened. 

"  The  Blankshires  is  gettin'  merry 
'ell,"  said  a  wounded  man,  as  he  threw 
himself  down  near  the  reserves,  and 
within  a  yard  or  two  of  Thorns.  He 
had  a  slight  wound  on  his  left  elbow, 
enough  to  swear  by,  enough  to  serve 
him  as  an  excuse  for  quitting  the 
firing-line.  "  It's  bloomin'  'ot  hevery- 
where,  but  it's  'ottest  on  the  right, 

x  2 


308 


For  the  Honour  of  the  Corps. 


and  the  Blankshires  is  being  punished 
somethink  hawful  !  " 

"  Reinforce  the  right !  For  Gawd's 
sake  reinforce  the  right ! "  cried  a 
voice  from  somewhere  beyond  the 
ridge,  and  thirty  men  sprang  to  their 
feet  and  leaped  at  the  hill-crest  like 
demons.  Their  movements  were 
swift,  but  marked  by  a  certain  stiff- 
ness. They  were  instinct  with  a 
kind  of  furious  determination,  a 
hurried  recklessness  such  as  denotes 
an  inward  struggle,  when  a  man 
dare  not  give  himself  time  to  hesitate 
lest  he  should  be  vanquished  by  his 
meaner  self.  The  drawn  faces  of 
these  men  mirrored  that  feeling ; 
they  were  set  hard  and  tense ;  their 
every  motion  bore  witness  that  the 
mind  within  them  was  driving  the 
shuddering  body  forward  relentlessly, 
against  instinct,  inclination,  will. 

Thorns,  forgetful  of  his  weakness 
now  that  the  supreme  moment  had 
come,  rushed  forward  some  yards  in 
advance  of  the  scattered,  scuttling 
line  of  crouching  men.  As  he 
reached  the  crest  he  was  struck  with 
sudden  astonishment,  for  the  place 
was  wholly  unlike  what  he  had  pic- 
tured to  himself.  It  was  a  broad 
table-land,  dipping  slightly  in  the 
centre  to  rise  again  at  the  further 
end  where  a  fringe  of  grey  boulders 
stood  out  grotesquely  against  the  sky- 
line. Just  beyond  the  dip  some 
shallow  trenches  had  been  scratched 
in  the  hard  ground,  and  in  these 
lay  prostrate  khaki- coloured  figures, 
stretched  flat  behind  barking  rifles. 
Here  and  there  a  boulder  or  two 
afforded  shelter,  and  the  men  were 
herded  behind  them.  On  the  right 
was  another  trench,  equally  shallow, 
and  filled  with  the  quick  and  the 
dead.  The  table-land  was  being 
played  upon  by  big  guns  from  the 
front  and  from  the  right  and  left 
flanks.  The  enemy's  marksmen  were 
in  hiding,  not  only  upon  the  slopes 


of  the  boulder-strewn  hills  in  front 
and  on  either  hand,  but  behind  the 
shelter  of  the  rocks  at  the  far  end  of 
the  table-land  itself.  The  whole  sur- 
face of  the  hill-top  which  the  British 
held  was  covered  with  tiny,  pecking 
dust-flecks,  that  leaped  upwards  much 
as  water  may  be  seen  to  do  when 
rain  falls  heavily  upon  it.  Wounded 
men  were  creeping  painfully  towards 
the  rear,  and  the  dead  lay  about  in 
every  direction,  like  rabbits  after  a 
big  drive.  Shells  burst  continuously 
over  every  part  of  the  flat. 

Ralph  Thorns,  unarmed,  bare- 
footed, bare-headed,  and  in  his 
pyjamas,  ran  across  the  open  to  the 
trench  on  the  right  in  which  the 
Blankshires  lay.  He  had  no  sense 
of  weakness  now,  and  his  limbs 
served  him  loyally.  He  seized  a 
rifle  and  a  handful  of  cartridges 
from  a  dead  man.  He  had  a  wide 
field  for  choice,  for  on  the  lip  of  the 
trench  the  dead  were  tumbled  here, 
there,  everywhere,  some  curled  up 
like  dogs,  some  extended  as  though 
at  rest,  some  with  peaceful,  some 
with  distorted,  agonised  faces. 

No  one  spared  so  much  as  a  look 
at  Thorns  as  he  threw  himself  into 
the  firing-line.  Every  man  was 
feverishly  busy,  shooting  at  those 
cruel  boulders,  for  the  enemy  were 
invisible,  trying  to  keep  alive,  if 
possible,  distracted  by  the  noise,  and 
half  maddened  by  the  awful  tension 
of  the  ordeal  which  all  were  enduring. 
A  murderous  converging  fire  was 
being  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
shelter-trench,  which  in  its  poor  two 
feet  of  depth  afforded  a  miserable 
protection,  and  the  enemy's  riflemen 
were  enfilading  it  from  the  right  flank. 
Every  minute  or  so  a  man  gasped,  and 
lay  still  for  ever,  or  fell  backwards 
with  feebly  kicking  legs.  Now  and 
again  a  wounded  soldier  gave  vent  to 
a  dull  grunt,  to  a  sharp  exclamation, 
or  to  a  scream  of  pain.  A  private 


For  the  Honour  of  the  Corps. 


309 


near  Thorns  threw  himself  flat  in  de- 
spair and  ceased  firing. 

"We  can't  stand  this  'ere,"  he 
shouted.  "  We've  done  all  we  bloom- 
ing well  can.  The  devils  is  right 
round  us  !  Give  in,  boys,  it  ain't  no 
good  to  be  killed  for  nothink  !  " 

He  took  a  foul  «handkerchief  from 
his  sleeve,  and  began  to  knot  it  round 
his  rifle-muzzle  with  feverish  haste. 
"  Stand  up,  boys,"  he  shouted  again. 
"  Stand  up,  and  'old  your  'ands  above 
your  'eads.  It'll  be  a  surrender  then, 
and  the  beggars  won't  'urt  us  ! " 
Following  his  example  fully  twenty 
men  got  up,  and  stood  stiffly  to  atten- 
tion, but  with  them  rose  Ralph  Thorns, 
his  eyes  flashing,  his  face  distorted 
with  passion,  his  rifle  clubbed.  He 
brought  the  heavy  butt  down  upon 
the  head  of  the  private  who  had 
instigated  the  surrender,  and  the  man 
was  felled  like  an  ox,  subsiding  in 
a  limp  heap  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trench. 

"  You  dogs  !  "  yelled  Thorns,  stand- 
ing fearless  and  erect,  and  trembling 
with  fury.  "  Lie  down,  and  fight  like 
men.  My  God  !  Haven't  you  enough 
pluck  to  stand  a  little  punishment  for 
the  honour  of  the  corps  ?  " 

The  men  were  back  at  their  duty 
in  an  instant. 

"  My  Gawd  !  "  ejaculated  one  of 
them  in  a  scared  whisper.  "  It's  old 
Thoms's  ghost,  so  'elp  me  !  " 

"  Come  to.  lead  the  regiment,  'e  'as, 
now  the  Colonel's  dead  !  "  said  another. 
In  that  appalling  shambles,  where 
the  laws  of  God  and  man  seemed  for 
the  time  to  be  suspended,  everything 
was  possible  and  natural  to  the 
strained  minds  of  the  men,  even  the 
sudden  appearance  in  their  midst  of 
the  ghost  of  their  grim  Major. 

"  Stick  to  it,  boys ! "  cried  a 
sergeant,  wiping  the  blood  from  his 
face.  "Stick  to  it!  We're  right 
as  rain  now  the  Major  has  tooked 
charge."  He  looked  askance  at  the 


officer,  believing  firmly  in  his  exist- 
ence, but  no  less  firmly  in  his  ghostly 
nature. 

The  men  did  not  stop  to  reason ; 
they  fought.  The  presence  of  that 
gaunt  figure  in  his  hospital  kit  filled 
them  with  a  quite  inconsequent  feeling 
of  security,  much  as  a  frightened  child 
is  comforted  by  the  knowledge  that 
some  trusted  elder  is  near  to  it.  For 
the  moment  fear  left  them,  and  Thorns 
never  suffered  it  to  regain  the  mastery. 
From  the  instant  when  his  men  be- 
came aware  he  was  among  them,  he 
held  them  as  in  a  vice.  It  was  he 
who  called  to  them  to  follow  him 
when  he  led  the  headlong  rush  which 
freed  the  trench  from  the  enfilading 
fire  of  the  enemy;  it  was  he  who 
seized  the  fringe  of  boulders  behind 
which  the  murderous  riflemen  had 
lurked,  and  threw  his  men  forward 
to  hold  it ;  it  was  he  who  nailed  the 
Blankshires  to  the  ground  which  they 
had  won,  and  forced  them  to  cling  to 
it  through  the  whole  of  that  strenuous 
afternoon ;  it  was  he  who  led,  directed, 
controlled,  heartened,  inspired  the  men 
of  the  Blankshires  till  the  merciful 
darkness  brought  peace  to  the  battle- 
rent  hill ;  and  it  was  the  Blankshires, 
so  men  say,  who  saved  the  situation, 
and  alone  prevented  the  disaster  which 
at  one  time  was  imminent. 

But  when  the  night  had  fallen,  four 
privates  of  his  regiment  bore  slowly 
to  the  rear  an  emaciated  form  in 
stained  pyjamas,  with  feet,  knees,  and 
hands  cut  and  bruised,  with  its  face 
blackened  with  dirt  and  powder,  and 
with  limbs  that  hung  with  the  limp 
heaviness  of  the  dead.  No  wound 
was  found  upon  his  body ;  the  danger 
which  had  inspired  him  removed,  he 
had  succumbed  to  sheer  exhaustion, 
outraged  nature  taking  its  final  toll  in 
payment  for  his  defiance  of  her  will. 

Men  do  deeds  that  live,  and  are 
rewarded  by  honours  and  decorations, 
by  mention  in  despatches,  and  by 


310 


For  the  Honour  of  the  Corps. 


speedy  promotion,  but  Ralph  Thorns 
was  destined  to  receive  none  of  these 
things.  It  was  only  known  that  he 
had  quitted  his  cot  in  hospital  in  the 
face  of  all  regulations ;  that  he  was 
found  dead  and  unwounded  on  the 
battle-field,  a  fate  which  is  no  more 
than  the  deserts  of  one  who  refuses 
to  be  guided  by  his  physician,  and  the 
doctors  were  prepared  to  swear  that 


he  could  not  have  reached  the  place 
unaided.  Therefore  Major  Ralph 
Thorns  of  the  Blankshires  was  buried 
and  forgotten,  save  by  the  men  of  his 
regiment  who  have  their  reasons  for 
keeping  silent ;  but  perhaps  to  him 
there  was  guerdon  enough  in  the  fact 
that  he,  and  he  alone,  had  saved  the 
honour  of  his  corps. 

HUGH  CLIFFORD. 


311 


VICTOR    HUGO. 


FEW  men  of  letters  have  interested 
the  public  so  long  and  by  such 
varied  means  as  the  French  poet 
whose  centenary  is  commemorated 
this  month.  During  a  literary  career 
longer  than  those  of  Voltaire  and 
Goethe, — he  began  writing  in  boy- 
hood and  lived  to  be  eighty-three — 
he  was  always  able  to  defend  himself 
from  the  trial  which  to  a  man  of  his 
temperament  is  insupportably  painful. 
Now  as  a  poet  and  now  as  a  preacher, 
sometimes  by  the  virulence  of  his 
hatreds  and  sometimes  by  his  plea 
for  an  all-embracing  compassion,  he 
succeeded  in  continually  attracting 
the  attention  of  his  world  and  could 
enjoy  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
denounced  where  he  was  not  adored. 
Those  who  were  not  inclined  to  join 
the  procession  could  not  refrain  from 
throwing  stones  at  the  incense-bearers  ; 
there  was  no  turning  down  a  side- 
street. 

He  was  born  at  BesanQon  on 
February  26th,  1802.  His  father, 
one  of  Napoleon's  generals,  destined 
him  for  the  army  but  the  boy  had 
other  views.  At  fourteen  he  wrote 
in  his  diary,  "  I  mean  to  be  Chateau- 
briand or  nothing  "  ;  a  little  later  he 
composed  a  romance,  attempted  a 
tragedy  and  started  a  journal,  the 

CONSERVATEUR      LlTTERAIRE,      and      at 

twenty  his  first  volume  of  poetry 
brought  him  a  small  pension  from 
Louis  the  Eighteenth.  Influenced 
perhaps  by  his  Breton  mother,  and 
certainly  by  the  prevailing  sentiment 
of  the  hour  which  decreed  that  "he 
who  wishes  to  go  far  and  straight 
must  follow  the  banner  of  Chateau- 
briand," he  began  as  a  Catholic  and 


a  Royalist.  "  Leave  him  to  Time," 
General  Hugo  is  reported  to  have 
said.  "  The  boy  thinks  with  his 
mother ;  the  man  will  think  with 
me."  And  he  was  in  fact  not  long 
in  overtaking  his  father,  not  long  in 
leaving  him  behind.  The  gloss  of  the 
Restoration  soon  grew  dull  :  the  in- 
capacity of  the  Bourbons  regilded  the 
Napoleonic  legend ;  and  for  a  time 
Hugo's  sympathies  were  Bonapartist. 
But  the  ode  to  the  Column  of  the 
Place  Venddrne,  like  the  earlier  ode 
on  the  birth  of  the  Duke  of  Bordeaux, 
was  only  a  stage  on  his  road.  He 
recognised  the  constitutional  monarchy 
as  a  legitimate  compromise  between 
the  absolute  monarchy  whose  day  was 
over  and  the  reign  of  the  people 
whose  day  was  not  yet  come,  and  in 
1845  Louis  Philippe  made  him  a  pair 
de  France.  In  1 848  he  discovered  that 
he  was  a  Republican  ;  he  sat  in  the 
Assemblies  of  1848  and  1850,  and 
was  anxious  to  become  a  candidate 
for  the  presidency  of  the  Republic. 
The  events  of  December,  1851,  drove 
him  into  exile,  and  he  took  refuge 
first  in  Belgium  and  then  in  Guernsey. 
He  refused  to  avail  himself  of  the 
general  amnesty  offered  by  Louis 
Napoleon  in  1857,  and  did  not  return 
to  France  till  the  fall  of  the  Empire 
in  1870 ;  his  political  and  literary 
activities  only  ended  with  his  death 
in  May,  1885. 

Literature  in  all  forms  tempted 
Hugo ;  and  while  in  one  he  was 
supremely  successful,  he  did  not  abso- 
lutely fail  in  any.  Before  his  exile 
he  had  published  four  romances, 
among  them  NOTRE-DAME  DE  PARIS, 
half  a  dozen  volumes  of  lyrics,  and 


312 


Victor  Hugo. 


nine  dramas,  some  in  prose  and  some 
in  verse,  beginning  with  CROMWELL 
which  was  never  put  on  the  stage, 
and  ending  with  LES  BUEGRAVES 
which  met  with  an  unfortunate  re- 
ception in  1843.  Among  the  fruits 
of  his  years  of  exile  are  the  two 
romances,  LES  TRAVAILLEURS  DE  LA 
MER  and  LES  MISERABLES  ;  the  first 
part  of  his  epic,  LA  LEGENDS  DES 
SIECLES  ;  his  lyrical  volumes,  LES 
CONTEMPLATIONS,  LES  CHANSONS  DES 
RUES  ET  DES  Bois,  and  LES  CHATI- 
MENTS  ;  and  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
The  results  of  his  untiring  energy, 
his  capacity  for  incessant  production, 
and  the  necessity  laid  upon  him  to 
maintain  the  conspicuous  position  he 
had  secured,  are  at  the  first  glance 
not  a  little  formidable  in  their  extent 
and  variety.  On  closer  examination 
the  task  of  analysis  is  lighter  than  it 
seemed,  so  distinct  are  the  lines  which 
run  through  all  Hugo's  work,  so  well 
marked  are  its  characteristics. 

Victor  Hugo's  name  is  bound  up 
with  the  literary  revolt  with  which 
the  nineteenth  century  opened ;  he 
represents  more  fully  than  any  of  his 
comrades  in  the  conflict  the  aspira- 
tions, the  triumphs,  and  the  weakness 
of  the  romantic  movement.  If  the 
issue  of  the  struggle  was  not  deter- 
mined by  any  individual  talent  or 
courage,  his  party  yet  owed  much  of 
its  good  fortune  to  the  daring  and 
versatile  genius  of  its  powerful  young 
leader.  "To  make  an  epoch,"  says 
Goethe,  "  two  conditions  are  essen- 
tial, a  good  head  and  a  great  legacy. 
Luther  inherited  the  darkness  of  the 
Popes,  Napoleon  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, and  I  the  errors  of  the  Newtonian 
theory."  Victor  Hugo  was  fortunate 
enough  to  share  Napoleon's  legacy. 
The  pseudo-classic  tradition  had  sur- 
vived the  fury  of  an  iconoclastic  age  ; 
before  that  venerable  figure  seated 
motionless  in  its  Louis  Quatorze  chair 
the  rude  innovator  had  paused  in  re- 


spectful homage;  and  the  new  cen- 
tury, beginning  life  under  absolutely 
new  conditions,  found  itself  still  in 
bondage  to  the  ancient  lawgiver.  It 
was  soon  evident  that  the  new  ideas 
and  the  old  literary  formula  could  not 
be  reconciled ;  as  in  the  sixteenth 
century  religious  and  political  changes 
were  inseparably  associated,  so  now  a 
literary  revolt  was  certain  to  follow 
the  political  revolution.  Classicism 
was  the  expression  of  a  society  whose 
day  was  done ;  and  it  outlasted  it 
only  as  the  clothes  in  which  a  man 
is  buried  outlast  the  man. 

Hugo  did  not  arrive  quite  in  time 
to  open  his  epoch :  Chateaubriand  and 
Madame  de  Stae'l  were  there  already ; 
and  still  it  is  his  epoch.  The  man 
and  the  movement  were  made  for  each 
other,  and  to  guess  what  he  would 
have  done  without  it  is  no  easier 
than  to  guess  what  it  would  have 
done  without  him.  The  poet  might 
have  had  to  wait  for  recognition; 
the  apostle  arrested  attention  at 
once.  It  was  not  his  art  but  his 
theories  about  art  which  agitated 
the  critics ;  and  the  prefaces  which 
heralded  his  plays  were  as  eagerly 
studied  as  the  plays  themselves. 
CROMWELL,  for  instance  (written  in 
1827),  is  rather  a  dull  tragedy,  but 
its  preface  has  all  the  rhetorical 
vigour  of  a  well- written  manifesto ; 
come  what  might  to  the  drama,  the 
manifesto  could  not  be  ignored. 

It  would  be  a  strange  thing  [says  the 
writer]   if  at  this  time  of  day  liberty  lik 
light    should    be    allowed    to    penetrat 
everywhere  but  into  the  region  of  though 
which  is  by  nature  the  freest  of  all.     Let 
us   set  to  work  with  the    hammer   on 
theories  and  systems.     .     .     .     There  are 
no  rules,  no  models  ;  the  poet  must  take 
counsel  of  nature,   of  truth,  of  inspira- 
tion only,  he  must  above  all  be  careful 
to  copy  no  one. 

He  insists  on  the  abandonment  of 
the  theory  that  art  must  deal  only 
with  the  beautiful. 


Victor  Hugo. 


It  is  not  for  man  to  be  wiser  than 
God  Who  introduced  into  His  creation 
grotesque  and  ugly  things.  Poetry  must 
take  the  great,  the  decisive  step,  the  step 
which  will  change  the  face  of  the  whole 
intellectual  world.  Henceforth  she  will 
mingle  light  and  shade,  the  grotesque 
and  the  sublime. 


He  goes  on  to  explain  that  poetry 
has  three  ages  corresponding  to  the 
three  epochs  of  society.  The  primi- 
tive age  was  lyric,  the  second,  the 
Homeric  period,  was  epic,  and  the 
modern  age,  that  is  the  Christian  era, 
is  dramatic.  In  his  anxiety  to  accen- 
tuate this  point,  he  gives  us  to  under- 
stand that  Christianity  and  the  drama 
are  of  exactly  the  same  age.  The 
drama  being  the  flower  and  crown 
of  poetry,  it  naturally  followed  that 
the  romantic  party  must  write  dramas. 

From  a  literary  point  of  view  the 
decision  was  unjustifiable ;  for  no- 
where is  the  weakness  of  Hugo  and 
his  followers  so  clearly  displayed  as 
in  the  drama.  The  vital  principle 
of  the  French  romantic  movement 
was  individuality,  the  desire  to  ex- 
press oneself  without  hindrance  and 
without  reserve  ;  and  since  the  lyric 
poet  can  hardly  be  too  personal,  too 
intimate,  its  form  was  naturally  lyric. 
The  law  of  literature  demands,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  the  dramatic 
poet  shall  detach  himself  from  him- 
self ;  he  is  not  there  to  reflect  aloud 
on  his  own  joys  and  sorrows  but  to 
convince  us  that  other  people  are 
rejoicing  or  suffering  before  our  eyes. 
When  Hugo  decided  that  the  romantic 
poet  must  be  a  dramatist,  he  was  less 
a  poet  than  the  leader  of  a  party. 
The  fatal  rigidity  of  the  classic  rule 
applied  chiefly  to  the  drama,  and  the 
new  spirit  of  independence  could 
assert  itself  more  emphatically  here 
than  anywhere  else.  Hugo's  plays  ac- 
cordingly are  challenges  and  protests  ; 
their  spirit  is  all  defiance.  "Observe," 
they  seem  to  say,  "  how  much  I 


dare  ! "  Why,  for  instance,  is  Ruy 
Bias  presented  to  us  in  a  footman's 
livery  1  Only  because  no  classic 
writer  would  have  ventured  to  make 
a  footman  the  hero  of  a  tragedy.  It 
matches  the  assertion  of  the  author's 
right  to  call  a  cochon  a  cochon  and 
not,  as  was  the  classic  use,  a  pore. 
Why  is  the  gloomy  lover  of  Marion 
Delorme  a  foundling  1  The  only 
reason  for  making  a  hero  a  foundling 
is  the  pleasure  of  afterwards  discover- 
ing him  to  be  a  prince,  but  poor 
Didier  is  never  discovered  to  be 
anyone ;  he  is  only  there  to  proclaim 
a  dramatic  right  of  way. 

This  negative  principle  was  too 
slender  to  bear  the  weight  of  a 
drama,  and  Hugo  supplemented  it  by 
a  device  of  which  he  gives  us  the 
formula  himself.  "Take  the  most 
hideous  moral  deformity,  where  it 
stands  out  most  plainly,  in  the  heart 
of  a  woman,  blend  with  this  defor 
mity  the  purest  moral  sentiment 
known  to  woman,  maternal  love,  and 
you  have  a  monster,  and  the  monster 
will  interest,  will  call  forth  tears," 
will,  in  fact,  be  Lucretia  Borgia. 
On  this  antithetical  principle  all 
his  plays  are  constructed,  till  we 
can  only  fall  back  on  his  own  line, 
"  Still  everywhere  antithesis  !  Well, 
we  must  be  resigned."  Cromwell  is, 
in  Hugo's  own  phrase,  a  Tiberius- 
Dandin,  a  terror  abroad,  a  ridicu- 
lous idiot  at  home ;  Hernani  is  a 
brigand  noble,  Marion  Delorme  a 
pure-souled  courtesan ;  in  BUY  BLAS 
a  queen  is  in  love  with  a  valet ;  in 
LE  Roi  S'AMUSE  frightful  deformity 
is  redeemed  by  paternal  devotion. 
The  law  by  which  Hugo  bound  him- 
self ends  by  becoming  as  monotonously 
artificial  as  any  of  Boileau's  rejected 
rules. 

In  spite  of  Hugo's  enthusiasm  for 
Shakespeare  he  was  only  influenced  by 
him  in  accidentals.  Blanche  in  LE 
Roi  S'AMUSE  would  probably  never 


3H 


Victor  Hugo. 


have  been  sewn  up  in  a  sack  if  Des- 
demona  had  not  first  been  coarsely 
smothered  with  a  common  pillow,  and 
the  fool  in  LEAR  is  possibly  responsible 
for  the  fools  in  CROMWELL  and  MARION 
DELORME;  but  the  essentials  of  Shake- 
spearean tragedy  left  him  untouched. 
The  catastrophe  of  Hugo's  plays  is 
always  arbitrarily  introduced,  the 
story  seldom  ends  badly  from  the 
beginning.  We  cannot  conceive 
Hamlet  and  Ophelia  married  and 
living  happily  ever  after,  or  Macbeth 
and  his  wife  frightened  by  Banquo's 
ghost  into  restitution  and  a  placid 
private  life  ;  but  there  is  no  reason 
why  the  Duke  in  HERNANI  should 
not  relent  at  the  last  moment  and 
make  the  lovers  happy, — in  fact,  were 
we  not  warned  that  the  play  is  a 
tragedy,  we  should  fully  expect  it. 
There  was  nothing  to  prevent  Marion 
from  obtaining  her  lover's  pardon  from 
Louis  the  Thirteenth  and  vanishing 
into  a  convent  happy  in  the  know- 
ledge that  she  has  saved  her  Didier, 
except  the  author's  resolve  to  make 
his  audience  miserable ;  and  before 
Blanche  could  be  brought  to  her  sad 
end  it  was  necessary  that  her  father, 
who  was,  as  a  rule,  agonisingly  jealous 
of  her  safety,  should  allow  the  young 
and  beautiful  girl  to  traverse  a  bad 
quarter  of  Paris  alone  late  at  night; 
and  this  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

All  that  a  writer  of  talent,  a 
dramatist  in  spite  of  himself,  could  do 
for  his  characters,  Hugo  did.  He 
gave  them  fine  lines  to  speak, — he 
could  not  do  otherwise,  great  master 
of  words  that  he  was — and  striking 
situations,  and  he  taught  them  all  the 
stage-tricks  he  knew.  We  have 
Rochester  disguised  as  a  Puritan 
minister,  Cromwell  as  a  soldier,  Her- 
nani  as  a  pilgrim,  Blanche  as  a  man  ; 
King  Francis  passes  for  a  clerk, 
Marion  for  a  woman  of  good  char- 
acter, Ruy  Bias  for  Don  Caesar,  Don 
Sallust  for  Ruy  Bias.  Don  Carlos 


spares  Hernani,  Hernani  spares  Don 
Carlos,  the  Duke  spares  Hernani,  Don 
Carlos  spares  both  Hernani  and  the 
Duke  ;  in  almost  every  scene  someone 
renounces  the  right  of  killing  someone 
else.  Hernani  hides  in  a  secret  cell, 
Don  Carlos  hides  first  in  a  cupboard 
and  then  in  Charlemagne's  tomb,  to 
spring  out  unexpectedly  upon  the 
lovers  and  the  conspirators.  We  are 
always  on  the  border-line  which 
divides  tragedy  from  melodrama,  and 
not  infrequently  it  is  crossed. 

The  secret  of  Hugo's  failure  as  a 
dramatist  and  his  half-failure  as  a 
writer  of  romance  lies  in  his  indiffer- 
ence to  men  and  women.  Things  and 
places  interested  him  much  more  than 
human  beings ;  in  his  love-poems  he 
constantly  appears  to  be  contemplating 
the  trees  and  the  turf,  instead  of 
attending  to  Rose  or  Lise  ;  and  two 
of  his  three  notable  romances  are 
inspired  purely  by  the  spirit  of  place. 
In  the  preface  to  CROMWELL  there  is 
a  sentence  which  indicates  how  early 
he  had  been  seized  by  the  passion  for 
vitalising  the  inanimate. 

We  are  beginning  [he  says]  to  under- 
stand that  the  exact  locality  is  one  of  the 
first  elements  of  reality.  The  place  in 
which  a  catastrophe  has  occurred  be- 
comes a  terrible  inseparable  witness  of 
it ;  and  the  absence  of  this  kind  of  silent 
personage  would  leave  the  grandest 
scenes  of  history  incomplete  on  the 


The  insistence  upon  a  correct  local 
colour  was  one  of  the  familiar  demands 
of  the  romantic  school.  They  con- 
tended, very  justly,  that  art  asked 
something  more  of  a  Spaniard  than 
that  he  should  be  called  Rodrigo,  of 
an  Arab  than  that  he  should  be  called 
Abdullah.  They  were  all  eager  to 
follow  where  Scott  and  Byron  led 
the  way,  and  Hugo's  poems  LES 
ORIENTALES  are  magnificently  flooded 
with  a  light  which,  if  it  never  shone 


Victor  Hugo. 


315 


on  Greece  or  Egypt,  has  all  the 
warmth  and  glow  which  a  poet  dream- 
ing of  the  East  sees  in  his  dream. 
But  the  presence  of  the  silent  per- 
sonage here  spoken  of  is  an  altogether 
different  thing  from  the  local  colour 
of  Hugo's  contemporaries  ;  with  them 
it  is  a  picturesque  accessory,  with  him 
it  becomes  a  ruling  idea.  His  love 
of  paradox  carries  him  to  the  ex- 
tremest  length,  and  nothing  is  so 
alive  in  his  romances  as  the  inanimate. 
Already  in  HERNANI  it  had  gained 
the  mastery  over  him  sufficiently  to 
oblige  him  to  spoil  the  composition  of 
the  play.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Sara- 
gossa  and  all  the  characters  except 
Don  Carlos  are  Spaniards.  In  the 
fourth  act,  without  a  word  of  warning, 
the}7  are  all  without  exception  trans- 
ported to  Germany,  to  Aix  la  Chapelle, 
where  their  number  is  suddenly  in- 
creased by  an  absurd  troop  of  noble 
German  conspirators  who  only  appear 
in  two  short  scenes  and  are  uncere- 
moniously marched  off  again.  Hugo 
was  too  great  an  artist  to  make  this 
blunder  by  accident ;  he  was  forced 
into,  it  by  something  stronger  than 
himself.  There  was  no  spot  in  the 
world  so  suitable  for  the  meditations 
of  a  German  emperor  as  the  tomb  of 
Charlemagne  ;  only  the  most  ignorant 
tourist  can  hurry  through  Aix  heedless 
of  the  strange  shadows  that  obscure 
those  ancient  walls,  and  for  the  poet 
the  opportunity  was  irresistible.  But 
even  the  audacious  chief  of  the  roman- 
tics shrank  from  transporting  the 
imperial  remains  to  Spain.  It  is  not 
quite  clear  why  geography  is  reckoned 
a  thing  so  much  more  sacred  than 
history,  and  why  the  writer  who  did 
not  scruple  to  invent  a  Cromwell  and 
a  Charles  the  Fifth,  a  Lucretia  Borgia 
and  a  Mary  Tudor,  should  hesitate 
to  invent  a  tomb  of  Charlemagne. 
Since,  however,  the  tomb  could  neither 
be  moved  nor  abandoned  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  carry  all  the 


actors  to  Aix.  Neither  in  NOTRE- 
DAME  DE  PARIS  nor  in  LES  TRAVAIL- 
LEU  RS  DE  LA  MER  are  the  men  and 
women  interesting.  Esmeralda  in  her 
innocent  irresponsibility  is  hardly  a 
woman,  her  mother  is  a  maniac, 
Quasimodo  is  a  monster ;  they  move 
us  with  a  painful  curiosity  but  with 
no  real  fellow-feeling.  The  soul  of 
the  book  is  the  cathedral,  the  "  silent 
inseparable  witness "  of  the  mortals 
who  play  their  insignificant  parts  and 
go  back  to  the  dust  whence  they 
came.  In  LES  TRAVAILLEURS  DE  LA 
MER  Deruchette  and  her  handsome 
young  clergyman,  and  all  the  charac- 
ters except  Gilliatt,  are  dwarfed  by 
the  ocean ;  that  great  voice  surging 
through  the  story  makes  everything 
else  trivial.  This  accounts  perhaps 
for  the  fact  that  Gilliatt  says  nothing 
till  the  end  of  the  book,  and  then 
only  half  a  dozen  sentences.  The 
author,  listening  intently  to  "  the 
sombre  word  that  the  sea  is  saying," 
did  not  notice  that  his  hero  was  dumb. 
Victor  Hugo's  third  notable  ro- 
mance,— though  indeed  the  word 
romance  hardly  describes  it — has 
little  affinity  with  the  others.  No 
great  artist, — and  Hugo's  claim  to 
the  title  is  beyond  all  question — ever 
made  a  more  frank  and  unscrupulous 
bid  for  popular  applause  than  is  made 
in  LES  MISERABLES.  Hugo  did  not 
call  himself  a  democrat  till  1848,  but 
at  heart  he  was  never,  so  far  as 
literature  is  concerned,  anything  else. 
In  his  own  words,  "  My  horizon  has 
altered,  but  never  my  heart ;"  and  as 
at  six  and  twenty  his  highest  ambition 
was  to  satisfy  "  the  immense  crowd 
greedy  of  the  pure  emotions  of  art 
which  floods  the  theatres  of  Paris 
every  evening,"  at  sixty  he  was 
capable  of  ignoring  every  literary 
scruple  to  win  the  same  reward. 
There  are  memorable  scenes  in  the 
book ;  Javert  offering  his  resignation 
to  M.  Madeleine,  Cosette  and  the  big 


316 


Victor  Hugo. 


doll,  Gavroche  the  young  vagabond 
consoling  the  forlorn  timid  little 
brothers  lost  in  the  streets  of  Paris, 
who  "  followed  him  as  they  would 
have  followed  an  archangel," — these 
are  passages  which  can  be  read  again 
and  again  and  never  without  a  thrill 
of  admiration  and  pity.  But  what  a 
long  way  we  have  to  go  for  them ! 
The  consummate  craft,  the  sym- 
metrical composition  of  NOTRE-DAME 
DE  PARIS  is  replaced  by  eight  inco- 
herent loosely-strung  volumes,  wedges 
of  irrelevant  matter  are  driven  into 
the  joints  of  the  story,  and  the  rules 
and  models  on  which  the  writer 
trampled  so  jubilantly  in  his  youth 
find  here  a  revenge,  almost  a  vindi- 
cation. It  was  necessary,  for  ex- 
ample, that  Marius,  the  younger 
hero,  should  be  under  obligations  to 
Thenardier,  the  villain.  In  order  to 
bring  this  about  the  father  of  Marius 
must  be  wounded  at  Waterloo  and 
must  believe  that  he  owes  his  life  to 
Thenardier.  It  is  not  enough  for  the 
fact  to  be  mentioned  ;  we  must  ob- 
serve it  for  ourselves.  Well,  says  the 
reader,  why  not  1  An  hour  on  the 
field  of  Waterloo  can  hurt  no  one.  It 
is  with  some  dismay  he  discovers  that 
nineteen  chapters  must  be  devoted  to 
Waterloo  before  the  colonel  and  the 
camp-follower  can  effect  a  meeting. 

Hugo  does  not  attempt  here,  or 
anywhere,  to  show  us  a  woman  nobly 
planned.  His  women  are  wholly 
ignorant  of  any  motive  power  but 
.passion,  and  even  passion  does  not 
endow  them  with  ordinary  intelli- 
gence, or  Fantine  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  leaving  the  child  to  whom 
she  is  passionately  attached  for  years 
to  the  mercy  of  total  strangers.  No 
mother,  out  of  Hugo's  pages,  could 
have  failed  to  beg  her  Avay  to  the 
Thenardiers'  village  to  see  for  herself 
once,  at  least,  how  Cosette  was  faring, 
before  parting  with  her  hair  and  her 
teeth. 


But  the  worst  fault  of  the  book  is 
not  its  artistic  defect  but  its  flagrant 
insincerity.  It  professes  to  be  a 
study  of  the  social  problem,  a  book 
with  a  definite  purpose ;  its  absolute 
ignorance  of  the  question  with  which 
it  deals  is  amazing.  The  disorder 
and  cruelty  of  the  existing  system  is 
demonstrated  and  denounced  by  a 
writer  who  still  believes  in  the  old 
and  somewhat  discredited  prescrip- 
tion, the  reckless  distribution  of  alms. 
When  the  bishop  has  provided  the 
wretched  tramp  with  a  supper,  a  bed 
for  the  night,  and  some  kindly 
counsel,  he  believes  that  his  duty  to 
his  neighbour  is  done ;  he  sees  the 
convict  depart  with  no  provision  for 
the  future  but  a  pair  of  silver  candle- 
sticks, and  his  conscience  is  void  of 
offence.  When  the  ex-convict  is  con- 
fronted with  the  same  problem,  he 
evades  it  in  his  turn  with  an  un- 
scrupulous benevolence  worthy  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  He  was  a  good  enough 
man  of  business  to  make  a  large 
fortune  with  no  experience  but  that 
of  a  hedger  and  ditcher,  and  no 
capital  but  industry  and  persever- 
ance, and  his  years  of  penal  servi- 
tude have  armed  him  besides  with 
an  invaluable  acquaintance  with 
criminal  nature ;  and  yet  he  is 
more  easily  duped  than  we  imagine 
the  bishop  would  have  been.  The 
scene  in  which  he  presents  his  purse 
to  the  pickpocket  with  a  sermon  of 
two  closely  printed  pages,  and  that 
in  which  he  distributes  bank-notes 
and  blankets  to  the  professional 
beggars  in  their  den  of  vice  are  as 
profoundly,  un pardonably  false  -as  the 
meeting  between  Monseigneur  Bien- 
venu  and  the  "  Conveutionnel  Gr." 

The  influence  of  the  romantic 
movement  on  the  French  novel  and 
the  French  drama  proved  neither 
profound  nor  permanent.  It  de- 
stroyed the  old  dogmas,  but  had  not 
the  strength  to  replace  them  by  any 


Victor  Hugo. 


317 


truer  canons  or  by  any  less  artificial 
models.        With     regard     to    French 
poetry,  its  effect  can  hardly  be  over 
estimated,    and   if   for    the    romantic 
movement    we   were    to    say    Victor 
Hugo,   we   should   hardly   do   an  in- 
justice to  the  brilliant  young  writers 
who  were  associated  with  him  in  LE 
GLOBE.     He  did  not  strike  a  sweeter 
or  more  melodious  note  than  Lamar- 
tine,  but  in  the  undulating  languors, 
the     seductive     melancholy     of     the 
MEDITATIONS    only     two      or     three 
chords  are  audible  ;  they  expressed  a 
certain  phase  of  life,  a  single  mood. 
The    wide    range    of    Hugo's    talent 
makes  him  the  poet  not  of  one  mood 
but  of  many  ;    his  great  vocabulary, 
his  rhythmical    perfection,  the    fresh 
beauty    of    his   imagery,    the    colour 
and   resonance  of   his  language  were 
to  his    contemporaries    (as    they   are 
still  to  each  new  reader)  a  revelation 
of  the  resources  of  the  French  tongue. 
We  find  in  his  work  no  trace  of  the 
laborious  search  for  the  elaborate  and 
unusual  which  is  the  modern  substi- 
tute for  the  preciosity  of  an  earlier 
day,  no  thinness  disguised  as  delicacy, 
no  obscurity  calling  itself  depth  ;  his 
touch  is   that  of  a  master,  sure  and 
easy,  handling  an  instrument  which 
he  perfectly    understands  and    loves. 
Singularly  unembarrassed  by  original 
ideas  and  serious  convictions,  his  con- 
tribution to  the  intellectual  needs  of 
his  time  is  explained  in  his  own  fine 
lines    which    describe   his    soul    as  a 
crystal    reflecting   every   ray,    as    an 
seolian  harp  vibrating  to  every  breath. 
There  was  (as  M.  Faguet  points  out 
in    his    admirable    study    of    Hugo) 
hardly  a  popular  cry  between  1820 
and   1850  which  did  not  find  in  him 
its    magnificent    echo ;    and  this  ex- 
plains   his    frequent  variations.     But 
if    he     always     thought     what     the 
majority    was    thinking,    his   way    of 
expressing  it  is   all  his  own. 

It  is  impossible  to  do  even  a  mode- 


rate measure  of  justice  to  Hugo  in 
translation,  because  no  writer  is  more 
alive  than  he  is  to  the  intrinsic  value 
of  words ;  each  one  has  for  him  its 
own  colour  as  well  as  its  own  sound ; 
he  has  lines  which  dance  and  glitter, 
lines  which  ripple  and  shine.  We 
cannot  wholly  miss  in  any  language 
the  effect  of  such  imagery  as 

We  mount,  an  army,  to  the  assault  of 
Time,— 

or, 

And  for  an  instant  thro'  the  unfathomed 

night 

Behold  the  casement  of  eternity 
Lit  by  a  sinister  ray, — 

or  the  exquisite  passage  in  which 
Ruth,  gazing  drowsily  through  half 
closed  eyelids  across  the  harvest-field 
at  the  crescent  moon,  asks  herself, 

What  god, 

What  harvester  of  the  eternal  summer, 
Had  dropped  his  golden   sickle   care- 
lessly 
In  the  wide  field  of  stars. 

But  the  cleverest  translator  can  do 
nothing  with  such  a  rhythmic  master- 
piece as  Au  PEUPLE  : 

Partout  pleurs,  sanglots,  cris  funebres  ; 
Pourquoi  dors-tu  dans  les  tenebres  ? 
Je  ne  veux  pas  que  tu  sois  mort.     .     . 
O  dormeur  sombre,  entends  les  fleuves 
Murmurer  teints  de  sang  vermeil.     .     . 

The  low  disquieting  vibration 
quickening  and  rising  from  line  to 
line  till  it  breaks  in  the  piercing  cry 
of  the  close,  "  Lazare  !  Lazare  !  "  de- 
pends chiefly  on  the  choice  of  vowel - 
sounds.  Sleep  and  death  have  no 
equivalent  for  the  sonorous  o  which 
reverberates  through  the  poem. 

Towards  Nature  Hugo  has  two 
attitudes.  He  was  a  fine  and  careful 
observer, — witness  the  lines, 

As  in  a  silent  wood  we  are  aware 
Of  wings  beneath  the  leaves — 


318 


Victor  Hugo. 


and  his  Norman  landscapes  are 
painted  with  sympathy  and  truth. 
But  he  was  not  the  loyal  lover  he 
constantly  protests  himself ;  the 
"  sounding  cataract  "  never  "  haunted 
him  like  a  passion,"  and  there  are 
odious  moments  when  he  is  more  of 
a  Parisian  than  a  poet,  as  when  he 
fancies  that  torn-up  billets-doux  turn 
into  white  butterflies,  or  when  he 
thinks  it  pretty  to  picture  the  lily 
and  the  violet  engaged  in  the 
furtive  indecencies  of  which  human 
beings  are  ashamed.  He  had  a 
most  unusual  power  of  seeing  and 
remembering  details,  but  the  beauty 
and  significance  of  things  as  they 
are  did  not  appeal  to  him  very 
forcibly  ;  his  strong  and  vivid 
imagination  was  always  at  work, 
sometimes  with  rather  grotesque 
results.  In  his  poem  on  the  Jardin 
des  Plantes,  he  watches  the  children 
gazing  at  the  caged  animals  and  sees 
at  once  an  effective  contrast.  <  But 
an  ordinary  panther  or  lion  is  not  a 
sufficient  foil  for  the  roseate  prettiness 
of  the  children,  who,  like  all  Hugo's 
children,  are  fairhaired  little  angels. 
In  a  moment  his  swift  imagination 
has  transformed  the  depressed  crea- 
tures behind  the  bars  into  hideous 
monsters,  the  dreadful  offspring  of 
trackless  deserts,  and  presently  they 
are  not  really  animals  at  all  but  the 
fearful  sepulchres  of  the  lost  souls  of 
some  forgotten  age,  filling  the  air 
with  inarticulate  cries  for  deliverance. 
While  the  children  are  considering 
the  familiar  tiger  and  the  rather  dis- 
appointingly small  lion  in  the  decor- 
ous surroundings  of  the  Zoological 
Garden,  the  horror-struck  poet  is 
contemplating  an  outpost  of  hell. 
The  aspect  of  Nature  which  really 
impresses  Hugo  is  the  hostile  aspect. 
In  his  heart  he  knows  her  to  be  not 
the  smiling  nymph  of  his  pretty 
verses,  but  the  dark  tool  of  the  vague 
inimical  force  which  spies  upon  man 


in  the  darkness  and  dogs  his  steps 
across  the  waste  : 

Space  knows  and  looks  and  listens.     In 

the  dark 
Are  watchful  eyes,  and  ears  beneath 

our  graves. 

He  believes  in  "a  sort  of  implac- 
able horror  which  envelopes  the  uni- 
verse." "  The  forests  are  afraid  ;  " 
the  stars  are  "spectral  worlds  drag- 
ging unequal  chains ; "  in  the  falling 
snow  he  sees  Death  "  shake  her  pale 
wings  across  the  night ; "  and  the 
guilty  sea  "kiss  the  dark  reef,  her 
fierce  accomplice."  Here,  as  in  his 
poems  on  death,  there  is  an  accent 
of  sincerity  which  we  too  often 
miss  elsewhere.  His  form  is  almost 
always  beautiful,  but  it  is  seldom, 
except  when  he  writes  on  death, 
that  it  becomes  secondary  to  the 
emotion  which  penetrates  and  spirit- 
ualises it.  Sometimes  it  is  the 
horror  of  the  grave  which  seizes 
him, — 

The  terror  of  the  shadowy  road 
Haunted  by  troops  of  spectral  doubts, 

when  the  dying  know  "  the  worm 
reality,  the  world  a  dream,"  and  the 
dead  man  hears  the  four  planks  of 
his  coffin  talking  and  perceives  him- 
self "  vanquished,  the  helpless  prey  of 
things."  Sometimes  he  dwells  on 
man,  the  enigma,  who  feels 

About  his  feet  the  earthworm  crawl, 
And  on  his  brow  the  kiss  of  God ; 

and  sometimes  on  the  pitiful  tran- 
sience of  mortal  endeavour  : 

What   dost  thou,  Wind,  with  all  the 

faded  grasses  ? 
What  dost  thou,  Wind,  with  all  the 

fallen  leaves  ? 
With   all  that  laughs   and  unremem- 

bered  passes, 
With  all  that  grieves  ? 


Victor  Hugo. 


319 


But  he  constantly  turns  for  consola- 
tion to  the  faith  in  the  future  life 
created  by  his  robust  optimism,  which 
is  the  radiant  inspiration  of  the  lovely 
poem  LA  MISE  EN  LIBERTE.  The 
only  bird  in  the  aviary  being  dis- 
consolate without  a  companion,  he 
determines  to  set  it  free.  The  bird 
sees  a  huge  hand  thrust  into  the 
cage  and  flutters  here  and  there 
in  an  agony  of  terror,  till  seized 
by  an  irresistible  force  it  lies  droop- 
ing and  faint  in  its  captor's  hand. 
In  another  instant  it  is  soaring  in 
joyous  rapture  to  meet  its  com- 
panions in  the  summer  woods.  The 
poet  watching  it  grows  pensive. 
"  I  have  been  Death,"  he  says  to 
himself  ;  and  the  phrase  is  an  illum- 
lation. 

Victor  Hugo's  countrymen  are  not 
quite  agreed  as  to  whether  he  is 
greatest  as  a  lyric  or  as  an  epic  poet, 
ind  where  distinguished  French  critics 
Hffer,  it  would  very  ill  become  a 
foreigner  to  offer  a  dogmatic  opinion. 
It  may,  however,  be  suggested  that 
outside  his  own  country  he  will  be 
remembered  for  his  lyrics.  He  drifted 
towards  the  epic  by  degrees  ;  we  can 
trace  the  steps  which  lead  through  his 
plays, — LES  BURGEAVES  is  more  epic 
than  drama, — through  his  romances, 
— the  conflict  between  Gilliatt  and  his 
great  adversary  the  sea  is  more  epic 
than  romance, — and  through  some  of 
his  lyrics  to  LA  LEGENDE  DBS  SIECLES. 
The  legend  is  an  attempt  to  trace  the 
progress  of  humanity,  man's  movement 
towards  the  light ;  it  aims  at  painting- 
humanity  "  successively  and  simul- 
taneously under  all  its  aspects,  history, 
fable,  philosophy,  religion,  science,"  at 
giving  "  impressions  of  the  human 
profile  from  Eve,  mother  of  men,  to 
the  Revolution,  mother  of  peoples." 
Hugo  displays  here  to  the  full  those 
striking  qualities  which  have  already 
been  recognised  ;  some  of  the  episodes 
of  which  the  legend  is  composed  are 


marvels  of  style  and  rhythm,  of  colour 
and  music ;  and  to  these  must  be 
added  the  narrator's  gift,  the  power 
of  telling  a  story  broadly  and  boldly. 
But  he  was  hindered  in  the  execution 
of  his  colossal  design  as  a  whole  by 
two  fundamental  defects, — his  in- 
difference to  all  that  is  Hellenic,  his 
ignorance  of  all  that  is  Christian. 
Hugo  was  not  scholar  enough  to 
appreciate  the  gravity  of  these  omis- 
sions, and  readers  of  the  legend  will 
do  well  to  shut  their  eyes  to  them, 
and  take  what  is  given  them,  not 
perhaps  quite  seriously  as  a  history  of 
humanity  or  a  philosophic  system,  but 
as  a  series  of  great  word-pictures, 
enchanting  or  terrible  as  the  narrator 
pleases.  This  applies  to  the  first  part ; 
the  second  and  third  are  less  alluring. 
The  poet's  love  of  the  gigantic,  the 
abnormal,  is  seen  growing  into  a 
possession,  and  even  his  wonderful 
vocabulary  is  strained  to  describe  the 
sombre  immensities  of  time  and  space 
through  which  he  carries  us,  the 
prodigious  tyrannies  and  retributions 
we  are  invited  to  witness.  We  admit 
it  is  wonderful  and  that  no  one  but 
Hugo  could  have  done  it;  and  then 
we  gratefully  exchange  the  thunderous 
gloom  of  his  apocalyptic  visions  for 
the  translucent  beauty  of  such  a  poem 
as  A  YILLEQUIER.  The  temptation  to 
quote  from  it  is  irresistible,  but  here 
again  translation  would  be  an  act  of 
idle  cruelty. 


Je  viens  A  vous,  Seigneur,  pere  auquel 
il  faut  croire, 

Je  vous  porte  apaise" 
Les    morceaux   de    ce   cceur  plein   de 
votre  gloire 

Que  vous  avez  brise\ 

Je  ne  re'siste  plus  A  tout  ce  que  m'ar- 
rive, 

Par  votre  volont^ ; 

L'ame  de  deuils  en  deuils,  1'homme  de 
rive  en  rive 

Boule  A  I'oternito. 


320 


Victor  Hugo. 


Je  dis  que  le  tombeau  qui  sur  les  morts 
se  ferme, 

Ouvre  le  firmament ; 
Et  que  ce  qu'  ici-bas  nous    prenons 
pour  le  terme 

Est  le  commencement. 

Les  mois,  les  jours,  les  flots  des  rners, 
les  yeux  qui  pleurent 

Passent  sous  le  ciel  bleu ; 
II  faut  que  1'herbe  pousse  et  que  les 
enfants  meurent ; 

Je  le  sais,  6  mon  Dieu. 

It  is  not  easy  to  find  a  parallel  to 


the  tragic  unfaltering  simplicity  of 
these  lines,  in  which  the  soul,  crushed 
and  blinded  by  the  agony  of  bereave- 
ment, awakes  from  the  madness  of 
revolt  to  accept  the  Supreme  Will. 
The  Hugo  of  Heine's  caustic  com- 
ment, "  So  flaming  without,  so  glacial 
within,"  has  disappeared,  and  in  his 
place  we  have  the  greatest  of  French 
lyric  poets,  one  of  the  great  lyric  poets 
of  the  world. 

H.  C.  MACDOWALL. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


MARCH,    1902, 


THE    CLOSE    OF    A    GREAT  WAR. 

(A  PARALLEL  AND  A  LESSON.) 


IN  the  spring  of  the  year  1784 
there  returned  to  England  from 
America  the  remains  of  a  British 
army,  angry,  dispirited,  and  above  all 
thoughtful.  To  say  that  it  was  a 
beaten  army  would  be  untrue,  for 
though  it  had  suffered  many  defeats, 
two  of  them  veritable  disasters,  it 
had  given  harder  blows  than  it  had 
received.  Against  Saratoga  and 
Yorktown  the  British  could  set  suc- 
cesses quite  as  important  in  the  cap- 
tures of  New  York,  with  the  forts 
around  it,  and  of  Charleston  ;  while 
the  American  invasion  of  Canada, 
though  at  first  crowned  with  some 
little  success,  had  issued  finally  in 
abject  and  extremely  costly  failure. 
There  was  also  a  certain  attack  upon 
a  tiny  British  garrison  at  Penobscot, 
about  which  Englishmen  know  no- 
thing and  Americans  say  as  little  as 
possible,  but  which,  if  critically  ex- 
amined, will  be  found  to  have  been  as 
crushing  and  humiliating  a  defeat  as 
was  inflicted  upon  the  enemy  during 
the  whole  of  the  war.  Moreover,  in 
spite  of  French  subsidies,  French 
troops,  and  French  fleets  in  and  about 
America,  in  spite  of  the  active  hos- 
tility of  Spain  and  Holland  and  the 
"armed  neutrality  "of  Europe  against 
England,  in  spite  actually  of  the  dis- 
aster at  Yorktown  itself,  it  is  per- 
fectly clear  that  the  revolted  colonies 
No.  509. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


could  not  have  carried  on  the  war  for 
another  year,  while  the  Old  Country, 
hard  pressed  though  she  was,  had 
still  the  strength  in  reserve  for  a 
final  effort  which  could  hardly  have 
failed  of  success. 

Still,  though  unbeaten,  the  army 
was  thoughtful,  for  it  had  passed 
through  many  hard  trials  and  learned 
many  bitter  lessons.  The  march  to 
and  from  Lexington  was  the  first  of 
these  lessons,  when  a  small  British 
column  was  riddled  by  sniping1  fire 
in  front,  flanks,  and  rear  from 
every  point  of  vantage  along  twenty 
miles  of  road.  The  frontal  attack 
upon  the  entrenchments  of  Bunker's 
Hill  was  the  second  lesson,  when 
eighty  British  officers,  conspicuous  by 
their  shining  gorgets,  were  shot  down 
by  the  unerring  rifles  of  the  American 
marksmen,  and  the  position  was  only 
carried  at  the  third  attempt  with  a 
loss  of  over  eleven  hundred  out  of  a 
total  force  of  twenty-two  hundred  men. 
There  were  no  more  frontal  attacks 
upon  entrenched  positions  after  this, 
and  there  was  only  one  more  expedi- 
tion upon  the  model  of  Lexington, 
which,  having  met  with  the  like  fate, 
brought  such  adventures  peremptorily 

1  This  is  not  a  word  of  modern  invention. 
I  have  traced  its  use  back  to  the  siege  of 
Baroach,  in  the  Bombay  Presidency,  in 
1772. 


322 


The  Close  of  a  Great  War. 


to  an  end.  The  British  generals 
realised  that  they  had  been  set  down 
to  the  most  difficult  of  all  tasks,  the 
subduction  of  a  civilised  people  in 
a  savage  country, — of  a  people,  too, 
trained  in  the  school  of  sport  and  of 
Indian  warfare,  unfettered  by  military 
rules  or  pedantries,  and,  it  must  be 
added,  not  over  scrupulous  as  to  the 
abuse  of  the  customs  of  war. 

It  is  true  that  the  Americans 
formed  a  considerable  number  of 
regular  regiments,  chiefly  infantry, 
and  that  they  fought  a  certain  num- 
ber of  pitched  battles  on  a  certain 
scale  of  magnitude.  But  on  these 
occasions,  though  they  chose  their 
positions  very  cleverly,  they  were 
practically  always  out-manoeuvred  and 
out-fought,  even  when  they  were  not 
out-numbered.  Wide  turning  move- 
ments, conceived  with  great  skill  and 
executed  with  admirable  precision, 
won  the  actions  of  Brooklyn  and 
Brandywine  ;  and,  speaking  generally, 
it  may  be  said  that  the  Americans 
rarely,  if  ever,  got  the  better  of  the 
British  except  in  irregular  warfare. 
Their  natural  shrewdness,  however, 
soon  showed  them  that  irregular 
tactics  were  best  adapted  to  a  wild 
and  thinly  populated  country,  and 
they  accordingly  pursued  them  with 
much  success.  By  such  tactics,  and 
no  other,  was  Burgoyne  reduced  to 
capitulation.  No  more  splendid 
attempt  to  achieve  the  impossible  is 
recorded  in  our  military  history  than 
that  of  Burgoyne  and  his  heroic  seven 
thousand ;  but  it  was  less  the  drilled 
and  trained  American  platoons  than 
the  cunning  marksmen  which  thinned 
his  ranks.  His  campaign  may  be 
described  as  one  of  bush-fighting,  for, 
except  for  an  occasional  small  clear- 
ing, his  route  lay  through  almost 
interminable  forest ;  and  whether  on 
march,  in  action,  or  in  camp  his  men 
were  continually  falling  under  the 
bullets  of  some  enemy  safely  concealed 


among  the  trees.  Drill  and  discipline 
could  make  the  British  soldier  stand 
in  his  ranks  and  be  killed ;  but  they 
could  not  silence  the  unseen  rifle 
which,  safe  beyond  the  range  of  his 
own  musket,  struck  down  first  his 
officers,  then  his  Serjeants,  and  at 
last  himself. 

The  British,  therefore,  had  no 
alternative  but  to  learn  from  their 
enemies,  to  pit  marksman  against 
marksman,  individual  against  in- 
dividual, irregular  tactics  against 
irregular  tactics.  Sundry  irregular 
corps  were  therefore  formed,  some- 
times of  a  composite  kind  so  as  to 
include  mounted  men,  unmounted 
men,  and  gunners,  in  order  that  the 
Americans  might  be  beaten  with  their 
own  weapons.  Simcoe,  Tarleton,  and 
Ferguson  were  the  most  famous  of 
their  leaders,  Ferguson  being  a  pas- 
sionate devotee  of  the  rifle'  and  the 
finest  marksman  in  England.  He, 
poor  fellow,  was  killed  before  he 
could  write  any  account  of  his 
actions ;  but  Tarleton  and  Simcoe 
have  each  left  behind  them  a  volume, 
with  full  descriptions  of  long  night- 
marches,  surrounding  of  farms,  sur- 
prises of  posts,  and  the  like,  which 
resemble  curiously  the  accounts  that 
we  have  read  in  the  newspapers 
during  the  past  twelve  months. 
Tarleton,  in  particular,  was  famous 
for  the  speed  and  distance  of  his 
marches ;  and  it  may  be  questioned 
whether,  as  the  phrase  goes,  his 
records  have  been  beaten  in  South 
Africa.  It  is  noticeable  that,  except 
under  these  leaders,  mounted  troops 
were  little  employed  during  the 
American  war.  The  whole  of  the 
regular  cavalry  sent  from  England 
across  the  Atlantic  did  not  exceed  two 
weak  regiments  of  Light  Dragoons, 
one  of  which  was  withdrawn  after 
two  years.  The  general  actions  of 
the  war  were  fought  almost  without 
exception  on  ground  so  densely 


The  Close  of  a  Great  War. 


323 


wooded  that  no  large  number  of 
cavalry  could  come  into  action  unless 
dismounted ;  and  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  the  Light  Dragoon  of 
those  days  was  armed  with  musket 
and  bayonet  as  well  as  with  sabre. 

For  several  months  Simcoe  and 
Tarleton  did  good  work  in  New 
York  and  New  Jersey  until  the 
principal  scene  of  action  was  shifted 
to  Carolina.  There  it  may  be  said 
that,  after  the  capture  of  Charles- 
ton, the  operations  were  carried  on 
wholly  by  irregular  or,  as  it  was  then 
called,  partisan-warfare.  The  pro- 
blem set  to  Lord  Cornwallis,  who 
was  in  command,  was  one  that  is 
not  unfamiliar  to  us.  Starting  from 
a  base  on  the  sea  he  was  to  advance 
inland  for  two  or  three  hundred 
miles  through  a  population  in  which 
the  disloyal  party  had  gained  the 
upper  hand,  reducing  it  to  loyalty 
and  obedience  as  he  went.  The 
principal  settlements  lay  on  the 
banks  of  the  great  rivers  which 
seamed  the  province  from  end  to 
end,  and  the  roads  naturally  followed 
these  waterways.  Cornwallis,  there- 
fore, advanced  up  the  largest  of  these 
rivers,  receiving  oaths  of  allegiance, 
distributing  arms  to  the  takers  of 
those  oaths,  and  establishing  posts  to 
maintain  his  lines  of  communication. 
Then  the  well-known  game  began. 
Oaths  were  thrown  to  the  winds,  and 
the  distributed  arms  turned  against 
their  donors.  General  Greene,  a  very 
fine  soldier,  with  a  small  nucleus  of 
regular  troops  kept  retreating  before 
Cornwallis  in  front,  while  Sumpter, 
Marion,  and  other  guerilla  leaders, 
the  De  Wets  and  Delareys  of  their 
day,  worked  round  his  flanks  and 
rear,  attacked  his  posts,  snapped 
up  his  patrols,  intercepted  his  sup- 
plies, and,  in  a  word,  made  his 
life  a  burden  and  his  advance  a 
danger.  To  Tarleton  and  Ferguson 
fell  the  task  of  coping  with  these 


bands,  and  very  capable  leaders  they 
proved  themselves  to  be.  But  though 
they  were  often  brilliantly  successful, 
they  suffered  also  very  severe  defeats. 
Tarleton  on  one  occasion  lost  practi- 
cally the  whole  of  his  column,  and 
escaped  only  with  a  few  dragoons, 
while  Ferguson  suffered  the  same 
misfortune  and  was  left  dead  on  the 
field.  Like  all  leaders  in  that  peculiar 
description  of  warfare  they  ran  great 
risks,  and  were  therefore  liable  to 
great  reverses. 

But  in  the  course  of  all  these 
irregular  actions  the  British  troops 
had  inevitably  learned  irregular  ways. 
The  stately  solid  order  which  had 
done  such  wonders  at  Fontenoy,  at 
Minden,  and  at  Quebec  had  vanished. 
The  depth  of  three  ranks,  which  had 
hitherto  been  the  rule,  had  been 
reduced  to  two ;  the  files  had  been 
opened,  and  the  formation  of  the  line 
had  become  (relatively  speaking)  loose, 
disjointed,  and  irregular.  Companies 
were  separated  by  wide  intervals,  and 
there  was  an  independence  of  action 
among  small  units  which  was  wholly 
at  variance  with  current  European 
notions.  This  looseness  of  array, 
originally  brought  about  by  constant 
bush-fighting  and  by  the  deadly  fire  of 
the  American  sharp  shooters,  had  been 
encouraged  by  the  comparative  absence 
of  regular  cavalry  on  either  side. 
More  than  once,  it  is  true,  a  mere 
handful  of  one  or  two  hundred  sabres 
had  decided  an  action  in  favour  of 
one  side  or  the  other ;  and  the  Ameri- 
can Colonel  Washington,  a  kinsman 
of  the  great  George,  had  shown  con- 
spicuous ability  in  the  handling  of 
this  particular  arm.  Moreover  both 
Tarleton  and  another  British  officer 
had  found  to  their  cost  that  the 
attack  of  their  open  irregular  line 
upon  steady  troops  in  solid  forma- 
tion could  sometimes  issue  in  disaster. 
None  the  less  the  British  officers 
returned  from  America  with  the  fixed 

Y  2 


324 


The  Close  of  a  Great  War. 


idea  that  the  fire-arm,  whether  musket 
or  rifle,  was  all  in  all  in  modern  war- 
fare, that  the  shock  of  the  bayonet 
was  so  rare  as  to  be  practically 
obsolete,  and  that,  as  a  natural  con- 
sequence, the  greater  the  frontage  of 
fire  that  could  be  developed  the  better. 
They  urged  therefore  that  the  third 
rank  should  be  abolished,  since  its 
fire,  if  not  positively  dangerous  to 
the  first  and  second  ranks,  was  ineffec- 
tive ;  that  the  musket,  hitherto  made 
long  so  as  to  serve  for  use  in  three 
ranks,  should  be  shortened,  and  that 
the  weight  thus  saved  should  be 
utilised  in  enlarging  its  bore ;  and 
that  the  files  should  be  loose,  or  in 
other  words,  that  the  lateral  interval 
between  man  and  man  should  be  wide, 
so  as  to  give  to  every  individual 
greater  freedom  of  action. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  of  this 
thoughtful  army.  There  were,  how- 
ever, officers  at  headquarters  who, 
though  they  had  fought  under  Fer- 
dinand of  Brunswick  from  1759  to 
1762,  had  not  gone  to  America,  and 
while  not  denying  that  much  was  to 
be  learned  from  recent  campaigns, 
could  not  accept  so  complete  an  over- 
throw of  all  received  opinions.  Among 
them  was  one  Colonel  David  Dundas, 
who  had  attended  the  manoauvres  of 
the  Prussian  army  very  regularly 
during  those  years.  He  was  a  lean, 
dry,  crabbed  Scot  who  as  a  youth  had 
walked  all  the  way  from  Edinburgh 
to  Woolwich  to  obtain  the  post  of 
"  lieutenant  fire-worker  "  in  the  Royal 
Artillery  ;  but  he  was  the  fortunate 
possessor  of  brains  and  he  was  an 
enthusiast  in  his  profession.  He 
went  to  Prussia  again  in  1785,  and 
saw  three  thousand  cavalry  advance 
at  the  trot  in  column  of  squadrons 
and  deploy  into  line  for  attack  over 
a  frontage  of  a  mile  in  less  than 
three  minutes;  he  saw  the  Prussian 
infantry  also  manosuvre,  in  flexible 
columns  and  deploy  by  battalions  and 


brigades  with  beautiful  accuracy  and 
precision  on  their  given  alignment, 
solid  and  steady,  three  ranks  deep  ; 
and  he  asked  himself  whether  a 
British  army,  trained  on  the  principles 
imported  from  America,  could  meet 
such  troops  with  success.  He  answered 
himself  in  the  negative ;  and  then, 
reflecting  on  the  laxity  of  all  military 
rules  at  that  time  in  England, — that 
every  colonel  did  very  much  what 
was  right  in  his  own  eyes,  and  that, 
whatever  the  zeal  and  intelligence 
of  individual  commanders,  the  peace- 
establishment  of  a  regiment  was  too 
weak  for  them  either  to  gain  or  to 
impart  good  instruction,  he  resolved 
to  throw  all  his  weight  counter  to  the 
American  scale  lest  irregularity  should 
become  "  regulation." 

Other  officers  at  headquarters  were 
as  keen  as  this  Scottish  colonel, 
and  the  result  was  the  publication 
of  a  very  ponderous  quarto  volume, 
PRINCIPLES  OF  MILITARY  MOVEMENTS, 
dedicated  to  the  King  by  His  Ma- 
jesty's dutiful  servant  and  subject 
David  Dundas.  The  new  system 
was  tried  experimentally  at  Dublin, 
while  the  Adjutant-General  (there  was 
no  Commander-in-Chief)  made  it  his 
business  to  secure  the  blessing  of 
the  Duke  of  York  and  the  Brigade 
of  Guards,  without  which  no  such 
reforms  could  prosper.  The  PRINCI- 
PLES, which  were  based  entirely  on  the 
Prussian  practice,  were  duly  accepted, 
and  for  the  first  time  the  British 
Army  was  subjected  to  absolute 
uniformity  of  training.  That  the 
manoeuvring  power  of  British  troops 
was  much  increased  thereby  there 
can  be  no  doubt ;  but  it  is  also  un- 
questionable that  reaction  was  carried 
too  far  in  Dundas's  reforms.  The 
truth  was,  as  Cornwallis  noticed  in 
17b5,  that  parts  of  the  Prussian 
training,  even  when  carried  on  under 
the  great  Frederick's  own  eye,  were 
thoroughly  unpractical.  The  rigidity 


The  Close  of  a  Great  War. 


325 


and  formality  of  Dundas's  system 
gained  for  him  the  name  of  Old 
Pivot ;  and  the  eighteen  manoeuvres 
into  which  he  had  distributed  the 
whole  science  of  military  evolution 
were  a  sad  stumbling-block  to  slow- 
witted  officers.  "  General,"  said  Sir 
John  Moore  to  him  in  1804,  "that 
book  of  yours  has  done  a  great  deal 
of  good,  and  would  be  of  great  value 
if  it  were  not  for  those  damned 
eighteen  manoeuvres."  "Why, — aye," 
answered  Dundas  slowly,  in  broad 
Scotch  "  blockheads  don't  understand;" 
and  he  is  not  the  last  framer  of  drill- 
books  who  has  made  that  remark. 
Moore  himself  in  those  same  years  was 
selecting  the  best  points  of  Dundas's 
book  and  of  American  experience  for 
the  training  of  the  Light  Division  ;  and 
it  is  significant  that  he  restored  the 
formation  in  two  ranks  and  the  in- 
dependence of  small  units,  in  the 
teeth  of  Dundas  and  of  all  the  nations 
in  Europe. 

It  may  be  asked  why  I  have 
thought  it  worth  while  to  disinter 
these  dry  bones  of  ancient  military 
controversy.  I  answer,  because  there 
seems  to  me  to  be  danger  lest  we 
should  fall  into  errors  analogous  to 
those  from  which  Dundas  saved  the 
army  in  1788.  A  great  change  has 
passed  over  all  warfare  in  the  century 
since  Moore  drilled  his  famous  division 
at  Shorncliffe,  and  yet  men  say  now 
just  what  they  said  at  the  close  of 
the  American  war,  that  the  fire-arm 
or,  as  we  now  express  it,  the  rifle,  is 
everything.  They  then  averred  that 
the  shock  of  the  bayonet  was  obso- 
lete ;  they  now  declare  that  lances 
and  sabres  have  no  place  but  in  a 
museum,  and  that  the  shock-action  of 
cavalry  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  There 
is  a  parallel  even  in  the  matter  of 
formation  for  attack.  Our  infantry 
has  been  extended  in  the  present  war 
to  intervals  of  thirty  paces  between 
man  and  man ;  will  it  be  prudent  to 


employ  as  great  extension  against  a 
European  enemy?  We  are  sadly  in 
want  of  a  Dundas  to  remind  us  that 
Boers  are  not  our  only  possible  foes 
nor  South  Africa  our  only  possible 
fighting  ground,  and  of  a  Moore  to 
assimilate  for  us  all  that  is  best  in  the 
teaching  of  foreign  armies  as  well  as 
of  South  African  experience. 

So  much  for  purely  military  and 
technical  matters;  let  us  now  glance 
at  our  military  administration  and 
our  military  policy  in  the  broader 
sense  at  this  same  period.  The 
Treaty  of  Versailles  which  ended  the 
war  was  negotiated  by  Lord  Shel- 
burne ;  and  almost  the  last  act  of  his 
Administration  was  to  ordain  that 
all  soldiers  enlisted  for  three  years' 
service, — that  is  to  say  the  vast 
majority  of  the  men  then  in  the  ranks 
— might  take  their  discharge  at  once, 
whether  they  had  completed  their 
terms  or  not.  Having  done  this, 
Shelburne  was  almost  immediately 
driven  from  office  by  the  coalition  of 
Fox  and  Lord  North.  This  Adminis- 
tration, knowing  that  nothing  but 
success  could  cover  the  iniquity  of 
its  origin,  set  itself  to  gain  popular 
favour  by  an  excessive  reduction  of 
the  army.  At  the  peace  of  1763 
the  70th  Regiment  of  the  Line  and 
the  18th  Dragoons  were  the  youngest 
that  had  been  kept  on  the  Army-list ; 
but  Fox  and  North,  although  affairs 
had  long  been  going  very  ill  with  us 
in  India,  proposed  to  disband  all 
regiments  junior  to  the  63rd  in  the 
infantry  and  to  the  16th  Dragoons 
in  the  cavalry.  Fortunately  on  the 
accession  of  Lord  Rockingham's 
Government  General  Conway  had 
been  appointed  Commander  in-Chief ; 
and  he,  though  generally  speaking  a 
feeble  creature,  combated  this  mis- 
chievous design  with  great  courage 
and  resolution.  The  struggle  between 
the  soldier  and  the  politicians  was 
long  and  strenuous,  but  the  soldier 


326 


The  Close  of  a  Great  War. 


triumphed  at  last,  and  it  was  as  well. 
By  November,  1783,  the  infantry 
of  the  Line  in  England  had  sunk 
to  three  thousand  men ;  if  North 
and  Fox  had  executed  their  intention 
there  would  have  been  only  twenty- 
six  hundred  in  the  whole  of  Great 
Britain. 

Very  fortunately  this  unprincipled 
pair  were  shortly  afterwards  removed 
from  office,  and  William  Pitt  came 
into  power  in  May,  1784,  with  a 
majority  which  made  him  ruler  of 
England  for  the  next  seventeen  years. 
Mr.  Bagehot  has  written  that  there 
were  at  that  moment  three  questions 
which  pressed  for  the  attention  of  a 
great  statesman, — Ireland,  economical 
reform,  and  parliamentary  reform — 
and  that  Pitt  dealt  with  all  three  of 
them.  The  reader  shall  presently 
judge  whether  there  were  not  a  fourth 
question  also,  little  less  urgent  than 
the  others.  All  authorities  seem  to 
agree  that  Pitt  was  a  great  financier 
(and  indeed  there  is  very  much  to 
support  his  claim  to  the  title)  and 
also  that  he  was  born  to  be  a  great 
peace-minister.  We  all  know  what 
a  great  peace-minister  in  England 
is ;  he  is  a  man  who  curtails  the 
votes  for  the  Army  and  Navy,  leaves 
all  the  means  of  defence  to  go  to 
wrack  and  ruin,  and  then  boasts  of 
the  reduction  of  expenditure  and  of 
the  prosperous  state  of  the  country, 
It  is  worth  while  for  us  to  examine 
whether  or  not  Pitt  was  a  minister 
of  this  description,  freely  granting 
first  that  he  found  the  burden  of  the 
public  debt  increased  to  alarming  pro- 
portions and  the  national  finances  in 
hideous  disorder. 

First,  be  it  noted  to  Pitt's  honour 
that  one  of  his  earliest  cares  was  to 
secure  the  dockyards  of  Portsmouth 
and  Plymouth  by  fortification ;  for 
Plymouth  had  been  exposed  to  immi- 
nent danger  when  the  French  and 
Spaniards  commanded  the  Channel  in 


1779,  and  had  indeed  owed  its  deliver- 
ance rather  to  the  enemy's  timidity 
than  to  any  strength  of  its  own.  In 
this  admirable  design,  however,  he  was 
foiled  by  faction  and  prejudice  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  In  vain  Lord 
Hood  and  several  captains  in  the  Navy 
pleaded  that  fortification  of  the  dock- 
yards was  essential  if  the  British 
fleet  was  to  do  its  duty  at  sea.  The 
Opposition  professed  constitutional 
scruples.  One  gentleman  opined  that 
"  fortifications  might  be  termed  semi- 
naries of  soldiers  and  universities  of 
prsetorianism."  Sheridan,  with  his 
usual  impudence,  argued  the  question 
as  though  he  had  been  an  admiral. 
Fox,  who  was  ready  enough  to  plead 
for  the  divine  right  of  princes  when 
he  saw  a  chance  of  gaining  office 
thereby,  declared  "that  on  constitu- 
tional measures  he  retained  his  great 
party  principles  ; "  and  the  motion 
was  actually  lost  by  the  Speaker's 
casting  vote.  None  the  less  Pitt 
contrived  within  the  next  few  years 
to  fortify  at  any  rate  the  naval 
stations  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
even  to  add  a  small  corps  of  artificers 
to  the  Royal  Engineers  for  the  work. 
The  subjection  of  these  artificers  to 
military,  law  again  drove  Fox  and 
Sheridan  into  hysterics,  and  Fox 
averred  that  the  measure  "  must 
operate  to  the  surrender  of  our 
liberties."  Let  no  man  depreciate 
the  value  of  printed  Parliamentary 
debates ;  they  are  the  chart  which 
records  the  deepest  soundings  taken 
in  the  unfathomable  sea  of  human 
imbecility. 

So  much  of  Pitt's  work  was  good ; 
let  us  now  turn  from  the  bricks  and 
mortar  to  the  flesh  and  blood  of  the 
army.  I  have  already  mentioned 
that  permission  had  been  granted  to 
all  men,  who  had  been  enlisted  for 
short  terms,  to  take  their  discharge ; 
it  now  remains  for  me  to  add  that 
almost  without  exception  they  took 


The  Close  of  a  Great  War. 


327 


advantage  of  the  liberty.  A  bounty 
of  a  guinea  and  a  half  was  offered  to 
all  good  men  who  would  re-enlist, 
but  hardly  a  man  would  look  at  it. 
The  ranks  were  depleted  to  a  degree 
which  struck  consternation  into  the 
Government,  for  in  those  days  there 
was  plenty  of  lawlessness  and  no 
police.  Circulars  were  despatched 
to  colonels  bidding  them  send  out 
recruiting-parties  at  once ;  and  the 
parties  were  duly  despatched,  but 
they  could  obtain  no  recruits.  They 
were  kept  at  the  work  through  the 
summer  and  autumn  of  1785,  as  well 
as  through  the  preceding  winter  and 
the  spring,  but  without  the  least 
result.  The  case  was  exactly  the 
same  in  1786,  in  1787,  and  in  fact  in 
every  year  up  to  1792.  The  ribbons 
were  flaunted,  and  the  fifes  and 
drums  were  played  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Great  Britain  ;  but  not 
a  man  would  take  the  shilling.  In 
1788  the  regiments  in  Great  Britain 
were  directed  to  send  recruiting 
parties  to  Ireland,  but,  though  men 
were  rather  less  unready  to  enlist 
across  St.  George's  Channel,  they 
neutralised  that  advantage  by  a  dis- 
proportionate alacrity  in  deserting. 
In  truth  at  this  period  the  number 
of  deserters  seems  almost  to  have 
exceeded  the  number  of  recruits.  In 
vain  the  King  gave  warning  that  he 
would  confirm  the  sentence  of  death, 
if  adjudged,  on  deserters  ;  no  menace 
of  severity  had  the  slightest  effect. 
In  Ireland  the  regular  establishment 
of  the  infantry  was  set  down  at 
seven  thousand  men ;  the  annual 
average  of  deserters  was  twelve  hun- 
dred. Matters  at  last  reached  such 
a  pitch  that  regular  depots  were 
formed  in  Cork  and  Dublin  for  the  re- 
ception of  deserters,  where  they  were 
tried,  sentenced  to  perpetual  service 
abroad,  and  shipped  off  by  hundreds 
to  the  West  Indies,  from  which  it 


was  hoped  that  they  could  desert 
no  more.  Never  before,  not  even  in 
the  days  of  Walpole,  had  the  Army 
been  reduced  to  such  a  condition. 

What  was  the  reason,  the  reader 
will  ask?  The  answer  is  simple. 
The  pay  of  the  soldier  (and  it  may 
be  added  of  the  sailor  also)  was  in- 
sufficient, and  the  stoppages  were 
excessive.  Eight  pence  a  day  had 
been  the  pay  of  the  foot-soldier  in 
the  days  of  Philip  and  Mary;  eight- 
pence  a  day  it  was  in  the  thirtieth 
year  of  George  the  Third,  with  two- 
pence stopped  for  clothing  and  the 
remainder  for  food  and  other  ex- 
penses. It  is  literally  true  that  the 
only  alternatives  open  to  the  private 
in  the  years  under  review  were  to 
desert  or  to  starve.  Desertion,  too, 
brought  about  its  own  increase. 
Deserters  when  captured  were  neces- 
sarily escorted  by  road  from  quarter 
to  quarter,  which  signified  very 
often  a  march  of  as  much  as  a 
hundred  miles  backwards  and  for- 
wards. Such  long  marches  of  course 
wore  out  the  shoes  and  gaiters  of  the 
escorting  soldiers,  who  were  obliged 
to  replace  them  at  their  own  cost. 
This  of  course  meant  a  further 
stoppage  of  already  inadequate  pay, 
and  inability  to  purchase  pipeclay 
and  other  matters  for  the  cleaning  of 
belts  and  accoutrements.  "  Hence  un- 
able to  make  the  appearance  required 
of  him  under  pain  of  punishment, 
unable  even  to  satisfy  the  common 
calls  of  hunger  [the  words  are  those 
of  the  Adjutant-General]  and  being 
without  hope  of  relief,  the  soldier 
deserts  in  despair,"  This  is  a  lament- 
able story ;  yet  to  our  amazement  we 
find  the  Adjutant-General  adding  that 
the  case  of  the  subalterns  was  even 
harder  than  that  of  the  privates,  and 
his  statement  is  confirmed  by  a  com- 
plaint from  the  colonels  in  Ireland 
that  the  pay  of  a  subaltern  of 
dragoons  barely  sufficed  for  the  main- 


328 


The  Close  of  a  Great  War. 


tenance  of  his  servant  and  of  his 
horse. 

It  may  be  asked  whether  this  in- 
sufficiency of  the  private  soldier's  pay 
was  a  new  thing.  The  answer  is, 
certainly  not.  As  far  back  as  in 
1763  the  military  authorities  had 
called  attention  to  the  heightened 
standard  of  luxury  and  comfort  in  all 
callings  but  that  of  the  soldier  ;  and 
in  1764  there  had  been  an  actual 
mutiny  in  Canada,  in  consequence  of 
excessive  stoppages.  Recruiting  had 
been  very  difficult  during  the  few 
years  of  peace  that  followed  the  close 
of  the  Seven  Years'  War,  and  the 
reasons  had  been  fully  explained  ;  but 
no  Government  had  the  courage  to 
propose  an  increase  of  pay.  It  is 
absolutely  impossible  that  Pitt  could 
have  been  ignorant  of  the  Army's 
grievances,  and  it  was  certainly  his 
duty  as  Prime  Minister  and  as  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  to  have  re- 
dressed them.  The  King  expressed 
so  lively  a  concern  for  the  sufferings 
of  the  soldiers  that  he  can  hardly 
have  failed  to  bring  them  to  the 
notice  of  his  chief  adviser ;  but  it  was 
not  until  1792  that  the  Adjutant- 
General  with  the  help  of  Lord  Barring- 
ton  (a  former  Secretary  at  War  and 
always  a  good  friend  to  the  soldier), 
succeeded  at  last  in  wringing  from 
Pitt  a  few  additional  allowances. 
These  insured  the  private  soldier  at 
any  rate  food  sufficient  to  keep  him 
alive,  and  even  the  magnificent  sum 
of  18s.  10  ^c?.  per  annum  payable  in 
bi-mensual  instalments,  over  and 
above  all  deductions  for  his  subsist- 
ence and  his  clothing  ;  but  the  con- 
cession was  obtained  only  by  sacrificing 
the  claims  of  the  subalterns  to  relief. 

It  may  be  objected  that  the  finan- 
cial condition  of  the  country  suffi- 
ciently justified  the  parsimony  of 
Pitt ;  let  us  therefore  look  a  little 
more  deeply  into  his  military  adminis- 
tration. It  must  be  remembered  that 


throughout  these  years  he  was  pur- 
suing what  is  called  a  spirited  foreign 
policy,  which  threatened  to  lead  Eng- 
land into  war  with  France  in  1787, 
with  Spain  in  1790,  and  with  Russia 
in  1791.  I  am  far  from  contending 
that  his  policy  was  mistaken ;  the 
question  is  how  he  endeavoured  to 
support  it.  The  natural  inference 
would  be  that  he  increased  the  Army 
and  Navy ;  and  it  is  true  that  both 
in  1787  and  in  1790  a  temporary 
augmentation  of  the  Army  was  voted, 
and  that  a  bounty  of  three  guineas 
was  offered  to  recruits.  Yet  in  1787 
it  was  necessary  to  enlist  prisoners 
from  gaol,  discharged  seamen,  and 
even  Chelsea-pensioners,  while  in 

1790  the  whole   country    was    over- 
run with  recruiting-officers  and  their 
crimps,  and  the  price  of  recruits  rose 
to    the    enormous    figure    of    fifteen 
guineas   a  head.     It  was   only    with 
the  greatest  difficulty  and  by  ruthless 
drafting  that  eight  battalions  could  be 
scraped    together — for  what   service  1 
to   do    marines'  duty  on  board  ship, 
because  seamen  were  as  scarce,  under 
Pitt's  administration,  as  soldiers.     In 

1791  the  story  was  just   the   same. 
"We  shall   probably  be   called    upon 
for  at  least  a  thousand  men  for  the 
fleet,"    wrote     the    Adjutant-General 
plaintively ;    "  koto   we    are   to    do   it 
until  the   14th  and  19th  arrive  home 

from  Jamaica  /  cannot  tell." 

Was  it  then  on  the  Militia  that 
Pitt  relied  for  defence  ?  Certainly  it 
was  not.  He  never  called  out  more 
than  two-thirds  of  them, — twenty-one 
thousand  men — for  training  in  any 
year :  he  ignored  the  scheme  of  rota- 
tion for  passing  the  population  through 
the  ranks,  which  was  the  essence  of 
his  father's  Militia  Act,  though  it  was 
shown  that  he  could  save  money  by 
enforcing  it  ;  and  he  allowed  the 
regiments  to  be  filled  by  paid  substi- 
tutes who  would  otherwise  have  served 
in  the  regular  Army.  In  a  word  he 


The  Close  of  a  Great  War. 


329 


suffered  the  Militia  to  run  to  waste 
like  the  rest  of  our  armed  forces,  under 
the  plea  of  economy.  Moreover,  that 
no  source  of  inefficiency  and  demorali- 
sation should  be  wanting,  he  saved 
a  few  thousand  pounds  annually  by 
dispensing  with  a  Commander-in-Chief, 
whereby  the  patronage  of  the  Army 
was  thrown  into  the  hands  of  a  mere 
party  politician,  the  Secretary  at  War, 
and  the  discipline  of  the  whole  force, 
more  particularly  of  the  officers,  most 
dangerously  impaired.  Finally,  being 
unable  to  spare  the  money  to  save  his 
own  soldiers  from  starvation,  he,  the 
son  of  the  great  Chatham,  spent  from 
1787  onward  £40,000  annually  as  a 
retaining  fee  for  twelve  thousand 
Hessians,  to  be  ready  for  service  at 
any  moment  if  called  upon. 

Thus  the  money  voted  for  the  pay 
of  the  Army  was  wasted  in  convert- 
ing honest  men  into  outlaws,  while 
£40,000  was  devoted  to  subsidising 
foreigners  to  take  their  place.  Hence 
when  war  became  inevitable  in  1793 
the  only  troops  that  could  be  raised  for 
service  were  three  thousand  infantry 
and  seven  hundred  cavalry.  At  last 
in  1797  matters  came  to  a  climax. 
Open  mutiny  in  the  Navy  and  threa- 
tened mutiny  in  the  Army  extorted  a 
sudden  increase  of  the  soldier's  pay 
from  eightpence  to  one  shilling  a  day, 
and  an  increase  of  his  pocket-money, 
clear  of  all  stoppages,  from  nothing 
in  1781  and  18s.  10£d.  in  1792  to 
£3  8*.,  or  over  three  hundred  per  cent. 
Nor  were  the  subalterns  forgotten,  for 
they  received  an  additional  shilling  a 
day  with  remission  of  stoppages,  which 
augmented  their  emoluments  from 
thirty  to  forty-five  per  cent.  Thus 
was  done  hastily,  in  time  of  war  and 
under  threat  of  mutiny,  the  justice 
which  had  been  denied  in  time  of 
peace.  Meanwhile  hundreds  of  poor 
fellows,  who  might  have  made  good 


soldiers,  had  been  flogged  almost  to 
death  and  transported  to  bad  climates, 
and  hundreds  more  were  at  large, 
recruiting  the  ranks  of  smugglers  and 
criminals.  These  figures  are  sufficient 
alone  to  damn  such  finance  for  ever. 

It  may  be  said  that  all  this  has  no 
bearing  on  the  present  state  of  affairs  ; 
but  I  venture  to  suggest  that  it  may 
have.  Tens  of  thousands  of  men 
will  have  completed  their  term  when 
the  present  war  ends,  and  their  places 
must  be  filled ;  nor,  I  imagine,  would 
it  be  prudent  at  this  moment  to 
count  upon  obtaining  levies  from 
Germany,  though  a  subsidy  might  con- 
ceivably still  be  acceptable.  The 
question  of  an  increase  of  pay  is  for 
wiser  heads  than  mine  to  decide ;  but 
if  such  increase  be  called  for,  it  must 
be  granted  ungrudgingly.  There  will  of 
course  be  a  great  outcry  for  reduction 
of  expenditure ;  but  the  efficiency  of 
the  forces  of  the  Crown  must  first  be 
ensured,  notwithstanding  the  factious 
politician  who  is  always  with  us,  pos- 
sessing all  the  vices  of  Fox  without 
his  talent  and  all  the  impudence  of 
Sheridan  without  his  wit.  The  ques- 
tion of  rotation  in  the  Militia  is  as 
urgent  now  as  ever.  Finally  the 
control  of  the  Army  should  not  be 
allowed  to  fall  too  much  into  the 
hands  of  a  party-politician.  Twice 
already  this  has  happened,  in  the 
Administration  of  Walpole  and  in 
the  Administration  of  Pitt,  and  on 
each  occasion  discipline  needed  to  be 
restored  with  a  very  strong  hand.  We 
should  beware  lest  we  permit  the 
same  evil  to  be  repeated,  for  few  of 
us  realise  how  much  it  has  cost  us  in 
the  past.  The  party-system  may  be 
necessary  to  the  successful  working  of 
representative  institutions,  but  it  is 
the  curse  of  military  administration, 
whether  in  war  or  peace. 

J.    W.    FORTESCUE. 


330 


EDWARD    FITZGERALD    ON    MUSIC    AND    MUSICIANS. 

"  His  love  of  music  was  one  of  his  earliest  passions  and  remained  with  him  to 

the  last." — W.  A.  WEIGHT. 


AFTER  the  rare  delight  of  reading 
MORE  LETTERS  OP  EDWARD  FITZ- 
GERALD it  was  impossible  to  resist 
the  temptation  to  take  down  the 
three  earlier  volumes  of  his  Letters, 
and  enjoy  a  further  instalment  of 
the  humour,  the  kindliness,  the  fine 
judgment  of  Carlyle's  "peaceable, 
affectionate,  ultra-modest  man."  No 
matter  how  many  times  they  may 
have  been  read,  the  earlier  letters  are 
found  to  be  just  as  fresh  as  the  later 
ones.  One  knows  by  heart  what 
Fitzgerald  is  going  to  say  on  the 
other  side  of  the  page,  but  the  page 
must  be  turned,  in  order  that  the 
inimitable  language  may  be  read  once 
more.  Fitzgerald's  judgments  are  fre- 
quently startling,  but  always  possible 
to  be  understood  by  those  who  have 
learned  to  love  their  author.  Occa- 
sionally he  uses  language  savouring  of 
the  Little  Englander ;  he  wounds  the 
feelings  of  Jane  Austen's  admirers  by 
his  preference  for  Wilkie  Collins ;  on 
musical  matters  there  are  not  a  few 
criticisms  which  must  dispose  modern 
musicians  to  bite  their  thumbs  at 
him.  But  these  and  all  other  things 
are  soon  forgiven,  and  right-minded 
people  cannot  read  him  without  a  feel- 
ing that  it  is  pleasanter  to  disagree 
with  him  than  to  agree  with  anyone 
else.  The  purpose  of  this  article  is  to 
make  some  survey  of  his  references  to 
music  and  musicians,  and  bring  together 
his  contributions  to  musical  criticism, 
since  they  are  wholesome,  animating, 
original,  and,  when  knowledge  has 
guided  them,  singularly  sound. 


Fitzgerald  was  credited  with  the 
aphorism  "  Taste  is  the  feminine  of 
Genius,"  and  it  is  just  his  taste  in 
music  which  raises  so  many  interest- 
ing considerations.  His  books  were 
hardly  more  his  friends  than  were 
his  musical  scores ;  but  he  did  not 
act  upon  Dr.  Johnson's  advice,  "  Keep 
your  friendships  in  repair."  Thus  he 
troubled  little  to  make  new  friend- 
ships in  music,  and  consequently  his 
knowledge  of  the  best  modern  music 
was  small.  Just  as  he  was  content 
with  those  men  and  those  books  whose 
worth  and  faithfulness  were  proved, 
so,  in  music,  he  was  satisfied  with  the 
achievements  of  the  older  masters  and 
suspicious  of  the  newer  schools.  He 
seems  to  have  known  instinctively,  at 
the  first  contact  with  man  or  book, 
what  would  prove  a  lifelong  friend, 
and  he  seldom  was  at  the  pains  to 
look  twice  at  anything  unless  it  had 
enchained  his  immediate  sympathies. 
So  it  was  with  LOTHAIR — "  a  pleasant 
magic  lantern,  which  I  shall  forget 
when  it  is  over  ;  "  so  with  CARMEN — 
"on  the  Wagner  model,  very  beautiful 
accompaniments  to  no  melody  : "  he 
had  never  heard  one  of  Wagner's 
operas  !  But  there  were  exceptions  : 
for  instance,  he  got  over  the  sus- 
picions which  Madame  de  Sevigne's 
references  to  her  "  eternal  daughter  " 
caused  him,  confessed  his  error,  and 
could  say,  like  Madame  Tellier, 
"  Combien  je  regrette  le 

temps  perdu."  Had  he  been  willing 
to  hear  and  to  try  to  understand 
modern  music,  his  severe  judgments 


Edward  Fitzgerald  on  Music  and  Musicians. 


331 


might  perhaps  have  been  modified,  if 
not  entirely  altered. 

"  Always  beautiful,  and  melodious : " 
these  words  sum  up  Fitzgerald's 
musical  creed.  "  I  say  the  Arts  are 
nothing  if  not  beautiful"  is  the  ex- 
planation he  gives  after  one  of  his 
tirades,  and  again  :  "  I  had  thought 
Beauty  was  the  main  object  of  the 
Arts ;  but  these  people,  not  having 
Genius,  I  suppose,  to  create  any  new 
forms  of  that,  have  recourse  to  the 
Ugly,  and  find  their  worshippers  in 
plenty.  In  Painting,  Poetry,  and 
Music  it  seems  to  me  the  same.  And 
people  think  all  this  finer  than  Mozart, 
Raffaelle,  and  Tennyson  as  he  was." 
Melody  is  his  great  text :  "I  have 
never  heard  FAUST,  only  bits.  .  .  . 
They  were  expressive,  and  musically 
ingenious,  but  the  part  of  Hamlet, 
the  one  divine  part  of  music,  Melody, 
was  not  there.  I  think  that  such 
a  fuss  can  be  made  about  it  only 
because  there  is  nothing  better." 
And  he  had  only  heard  "  bits "  of 
FAUST,  when  he  said  this !  Even 
Beethoven  is  found  guilty  of  a  want 
of  melody.  In  a  letter  to  W.  F. 
Pollock  Fitzgerald  says :  "  I  should 
like  to  hear  FIDELIO  again,  often  as 
I  have  heard  it.  But  I  do  not  find 
so  much  melody  in  it  as  you  do, 
understanding  by  '  melody '  that 
which  asserts  itself  independently  of 
harmony,  as  Mozart's  airs  do — I  miss 
it  especially  in  Leonora's  Hope  Song, 
but  what  with  the  Passion  and  Power 
of  the  music  it  is  set  to,  the  opera  is 
one  of  those  to  hear  repeated  as  often 
as  any."  That  he  was  fortunate  to 
have  heard  FIDELIO  so  often  will  be 
the  feeling  of  those  who  regret  that 
nowadays  so  few  opportunities  of  hear- 
ing that  opera  are  given  them  ;  that 
he  was  unfortunate  in  missing  the 
melody  of  Leonora's  song  will  be  the 
feeling  of  everybody.  And  yet  the 
admission  that  power  and  passion 
could  satisfy,  even  in  the  absence  of 


melody,  shows  that  had  the  man  of 
taste  but  allowed  himself  to  become 
familiar  with  Wagner,  he  might 
eventually  have  understood  the  power 
and  the  passion  of  that  man  of  genius. 
To  some  it  may  seem  a  waste  of  time 
to  listen  to  the  musical  opinions  of 
one  who  could  not  see  melody  in  the 
Invocation  to  Hope,  but  if  Fitzgerald 
had  thought  like  everyone  else  upon 
this  and  other  matters,  he  would  have 
been  a  much  less  delightful  person 
than  he  is.  His  Beethoven  heresy  is 
no  worse  than  his  heresy  concerning 
Miss  Austen.  What  is  to  be  done 
with  a  man  who  writes,  "Miss  Austen 
never  goes  out  of  the  Parlour,  and  I 
must  think  the  Woman  in  White  with 
her  Fosco  far  beyond  that "  ?  Yet  he 
is  forgiven  at  once  on  account  of  the 
pleasant  observation  with  which  he 
proceeds  :  '•  Co  well  reads  Miss  Austen 
at  night,  it  composes  him  like  Gruel 
or  Paisiello's  music,  which  Napoleon 
liked,  because  he  found  it  did  not 
interrupt  his  thoughts."  So  when  we 
read  what  he  has  to  say  about  Mozart 
and  Handel,  we  forget  that  he  has 
criticised  Beethoven  and  denounced 
Wagner.  Besides,  the  honesty  and 
the  boldness  of  it  all  must  disarm 
every  lover  of  books  or  music  who  is 
not  a  pedant.  Fitzgerald  did  not  like 
pedants,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that 
he  was  imperfectly  acquainted  with 
certain  compositions  much  applauded 
nowadays,  else  he  might  have  said  of 
them  as  he  did  of  a  great  poet :  ft  I 
never  read  ten  lines  of  him  without 
stumbling  on  some  pedantry  which 
tipped  me  at  once  out  of  Paradise  or 
even  Hell  into  the  Schoolroom,  which 
is  worse  than  either." 

He  held  Mozart  to  have  had  the 
purest  and  most  universal  genius 
among  musical  composers. 

As  to  Mozart,  he  was,  as  a  musical 
genius,  more  wonderful  than  all,  and 
Don  Giovanni  is  the  greatest  opera 
in  the  world.  .  .  .  The  Finale  of 


332 


Edioard  Fitzgerald  on  Music  and  Musicians. 


Beethoven's  C  minor  is  very  noble,  but 
on  the  whole,  I  like  Mozart  better : 
Beethoven  is  gloomy,  besides,  Mozart 
is  ineontestably  the  purest  musician. 
Beethoven  could  have  been  Poet  or 
Painter  as  well,  for  he  had  a  great  deep 
soul,  and  imagination.  .  .  .  When  I 
heard  Alexander's  Feast  at  Norwich,  I 
wondered,  but  when  directly  afterwards 
they  played  Mozart's  G  minor,  it  seemed 
as  if  I  had  passed  out  of  a  land  of  savages 
into  sweet  civilised  life. 


Some  folk,  I  dare  say,  think  Mozart 
too  civilised,  and  would  say  that  he 
seldom  got  out  of  the  parlour  and  its 
not  very  deep  imagining  inmates. 
Fitzgerald  knew  better.  To  Pollock 
he  writes  in  1873  :  "I  have  seen  the 
Old  Masters,  finished  them  off  by  such 
a  Symphony  as  was  worthy  of  the 
best  of  them,  two  Acts  of  Mozart's 
Cos!  .  .  .  the  singing  was  in- 
ferior ;  but  the  Music  itself  !  . 
well :  I  did  not  like  even  Mozart's 
two  Bravuras  for  the  Ladies  :  but  the 
rest  was  fit  for — Raffaelle,  whose 
Christ  in  the  Garden  I  had  been 
looking  at  a  little  before."  Two 
years  later  he  thought  seriously  of 
going  to  London  to  hear  a  selection 
from  LOHENGRIN  at  the  Promenade 
Concerts,  but  the  journey  was  never 
undertaken  :  "  Indolence  and  Despair 
of  my  own  satisfaction  has  left  me 
where  I  am.  Mcdim  Mozartii  re- 
cordari  quam  cum  Wagnero  versari, 
if  that  be  Latin."  Perhaps  he  had 
been  opening  Mozart's  Requiem  at 
the  Recordare,  and  if  so,  is  it  to  be 
wondered  at  if  he  felt  that,  with  such 
music  in  his  possession,  he  could  afford 
to  do  without  Wagner's  1 

Though  his  views  about  Mozart 
never  changed  (and  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned if  a  whole-hearted  Mozartian 
can  be  a  whole-hearted  Wagnerian  at 
the  same  time),  his  views  about 
Wagner  and  the  moderns  became  less 
fierce  as  he  grew  older.  The  year 
before  his  death  he  is  found  willing 
to  allow  that  there  might  be  some 


merit  in  the  composer  whose  ideas  of 
art  soared  beyond  beauty  and  melody. 
"  I  had  meant  to  hear  some  opera  of 
Wagner's,  but  did  not ;  I  dare  say  I 
should  not  have  stayed  out  half,  but 
then,  I  could  never  do  more  with  the 
finest  Oratorio.  But  I  should  have 
heard  the  Music  of  the  Future,  sure 
to  interest  one  in  its  orchestral  ex- 
pression, and  if  no  melody,  none 
previously  expected  by  me."  This  is 
magnanimous,  but  the  thought  of 
music  which  sacrificed  melody  to  ex- 
pression was  evidently  not  an  agree- 
able one,  and  he  turns  to  a  pleasanter 
topic,  that  of  Bellini :  "  How  pretty 
of  the  severe  old  contrapuntist 
Cherubini  saying  to  some  one  who 
found  fault  with  Bellini's  meagre 
accompaniments,  '  They  are  all  and 
just  what  is  wanted  for  his  beautiful 
simple  Airs.'  "  Later  on  he  confesses 
to  the  same  correspondent  (Frederick 
Tennyson)  :  "  You  have  heard  more 
of  Wagner  than  I,  who  have  evidently 
heard  but  one  piece,  not  the  March, 
from  TANNHAUSER,  played  by  the 
Brass  Band  at  Lowestoft  Pier." 
Wagnerians  may  smile  at  the  idea  of 
a  judgment  based  on  their  hero  from 
the  scraps  of  him  let  fall  by  a  German 
Band.  I  am  not,  however,  concerned 
to  defend  Fitzgerald  from  the  charge 
of  having  criticised  what  he  knew  so 
little  about,  and  it  should  be  remem- 
bered that  he  wrote  before  the  time 
when  sufficient  opportunity  was  given 
us  of  hearing  Wagner.  But  it  is 
important  to  note  that  we  have  here 
ample  evidence  as  to  the  keenness  of 
his  musical  instincts,  and  his  desire 
to  be  fair  to  what  he  felt  he  should 
dislike. 

Notwithstanding  his  outspoken 
acknowledgment  of  Mozart's  supre- 
macy (for  which  a  few  old-fashioned 
souls  will  devoutly  bless  him)  Fitz- 
gerald seems,  on  the  whole,  to  have 
derived  his  chief  pleasure  from  the 
music  of  Handel,  to  which  the  refer- 


Edward  Fitzgerald  on  Music  and  Musicians. 


333 


ences  in  his  letters,  especially  in  the 
two  earlier  volumes,  are  very  frequent. 
His  criticisms  of  the  caro  Sassone 
are  indisputably  original,  and  worthy 
of  serious  attention  as  coming  from 
an  ardent  musician  of  the  finest  taste, 
whose  intimate  knowledge  of  his  sub- 
ject was  the  outcome  of  genuine  love. 
Fitzgerald  thought  him  less  remark- 
able as  a  composer  of  sacred  than  as 
a  master  of  secular  music.  Most 
musicians,  I  fancy,  would  differ  from 
him  on  this  point,  and  find  the  finest 
example  of  Handel's  genius  in  some 
of  his  oratorios,  the  Passion  Music  of 
the  MESSIAH  for  example,  but  Fitz- 
gerald had  a  decided  objection  to 
oratorios,  and  this  dislike  probably 
influenced  his  judgment  upon  Handel's 
power  of  illustrating  religious  thought 
and  scene.  The  very  first  allusion  to 
music  in  his  early  Letters  is  a  gibe  at 
the  dulness  of  oratorios ;  "  I  am  at 
present  rather  liable  to  be  overset  by 
any  weariness,  and  where  can  any 
be  found  that  can  match  the  effect 
of  two  oratorios  ? "  Shortly  after 
this  he  gives  to  Frederick  Tennyson 
(the  friend  who  most  of  all  drew 
him  out  to  express  himself  on  musical 
topics)  a  very  characteristic  apprecia- 
tion of  Handel. 

Acis  and  Galatea  is  one  of  Handel's 
best,  and  as  classical  as  anyone  who 
wore  a  full-bottomed  wig  could  write. 
I  think  Handel  never  got  out  of  his  wig, 
that  is,  out  of  his  age.  His  Hallelujah 
Chorus  is  a  chorus,  not  of  angels,  but  of 
well-dressed  earthly  choristers,  ranged 
tier  above  tier  in  a  Gothic  Cathedral, 
with  princes  for  audience,  and  their  mili- 
tary trumpets  flourishing  over  the  full 
volume  of  the  Organ.  Handel's  gods  are 
like  Homer's,  and  his  sublime  never 
reaches  beyond  the  region  of  the  clouds. 
Therefore  I  think  that  his  great  Marches, 
triumphal  pieces  and  Coronation  Anthems 
are  his  finest  works. 

I  do  not  doubt  that  there  is  some 
truth  in  this,  but  Fitzgerald  follows 
it  up  with  something  that  is  suffi- 
ciently amazing  :  "  There  is  a  bit 


of  Auber  (in  the  BAYADERE)  which 
has  more  of  pure  light  and  mystical 
solemnity  than  anything  I  know  of 
Handel's."  I  say  this  is  amazing,  and 
yet  how  splendid  it  is  to  hear  the 
man  speaking  his  mind  with  such  a 
sincerity  !  To  mention  Handel  and 
Auber  in  the  same  sentence  must 
have  appeared  as  the  sin  of  witch- 
craft to  the  generation  with  whom 
Handel  ranked  as  a  religious  influence 
with  St.  Paul  or  John  Bunyan.  The 
present  generation  of  Englishmen 
hardly  knows  that  such  a  composer 
as  Auber  existed,  and  to  them  the 
audacity  of  Fitzgerald's  remark  will" 
hardly  be  apparent.  But  those  who 
know  something  of  Auber  will  admire 
this  instance  of  the  expression  of 
honest  conviction,  even  if  they  are 
not  a  little  amused  by  it.  Of  course 
Fitzgerald  did  not  mean  to  compare 
the  work  of  the  two  composers  as  a 
whole,  for  he  adds  :  "  This,  however, 
is  only  a  scrap ;  Auber  could  not 
breathe  long  in  that  atmosphere, 
whereas  Handel's  coursers,  with  necks 
clothed  with  thunder,  and  long- 
resounding  pace,  never  tire.  Beet- 
hoven thought  more  deeply  also  [the 
also  is  curious],  but  I  don't  know  if 
he  could  sustain  himself  so  well." 
Whatever  may  be  thought  of  this 
last  conjecture,  it  is  difficult  not  to 
wish  that  Fitzgerald  had  elaborated 
a  tract  (not,  however,  in  the  Carlyle 
manner)  on  the  INFLUENCE  OP  WIGS 
UPON  MUSICAL  THOUGHT.  He  returns 
to  the  subject  in  another  letter  to 
Tennyson. 

Concerning  the  bagwigs  of  composers. 
Handel's  was  not  a  bagwig  .... 
such  were  Haydn's  and  Mozart's — much 
less  influential  on  the  character :  much 
less  ostentatious  in  themselves  :  not 
towering  so  high,  nor  rolling  down  in 
following  curls  so  low  as  to  overlay  the 
nature  of  the  brain  within.  But  Handel 
wore  the  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  wig  : 
greatest  of  wigs.  .  .  .  Such  a  wig 
was  a  fugue  hi  itself. 


334 


Edward  Fitzgerald  on  Music  and  Musicians. 


Then,  after  another  affirmation  that 
Mozart  was  the  most  universal  musical 
genius,  he  starts  upon  what  was  clearly 
a  favourite  topic  concerning  the  power 
and  limitations  of  music.  "  Beethoven 
is  apt  to  be  too  analytical  and  erudite, 
but  his  inspiration  is  nevertheless  true. 
He  tried  to  think  in  music,  almost  to 
reason  in  music,  whereas  we  should 
be  perhaps  contented  with  feeling  in 
it.  It  can  never  speak  very  definitely." 
This  is  strikingly  put,  and  there  is 
more  than  an  element  of  truth  in  the 
warning  given  against  attempts  to 
reason  in  music.  Fitzgerald  gets  upon 
much-debated  ground  when  he  pro- 
ceeds to  illustrate  his  contention  as  to 
the  indefiniteness  of  music  by  refer- 
ences to  songs  set  to  words  for  which 
they  were  not  originally  intended,  but 
what  he  says  is  delightful. 

There  is  that  famous  "  Holy  Holy 
Holy "  in  Handel :  nothing  can  sound 
more  simple  and  devotional :  but  it  is 
only  lately  adapted  to  those  words,  being 
originally  (I  believe)  a  love-song  in  RODE- 
LINDA.  Well,  lovers  adore  their  mis- 
tresses more  than  God.  Then  the  famous 
music  of  "  He  layeth  the  beam  of  his 
chamber "  was  originally  fitted  to  an 
Italian  pastoral  song,  Nasce  al  bosco  in 
rozza  cuna,  un  felice  pastorello.  That 
part  which  seems  so  well  to  describe 
"  the  wings  of  the  wind "  falls  happily 
in  with  E  con  Vaura  di  fortuna  with 
which  this  pastorello  sailed  along.  The 
character  of  the  music  is  ease  and  large- 
ness :  as  the  shepherd  lived,  so  God 
Almighty  walked  on  the  wind.  The 
music  breathes  ease,  but  words  must  tell 
us  who  takes  it  easy. 

I  will  not  spoil  the  airiness  of  the 
passage  by  comment.  Next  we  have 
Beethoven  brought  in  to  emphasise 
the  danger  of  trusting  to  sound  as  an 
interpreter  of  scene. 

Beethoven's  Sonata,  op.  14,  is  meant 
to  express  the  discord  and  gradual  atone- 
ment of  two  lovers,  or  a  man  and  his 
wife,  and  he  was  disgusted  that  every 
one  did  not  see  what  was  meant :  in 
truth  it  expresses  any  resistance  gra- 


dually overcome, — Dobson  shaving  with 
a  blunt  razor,  for  instance.  Music  is  so 
far  the  most  universal  language,  that  any 
one  piece  in  a  particular  strain  sym- 
bolises all  the  analogous  phenomena 
spiritual  or  material — if  you  can  talk  of 
spiritual  phenomena.  The  Eroica  Sym- 
phony describes  the  battle  of  the  passions 
as  well  as  of  armed  men.  This  is  long 
and  twaddling  discourse,  but  the  walls  of 
Charlotte  St.  in  Lent  present  little  else 
to  twaddle  about. 


What  excellent  twaddle  !  It  is 
not  my  object  to  promulgate  my  own 
opinion  as  to  the  questions  of  musical 
philosophy  raised  by  Fitzgerald,  and 
I  will  resist  the  desire  to  compose  a 
long  paragraph  about  modern  views 
of  programme  music.  My  desire  is 
to  call  the  attention  of  amateurs  to 
Fitzgerald's  entertaining  arguments 
rather  than  to  examine  them  myself 
in  print. 

Two  years  later  Fitzgerald  stumbles 
no  longer  at  the  idea  of  thinking  in 
music.  He  tells  Frederick  Tennyson 
that  a  "dreadful  vulgar  ballad,  'I 
dreamt  that  I  dwelt,'  is  being  sung 
by  Miss  Rainforth  with  unbounded 
applause,"  and  that  an  opera  LE 
DESERT  has  not  been  successful. 
This  he  does  not  wonder  at,  for  in 
"  Nearly  all  French  things  there  is  a 
clever  showy  surface,  but  no  Holy  of 
Holies,  far  withdrawn,  conceived  in 
the  depth  of  a  mind,  and  only  to  be 
received  into  the  depth  of  ours  after 
much  attention.  Beethoven  has  a 
depth  not  to  be  reached  at  once,  I 
admit,  with  you,  that  he  is  too 
bizarre  and  I  think  morbid,  but 
he  is  original,  majestic,  profound. 
Such  music  thinks ;  so  it  is  with 
Mozart,  Gluck,  and  Mendelssohn." 
If  Mozart  thought  in  music,  then 
Fitzgerald  would  consider  that  all 
other  composers  had  received  per- 
mission to  do  so ;  but,  as  we  shall 
see  presently,  he  did  not  in  the  end 
admit  Mendelssohn  into  the  high 
company  of  thinkers. 


Edward  Fitzgerald  on  Music  and  Musicians. 


335 


To  return  to  Handel. 

I  play  of  evenings  some  of  Handel'*} 
great  choruses  which  are  the  bravest 
music  after  all.  I  am  getting  to  the 
true  John  Bull  style  of  music.  I  delight 
in  Allegro  and  Penseroso.  Handel  cer- 
tainly does  in  music  what  old  Bacon 
desires  in  his  Essay  on  Masques ;  "  Let 
the  Songs  be  loud  and  cheerful,  not 
puling."  One  would  think  the  Water 
Music  was  written  from  this  text.  .  .  . 
I  grow  every  day  more  and  more  to  love 
only  the  old  "  God  save  the  King"  style, 
the  common  chords,  those  truisms  of 
music,  like  other  truisms,  so  little  under- 
stood. Just  look  at  the  mechanism  of 
"  Robin  Adah*."  ...  I  plunge  away 
at  my  old  Handel,  the  Penseroso  full 
of  pomp  and  fancy.  .  .  .  My  admi- 
ration for  the  old  giant  grows  and  grows, 
his  is  the  music  for  a  great,  active 
people. 

But  sacred  music,  even  that  of 
Handel,  as  has  been  said,  left  him 
unsatisfied.  As  late  as  1863,  when 
his  judgment  was  thoroughly  mature, 
he  mentions  this — shall  I  call  it  pre- 
judice ?  He  pities  Donne  for 

Undergoing  those  dreadful  Oratorios. 
.  .  .  I  never  heard  one  that  was  not 
tiresome,  and  in  part  ludicrous.  Such 
subjects  are  scarce  fitted  for  catgut — 
Even  Magnus  Handel,  even  MESSIAH  1 — 
He,  Handel,  was  a  good  old  Pagan  at 
heart,  and  till  he  had  to  yield  to  the 
fashionable  piety  of  England,  stuck  to 
operas  and  cantatas  where  he  could 
plunge  and  frolic  without  being  tied 
down  to  orthodoxy.  And  these  are  to  my 
mind  his  really  great  works,  the  Anthems 
where  Human  Pomp  is  to  be  illustrated. 

Beethoven  was  evidently  too  mor- 
bid and  introspective  for  Fitzgerald, 
his  appeals  to  what  George  Eliot 
called  "  conflict,  passion,  and  the 
sense  of  the  Universal "  awakened 
but  little  response  in  the  poet's 
heart :  "I  think  Beethoven  spas- 
modically rather  than  sustainedly 
great."  But  he  thought  the  overture 
to  EGMONT  a  fine  thing,  and  allowed 
that  there  was  much  good  in  the 


Symphonies.  It  is  easy  to  under- 
stand why  the  plain  speaking  of 
Handel,  the  melody,  clarity,  and  even 
temper  of  Mozart  should  have  so 
specially  attracted  him.  It  is  harder 
to  explain  the  attitude  towards 
Beethoven,  unless  the  solution  of  the 
difficulty  is  the  same  as  that  which 
accounts  for  his  indifference  to 
modern  music,  namely,  that  he  never 
knew  him  really  as  well  as  he  did 
Mozart  and  Handel.  Fitzgerald  had 
plenty  of  feeling  for  Napoleon's 
pauvre  et  triste  humanity — humanity 
in  its  depths,  not  in  its  superficial" 
appearances — and  if  Beethoven  has 
not  expressed  that  feeling,  then  it 
has  never  been  expressed  in  music. 

Haydn  was,  of  course,  a  favourite, 
and  Fitzgerald  thought  him  the  finest 
composer  of  pastoral  music  such  as  that 
" Blessed  Chorus  'Come  gentle  spring,' " 
sung  at  the  Ancient  Concerts  by  the 
ladies  who  had  sung  when  George 
the  Third  was  King :  "I  can  see 
them  now,  the  dear  old  creeters  with 
the  gold  eyeglasses  and  their  turbans, 
noddling  their  heads  as  they  sang." 

About  Mendelssohn  his  opinions 
changed.  In  1812,  hearing  of  a  "fine 
new  symphony  "  (this  must  have  been 
the  Scotch  symphony  performed  by 
the  Philharmonic)  he  writes  to  Tenny- 
son, "  He  is  by  far  our  best  writer 
now,  and  in  some  degree  combines 
Beethoven  and  Handel."  Of  the 
MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM  he  finds 
the  overture  far  the  best,  but  "  There 
is  a  very  noble  triumphal  march ; " 
presently,  however,  he  hears  ELIJAH 
and,  "  it  was  not  at  all  worth  the 
trouble.  Though  very  good  music,  it 
is  not  original,  Haydn  much  better." 
Then  comes  a  curiously  interesting 
and,  I  think,  prophetic  remark  :  "  The 
day  of  Oratorio  is  gone,  like  the  day 
for  painting  Holy  Families.  But  we 
cannot  get  tired  of  what  has  been 
done  in  Oratorio,  any  more  than  we 
can  get  tired  of  Raffaele.  Men- 


336 


Edward  Fitzgerald  on  Music  and  Musicians. 


delssohn  is  really  original  and  beau- 
tiful in  romantic  music,  witness 
MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM  and 
FINGAL'S  CAVE." 

Soon  we  come  to  "  Mendelssohn's 
things  are  mostly  tiresome  to  me, 
Handel  comforts  me."  He  might 
have  taken  these  last  three  words  as 
his  musical  device,  from  the  days 
when  he  had  listened  to  Mrs.  Frere 
(a  pupil  of  Bartleman)  at  Downing 
College,  to  those  last  when,  two  days 
before  his  death,  he  wrote :  "I  never 
hear  a  note  of  music,  except  when  I 
drum  out  some  old  tune  on  an  organ 
which  might  be  carried  about  the 
streets  with  a  handle  to  turn,  and  a 
monkey  on  the  top."  We  cannot 
doubt  that  the  "  old  tune  "  was  some 
chorus  of  Handel.  His  last  allusion 
to  Mendelssohn  is  an  amusingly  in- 
dignant comment  on  a  story.  When 
some  of  his  worshippers  were  sneering 
at  Donizetti's  LA  FIGLIA,  Mendelssohn 
silenced  them  by  saying  "Do  you 
know,  I  should  like  to  have  written 
it  myself?"  Says  Fitzgerald,  "  If  he 
meant  that  he  ever  could  have  written 
it  if  he  had  pleased,  he  ought  to  have 
had  his  nose  tweaked."  He  had  asked 
wistfully  about  Sullivan's  Tennyson 
Cycle  :  "Is  there  a  tune  or  originally 
melodious  phrase  in  any  of  it  ?  That 
is  what  I  always  missed  in  Men- 
delssohn, except  in  two  or  three  of 
his  youthful  pieces."  Rossini  he 
admired  immensely,  and  spoke  of 
him  as  a  genius ;  he  does  not  seem 
to  have  known  Schubert  ;  Spohr 
and  Schumann  are  not  mentioned  ; 
Gounod  was  banished  with  Mendel- 
ssohn's condemnation ;  Verdi  he  liked. 
These  things,  however,  are  compari- 
tively  unimportant.  What  really 
matters,  and  is  grievous,  is  that  there 
is  no  indication  in  the  Letters  that 
Fitzgerald  had  the  delight  of  number- 
ing Bach  among  his  musical  friends. 
He  never  breaks  off  some  account  of 
a  dull  evening  with  "  But  then  Bach 


came  into  my  room."  Once  a  Pre- 
lude is  mentioned,  but  only  in  a 
casual  way.  Perhaps  he  felt  about 
Bach  as  he  did  about  the  Elgin 
Marbles  :  "  I  do  not  understand  them, 
though  I  feel  sure  they  are  the  finest 
of  all." 

If  he  kept  to  the  old  ways  as  re- 
gards composers,  he  was  still  more 
staunch  as  regards  singers.  Pasta 
was  his  idol,  and  he  speaks  affec- 
tionately of  the  Opera  Colonnade 
where  he  used  to  see  the  affiche  "Medea 
in  Corinto — Medea,  Signora  Pasta." 
For  some  time  he  would  not  go  to 
hear  Jenny  Lind,  for  "I  could  not 
make  out  that  she  was  a  great  singer 
like  my  old  Pasta,"  and  when  at  last 
he  did  go,  it  was  a  disappointment. 
"  I  was  told  it  was  my  own  fault, 
but  as  to  naming  her  in  the  same 
Olympiad  with  great  old  Pasta,  I  am 
sure  that  is  ridiculous."  If  it  is  true 
that  Siddons  said  she  could  have 
learned  tragedy  from  Pasta,  and  that 
as  the  latter  said  of  herself  she  had 
beaucoup  senti  Vantique,  perhaps  Fitz- 
gerald was  right.  But  he  was  un- 
deniably hard  to  please.  Grisi  he 
thought  "  coarse,"  and  a  "  caricature 
of  Pasta,"  only  Lablache  was  "  great," 
and  that  was  in  the  days  which  we, 
unfortunate,  suppose  to  have  been 
a  Golden  Age  of  singers.  Picco- 
lomini  he  found  to  be  the  best  "  singer 
of  Genius  and  Passion,  with  a  Voice 
that  told  both."  He  was  told  she 
was  no  singer,  but  the  passion  and 
the  voice  made  amends  for  that. 
This  is  not  the  usually  accepted  ver- 
dict on  the  little  lady  who  enchanted 
society  fifty  years  ago,  but  failed  to 
satisfy  the  eminent  critic  Mr.  Chorley. 
Of  that  well-known  musical  writer, 
Fitzgerald  has  a  pretty  thing  to  say  : 
"Though  irritable,  he  is  an  affec- 
tionate creature,  but  I  think  the 
angels  must  take  care  to  keep  in  tune 
when  he  gets  among  them."  Of 
singers  nearer  our  own  time  he  only 


Edward  Fitzgerald  on  Music  and  Musicians. 


337 


mentions  one,  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
know  that,  though  he  did  not  like 
CARMEN  in  which  he  heard  her,  he 
found  Trebelli  a  very  good  singer 
indeed. 

An  account  of  Fitzgerald's  musical 
doings  at  his  home  by  the  river 
"  which  brings  me  Tidings  every  day 
of  the  Sea,"  has  been  given  by  his  old 
friend  Archdeacon  Groome  in  Mr. 
Wright's  preface  to  the  first  volume 
of  the  Letters.  He  taught  his  poorer 
neighbours  to  sing ;  he  joined  in  glee- 
singing  at  Mr.  Crabbe's ;  he  composed, 
but  I  have  never  seen  any  of  his 
compositions.  Perhaps  these  were 
not  of  much  value ;  perhaps  his  ideas 
about  adapting  words  to  music  for 
which  they  were  not  meant  (witness 
his  proposal  for  an  arrangement  of 
some  Tennyson  to  FIDELIO  !)  were 
freaks  of  imagination  not  to  be 
praised  ;  perhaps  his  tendency  to 
decide  whether  he  liked  a  thing 
before  he  had  taken  pains  to  under- 
stand it  was  one  not  to  be  widely 
imitated, — but  his  love  for  what  was 
genuine,  and  melodious,  and  delight- 
ful, (he  speaks  of  a  once  favourite 
author  as  "  wonderful  but  not  delight- 
ful, which  is  what  one  thirsts  for  as 
one  grows  older "),  guided  as  it  was 
by  a  taste  which  never  failed  when 
he  really  knew  his  subject,  made  him 
a  singularly  sound  critic  of  the  music 
which  he  loved.  As  in  literature,  so 
in  music,  his  sympathies  were  above 
all  things  unaffected.  The  Lowestoft 
Band  with  its  "German  Waltzes  and 
a  capital  sailor's  tramp-chorus  from 
Wagner,"  was  cheerful  and  pleasant 
to  him.  Some  Jullien  concerts  he 


found  dull,  because  there  were  no 
waltzes  and  polkas.  One  of  the 
happiest  memories  of  a  visit  to  Paris 
was  the  street-singing  of  "  Eons  habi- 
tants de  ce  village "  to  a  barrel-organ 
one  fine  evening  on  the  Boulevard. 
He  loved  to  think  of  the  "Little 
Theatre  "  in  the  Haymarket,  because 
there  Vestris  sang  "  CHERRY  RIPE, 
one  of  the  dozen  immortal  English 
tunes."  Whatever  in  music  was 
childlike  and  innocent  and  tender 
and  sweet,  he  loved  as  well  as  the 
stately  pomp  of  his  dear  Handel.  To 
say  that  he  was  an  independent  critic 
of  music  is  to  use  a  word  of  insuf- 
ficient strength ;  he  was  absolutely 
free,  not  only  from  the  influence  of 
his  musical  friends,  but  from  the 
influence  of  the  spirit  of  his  age,  and 
formed  his  own  judgment  by  the  rule 
of  melody  and  beauty,  utterly  banning 
what  he  called  the  "  Gurgoyle  school 
of  Art."  So  great  was  the  honesty, 
so  interesting  the  originality  of  his 
judgment,  that  it  were  well  if  he 
could  return  to  us  and  examine  some 
of  the  music  (as  well  as  some  of  the 
literature)  which  a  bewildered  public 
is  bidden  to  admire,  to  the  prejudice 
of  simpler  and  purer  art.  "  I  will 
worship  Walter  Scott,"  he  said,  "  in 
spite  of  Gurlyle,  who  sent  me  an 
ugly  autotype  of  John  Knox  which  I 
was  to  worship  instead."  It  may  be 
taken  as  tolerably  certain  that  Fitz- 
gerald would  have  continued  to  wor- 
ship the  Walter  Scotts  of  music,  in 
spite  of  all  the  prophets  who  offer  us 
"  ugly  autotypes  "  in  their  place. 

C.  W.  JAMEP. 


No.  509. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


338 


WHO  WROTE    "PARADISE   LOST"? 


IN  the  disastrous  year  1857,  when 
the  fate  of  our  Empire  in  India  was 
trembling  in  the  balance,  the  daughter 
of  a  great  Rajah  (whose  name  must 
for  high  reasons  of  State,  remain 
unrevealed)  rescued  from  otherwise 
inevitable  massacre  a  young  and 
brilliant  English  officer,  the  distin- 
guished son  of  a  distinguished  father 
who,  having  left  England  in  his  boy- 
hood, had  spent  his  life  in  that  distant 
province,  and  was  killed  by  rebels  at 
an  early  stage  of  the  mutiny,  leaving 
to  the  special  care  of  his  son,  should 
he  be  fortunate  enough  to  escape  with 
his  life,  a  certain  sealed  cabinet,  which 
he  regarded  as  his  greatest  treasure. 
The  son,  captivated  by  the  charms 
of  his  deliverer,  remained  faithful  to 
her  and  spent  the  remainder  of  a 
short  but  happy  life  at  her  father's 
palace,  and  after  a  few  years  died  of 
cholera,  leaving  behind  him  a  daughter 
who,  on  reaching  womanhood,  married 
a  young  civilian,  bringing  to  him,  as 
part  of  her  dowry,  the  cabinet  which 
had  been  left  to  the  charge  of  her 
father,  but  which,  curiously  enough, 
had  never  been  opened  since  his 
death.  Whether  it  was  regarded 
with  some  superstitious  reverence  as 
a  kind  of  Pandora's  box,  the  contents 
of  which  would  take  to  themselves 
wings  if  ever  the  seals  were  removed, 
or  whether  it  had  been  left  unopened 
merely  from  carelessness  is  not  known  ; 
the  fact  only  is  clear  that  the  cabinet 
reached  the  hands  of  its  present  owner 
with  the  seals  intact.  When  at  length 
these  were  broken  and  the  contents 
examined,  they  were  found  to  consist 
of  some  remarkable  documents,  namely, 
a  set  of  proofs  of  PARADISE  LOST 


printed  in  type  of  a  peculiar  char- 
acter. By  far  the  greater  number  of 
letters  were  ordinary  English  type  of 
a  somewhat  old  fashion,  but  inter- 
spersed among  these  at  very  irre- 
gular intervals  were  letters  of  the 
Greek  alphabet.  No  printer's  name 
could  be  found,  but  the  date  1658 
appeared  at  the  end  of  each  book. 

The  owner,  who  is  still  in  India 
and  likely  to  remain  there  for  some 
years,  set  himself  to  discover  the 
reason  for  the  introduction  of  the 
Greek  letters.  At  first  there  ap- 
peared none,  unless  it  were  possibly 
an  idea  of  the  author's  to  prevent 
the  unlearned  from  reading  his  book. 
This  explanation,  however,  did  not 
seem  satisfactory,  particularly  as  it 
frequently  happened  that  two  or 
three  consecutive  lines  would  be  found 
without  a  single  Greek  letter. 

It  will  be  well  here  to  quote  the 
opening  lines  of  the  poem  showing 
the  peculiar  character  of  the  printing. 

Of  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the 

fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  morta/V 

taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all 

our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one   gpeater 

Man 
Restore  us,   and    regain    the    blissful 

seat, 
Sing,    heavenly    Muse !    that    on  the 

se/c/)et  top 

Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That   shepherd,  who  first  taught  the 

chosen  seed, 
In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and 

earth 

Rose  out  of  Chaos.     Or,  if  Sion  hill 
Delight  thee  //.ore,  or  Siloa's  brook  that 

floved 
Fast  by  the  oracXe  of  God,  I  thence 


Who  Wrote  "  Paradise  Lost  "  ? 


339 


Invoke    thy  aid  to    my  adventurous 

song 
That  with  no  middXe  height  intends  to 


For  a  long  time  the  owner  of  the 
proofs  puzzled  over  the  question,  read- 
ing the  whole  poem  over  and  over 
again,  trying  to  induce  in  his  brain 
the  idea  that  must  have  been  in  the 
mind  of  the  author  and  governed  the 
arrangement  ;  but  in  vain,  —  no  clue 
presented  itself. 

After  a  time  it  occurred  to  him  to 
select  the  Greek  letters  in  the  first 
fifty  lines  or  so  and  write  them  out 
consecutively  thus,  — 

.vf  \\u6 


This,  however,  did  not  help  him. 
Although  he  had  obtained  nearly  the 
maximum  of  marks  for  Greek  in  the 
examination  for  the  Indian  Civil 
Service,  this,  and  other  series  of 
letters  suggested  no  idea  to  his  brain. 
At  length  after  months  of  think- 
ing and  guessing,  a  happy  thought 
occurred  to  him.  He  would  write 
down  the  Greek  and  substitute 
English  letters  for  them,  and  then  he 
found 

Olrvercrornwellotherwiseknownasfran- 
cisbacon, 

which  soon  assumed  the  form, 

Oliver  Cromwell  otherwise  known  as 
Francis  Bacon. 

Here  at  last  was  the  clue,  and  now 
he  proceeded  to  transcribe  the  Greek 
writing  by  means  of  it,  and  very  soon, 
though  here  and  there  the  division  of 
the  words  presented  some  difficulty, 
a  connected  story  unfolded  itself  ;  and 
a  truly  marvellous  story  it  was. 

It  must  be  understood  that  all 
this  happened  several  years  ago,  and 
was  at  the  time  quite  unintelligible 
except  on  the  hypothesis  that  some 
one  had  introduced  a  wildly  improb- 


able story  into  a  copy  of  PARADISE 
LOST  and  had  had  it  printed  in  this 
remarkable  way.  But  even  then  the 
date,  1658,  seemed  unaccountable,  as 
it  was  well  known  that  at  that  date 
the  poem,  though  generally  believed 
to  have  been  begun  in  that  year,  had 
not  been  written. 

Now,  however,  in  the  light  of 
recent  scientific  discoveries,  the  whole 
wonderful  story  appears  under  a  new 
aspect,  and  not  only  is  the  story 
itself  verified  by  these  discoveries, 
but  in  its  turn  it  adds  one  more  link 
to  the  chain  of  irrefragable  proof 
that  Sir  Francis  Bacon  was  the  author 
of  practically  the  whole  of  the  litera- 
ture of  the  Elizabethan  age. 

Wonderful  indeed  is  it  that  not 
only  were  the  works  of  Shakespeare, 
Spenser  and  the  other  giants  of  that 
time  written  by  one  man,  and  that 
man  the  rightful  heir  to  the  throne  of 
England,  but,  as  we  shall  presently 
see,  this  very  man's  son  was  the  un- 
doubted author  of  the  greatest  English 
epic,  PARADISE  LOST. 

No,  the  glories  of  the  empyrean, 
the  crowns  of  amaranth  and  gold,  are 
not  the  seraphic  vision  of  a  poor 
blind  old  man,  at  loggerheads  with  his 
wife  and  tyrannising  over  his  daugh- 
ters, but  are  indeed  the  outpourings 
of  the  spirit  of  the  greatest  of  Eng- 
land's monarchs — king,  not  de  facto, 
but  de  jure;  king,  not  in  name  but 
in  fact ;  Oliver  Cromwell,  direct  de- 
scendant of  the  great  Henry,  the 
greater  Elizabeth,  the  greatest  Sir 
Francis  Bacon ;  himself  the  very 
greatest  of  all,  disguised,  not  like  his 
renowned  father  as  a  philosopher  and 
a  judge,  but  in  the  humble  guise  of 
a  simple  brewer,  whose  name  and 
style  he  assumed  for  the  purpose  of 
concealing  his  royal  origin. 

But  we  are  anticipating,  and  must 
come  back  to  the  story  developed  in 
the  poem,  which  is  briefly  to  this 
effect. 

z  2 


340 


Who  Wrote  "  Paradise  Lost  "  ? 


Oliver  Cromwell  was  no  more 
Oliver  Cromwell  than  Shakespeare 
was  Shakespeare,  or  Bacon  was  Bacon. 
Still  less,  however,  was  Oliver  Crom- 
well Milton.  Nothing  of  the  kind  ! 
The  man  known  to  history  as  Oliver 
Cromwell  was  no  other  than  the  son 
of  Sir  Francis  Bacon  by  his  hitherto 
unknown  secret  marriage  with  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  (to  whom,  as  is  well 
known,  a  husband  more  or  less  was 
a  matter  of  supreme  indifference),  and 
thus  united  in  his  own  person  the 
heirship  to  the  thrones  of  England 
and  Scotland,  as  direct  inheritor  of 
both  kingdoms. 

The  story  of  Sir  Francis  Bacon's 
life  as  exhibited  in  the  Shakespeare 
folio  is  narrated  at  some  length  in 
PARADISE  LOST  and  is  continued 
down  to  the  time  of  his  death,  and 
the  author  gives  the  principal  events 
of  his  own  life  and  explains  how  it 
was  that  he  never  proclaimed  his  birth 
and  parentage.  The  fact  was  that, 
though  having  all  this  royal  blood  in 
his  veins,  he  was  by  nature  and  con- 
viction a  staunch  Republican,  and 
determined  at  quite  an  early  age  that 
he  would  win,  if  not  the  crown  and 
throne  themselves,  at  any  rate  an 
equivalent  position,  by  his  own  merits, 
and  would  never  accept  them  from 
the  mere  accident  of  birth.  And  as 
he  aspired  to  become  a  ruler  of  men 
by  the  force  of  his  character,  so  he 
determined  to  leave  behind  him  a 
more  enduring  monument  in  the  great 
epic  which  he  composed  in  such  odd 
moments  as  he  could  spare  from  com- 
manding armies,  slaughtering  kings, 
removing  baubles,  breaking  up  par- 
liaments (particularly  the  "infernal 
peers  "  he  refers  to  in  the  poem)  and 
other  occupations  of  State.  And  in 
order  that  future  ages  might  know  the 
truth  he  conceived  the  idea  of  imitat- 
ing his  father's  plan  of  leaving  the 
story  hidden  in  cypher  in  the  book. 
It  appears,  however,  that  he  only 


lived  long  enough  to  see  the  proofs, 
and  died  before  the  poem  was  given 
to  the  world. 

So  much  is  evident  in  regard  to  the 
authorship  of  the  book  and  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  cypher.  Milton's 
connection  with  it  remains  a  matter 
of  conjecture,  the  probability  being 
that  he  knew  all  about  the  poem, 
obtained  possession  either  of  the 
manuscript  or  of  the  proofs,  made  his 
daughters  make  a  written  copy,  omit- 
ting the  Greek  letters,  the  meaning 
of  which  he  may  or  may  not  have 
understood,  and  had  it  reprinted, 
designing  to  publish  it  in  his  own 
name.  It  would  also  seem  practically 
certain  that  one  of  the  compositors 
who  had  been  employed  in  setting  up 
the  original  copy  must  have,  by  some 
accident,  come  into  the  service  of 
Milton's  publisher  and  imparted  the 
secret  to  his  new  master,  who  took 
advantage  of  the  knowledge  thus 
acquired  to  beat  Milton  down  in  the 
matter  of  price,  compelling  him  under 
threat  of  disclosure  to  accept  the 
paltry  traditional  five  pounds,  with 
some  further  small  payments  on  the 
three  years'  system,  on  condition  that 
Milton's  name  should  appear  on  the 
title-page  as  the  author.  So  curiously 
are  the  most  romantic  history  and  the 
most  sordid  bargains  woven  together 
in  this  strange  world  of  ours  ! 

That  the  story  unfolded  in  the 
cypher  will  meet  with  immediate  and 
universal  acceptance  is  hardly  to  be 
expected ;  and  it  will  be  well  to 
examine  it  from  one  or  two  points  of 
view,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether 
there  is  any  external  evidence  in 
support  of  it.  First  let  us  consider 
the  probabilities  as  to  the  man  known 
to  history  as  Oliver  Cromwell  being 
indeed  the  son  of  Sir  Francis  Bacon 
and  Mary  Stewart.  There  is  a  very 
striking  passage  in  Clarendon's  HIS- 
TORY OF  THE  GREAT  REBELLION  which 
very  plainly  hints  that  Cromwell's 


Who  Wrote  "  Paradise  Lost  "  ? 


341 


origin  was  really  something  much 
higher  than  was  generally  supposed. 
He  says  that  it  was  hardly  credible 
that  one  of  private  and  obscure  birth 
could  have  attained  to  the  position 
he  held,  wherein  he  was  not  merely 
absolute  ruler  in  his  own  country,  but 
his  greatness  at  home  was  but  a 
shadow  of  the  glory  he  had  abroad. 
If,  then,  Clarendon,  who  had  e^ery 
opportunity  of  forming  a  sound  judg- 
ment, strongly  suspected  that  Crom- 
well's parentage  was  other  than  was 
generally  believed,  we  need  not  feel 
surprised  if  this  surmise  should  prove 
to  be  correct. 

Again,  once  admit  that  Sir  Francis 
Bacon  was  the  son  of  Elizabeth  and 
Leicester  and  we  see  that  he  would 
naturally  desire  a  union  with  Mary, 
both  as  befitting  his  own  royal  dignity 
and  as  still  further  strengthening  his 
son's  right  to  the  throne.  It  is  clear 
that  the  reasons  that  induced  him  to 
refrain  from  putting  forward  his  own 
claim  to  the  crown  would  compel  him 
to  keep  secret  the  fact  of  his  marriage 
and  of  the  birth  of  his  son.  More- 
over, if  Cromwell  was  the  true  heir 
to  the  throne  we  can  well  understand 
his  desire  for  the  execution  of  Charles, 
and  his  deep  disappointment  when, 
after  all,  he  found  he  could  not 
prudently  accept  the  proffered  crown 
and  thus  attain  the  summit  of  his  own 
and  his  father's  ambition. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  inherent 
probability  of  the  story  there  will 
doubtless  be  cavillers, — we  had  almost 
written  cavaliers — who  will  refuse  to 
believe  in  the  royal  descent  of  the 
king  of  the  Roundheads. 

Turning  now  to  the  evidence  in 
favour  of  the  received  theory,  on 
what  grounds  does  the  man  in  the 
arm-chair  form  his  opinions?  The 
process  may  be  fairly  represented  in 
this  way.  A  man,  whom  we  may  call 
Smith,  informs  another,  whom  we  may 
call  Jones,  that  Queen  Anne  is  dead. 


Jones  repeats  the  statement  to  Robin- 
son, Robinson  to  Brown,  Brown  to 
Black,  and  Black  to  White,  and  thus 
we  are  supposed  to  have  the  combined 
evidence  of  Smith,  Jones,  Robinson, 
Brown,  and  Black  to  the  decease  of 
the  lady  in  question,  whereas,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  statement  rests 
solely  on  the  testimony  of  Smith  and 
is  not  in  the  slightest  degree  con- 
firmed by  being  repeated  by  Jones 
and  the  rest.  Then,  in  the  not  very 
remote  future,  another  man,  Jackson, 
will  arise,  and  prove  that  Smith's 
original  statement  was  wanting  in 
veracity,  and  that  not  only  is 
Queen  Anne  not  dead,  but  that  she 
never  lived ;  and  thus  Jackson  will 
take  his  place  in  the  Temple  of  Fame 
as  a  Higher  Critic,  and  the  descen- 
dant of  the  man  in  the  arm-chair 
will  think  what  a  foolish  fellow  his 
grandfather  was  to  have  accepted 
the  statement  of  Smith  on  the  faith 
of  the  confirmatory  evidence,  as  he 
thought  it,  of  Jones,  Robinson,  Brown, 
and  Black. 

On  the  strength  of  such  testimony 
as  this  rest  the  received  opinions 
that  Shakespeare  wrote  the  plays 
generally  attributed  to  him,  that 
Oliver  Cromwell  was  the  son  of  a 
brewer,  and  Milton  the  author  of 
PARADISE  LOST.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  if  we  examine  L'ALLEGRO  and 
IL  PENSEROSO,  COMUS,  and  so  on,  we 
need  not  possess  any  very  deep  critical 
acumen  to  discover  that  PARADISE 
REGAINED  was  about  Milton's  measure, 
and  that  he  could  no  more  have 
written  PARADISE  LOST  than  Shake- 
speare could  have  written  HAMLET. 

Now  whether  the  story  of  the 
cypher  be  true  or  false  in  regard  to 
Cromwell's  parentage,  the  fact  that 
he  wrote  PARADISE  LOST  is  really 
incontestable  when  one  comes  to  ex- 
amine the  poem  in  a  critical  and 
judicial  spirit,  for  here  we  have 
much  more  solid  ground  to  go  on 


342 


Who  Wrote  "Paradise  Lost"  ? 


than  a  mere  comparison  of  styles. 
We  need  not  go  into  the  question  of 
the  use  or  disuse  of  words  and  phrases. 
We  need  not  catalogue  the  words  used 
in  Milton's  prose-works  and  those 
found  in  the  poem,  and  say,  such 
and  such  words  constantly  occur  in 
the  former  and  never  in  the  latter, 
while  other  words  of  frequent  occur- 
rence in  the  poem  are  not  found  in 
the  prose,  and  that,  consequently,  the 
prose  and  the  poem  cannot  have  been 
written  by  the  same  author.  Such  a 
method  of  procedure  is  useful,  neces- 
sary, and  convincing  for  some  purposes, 
and  especially  when  the  results  agree 
with  our  preconceived  opinions  ;  but 
in  the  present  *case  we  have  much 
more  definite  signs  to  guide  us,  in 
the  design  and  structure  of  the  poem 
itself.  Space  only  allows  of  our  giving 
one  instance  here,  but  that  is  taken 
from  the  very  commencement  of  the 
poem  and  is  of  such  a  nature  as  to 
convince  the  most  sceptical,  though 
it  consists  merely  of  the  use  of  the 
simple  word  of.  It  is  not  the  first 
time  in  the  world's  history  that  mo- 
mentous issues  have  been  determined 
by  so  small  a  matter. 

Every  thoughtful  reader  must  have 
been  struck  with  the  fact  that  this 
magnificent  and  magniloquent  poem 
begins  with  so  insignificant  a  word. 
It  is  the  more  remarkable  because 
the  writer  was  almost  ostentatiously 
founding  himself  on  the  models  of 
Homer  and  Virgil,  and  following 
these  he  would  naturally,  unless  he 
had  some  special  reason  to  the  con- 
trary, have  commenced 

Man's   primal   disobedience,    and   the 
fruit, 

placing  man,  the  subject  of  the  poem, 
in  the  very  forefront.  Or  he  might 
have  begun  "  Sing  heavenly  muse," 
&c.,  or  in  a  dozen  other  ways ;  but 


no,  nothing  will  satisfy  him  but  "  Of 
man's  first  disobedience,"  &c.  There 
is  another  poem  of  equal  fame,  which, 
though  not  written  in  quite  such  a 
classical  style,  has,  we  understand, 
come  down  to  us  from  the  most 
remote  antiquity  in  the  form  of  a 
solar  myth.  It  begins 

Sing  a  song  of  sixpence  ; 

whereas,  on  the  model  of  PARADISE 
LOST  it  should  be 

Of  a  song  of  sixpence  sing, 

which  is  manifestly,  as  Euclid  would 
have  said,  absurd. 

Of  course  the  commentators  pass 
the  matter  over  in  silence,  as  is 
their  custom  when  anything  specially 
demands  explanation.  Doubtless 
many  of  them  have  cudgelled  their 
brains  to  discover  the  reason,  and 
having  been  unsuccessful  they  have 
discreetly  agreed  to  say  nothing  about 
it.  But  now,  in  the  light  of  the 
newly-discovered  cypher,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this  remarkable  of? 
Clearly  this,  that  Oliver  Cromwell, 
in  writing  the  poem  and  narrating 
his  history  in  the  cypher,  made  a 
special  point  of  putting  his  own  name 
in  the  very  foremost  place  and  deter- 
mined to  have  an  O  as  the  first  letter. 

If  it  be  objected  that,  according 
to  the  cypher,  Oliver  Cromwell  was 
not  his  real  name,  the  answer  is 
obvious  ;  it  was  the  name  by  which 
he  was  known,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
introduce  it  before  he  could  explain 
who  he  really  was. 

Here  we  may  well  leave  the  sub- 
ject :  no  further  argument  can  be 
needed  to  prove  that  the  real  author 
of  PARADISE  LOST  was  Oliver  Crom- 
well, otherwise  King  Francis  the 
Second. 

W.  H.  T. 


343 


THE    RULER    OF    TAROIKA. 


KEKIOX  was  uncrowned  king  of 
Taroika,  where,  with  the  German 
Rhyner  for  his  chief  counsellor,  he 
ruled  over  some  two  hundred  half- 
naked  subjects  and  an  empty  treasury. 
Taroika  lies  on  the  outskirts  of  Poly- 
nesia, a  long  chain  of  surf-washed 
coral  set  in  warm  shimmering  seas, 
inside  which  are  sprinkled  patches  of 
brightest  verdure,  dazzling  beaches, 
and  swaying  wisps  of  cocoa-nut  palms 
overhanging  a  still  lagoon.  Why  he 
first  came  there,  a  young  adventurous 
Englishman  bringing  with  him  what 
purported  to  be  a  lease  of  one  island 
from  its  native  owner,  even  Rhyner, 
who  had  nursed  him  through  two 
fevers,  did  not  know  ;  but  he  seemed 
astonished  to  find  a  swarm  of  sus- 
picious and  partly  hostile  Kannakas 
waiting  him  on  the  beach. 

Explanations  followed,  and  Kenion 
informed  the  German  that  the  Sydney 
man,  who  had  taken  his  money  and 
negotiated  the  affair,  told  him  it  was 
a  comparatively  easy  matter  to  grow 
rich  there  on  copra.  He  could  shoot 
and  fish  while  the  cocoa-nuts  grew, 
the  latter  said  ;  then  he  had  only  to 
gather  them  and  dry  the  kernel  which 
was  copra  worth  ten  pounds  a  ton, 
while  it  would  cost  him  about  thirty 
shillings  to  collect  and  ship  it.  There- 
upon the  German,  smothering  a  gut- 
tural laugh,  said :  "  Then  you  vas 
badly  let  in.  Dot  man  who  lease  der 
island  lif  in  der  next  archipelago,  und 
if  he  here  come  dese  people  drown 
him.  There  is  already  two  mans  who 
say  he  own  dot  island,  so  you  start 
anoder  bargain  und  I  help  you." 

Kenion  remembered  it  all,  as  one 
listless  night  he  lay  in  the  stern- 


sheets  of  a  fine  whaleboat  returning 
from  a  visit  to  Rhyner's  outlying 
islet  across  the  lagoon.  A  glitter- 
ing crescent  hung  above  the  dusky  sea 
which,  touched  here  and  there  with 
brightness,  heaved  in  long  pulsations 
upon  the  sheltering  reef.  The  tall, 
dew-soaked  lugsail  was  scarcely  filled 
by  the  spice-laden  breeze  which  wafted 
the  boat  along  with  a  musical  tink- 
ling under  her  bows  and  a  silky  wake 
in  the  water  astern,  that,  save  for 
the  sheen  of  reflected  stars,  looked 
like  thin  black  ice.  One  naked  foot 
hanging  over  the  gunwale  trailed  in 
it,  and  resting  his  bronzed  cheek  upon 
his  elbow  Kenion  lay  still,  languidly 
content,  while  the  events  of  those 
early  days  rose  up  before  him. 

He  had  divided  half  his  remaining 
capital  between  the  rival  claimants, 
and  personally  chastised  a  fraudulent 
third,  after  which  he  proceeded  to 
cultivate  the  cocoa-nut  trees.  Twice 
a  hurricane  blew  most  of  them  down, 
and  native  cattle  trampled  the  life 
out  of  his  young  plantations ;  but 
Kenion  was  obstinate,  and  had  sunk 
all  his  money  in  that  venture.  So  he 
cut  down  expenses  and  worked  from 
dawn  to  dusk,  kept  a  check  on  his 
temper,  and  paid  his  men  in  full, 
giving  them  presents  of  fish-hooks 
when  they  did  particularly  well,  be- 
sides exhibitions  of  skill  with  rifle  and 
boat-tiller.  So  the  dusky  men,  who 
were  called  Kannakas  by  courtesy 
being  as  much  Malay  as  Polynesian, 
began  to  respect,  and  then  to  like  him. 
Afterwards  they  brought  him  curious 
disputes  to  settle,  while  Rhyner,  when 
sufficiently  sober,  came  over  from  a 
neighbouring  island  with  sage  advice. 


344 


The  Ruler  of  Taroika. 


Thus,  little  by  little,  Kenion  found 
that  even  against  his  will  it  devolved 
upon  him  to  practically  govern  the 
place,  and  reluctantly  accepted  the 
task. 

Bhyner  now  lounged  beside  him 
smoking  very  bad  tobacco  which  he 
grew  himself,  a  big,  slovenly,  bearded 
man,  with  a  fund  of  quaint  philosophy 
and  a  kindly  heart,  whom  the  Kan- 
nakas  also  liked  but  did  not  respect, 
for  he  suffered  from  alcohol  and  fits 
of  baresark  rage.  It  was  by  his 
advice  Kenion  commenced  pearl-fish- 
ing. There  were  pearls  in  that 
lagoon,  small  and  poor  in  colour,  but 
they  helped  to  keep  Taroika  in  a  state 
of  partial  solvency. 

"You  think  much  and  talk  nod- 
ings,"  said  Rhyner  at  length,  as  the 
palms  about  the  landing  grew  blacker 
ahead.  "  It  is  in  der  night,  I  think, 
too,  how  I  come  here  ten  year  ago  in 
der  broken  whaleboat  mit  Obermann 
who  die.  What  it  is  come  to  you  ? " 

Kenion  laughed  a  little  as  he  shook 
himself,  and  answered  :  "  All  sorts  of 
things,  but  mostly  concerning  the  ex- 
chequer. We  want  wire,  galvanised 
iron,  hatchets,  and  I  have  six  months' 
wages  due.  I  was  wondering  if  that 
pearl-shell  and  copra  would  see  us 
through.  Graham  should  call  with 
the  WARRIGAL  shortly,  and  so  far 
I've  never  disappointed  my  people 
on  settling-day.  Perhaps  that's  the 
reason  they  follow  me." 

Then  there  was  silence  again  ac- 
centuated by  the  monotone  of  the 
surf,  until  a  flickering  blaze  appeared 
among  the  palms  ahead,  and  a  clamour 
of  voices  reached  them  with  wild 
bursts  of  merriment.  "Dose  Kannaka 
all  gone  mad,"  said  Rhyner.  "Why 
it  is  to-night  they  make  all  dot 
jamboree  ? " 

Kenion  answered  nothing,  for  he 
felt  uneasy,  and  the  feeling  deepened 
when  wading  ashore  he  found  half  his 
subjects  most  indecently  drunk,  and 


the  rest  dancing  wildly  round  a  bon- 
fire. There  was  no  sign  of  the  copra, 
nor,  when  he  crossed  to  the  other 
beach,  of  the  shell,  and  finding  his 
dusky  storekeeper  with  much  labour 
he  shook  the  explanation  out  of  him. 
A  white  man,  who  said  he  was  a 
friend  of  the  trader's,  came  there  in  a 
schooner  two  days  ago,  the  Kannaka 
gasped.  He  was  a  good-natured 
white  man  and  occupied  the  house, 
where  he  feasted  royally,  and  enter- 
tained the  leading  natives  with 
Kenion's  liquor.  He  also  produced  a 
letter  from  the  latter,  which,  as  no 
one  could  read,  he  kindly  translated. 
They  were  to  load  the  shell  and 
copra  into  his  schooner,  it  said,  and  he 
was  to  give  them  sundry  cases  of  spirits 
for  doing  it  smartly.  Then  he  would 
take  ten  boys  back  with  him  to  help 
the  trader  at  an  outlying  plantation. 
It  was  done,  and  they  got  the  liquor 
(out  of  Kenion's  store)  while  the 
schooner  went  to  sea  that  afternoon, 
though  a  native  showed  the  white 
man  the  whaleboat  coming,  after 
which  the  narrator  waited  for  the 
approbation  he  did  not  receive. 

Kenion,  losing  his  temper  for  once, 
knocked  the  Kannaka's  head  hard 
against  a  palm,  and  told  him  in  two 
idioms  what  kind  of  a  fool  he  was. 
Then  he  hurried  into  the  house,  and 
found  a  state  of  chaos  there,  and  a 
scurrilous  comment  written  across  a 
photograph  on  the  wall.  Whether 
the  original  of  it  were  living  or  dead 
Rhyner  never  knew,  though  he  sus- 
pected it  was  that  picture  which  pre- 
vented Kenion  following  his  example 
by  choosing  a  comely  helpmate  from 
the  daughters  of  the  people.  Then 
the  ruler  of  Taroika  came  forth  again 
and  stood  in  the  flickering  firelight, 
a  tall  man  in  frayed  duck  garments 
with  long  hair  and  face  darkened  by 
the  tropic  sun ;  but  now  in  place 
of  fury  a  cold  vindictive  purpose 
shone  in  his  eye. 


The  Ruler  of  Taroika. 


345 


"  It's  dawning  on  me,  Rhyner,  I'm 
a  ruined  man,"  he  said.  "  I'll  have 
to  give  the  place  up  and  take  to 
beach-combing  unless  I  can  get  those 
goods  back.  The  rascal  has  also 
cleaned  out  six  months'  stores  and 
looted  the  last  of  my  clothes,  leaving 
me  his  own  rags  with  a  message 
hoping  they  would  fit  me.  It's  not 
a  joke,  confound  you  !  " 

"What  he  look  like,  dat  white 
man  ? "  asked  the  other  checking  a 
laugh.  "A  scar  on  his  cheek,  und 
one  leg  gone  lame  1 — so,  I  guess  him. 
It  is  dot  villains  Cooper ;  he  play  der 
same  trick  in  Fiji.  He  come  here 
short-handed  looking  for  Kannaka 
crew,  und  joomp  mit  both  feet  on 
der  opportunity.  Dot  man  he  come 
to  a  bad  end  some  day." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  said  Kenion. 
"It  will  be  ever  so  long  before  the 
gunboat  calls,  and  by  the  time 
Graham  gets  to  Sydney  Cooper  will 
have  disappeared  again.  What  are 
we  to  do  ? " 

"Mit  dis  light  wind  und  chance 
of  a  tornado,"  answered  the  German 
meditatively,  "  he  pass  outside  all  der 
atoll  und  nor-est  reef,  und  dot  make 
one  hundred  mile,  so  sailing  south 
in  der  whaleboat  we  him  perhaps 
pick  up  by  der  twin  point  head,  a 
sixty  mile  voyage." 

"  I'd  follow  him  across  the  Pacific," 
said  Kenion,  "  and  we'll  start  at  once. 
The  surf's  very  bad  on  the  southern 
entrance,  but  we'll  have  to  chance  it." 

By  this  time  the  most  sober 
Kannakas  had  grasped  the  position, 
and  several  score  of  dusky  men 
swarmed  about  the  whaleboat,  fight- 
ing to  get  into  her.  Kenion  picked 
out  several  of  the  sturdiest,  carried 
down  two  rifles  and  provisions,  and 
grasping  the  tiller  bade  them  pull 
across  the  lagoon.  The  firelight 
faded  astern,  many  voices  hurled 
good  wishes  after  them,  till  they 
were  lost  in  the  boom  of  the  surf. 


Ahead  ghostly  breakers  tossed  their 
white  crests  in  the  air,  and  a  cloud 
of  spray  veiled  the  entrance,  while 
Kenion  stood  up  in  the  sternsheets 
watching  the  coral  appear  and  vanish 
among  the  rush  of  phosphorescent 
seas,  as  the  long  roll  of  the  Pacific 
hurled  itself  thundering  on  the  reef. 
Then,  as  a  swirl  of  luminous  water 
swept  hissing  into  the  lagoon,  he 
shouted.  The  oars  bent  together, 
the  boat  shot  forward  at  the  sturdy 
stroke,  and  drove  out  with  the  back- 
wash through  the  coral- walled  passage. 
A  hissing  comber  met  her  on  the  way; 
hove  the  light  shell  of  pinewood  aloft, 
and  with  lambent  froth  boiling  over 
the  bows  bore  her  backwards  a  mo- 
ment. Kenion  shouted  himself  hoarse; 
the  Kannakas  strained  every  muscle, 
for  they  knew  what  would  happen 
if  they  struck  the  reef,  and  drawing 
clear  of  the  smother  the  boat  reeled 
down  into  the  hollow,  climbed  drip- 
ping and  half-swamped  over  the  back 
of  the  next  comber,  and  then  slid  out 
on  to  the  smoother  heave  of  open 
water.  They  bailed  her  with  the 
bucket,  stepped  the  mast,  hoisted  the 
big  lugsail,  and  rippled  all  night 
over  a  moonlit  sea  with  the  land- 
breeze  abeam,  until  this  died  out  as 
the  red  sun  leaped  up.  All  day 
they  rowed  in  weary  spells,  the  swell 
heaving  like  oil  beneath  them  and  a 
pitiless  sky  overhead,  while  it  grew 
even  hotter  when  towards  the  even- 
ing the  sun  was  hidden  in  coppery 
vapour. 

"  I  like  not  dat,"  said  Rhyner,  who 
held  the  tiller.  "  Tornado  come  she 
may " ;  but  Kenion  pulling  stroke-oar 
answered,  "I  don't  mind  if  ten  come, 
so  long  as  we  board  the  schooner 
first." 

Seen  across  the  four  panting  men, 
who  swayed  with  the  oars  as  the 
boat  rose  and  fell  drowsily  to  the 
lift  of  the  sea,  a  tall  cone  of  dark 
foliage  rose  up  ahead  above  the  hori- 


346 


The  Ruler  of  Taroika. 


zon  out  of  drifting  vapour.  There 
were  strange  colours  behind  it,  smoky 
red  and  vivid  green,  and  Kenion 
went  through  his  calculations  again 
as  with  a  crick  in  his  neck  he  glanced 
towards  it  over  one  shoulder.  His 
hands  were  raw  with  rowing,  and 
bled  in  places,  sprinkling  red  drops 
on  the  soaked  duck  garments  that 
clung  to  his  skin.  The  perspiration 
trickled  from  his  hair,  but  he  took 
his  turn  and  pulled  harder  than  the 
rest,  for  according  to  his  reckoning 
of  distances  and  tides,  allowing  for 
a  little  breeze  outshore,  the  schooner 
should  pass  from  the  other  side  of 
that  head  shortly  after  nightfall, 
while  if  they  missed  her  the  current 
would  sweep  her  out  to  sea.  There 
were  also  signs  of  bad  weather,  and 
an  open  whaleboat  is  not  a  good 
craft  to  be  caught  in  by  a  tropical 
tornado. 

It  grew  darker,  and  the  heat  in- 
creased. The  headland  was  hidden, 
though  the  sea  still  shimmered  about 
them  mysteriously,  and  an  oppressive 
feeling  of  coming  change  pervaded 
the  atmosphere.  Kenion,  who  had 
now  finished  rowing,  steered  by  the 
compass,  while  Rhyner  panted  in  his 
stead  until  a  little  breeeze  touched 
their  dripping  faces,  and  a  dimly 
seen  line  of  white  surf  with  black 
palms  rising  behind  it  appeared  ahead. 
Lest  the  sail  might  betray  them  they 
did  not  set  it,  and  the  Kannakas 
pulled  slowly  across  the  current  which 
set  past  the  island,  stretching  out  into 
thick  obscurity  and  back  towards  the 
surf  again.  Kenion  fumed  as,  strain- 
ing his  eyes,  he  wondered  if  the 
schooner  had  passed,  while  even  the 
phlegmatic  Rhyner  grew  impatient  as 
the  time  dragged  slowly  by. 

Meantime  (according  to  one  of  the 
Kannakas  who  was  subsequently  re- 
leased) Cooper,  the  free-lance  trader, 
leaned  over  the  tiller  of  the  schooner, 
GOLDFINDEB,  which  vessel  bore  a 


doubtful  reputation  among  the  out- 
lying islands  of  the  Southern  Seas. 
Cooper  was  slightly  dazed  with  liquor, 
but  that  only  made  him  obstinate, 
and  he  insisted  on  steering  the 
schooner  himself  as  she  stood  in 
towards  the  reef  to  gain  the  strongest 
tide.  It  was  very  dark,  and  the 
black  canvas  slatted  harshly  as  with 
a  dismal  creaking  of  spars  the  vessel 
hove  her  streaming  bows  clear  of  the 
swell,  or  hardened  out  with  a  bang 
when  she  listed  to  a  puff  of  the  sultry 
breeze.  Now  and  then  a  shimmer  of 
heat-lightning  touched  the  smoke  of 
the  spray,  and  vanished  low  down 
on  the  water  leaving  a  deeper  black- 
ness than  before.  The  glow  of  the 
binnacle  lamp  which  lights  the  com- 
pass fell  on  Cooper's  face  as  he  bent 
over  it,  showing  an  uneasy  look  in 
his  blood-shot  eyes,  while  his  native 
wife,  an  untamed,  dusky  beauty 
perched  on  the  swaying  taffrail, 
watched  him  sullenly.  He  had 
beaten  her  that  afternoon,  the  Kan- 
naka  knew. 

"  I  fancied  1  heard  oars  again,"  he 
said  presently.  "  Don't  be  so  con- 
foundedly sulky,  Lola.  Can't  you 
hear  anything  ?  "  But  the  girl  only 
shook  her  head,  while  the  white 
mate,  who  had  differences  with  the 
master,  laughed  sarcastically  as  he 
broke  in  :  "  You  have  been  hearing 
all  kinds  of  things  lately  when  they 
aren't  there.  The  nearest  boat  is 
Kenion's,  and  that's  sixty  miles  away. 
Better  go  below  and  sleep,  while  I 
get  some  of  this  canvas  off  her. 
We're  going  to  catch  it  by  and  by, 
hot  and  heavy,  and  the  fore-topmast's 
sprung." 

Cooper  growled  a  savage  question 
as  to  who  commanded  the  schooner, 
offered  to  knock  down  the  first  to 
start  a  halliard  without  his  order, 
and  there  was  silence  again,  while 
the  Kannaka  sidled  closer  into  the 
black  mainsail's  shadow. 


The  JRuler  of  Taroika. 


347 


"  I  tell  you  I  hear  oars,  dipping 
softly, "repeated  the  skipper.  "  There 
— hang  the  lightning  !  —  Lola,  you 
saw  something  ? "  The  Kannaka 
stared  at  the  gii'l  when  she  sullenly 
answered,  "No,"  for  sitting  where 
she  did  he  felt  she  must  have  noticed 
what  caught  his  eye,  a  dark  bar 
touched  by  an  evanescent  flash  drift- 
ing towards  them  ahead.  Then  he 
started,  as  his  keen  eyes  made  out 
two  or  three  streaks  of  phosphor- 
escence that  moved  upon  the  water 
until  they  vanished  as  the  schooner 
swayed  down  to  a  puff  of  sultry  wind, 
while  a  reverberating  roar  of  ground- 
sea  drowned  the  gurgle  at  her  bows. 

"  What  was  that  ?  "  said  the  mate 
sharply,  when  this  sank  again.  "  You 
were  right,  Cooper,  after  all."  This 
time  a  plash  of  oars  came  distinctly  out 
of  the  blackness,  with  the  sound  of 
water  lapping  about  the  planks  of  a 
boat. 

"  Ease  sheets  ! "  roared  the  skipper. 
"  I'm  not  waiting  for  any  boat  to- 
night." The  blocks  whined,  and 
there  was  a  boil  about  the  quarters 
when  he  jammed  the  tiller  up,  for  the 
schooner  sailed  faster  as  the  wind 
increased.  Still,  only  the  Kannaka, 
and  perhaps  the  girl,  saw  two  wet 
hands  rise  up  out  of  the  water  and 
clutch  at  the  pressed  down  channels, 
and  he  said  nothing.  The  thud  of 
oars  grew  sharper,  though  it  seemed 
that  the  boat  must  pass  astern  of  the 
schooner,  and  Cooper  laughed  as  he 
steadied  the  tiller.  The  mate  had 
gone  forward,  and  a  moment  later 
the  Kannaka  saw  what  he  waited 
for, — a  naked  black  man  crawl  in 
out  of  the  darkness  over  the  rail 
followed  by  another.  The  skipper's 
back  was  towards  them  :  the  girl  gave 
no  warning ;  and  even  as  someone 
shouted  a  wet  hand  closed  on  Cooper's 
neck  and  he  was  hurled  down  on 
the  stern-grating  where  two  dripping 
objects  rolled  over  him. 


Freed  from  the  restraint  of  her 
helm  the  schooner  lumbered  up  head 
to  wind  (which  is  probably  what  the 
wily  Rhyner  had  calculated  on  when 
he  arranged  the  plan  of  campaign), 
and  lay  there  stationary,  her  loosened 
canvas  thundering.  Then,  while  the 
mate  and  a  few  white  men  ran  aft, 
and  some  of  the  coloured  crew  sought 
for  weapons  to  attack  them,  there 
was  a  crash  alongside  followed  by  a 
rattle  of  uplifted  oars. 

"  Oop  mit  you,  und  gif  dem  perdi- 
tion," shouted  a  breathless  voice,  and 
clear  in  the  light  of  a  lantern  held 
up  by  the  mate  two  white  men  leaped 
down  from  the  rail.  One  was  tall 
and  barefooted,  clad  in  dew-soaked 
duck,  the  other  a  burly  red-bearded 
ruffian  so  far  as  outward  appearances 
went,  but  both  had  rifles,  while  the 
dusky  men  who  followed  held  evil- 
looking  clubs. 

"  The  game's  up ;  give  in,  and  we 
won't  hurt  you,"  said  the  first  stranger, 
and  while  for  a  moment  the  mate 
considered  the  matter  the  schooner's 
decks  presented  a  striking  tableau. 
Cooper  who  had  ceased  to  struggle 
lay  aft  on  the  stern-grating,  while 
a  naked  man  holding  his  throat 
in  one  hand  sat  upon  his  chest, 
and  the  native  girl  looked  down  on 
him  scornfully.  The  mate,  a  revolver 
in  his  hand,  and  three  white  seamen 
stood  about  the  mainmast  heel,  while 
in  the  blackness  under  the  boom  fore- 
sail, which  slashed  wildly  to  and  fro, 
half-seen  Kannakas  made  ready  for 
a  rush  on  him.  The  odds  were  too 
heavy  he  afterwards  explained,  and 
in  a  savage  voice  he  said  :  "  We  give 
it  up,  and  I  hope  I'll  see  you  hanged 
for  piracy.  Does  your  programme 
include  the  skipper's  murder  1 " 

11  Dot  vas  all  right,"  answered 
Rhyner.  "  It  vas  not  us  who  hang. 
Kenion,  I  think  he  choke  dot  fellow." 
Kenion  dragged  his  unwilling  retainer 
away  from  the  skipper  who  sat  up 


348 


The  Ruler  of  Taroika. 


looking  about  him  stupidly  while  the 
trader  said :  "  This  is  not  piracy, 
only  South  Sea  justice.  You  will 
have  guessed  who  I  am  by  now,  and 
I'm  going  to  take  the  schooner  back 
into  Taroika  lagoon.  Fling  those 
weapons  over  the  rail." 

It  was  done,  and  hardly  had  the 
last  one  splashed  into  the  sea  than 
with  a  cry  of  "Stand  by  your  hal- 
liards ! "  Kenion,  leaping  aside,  threw 
down  his  rifle.  The  schooner  listed 
over  until  one  rail  was  washing  in 
the  sea  as  a  sudden  blast  smote  her, 
and  a  blinding  deluge  blotted  out 
everything.  Half  the  crew  lost  their 
footing,  whirling  spray  shot  up,  and 
through  the  scream  of  the  rigging 
there  was  a  crash  aloft  as  the  fore- 
topmast  and  all  attached  came  down 
bodily. 

"  Are  you  going  to  smash  her  on 
the  reef  ? "  somebody  shouted  when 
the  vessel  staggered  forward.  Kenion 
fancied  it  was  the  mate,  and  bounding 
aft  he  jammed  his  back  against  the 
tiller.  He  was  just  in  time,  for  with 
her  lee  deck  buried  in  a  white  welter, 
and  the  loosened  peak  of  the  mainsail 
thrashing  itself  to  rags  overhead, 
shovelling  luminous  water  in  cataracts 
over  her  depressed  bows  the  vessel 
drove  towards  the  reef,  until  the 
helmsman  shouted  as  he  jammed  the 
tiller  down.  She  swayed  upright 
suddenly ;  there  was  a  great  rattle 
of  tattered  canvas,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  friends  and  foes  alike  handled  the 
sheets  for  Rhyner  was  roaring  in- 
structions somewhere.  Then  she  came 
round  on  her  heel,  and  leaving  the 
murderous  surf  a  few  fathoms  behind 
wallowed  off  on  the  other  tack,  while 
Kenion  gasped  with  breathless  thank- 
fulness. In  frantic  hurry  other  men 
got  the  canvas  off  her  in  time  to  save 
the  masts,  and  then  under  close- 
reefed  foresail  they  drove  blindly  out 
to  sea,  while  Rhyner  took  precautions 
against  any  attempt  at  recapture. 


There  was  more  rain,  some  vivid 
lightning,  and  in  half  an  hour  the 
thunder-gale  blew  itself  out  as 
happens  not  infrequently  in  these 
latitudes ;  and  on  the  following 
afternoon  Cooper  swore  viciously  as 
another  man  steered  his  vessel  once 
more  into  Taroika  lagoon. 

Kenion  took  him  and  his  white 
crew  ashore,  and  tried  them  with 
due  solemnity  under  the  tufted  palms 
overhanging  the  beach,  while  two 
hundred  natives,  who  had  expected 
summary  justice,  looked  on  wonder- 
ing. Many  brought  clubs  with  them 
or  canoe  paddles,  a  few  had  muskets, 
while  all  alike  appeared  determined 
to  take  the  matter  into  their  own 
hands  should  the  white  ruler  show 
any  mistaken  leniency.  Cooper  at 
first  affected  to  treat  the  whole  affair 
as  a  joke ;  but  as  the  case  proceeded 
with  decorum  and  order,  and  several 
Kannakas  of  his  crew  threw  lurid 
sidelights  upon  his  character,  he  grew 
uneasy,  and  stirred  himself  to  tell  a 
plausible  story.  To  this  Rhyner,  who 
acted  as  prosecuting  counsel,  answered 
grimly :  "  Der  shell  und  copra  she 
lie  on  der  beach  ;  now  she  lif  in  your 
schooner,  und  dot  thing  need  much 
explainings."  After  this  the  accused 
looked  moodily  out  across  the  sea, 
until  at  last  Kenion  rose  to  delive 
the  verdict.  "  We  have  given  you 
a  fair  hearing  which  on  the  whole 
made  it  worse  for  you,"  he  said.  "  If 
all  these  tales  are  true  you  seem  to 
be  a  unique  rascal.  Still,  I'm  not 
here  to  preach  you  morals,  and  this 
is  my  decision.  You  will  unload  the 
stolen  goods,  with  the  others  in  the 
schooner's  hold  as  an  indemnity  to  be 
divided  between  the  men  you  tried 
to  kidnap.  You  will  also  leave  the 
native  woman  you  have  systematically 
abused  here  to  be  sent  back,  as  she 
wishes,  to  her  own  people  on  the  first 
opportunity.  And  you  will  sign  this 
paper,  admitting  the  equity  of  it  all." 


The  Ruler  of  Taroika. 


349 


"  It's  an  outrage,"  snarled  Cooper  ; 
"  a  travesty  on  justice  no  better  than 
open  robbery.  Suppose  I  refuse  1  " 

"  There  is  no  civilised  tribunal 
within  several  hundred  leagues  of 
us,"  answered  Kenion  gravely,  "  and, 
somewhat  against  my  will,  I  am 
responsible  for  the  good  order  of  this 
place.  I  didn't  choose  the  position, — 
it  was  forced  upon  me.  You  have 
heard  my  judgment,  and,  if  you  do 
not  like  it,  you  may  chose  between 
waiting  three  months  for  the  gunboat, 
or  appealing  to  the  native  law, — in 
which  case  I  wash  my  hands  of  you." 
Cooper  glanced  round  at  the  sea 
of  dusky  faces  scowling  at  him,  noted 
the  weapons  in  the  sinewy  hands,  and 
said  savagely  :  "  Under  compulsion  I 
submit." 

He  signed  the  paper,  and  Kenion 
spent  an  anxious  time  protecting  his 
unwilling  guest  until  the  cargo  was 
unloaded.  On  the  following  day  Cooper 
shook  his  fist  in  the  air,  and  cursed 
both  Taroika  and  its  ruler,  as  sliding 
through  the  reef-passage  he  took  his 
schooner  empty  away. 

Many  weeks  later  a  little  gunboat 
anchored  close  in  under  the  palms, 
and  her  commander,  rowing  ashore, 
said  :  "  Have  you  been  setting  up  as 
a  pirate,  Kenion,  since  we  were  here 
before  ?  I've  a  charge  of  something 
very  like  it  to  investigate  with  you." 
"  Will  you  look  at  this  paper  1 " 
was  the  answer.  "  You  will  see  it 
is  signed  as  witnesses  by  two  of  his 
crew."  The  puzzled  officer  took  the 
paper  and  read  :  "I,  Henry  Cooper, 


having  stolen  the  goods  specified  below 
and  kidnapped  ten  Kannakas  to  press 
into  my  crew,  hereby  return  the 
whole  of  them,  with  a  fair  indemnity, 
and  admit  that  nothing  but  justice 
has  been  demanded  of  me." 

Then  having  heard  the  story,  and 
confirmed  it  by  questioning  the 
natives,  he  laughed  and  said  :  "It 
sounds  somewhat  high-handed,  and  I 
don't  know  if  it's  strictly  legal ;  but  I 
think  in  the  circumstances  you  did  the 
best  you  could,  and  my  report  will 
say  so  plainly.  Anyway,  it's  hardly 
likely  Cooper  will  press  the  matter  ; 
he  wisely  complained  by  letter.  We 
have  one  or  two  other  questions  to 
talk  over  with  him,  and  I  heard  a 
rumour  he  had  come  badly  to  grief 
playing  some  sharp  trick  over  in 
New  Guinea.  And  now  may  I  com- 
pliment you  on  your  place  ?  Do  you 
know  I  almost  envy  you  ? " 

"Yes,  it's  very  beautiful,  and  I 
have  done  my  best  for  them,"  was  the 
slow  answer.  "  But  there  are  draw- 
backs, awful  loneliness,  and  other 
things.  Someday  something  will  hap- 
pen, and  then  I'll  leave  it." 

The  officer  asked  no  questions.  He 
caught  the  longing  in  the  voice,  and 
understood,  for  he  had  heard  many 
strange  stories  and  seen  the  tragic 
sequel  of  several  very  sad  ones  during 
his  wanderings  in  the  Southern  Seas. 
As  next  morning  he  steamed  out  to 
sea  he  saw  the  ruler  of  Taroika  stand- 
ing, a  lonely  figure,  above  the  hissing 
surf,  and  looking  after  him  wistfully. 
HAROLD  BINDLOSS. 


350 


A   TYPE   OF   THE   TOWN. 


IT  was  a  summer's  night.  The  last 
of  the  crowd  went  rollicking  along 
the  Edgware  Road,  shouting  not  so 
much  through  happiness  as  custom, 
and  the  Bystander  went  after  them 
homewards.  The  hoarse  shouts  died 
away  sadly  ;  the  pleasure-seekers  were 
tired,  their  enjoyment  was  done;  in 
a  few  hours  they  would  be  astir, 
depressed  in  the  early  light,  to  seek 
anew  for  bread  and  halfpence ;  there 
was  a  final  shout,  lessening  into  a 
gasp,  the  last  moan  of  a  concertina, 
and  the  night  went  to  sleep.  The 
Bystander  walked  towards  a  smoky 
yellow  light,  where  he  could  see  a 
grizzled  head  dodging  up  and  down 
like  a  grotesque  marionette ;  he  paused 
by  the  few  tattered  moths  that  had 
fluttered  towards  this  light.  "  Ain't 
got  no  tea,"  replied  the  proprietor  of 
the  stall ;  "  the  water  don't  bile  yet." 
He  stroked  an  urn  independently, 
to  test  the  temperature.  "Korfee, 
Jack,  an'  a  slice  o'  plain  ?  No,"  he 
continued,  "  tuppence.  I  ain't  goin' 
to  make  'apporths.  I  can't  afford  to 
run  no  charity  restaurant." 

"Tuppence  takes  a  deal  o'  makin' 
some  days ;  'tis  a  lot  o'  money  to  part 
with  for  a  mug  an'  a  slice."  Jack, 
the  speaker,  stood  close  beside  the 
Bystander,  and  the  latter  looked 
round,  because  the  accent  that  under- 
lay the  talk  of  London  town  was  not 
that  of  the  voluntarily  unwashed. 
He  saw  a  thin  man,  in  a  vesture  of 
rags  held  together  with  mathematical 
preciseness  by  scraps  of  string,  a 
small  face,  overgrown  with  a  rough 
harvest  of  stubble,  but  stamped  with 
intellect  by  keen  grey  eyes ;  one  foot 
dragging  a  heavy  boot,  wherefrom  a 


bruised  toe  peeped  pitifully  into  the 
night,  the  other  light  and  fantastic  in 
a  once  canvas  shoe.  The  hat,  jammed 
upon  elfin  ringlets,  had  in  the  past 
been  of  silk,  but  the  period  was  in- 
definite. The  ancient  coat  had  slipped 
two  paces,  so  to  speak,  from  the  neck ; 
above  the  collar-bone  the  skin  was 
fairly  clean,  even  fresh,  when  it 
avoided  the  cross-hatch  of  wrinkles ; 
beneath  this  line  of  demarcation  'twas 
desolation  and  dirt.  Jack  saw  the 
Bystander's  glance,  and  his  pride  was 
roused.  He  put  up  a  well-shaped 
hand,  and  shook  the  refractory  gar- 
ment, even  as  a  terrier  worries  a  rat. 
The  grey  eyes  were  upon  the  By- 
stander ;  their  owner  leaned  forward, 
and  quoted  a  few  apt  lines  from  the 
chorus  of  the  ALCESTIS.  "  Will  yer 
wait  for  the  tea,  sir  ? "  said  the  voice 
within.  "  The  water's  gettin'  on  the 
bile." 

The  Bystander  said  that  he  would 
wait.  Jack  edged  towards  him,  and 
they  were  alone  at  the  corner  of  the 
stall,  while  the  unnamed  construed 
the  uncertainty  upon  his  new  friend's 
face,  and  the  sonorous  Greek  into 
English  prose.  "I  had  forgotten," 
said  the  Bystander.  "I  have  neglected 
the  classics  since  I  left  Cambridge." 
He  lowered  his  voice,  although  there 
was  no  need. 

"I  am  from  t'other  place,  as  they 
say  in  the  House,  from  the  banks  of 
Isis— " 

"  'Old  on  there,  Jack  !  Where  be 
ye  a  shovin'  to,  mate?  Yer've  bin 
an'  spilt  me  kawfee." 

Jack  turned  with  apologies.  "  'Orl 
right,  ole  pal;  'ave  a  pull  outer  mine." 

The  pal  was  not  overloaded   with 


A  Type  of  the  Town. 


351 


pride,  and  pulled  heartily  from  the 
proffered  mug,  until  Jack's  counten- 
ance grew  sad.  As  he  turned  again, 
a  ragged  flap  flew  forth  like  a  bird  of 
prey,  and  swept  his  slice  of  cake  to 
the  gutter.  Jack  dived,  reclaimed 
the  treasure,  whisked  off  the  Edgware 
Road  dust,  and  placed  a  goodly  por- 
tion, for  security,  in  his  mouth. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  Bystander 
hurriedly.  "  You  were  once  a 
gentleman  1 " 

Jack  drew  himself  up  with  exceed- 
ing dignity,  and  disposed  of  the  cake 
with  a  gulp.  "I  am  a  gentleman. 
It  is  true  I  have  no  address  and  no 
income.  On  the  other  hand,  I  enjoy 
perfect  liberty,  and  am  not  in  debt. 
Can  every  gentleman  say  as  much  ? 
You  are  looking  at  my  clothes  ;  call 
them  an  eccentricity  of  genius,  and 
look  no  more." 

"  'Ere's  the  tea,  sir.  'Ave  anythink 
to  eat  ? " 

"Try  the  seed,"  exclaimed  Jack 
eagerly.  "  It's  orl  right,  ain't  it, 
Tommy  ? " 

"  Everythink  yer  buys  'ere  is  orl 
right,"  replied  Tommy  the  proprietor, 
and  the  Bystander,  submitting,  tried 
the  seedcake.  "  Another  slice  for  me ; 
give  us  a  big  'un,"  said  the  Gentleman, 
his  eyes  wistful,  his  mouth  hungry. 
The  long  knife  descended,  and  a  heavy 
wedge  dropped  upon  the  counter. 
Jack  seized  it,  and  with  his  unoccupied 
hand  worried  his  garments  indefinitely. 
Presently  the  rags  gathered  round 
him  again,  and  he  timidly  pushed  the 
slice  back.  "Beg  parding,  Tommy; 
I  wouldn't  'ave  troubled,  if  I'd 
known." 

The  proprietor  turned  from  serving 
a  cab-driver,  and  returned  the  wedge, 
as  though  it  were  a  game  of  shuffle- 
board.  "You're  welcome,  matey.  I 
knows  yer,  Jack ;  to-morrer  night'll 
do." 

The  Bystander  took  in  the  situa- 
tion, and  proffered  a  sixpence  to  pay 


for  both.  Jack  gave  him  no  direct 
word  of  thanks,  but  turned  gratefully, 
and  went  on  talking.  "  You  see,  I 
don't  speak  to  them  as  I  do  to  you ; 
they  would  think  me  proud.  You 
were  assuming  that  I  need  a  bath  1 
It  is  true.  I  had  a  piece  of  elastic 
round  the  collar  of  my  coat,  to  keep 
the  garment  above  the  Pillar  of  Fare- 
well, but  I  fear  the  elastic  has  failed. 
You  do  not  understand  ?  Each  morn- 
ing I  wash  me  in  the  Serpentine,  and 
cleanse  my  face  and  hands,  but  never 
venture  below  my  collar-bone,  because 
I  am  rheumatic,  and  dread  the  touch 
of  cold  water.  Once  a  month,  oftener 
when  funds  run  to  it,  I  have  a  warm 
bath  which  costs  me  twopence  net. 
May  I  ask  what  brings  you  to  a 
coffee  stall  ? " 

The  Bystander  explained  his  habit 
of  roaming  abroad,  and  spoke  of  his 
interest  in  the  great  panorama  of 
London  life.  He  loved  to  watch  the 
characters  that  haunt  the  places  of 
cheap  food,  to  wonder  at  their  light- 
heartedness,  as  they  struggled  in  the 
handicap  with  the  odds  so  heavy 
against  them,  often  to  admire  their 
fortitude  and  their  actions  of  un- 
selfishness. 

From  his  companion's  conversation 
the  Bystander  was  given  much  to 
think  about.  Jack  belonged  to  the 
great  army  of  men  who  arc  scattered 
about  London,  penniless,  destitute, 
some  through  their  own  fault,  some 
through  the  fault  of  others.  Spoiled 
by  their  manner  of  bringing  up,  they 
cannot  dig ;  to  beg  they  are  ashamed. 
They  idle  about  street-corners,  wait- 
ing, until  they  are  shifted  on,  to  idle 
about  other  street-corners ;  sometimes 
they  are  moved  on  to  the  Embank- 
ment, where,  in  a  dark  moment,  the 
habit  being  perhaps  strong  upon  them, 
they  move  themselves  on, — one  step, 
and  the  street-corners  know  them  no 
more.  There  are  meals  to  be  gathered 
in  the  street,  the  Bystander  learned, 


352 


A  Type  of  the  Town. 


sorry  sustenance,  yet  a  tight  handful 
of  orange-peel  and  a  cigar-stump 
have  often  kept  life  stirring  for  a 
few  hours.  "After  all,"  said  his 
informant,  "at  the  worst  it  is  only 
a  question  of  a  few  years.  All 
paths  lead  to  the  same  exit;  it  is 
merely  a  question  of  an  easy  or 
unpleasant  journey."  Jack  was  an 
optimist,  who  was  cheerful  in  every 
circumstance.  He  had  prepared  cer- 
tain rules  for  his  guidance,  and  such 
as  the  following  he  observed,  strange 
to  say,  to  the  strict  letter.  (1)  Never 
hope,  never  despair.  Take  life  as  it 
comes,  assured  that  everything  occur- 
ring is  the  most  fortunate  circum- 
stance that  could  happen.  (2)  Be 
prepared  for  accidents.  To  check 
overpopulation,  Providence  finds  it 
necessary  to  remove  a  certain  percent- 
age of  the  surplus.  If  you  are  run 
over,  and  maimed  for  life,  do  not 
complain.  It  has  been  found  that 
there  is  no  room  for  you  on  the 
streets.  (3)  For  the  destitute  the 
Epicurean  motto  is  best;  enjoy  each 
hour  as  much  as  you  can,  but  never 
think  of  the  next.  (4)  When  it  is 
too  hot,  remember  that  you  once 
found  it  too  cold.  When  the  ground 
is  frozen,  don't  complain;  it  must 
thaw  out.  (5)  Work  when  you  feel 
well,  and  do  your  best,  but  do  not 
work  too  hard.  (6)  Never  think  of 
the  past;  never  make  plans  for  the 
future;  always  live  for  the  present. 
(7)  Make  friends  with  everyone,  but 
trust  nobody.  There  were  more  of 
such  rules  for  self-guidance,  but  it 
would  be  tedious  to  enumerate  the 
entire  code.  Jack  personally  was  a 
literary  man,  with  the  artistic  tem- 
perament well  developed.  Art,  art, 
what  a  motley  crew  of  starved  and 
tattered  beings  are  thy  disciples  !  He 
possessed  a  reader's  ticket  for  the 
British  Museum,  and  whenever  he 
could  make  himself  sufficiently  respect- 
able, he  would  bury  himself  among 


the  tomes  of  long-gone  thinkers  ;  the 
results  he  set  down  upon  paper,  sup- 
plied as  a  gift  by  Government,  with 
an  equally  gratuitous  pen.  The  day's 
work  would  be  dropped  humbly,  for 
lack  of  stamps,  into  the  gaping  maw 
of  some  periodical's  letter-box;  stamps 
for  the  return  of  the  manuscript 
there  were,  and  could  be,  none. 
Wistfully  each  day  the  ragged  figure 
crept  within  the  shades  of  a  secluded 
public-house,  where  a  kindly  landlord 
allowed  his  letters  to  be  taken  in, 
always  with  a  smile,  and  the  same 
anxious  question,  "  Anythin'  for  ole 
Jack  ? "  Sometimes  there  was,  and 
the  thin  face  became  animated. 
There  were  occasional  acceptances, 
and  even  slips  of  paper,  and  these  the 
landlord  changed  into  brave  gold 
sovereigns  which  he  counted  gener- 
ously into  the  shaking  palm.  Such 
days  were  Periods  in  a  Life. 

The  Bystander  prepared  to  move 
away.  Half-a-crown  lay  awkwardly 
in  his  hand,  and  he  longed  to  transfer 
it,  but  dared  not.  It  is  not  easy  to 
offer  a  gratuity  to  a  gentleman,  even 
though  he  be  homeless  and  in  rags. 
"  May  I  walk  a  little  of  the  way  with 
you  ? "  said  Jack,  when  his  mug  was 
drained!  "I  want  a  move,  after 
standing  so  long.  You  will  hardly 
meet  anyone  you  know  at  this  hour. 
Good-night,  Tommy,  and  thank  ye 
kindly."  They  moved  away,  and  the 
voices  of  the  night  followed  :  "  Good- 
night, Jack,  good-night,  ole  boy  ;  take 
care  o'  yerself." 

"  You  see,"  said  the  Gentleman 
with  his  sprightly  air,  "  I  am  now  a 
London  Jack.  Once  I  had  a  surname, 
but  that  is  long  ago.  We  do  not 
require  handles  in  my  society  ; 
identity  is  nothing.  When  you  look 
at  a  drifting  cloud,  you  do  not  con- 
sider that  it  is  composed  of  many 
million  vesicles.  You  see  the  one 
object,  and  you  give  it  a  comprehen- 
sive name.  Are  you  a  literary  man  ? " 


A  Type  of  the  Town. 


353 


The  Bystander  admitted  that  he 
sometimes  dared  to  desecrate  paper, 
and  Jack  went  on.  "  I  thought  so. 
Now,  were  you  to  introduce  me  as  a 
character  into  one  of  your  dramas  of 
real  life,  you  would  offend  against  all 
the  canons  of  art  and  nature.  You 
would  take  me,  dress  me,  and  find  me, 
when  shaved  and  in  my  right  mind, 
a  passably  handsome  fellow.  You 
would  find  me  romantic,  and  in  the 
end  you  would  marry  me  to  some  fair 
lady  of  means,  and  make  me  a  gentle- 
man again.  "Why  1  " 

He  spoke  sharply,  almost  with 
anger.  The  Bystander  auswered, 
somewhat  feebly  :  "  Nature  teaches 
us  that  the  grub  becomes  a  butterfly." 

"Nature  does  not  renew  the 
butterfly.  Nature  does  not  recolour 
the  flower  that  has  faded.  No, — the 
public  are  false,  you, — pardon  me — 
are  false,  and  I  am  genuine.  You 
cannot  help  yourself,  because  you  are 
a  servant  of  the  public.  If  you  speak 
the  true  story  of  life,  your  books  will 
lie  unbought.  Why  1  Everyone  has 
so  many  troubles,  that  they  shrink 
from  the  misery  of  others,  be  they 
real  or  be  they  false.  Everyone 
strives  to  make  their  troubles  less, 
even  to  make  them  appear  as  things 
of  delight ;  they  will  not  face  them, 
they  cannot ;  they  will  not  think  of 
them,  they  dare  not.  They  are  false, 
and  their  lives  are  false,  therefore 
they  desire  to  read  the  false  lives  of 
imagined  beings.  Ah,  you  turn  up 
here  1  I  will  come  no  further." 

The  half-crown  rolled  from  the  By- 
stander's hand,  and  bounded  joyously 
to  the  gutter.  Jack  recovered  it. 
"  You  had  better  get  yourself  a  bed," 
said  the  Bystander. 

Jack  thanked  the  donor  quietly. 
"  A  bed — no !  On  such  a  night  as 
this  a  park-seat  should  satisfy  a 
Sybarite.  I  must  not  stop,  or  the 
gates  will  be  closed,  and  all  the  seats 
will  be  engaged." 

No.  509. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


The  next  meeting  occurred  in  day- 
light. A  sharp  wind  was  blowing 
through  the  driving  rain.  The  By- 
stander hurried  along  with  his  head 
down,  until  he  collided  with  a  gaunt 
figure,  whose  tattered  garments  were 
soaked,  and  whose  face  was  shrunk 
more  than  usual  with  cold.  "  A  nice 
rain,"  said  Jack,  when  he  recognised 
the  bearer  of  the  umbrella.  "  I  don't 
understand  the  present  necessity  for 
the  wind,  but  the  rain  is  pleasant." 
He  shivered,  while  the  sad  water 
poured  through  a  hole  in  his  hat, 
dashed  upon  his  nose,  and  thence  to 
the  ground.  He  resembled  a  drenched 
gargoyle  perched  at  the  summit  of 
some  cathedral  tower.  "  We  have 
had  too  much  dry  weather.  Bain  is 
badly  needed  for  the  streets,  the  fields, 
and  the  race-courses.  I  expect  this 
cold  wind  is  to  keep  back  the  crops ; 
I  hear  they  are  too  forward  this  year. 
We  enjoy  a  hot  day  so  much  more 
after  such  weather  as  this." 

The  Bystander  possessed  neither 
Jack's  philosophy,  nor  his  happy 
adaptability.  He  had  already  hurled 
many  angry  epithets  at  the  weather, 
and  here  was  Jack,  homeless,  penni- 
less Jack,  walking  about  in  airy  rags 
and  shameless  boots,  and  positively 
eulogising  the  wind  and  the  rain. 
The  Bystander  tried  to  feel  ashamed 
of  himself,  and  passed  away,  with  the 
shivering  voice  behind  still  quavering, 
"  Yes,  a  beautiful  warm  rain." 

On  an  expedition  to  the  national 
treasure-house  in  Great  Russell  Street, 
the  Bystander  was  fortunate  enough 
to  meet  Jack,  not  indeed  in  the 
Museum,  but  proceeding  thereto,  with 
brightened  eye,  from  the  tavern  oppo- 
site. Part  of  the  mystery  of  the  Fall 
became  apparent.  Jack  was  gorgeous, 
not  indeed  in  purple  and  fine  linen, 
but  in  some  linen,  and  boots  that 
were  partners.  He  was  jubilant.  He 
had  come  into  a  fortune,  to  use  his 
own  expression.  A  review  had  ac- 

A  A 


354 


A  Type  of  the  Town. 


cepted  aii  article  (written  upon 
government-given  paper  with  the 
equally  gratuitous  pen),  had  pub- 
lished the  same,  and  paid  for  it, 
to  the  extent  of  twelve  golden 
sovereigns.  In  cold  figures  Jack 
proved  his  ability  to  live  "  in  need- 
less luxury  "  upon  twenty  pounds  per 
annum ;  so  here  was  he  provided  for, 
at  one  happy  stroke,  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  twelve  months.  The  By- 
stander bethought  him  of  the  tavern, 
and  sighed  for  human  frailty.  "Here 
is  the  half-crown,  that  you  were  kind 
enough  to  lend  me  on  a  former  oc- 
casion," said  Jack.  "  Affluence,"  he 
continued,  "  is  surely  the  root  of  hap- 
piness, as  we  understand  it.  Money 
in  the  pocket  makes  the  sun  to  shine, 
and  gives  the  heart  confidence.  At 
the  present  time  I  feel  that  I  have 
a  right  to  a  name." 

"And  a  coat  of  arms,"  added  the 
Bystander,  with  a  touch  of  cynicism, 
but  Jack  was  forgiving,  with  the  for- 
giveness that  cheap  brandy  brings. 
He  echoed  the  words.  "Why  not? 
Twelve  sovereigns  or,  upon  a  field 
azure;  in  the  second,  a  litterateur, 
attired  vert,  once  sable,  his  face 
sanguine — " 

"And  nose  gules,"  added  the  By- 
stander sharply.  "Where  are  you 
going  now  ? " 

Jack  removed  his  hat,  and  rubbed 
tenderly  against  the  decayed  nap. 
"  I'm  going  back  to  the  Reading- 
Room, — my  office,  I  call  it.  If  I 
sell  one  more  article,  I  can  retire 
for  this  year.  I  shall  buy  several 
pounds  of  tobacco,  walk  into  the 
country,  and  lie  in  the  fields  all 
day." 

Some  months  passed.  The  By- 
stander had  left  London  to  its  dust 
and  sparrows,  although  he  did  not 
spend  his  leisure  consuming  nicotine 
in  grass  fields.  One  night  in  late 
October  he  saw  the  familiar  bundle 
of  rags  beside  the  stall  in  the 


Edgware  Road,  and  he  came  upon 
Jack,  drinking  his  pennyworth  of 
coffee,  and  reading  by  the  greasy 
light  of  the  lantern  from  a  small 
edition  of  the  ODYSSEY.  "  Picked  it 
up  for  twopence  this  afternoon,"  he 
explained.  "  Lovely  night,  ain't  it  1 " 

The  Bystander  had  not  thought  so. 
The  wind  was  biting,  and  charged 
with  the  strange  unpleasant  odour 
of  the  autumn,  while  now  and  again 
came  a  few  great  drops  of  rain. 

But  Jack  was  satisfied.  "  A  fresh 
wind  cleanses  the  place,  blows  away 
the  germs  of  disease,  purifies  the 
atmosphere  by  sweeping  off  the  accu- 
mulations of  carbonic-acid  gas."  He 
slapped  his  hands  together,  and 
stamped  his  feet.  "  Cold  weather  is 
seasonable  now.  If  I  choose  to  go 
about  insufficiently  attired,  I  must 
expect  to  feel  chilled.  The  wind  is 
not  tempered  to  the  worn-out  ram." 

The  Bystander,  not  feeling  disposed 
to  stand  in  the  cold,  asked,  "  How 
are  you  doing  1 "  Jack  swallowed 
the  dregs  in  his  mug  sadly.  "  I 
have  lost  all  my  money,"  he  replied, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  been 
defrauded  of  thousands.  "I  could 
not  indulge  in  my  contemplated  re- 
tirement, after  all." 

This  was  the  last  glimpse  that  the 
Bystander  was  afforded  of  Jack  as  an 
individual ;  but  the  class,  of  which  he 
is  a  type,  remains,  and  will  be  always 
with  us.  Jack  had  introduced  him  to 
several  friends,  who  foregathered  in  the 
shades  between  Great  Russell  and  New 
Oxford  Streets,  grave  elderly  men,  un- 
kempt, but  courteous.  How  politely 
they  raised  their  hats,  gingerly  lest 
the  brim  should  come  away  !  How 
eloquently  they  talked,  upon  every 
subject,  from  Sanskrit  roots  to  the 
latest  methods  of  applying  electricity  ! 
How  interesting  they  were,  some- 
times how  brilliant,  and  always  how 
thirsty  !  There  were  those  who  had 
been  beneficed  clergymen,  school- 


A  Type  of  the  Town. 


355 


masters,  lawyers,  doctors,  and  engi- 
neers, and  not  unknown  many  of 
them  in  their  day,  when  they  had 
possessed  a  name  and  an  individu- 
ality. Among  themselves  they  passed 
by  their  Christian  names ;  no  refer- 
ence was  allowed  to  the  remote  past ; 
it  was  an  offence  to  refer  to  a  com- 
rade as  a  gentleman,  or  to  remind 
him  that  he  had  ever  been  a  creature 
of  a  higher  sphere.  The  Bystander, 
not  aware  of  this,  blundered,  but  his 
lesson  was  taught  him  by  a  reverend 
old  fellow,  who  might  have  been  a 
general  masquerading  in  rags.  "  I  am 
not  a  gentleman,  sir.  I  am  a  most 
damnable  deadbeat !  "  Can  these  men 
ever  dare  to  sleep  1  Are  they  never 
visited  by  dreams?  Can  they  even 
think,  without  calling  up  a  host  of 
sad  pale  ghosts — home,  wife,  child? 
Perhaps  they  have  drunk  of  bitterness, 
until  their  souls  know  not  of  memory. 
Let  us  hope  so;  for  the  peace  of  the 
Great  Unnamed,  let  us  hope  so. 

"  Old  Jack  1 "  said  one  of  the  lost, 
when  the  Bystander  made  an  inquiry 
one  winter's  day.  "  Yes,  I  have 
missed  him  of  late.  Come  down 
here,  and  we'll  ask  James."  They 
passed  together  down  the  side  street, 
through  a  door,  and  into  a  room  that 
might  have  been  called  the  Place  of 
Derelicts.  The  Bystander  coughed, 
because  of  the  fumes  of  strong  tobacco 
and  the  sickly  odour  of  stale  spirits. 


"  James,  where's  old  Jack  ?  "  James 
looked  up ;  he  was  arguing  with 
another  wreck,  and  liked  not  inter- 
ruption. "  Old  Jack  1  He's  gone." 
James  went  on  with  his  argument, 
but  when  the  Bystander  asked  for 
enlightenment,  he  condescended  to 
become  more  communicative.  "Just 
before  Christmas  he  was  taken  with 
pneumonia,  and  went  into  the  Middle- 
sex. I  went  to  see  him,  and  he  ex- 
plained to  me  that  dying  was  the 
very  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
him.  I  dare  say  he  was  right.  What  1 
Well,  thank  you.  Three-penn'orth  of 
Scotch,  please,  miss." 

The  following  month  the  Bystander 
picked  up  a  magazine,  and  found 
therein  an  article,  signed  John  Saw- 
yer;  this  was  the  departed  Jack's 
pseudonym.  Had  that  article  been 
published  and  paid  for  on  the  pre- 
vious month,  the  author's  life  might 
have  been  prolonged.  How  he  must 
have  craved  for  that  cheque  !  How 
disappointed,  as  month  after  month 
slipped  away,  and  the  article  did 
not  appear !  The  kindly  publican 
would  have  received  in  due  course 
the  letter  that  contained  the  cheque. 
He  must  be  waiting,  still  waiting,  for 
the  wistful  face  at  the  swing-doors, 
and  the  anxious  question,  "  Anythin' 
for  ole  Jack  1 " 

ERNEST  G.  HENHAM. 


A  A  2 


356 


SAMUEL     RICHARDSON     AND     GEORGE     MEREDITH. 


"MEN  may  have  rounded  Seraglio 
Point :  they  have  not  yet  doubled 
Cape  Turk."  This  saying  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  most  popular,  if  not  his 
most  delightful  heroine,  might  serve 
as  a  motto  for  the  new  edition  of 
Richardson's  novels. 

It  is  not  for  nothing  that  Samuel 
Richardson  and  George  Meredith  have 
found  their  most  appreciative  readers 
among  women.  Women  care  for  Mr. 
Meredith  because  he  has  thought 
them  worthy  of  study  as  distinct 
personalities.  Reversing  the  dictum 
of  Pope,  "Most  women  have  no 
character  at  all,"  reversing  the  com- 
mon literary  artifice  of  the  masculine 
scribe,  which  presents  men  as  men, 
that  is  to  say,  individuals,  but  women 
always  as  Woman,  stereotyped  in  the 
convention  of  her  sex,  he  gives  us 
types  as  various  as  Lucy  Feverel  and 
Jenny  Denham,  Renee  and  Cecilia 
Halket,  Janet  Ilchester  and  the 
Princess  Ottilia.  He  can  comprehend 
that  a  woman  may  be  capable  of  a 
great  passion  and  yet  true,  in  spite 
of  it,  to  the  obligations  of  station  and 
race,  while  another  woman  may  yield 
to  passion  and  yet  not  be  ignoble. 
A  genial  comprehension,  a  sympathy 
that  understands  because  it  respects, 
underlies  his  portraits  of  women. 
When  he  professed  his  ambition  to 
give  "  blood,  brains,  to  that  virginal 
doll,  the  heroine,"  he  was  not  making 
a  vain  boast,  for  his  women  have 
both. 

Even  in  delightful  new  editions, 
presented  with  all  the  attraction  that 
modern  print  and  pictures  can  lend 
them,  Miss  Howe  and  Miss  Byron 
will  hardly  exert  over  our  generation 


the  glamour  of  Mr.  Meredith's  women. 
Richardson  wrote  for  an  age  when 
the  majority  of  well-born  English- 
women were  incredibly  ignorant,  and 
not  much  more  refined  than  the 
squires  who  were  their  suitors  and 
husbands,  and  who  were  carried  up 
to  bed  drunk  by  their  servants  night 
after  night.  The  contingencies  which 
the  heroines  of  this  period  habitually 
contemplate  and  discuss  are  never  so 
much  as  dreamed  of  by  an  ordinary 
girl  of  our  own  day;  and  as  for 
PAMELA,  which  created  such  a  furore 
on  its  appearance,  the  modern  girl 
undergraduate,  believing  in  cold  baths 
and  hockey,  and  ambitious  of  classical 
honours,  would  frankly  vote  it  a 
nauseous  production. 

Yet  before  the  modern  woman 
turns  up  her  nose  at  Richardson,  let 
her  consider  "  the  pit  from  whence 
she  was  digged."  Let  her  ask  herself 
whether  the  revolution  in  women's 
education,  the  changes  of  public  feel- 
ing and  social  custom,  which  have 
opened  so  wide  a  career  to  her,  were 
not  due  in  some  degree  to  these 
novels,  which  contain  so  much  that 
conflicts  with  modern  ideas.  Why 
was  it  that  Richardson's  works,  not 
only  here  but  all  over  the  Continent, 
formed  a  school,  and  set  in  motion 
a  new  current  of  ideas,  while  TOM 
JONES,  that  masterpiece  acclaimed  by 
all  competent  judges  from  Sir  Walter 
Scott  to  Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  had, 
in  comparison,  so  restricted  an  influ- 
ence ?  Fielding  is  incomparably  the 
finer  writer  of  English ;  he  abounds 
in  humour,  whereas  Richardson  has 
no  humour  at  all ;  he  is  a  moralist, 
too,  in  his  own  way.  As  a  gentleman 


Samuel  Richardson  and  George  Meredith. 


357 


and  a  man  of  the  world,  we  should 
naturally  prefer  his  company  to  that 
of  the  fat  little  tea-drinking  printer, 
pompous  and  sentimental,  surrounded 
by  his  devotees.  But  the  fact  is  that 
Richardson,  ridiculous  and  narrow  as 
he  was,  had  a  touch  of  inspiration  in 
him  that  Fielding,  his  superior  in  so 
many  things,  lacked  absolutely. 

It  is  a  plausible  conjecture  that 
Richardson's  experiences  as  amanu- 
ensis of  the  young  women  who  came 
to  him  to  write  their  love-letters 
may  have  given  him  that  interest  in 
women,  and  that  comprehension  of 
them,  which  distinguishes  him  from 
his  fellows.  The  average  man  holds 
with  Mr.  Gissing's  hero  that  "a  woman 
ought  to  be  sexual,"  and  does  not 
realise  that,  even  granting  this  obliga- 
tion, women  may  be  infinitely  diverse 
in  their  ways  of  fulfilling  it.  Of  all 
the  young  women  who  came  to 
Richardson  with  their  stories,  no 
two  apprehended  love  in  the  same 
way.  And  so  the  truth,  so  difficult 
of  access  apparently  to  the  ordinary 
male  understanding,  revealed  itself  to 
him, — that  women  are  as  various  in 
their  individualities  as  men,  that 
the  young  man  who  brags  that  he 
knows  woman  is  more  likely  than 
not  to  find  himself  baffled  by  some 
unclassified  specimen  of  the  genus, — 
and  that  one  road  to  the  true  under- 
standing of  them  is  to  realise  that 
after  all  they  are  human  as  well  as 
feminine,  and  on  the  whole  more  like 
men  than  one  would  suppose. 

The  conventional  conception  of 
women  which  dominated  the  minds 
of  Lovelace  and  his  kind  has  never 
prevailed  to  the  same  extent  since 
Richardson  wrote  CLARISSA  HAR- 
LOWE.  One  finds  it  full-blown,  and 
s6t  forth  with  persuasive  vivacity  in 
Fielding.  The  women  of  his  books 
are  sharply  divided  into  two  classes, 
— the  ladies  men  marry  and  the  ladies 
they  don't  j  and  one  often  feels  that 


accident,  more  than  any  inherent 
quality  of  nature,  is  responsible  for 
any  given  specimen  being  found  in 
one  class  rather  than  another. 

Sophia  Western  is  the  accomplished 
type  of  the  "  man's  woman "  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  She  still  has  her 
admirers,  and  far  be  it  from  us  to 
hint  that  she  does  not  deserve  them  ; 
but  one  feels  that  her  chief  recom- 
mendation, to  her  creator,  lay  in  the 
fact,  to  which  Mr.  Allworthy  gives 
such  approving  expression,  that  she 
possesses  "the  highest  qualification 
for  a  good  wife, — deference  to  the 
understanding  of  men." 

When  she  learns  of  Tom's  infidelity, 
it  is  rather  sexual  jealousy  than  moral 
indignation  that  moves  her.  Much 
less  is  it  the  profound  pity  which 
noble  women  feel  for  the  disinherited 
of  their  sex.  She  would  probably 
have  thought  it  indecent  to  trouble 
herself  about  the  fate  of  any  of  those 
at  whose  expense  her  admirer  was 
gaining  experience.  The  exigencies 
of  convention  demanded  that  Tom 
should  give  some  promise  of  amend- 
ment before  being  rewarded  with  the 
hand  of  the  heroine,  but  one  cannot 
help  feeling  the  perfunctoriness  of 
the  scene  in  which  he  discharges  this 
obligation,  and  Sophia  is  not  the 
woman  to  make  it  less  perfunctory. 
That  she  will  be  an  affectionate  and, 
when  occasion  demands  it,  an  indul- 
gent wife  to  Tom,  we  feel  assured. 
We  see  her  in  vision,  presiding  over 
a  nursery  of  healthy  young  Britons, 
sons  who  will  emulate  the  adventures 
of  their  father,  in  the  certainty  that 
when  they  choose  to  settle  down, 
there  will  be  Sophias  waiting  for 
them  also,  and  daughters  brought  up 
to  look  pretty,  sew  long  searas,  and 
cultivate  a  proper  deference  for  the 
understanding  of  men.  The  picture 
is  not  without  its  charm,  especially 
for  a  public  which  is  perhaps  rather 
tired  of  Ibsen's  heroines.  It  is 


358 


Samuel  Richardson  and  George  Meredith. 


homely,  unexacting,  and  as  reposeful 
as  a  portrait  by  Romney.  But  in  a 
day  when  it  reigned  supreme,  some 
originality,  something  even  of  the 
prophetic  spirit,  was  needed  in  the 
man  who  dared  question  its  absolute 
adequacy. 

And  what  are  we  to  say  of  Sophia's 
father,  of  his  contemporaries  and 
friends  1  Reflecting  on  these,  we 
cease  to  wonder  at  her  unexacting 
temper.  Mr.  Meredith  has  a  refer- 
ence in  DIANA  OF  THE  CROSSWAYS  to 
those  "  remnants  of  the  pristine  male 
who,  if  resisted  in  their  suing,  con- 
clude that  they  are  scorned  and  it 
infuriates  them,"  and  to  others 
"whose  passion  for  the  charmer  is  an 
instinct  to  pull  down  the  standard  of 
the  sex  by  a  bully  imposition  of  sheer 
physical  ascendancy,  whenever  they 
see  it  flying  with  an  air  of  inde- 
pendence." Such  types  will  always 
exist,  though  we  may  well  rejoice  that 
the  healthier  taste  of  our  own  day 
has  deposed  them  from  their  pride  of 
place ;  but  when  Richardson  wrote, 
they  were  not  only  common  but 
admired.  The  metaphor  of  the  hunter 
and  the  chase  is  irresistibly  sug- 
gested by  the  tone  of  men  towards 
women  in  the  eighteenth  century  ; 
and  the  excuse  of  the  foxhunter,  who 
has  been  known  to  aver  that  the  fox 
enjoys  a  good  run  in  front  of  the 
hounds,  was  made  to  serve  the  turn 
of  the  "  man  of  gallantry."  Naturally 
also  his  attitude  towards  his  "  con- 
quest," when  achieved,  was  that  of 
one  who1  finds  his  pastime  more  in 
the  chase  than  in  the  capture.  To 
rob  women  of  their  honour,  either 
by  "  dominating  a  frailer  system  of 
nerves,"  or  by  subtler  and  gentler 
methods,  was  not  merely,  as  it  has 
been  in  all  ages,  the  frequent  deed 
of  bad  men,  but  one  of  the  usual 
distinctions  of  a  person  moving  in 
good  society.  Forcible  abductions 
were  not  uncommon,  and  the  victims 


of  these  outrages  were  supposed  to 
be  consoled  by  the  tribute  implied 
to  "  the  irresistible  power  of  their 
charms."  That  a  man  in  such  a  case, 
and  uncompelled  by  the  lady's  rela- 
tives, should  make  the  reparation 
which  Lovelace  offers  to  make  to 
Clarissa  was  regarded  as  an  amazing 
stretch  of  generosity  ;  and  it  was  a 
puzzle  to  some  of  Richardson's  readers 
that  he  should  have  represented  his 
heroine  as  declining  the  offer,  and 
as  rather  accepting  the  intolerable 
wrong,  than  consenting  to  be  "  made 
an  honest  woman  of  "  by  her  destroyer. 

At  the  same  time,  there  was  not 
much  to  envy  in  the  lot  of  the 
woman  who  escaped  being  selected 
as  an  object  of  pursuit.  The  tone  of 
the  day,  as  revealed  in  contemporary 
writings,  was  a  robust  and  often 
brutal  contempt  of  the  unsought, 
unmated  woman.  The  current  novel 
possessed  one  stock  figure,  to  act  as 
foil  to  the  heroine, —  the  figui-e  of  the 
vain,  jealous,  and  spiteful  old  maid. 
She  survived  into  Victorian  times, 
and  Miss  Bridget  Allworthy  (but 
for  one  unfortunate  incident  in  her 
career)  might  claim  sisterhood  with 
Charity  Pecksniff.  The  idea  of  the 
unmarried  woman  of  mature  age  as 
perpetually  angling  for  admiration, 
perpetually  devoured  by  a  sexual 
jealousy  that  extended  to  her  most 
intimate  friends,  if  they  happened  to 
be  pretty  or  winning,  is  constantly 
to  be  found  in  the  novels  of  Dickens, 
who  embodied  for  the  Victorian 
period,  as  Fielding  did  for  his  own, 
the  genial  tradition  of  the  average 
man. 

We  can  easily  imagine  what  either 
of  them  would  have  made  of  Letitia 
Dale  in  THE  EGOIST.  Letitia  is  a 
spinster,  decidedly  faded,  who  has 
cared,  and  allowed  it  to  be  known 
that  she  cared,  for  a  man  who  has 
flirted  with  her  and  thrown  her  over. 
When  that  man  brings  a  younger  and 


Samuel  Eichardson  and  George  Meredith. 


359 


brighter  rival  on  the  scene,  we  might 
expect  some  reminiscence  of  the  con- 
vention of  Fielding  and  Dickens. 
But  Mr.  Meredith  never  for  a 
moment  allows  Letitia  to  appear 
ridiculous.  In  her  explanation  of 
her  position  to  Clara  there  is  an 
accent  of  real  dignity.  "  Ten  years 
back,  I  thought  of  conquering  the 
Avorld  with  a  pen.  The  result  is 
that  I  am  glad  of  a  fireside,  and  not 
sure  of  always  having  one,  and  that 
is  my  achievement.  Last  year's 
sheddings  from  the  tree  do  not  form 
an  attractive  garland.  Their  merit 
is  that  they  have  not  the  ambition. 
I  am  like  them."  She  would  have 
appreciated  the  good  sense  and  good 
feeling  with  which  Richardson,  in 
the  person  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison, 
discusses  the  "peculiarly  helpless  and 
unprovided  state "  of  single  women 
in  his  day.  The  opening  of  fresh 
careers  for  women  has  reduced  the 
necessity  for  the  "  Protestant  nun- 
neries "  which  Sir  Charles  wished  to 
see  established,  where  "  single  women 
of  small  or  no  fortunes  might  live 
with  all  manner  of  freedom,  under 
such  regulations  only  as  it  were  a 
disgrace  for  a  modest  and  good 
woman  not  to  comply  with,"  but  the 
interest  of  the  passage  is  by  no 
means  obsolete. 

Another  point  is  suggested  by  the 
relations  of  Letitia  with  her  rival, 
and  other  groupings  of  women  which 
will  occur  to  any  reader  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  work.  That  two  women 
can  be  in  love  with  the  same  man, 
and  be  loyal,  just,  and  forbearing  to 
each  other ;  that  the  loss  of  youth 
and  charm,  and  the  empire  that  they 
give,  may  be  accepted  with  temper 
and  dignity,  are  conceptions  quite  as 
familiar  in  modern  novels,  as  they  are 
to  the  observer  of  ordinary  life.  But 
that  they  are  so,  is  surely  due,  in 
some  measure  at  least,  to  the  influence 
of  Richardson. 


"The  dear,  the  excellent  Clemen- 
tina," Miss  Byron  exclaims  when 
Sir  Charles  Grandison,  after  a  con- 
scientious weighing  of  the  claims  of 
the  two  ladies  who  are  candidates 
for  his  affections,  decides  at  last  to 
give  her  the  preference.  "  '  What  a 
perverseness  is  in  her  fate  !  She, 
and  she  only,  could  have  deserved 
you.'  He  bent  his  knee  to  the 
greatly-honoured  Harriett.  '  I  ac- 
knowledge with  transport,'  said  he, 
'  the  joy  you  give  me  by  your 
magnanimity.' "  These  are  not  the 
manners  of  our  day,  and  we  may- 
feel  that  Miss  Byron  overdoes  her 
magnanimity  a  little  ;  but  at  any 
rate  her  attitude  to  her  rival  is  to 
be  preferred  to  any  rendering  into 
the  language  of  polite  society  of  the 
"  artful  and  degrading  'Tilda "  of 
Fanny  Squeers. 

We  are  conscious  in  Richardson's 
novels  of  an  interest  in  women,  as 
women,  which  was  almost  an  un- 
known thing  in  his  day.  Even 
Rousseau,  himself  a  bringer  in  of 
the  new  order,  could  write  thus  : 
"The  education  of  women  should 
always  be  relative  to  that  of  men. 
To  please,  to  be  useful  to  us,  to 
render  our  lives  easy  and  agreeable, — 
these  are  the  duties  of  women  at 
all  times,  and  what  they  should  be 
taught."  Naturally,  therefore,  the 
woman  of  fiction  was  not  studied  in 
and  for  herself.  She  was  always 
grouped  in  relation  to  her  natural 
object  and  lord,  either  accepting  his 
homage,  or  running  away  from  his 
improper  advances,  or  breaking  her 
heart  over  his  neglect,  or  hating  and 
slandering  some  other  woman  for 
diverting  his  attention.  Of  her  inner 
life  as  a  reasonable,  self-subsisting 
human  soul,  we  are  shown  little  or 
nothing. 

Richardson  had  the  courage  to 
break  through  this  convention.  His 
women,  in  spite  of  their  wretched 


360 


Samuel  Richardson  and  George  Meredith. 


education,  are  interested  in  a  few 
things  besides  the  hunt  for  a  hus- 
band. Clarissa  manages  a  dairy  and 
reads  history  and  theology.  Miss 
Byron  can  enter  intelligently  into  the 
good  talk  on  general  subjects  which 
she  reports  to  the  Venerable  Circle. 
But  especially  ought  women  to  be 
grateful  to  him  for  this,  that  he 
familiarised  the  readers  of  his  time 
with  a  high  conception  of  women's 
friendship.  It  may  be  said  that  he 
could  not  help  himself, — that  as  his 
stories  were  told  in  letters,  his 
heroines  must  have  the  necessary 
confidantes  ;  but  surely  this  is  a  very 
inadequate  view  of  the  relation,  for 
instance,  between  Clarissa  and  her 
friend, — the  petulance,  the  wit,  the 
mischief,  and,  permeating  all,  the 
unfeigned  hearty  admiration  and  de- 
votion on  the  one  side,  and  on  the 
other,  the  noble,  tender  confidence 
and  regard. 

It  used  to  be  a  common  thing  to 
depreciate  the  friendships  of  women 
for  each  other.  In  youth  they  were 
summarised  as  "schoolgirl  nonsense," 
experiments  in  sentiment  which  the 
first  love-affair  would  put  an  end 
to,  in  maturity  as  the  last  resource 
of  a  disappointed  spinster.  Whatever 
truth  there  might  be  in  this  statement 
of  the  case,  it  was  not  the  whole  truth 
or  the  truth  best  worth  knowing. 

Again,  Mr.  Meredith  helps  us  to 
understand  his  predecessor.  Emmy 
Dunstan  and  Diana  Warwick  form  a 
worthy  pendant  to  Clarissa  and  Anne 
Howe.  One  of  the  ties  that  unite 
them,  we  are  bidden  to  note,  is  a 
common  interest  in  the  things  of  the 
mind.  "They  were  readers  of  books 
of  all  sorts,  and  they  mixed  the 
divers  readings  in  thought,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  ardently  youthful. 
.  The  subjects  discoursed  of 
by  the  two  endeared  the  hours  to 
them,"  though  "  they  were  aware 
that  the  English  of  the  period  would 


have  laughed  a  couple  of  women  to 
scorn  for  venturing  on  them." 

The  heroines  of  to-day, — and  this 
is  something — have  licence  from 
public  opinion  to  fraternise  in  the 
lecture-room  as  well  as  at  the 
milliner's,  and  "  college  friendships," 
perhaps  the  most  delightful  and  per- 
manent of  all,  are  no  longer  the 
exclusive  privilege  of  the  stronger 
sex. 

Again  and  again  in  Mr.  Meredith's 
books  there  is  the  perception  of 
what  a  woman  may  owe  to  a  woman. 
We  remember  how  that  blunt  Eng- 
lishwoman, Janet  Ilchester,  met  the 
Princess  Ottilia,  and  "  her  first  radiant 
perception  of  an  ideal  in  her  sex." 
We  remember  the  patriotic  comrade- 
ship of  Yittoria  and  Laura  Piaveni, 
and  that  episode  when  Sandra,  an 
innocent  outcast  on  the  London 
streets,  craves  pitifully  for  a  woman's 
arms  about  her  and  a  woman's 
tenderness. 

Another  point  is  perhaps  worth 
brief  notice.  Not  many  readers  will 
now  be  attracted  by  those  closing 
chapters  of  CLARISSA  HARLOWE  which 
deal  with  the  career  and  fate  of  Love- 
lace's female  accomplices.  The  topic 
is  not  a  pleasant  one,  and  it  is  not 
rendered  more  attractive  by  the 
preaching  manner  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Yet  even  here  Richardson 
struck  a  note  above  the  common  level 
of  his  age,  and  one  which  echoes  with 
no  uncertain  sound  in  RHODA  FLEM- 
ING and  ONE  OF  OUR  CONQUERORS. 
There  is  the  dawn  of  a  social  con- 
science respecting  these  poor  crea- 
tures, an  impulse  of  reaction  against 
the  general  acquiescence  in  this 
"  ancient  tale  of  wrong," — the  "  it 
always  was  so  and  always  will  be  so  " 
of  the  great  careless  public — which 
links  the  old  printer  with  the  more 
generous  minds  of  the  age  that  fol- 
lowed. The  thoughtful  compassion 
which  redeems  these  gloomy  pages  of 


Samuel  Richardson  and  George  Meredith. 


361 


Richardson's  novel  finds  more  appeal- 
ing expression  in  the  pathos  of  little 
Kiomi's  fate,  the  redemption  of  Judith 
in  ONE  OF  OUR  CONQUERORS,  or  Dahlia 
Fleming's  last  petition,  "  Help  poor 
girls."  This  much,  in  spite  of  recent 
jeremiads,  we  have  surely  gained, 
and  that  we  have  gained  it  is  largely 
due  to  the  writer  who,  in  an  age  of 
social  and  moral  decadence,  recalled 
the  mind  of  Europe  to  a  healthier 
tone  of  feeling  about  women. 

We  must  not  consider  the  condition 
of  women  from  the  Dark  Ages  to  our 
own  day  as  one  of  unchecked  advance. 
On  the  contrary,  it  exhibits  a  con- 
tinual fluctuation.  Women  reached 
perhaps  their  highest  point  of  educa- 
tion and  influence  in  the  Renascence ; 
and  then  their  state  declined,  through 
the  troublous  times  of  the  religious 
wars  to  what  was  probably  its  lowest 
pitch  in  the  eighteenth  century ; 
though  we  must  remember  that,  even 
then,  France  never  fell  to  the  level  of 
England.  The  women  scourged  by 
Swift,  satirised  by  Addison,  held  up 
to  playful  ridicule  in  THE  VICAR  OP 
WAKEFIELD,  were  very  different  from 
the  women  of  Shakespeare  and  Spenser 
and  Sidney.  It  was  the  common 
cant  among  the  men  of  that  day  to 
call  the  woman  whose  charms  attracted 
them  a  divinity ;  but  there  never  was 
a  time  when  love  had  less  of  worship 
in  it  and  more  of  the  brute  instincts 
of  passion  and  vanity. 

Thus  it  was  something  of  a  revela- 
tion to  the  mind  of  that  age  when 
Richardson  dared  to  exhibit  to  it  a 
hero  after  its  own  heart,  baffled  and 
beaten  in  the  hour  of  his  apparent 
victory.  In  the  anguish  of  Lovelace, 
when  he  realises  that  Clarissa's  soul 
has  escaped  him,  that  it  is  "  out  of  his 
power  any  way  in  the  world  to  be 


even  with  her,"  the  difference  between 
mere  animal  desire  and  the  love  which 
alone  is  worthy  of  a  human  being, 
compact  of  flesh  and  spirit,  comes  home. 
And  no  change  in  sentiment,  in 
fashion  or  manners,  can  blind  us  to 
the  grandeur  of  the  conception  of 
Clarissa, — the  desolate  ruined  girl, 
robbed  of  all  that  gives  worldly  con- 
sideration and  external  support  to  a 
woman,  banned  and  outcast  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  no  less  absolutely  that 
the  fault  is  not  her  own,  is  one  of  the 
great  figures  of  literature.  In  AURORA 
LEIGH  Mrs.  Browning  gave  poignant 
expression  to  the  sorrows  of  another 
victim  of  man's  brutality ;  but  Marian 
Erie  has  her  child,  and  what  sustains 
her  in  her  martyrdom  is  the  passion 
of  motherhood.  Clarissa  has  no  help 
but  what  she  draws  from  the  reserves 
of  her  own  unconquerable  soul.  She 
faces  the  estranged  and  scoffing  world 
with  a  courage  worthy  of  the  old 
Elizabethans, — but  it  is  the  courage 
of  meekness,  of  quiet  fortitude,  and 
utmost  patience.  The  magnificent 
unconventionality  which,  in  an  age 
so  dominated  by  the  material  and  the 
accidental,  could  paint  a  wronged 
woman  radiant  and  triumphant  in  a 
white  light  of  purity,  while  the  suc- 
cessful villain  goes  mad  with  longing 
for  the  blessedness  he  has  misknown 
and  forfeited,  set  Richardson  above 
all  the  novelists  of  his  own  day,  and 
quickened  the  conscience  and  sym- 
pathy of  Europe.  His  modern  suc- 
cessor writes  for  a  public  more  critical 
and  more  impatient,  and  we  may  read 
him  without  the  allowances  we  have 
to  make  for  Richardson  ;  yet  we  may 
fairly  doubt  whether  DIANA  OP  THE 
CROSSWAYS  and  SANDRA  BELLONI  could 
ever  have  existed,  had  it  not  been  for 
CLARISSA  HARLOWE. 


362 


AN     OBJECT-LESSON. 


"So,  Margaret,  you  have  actually 
sent  them  to  school ! " 

The  speaker  gave  her  hat  the  right 
tilt  in  the  glass  as  she  spoke ;  behind 
her  Robin  lay  buried  in  an  arm-chair, 
deaf  and  blind  to  everything  except 
the  book  in  front  of  him,  which  he 
was  propping  up  against  a  cushion. 

"Yes,"  said  his  Mother.  "Life 
had  become  too  strenuous.  Perpetual 
mediation  between  the  children  and 
Henriette  was  wearing  me  to  a 
shadow.  They  go  to  school  now 
every  morning." 

"Then  you  are  going  to  honour 
the  frivolous  world  with  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  your  presence,  I  suppose." 

The  Mother  laughed.  "  I  hope  so," 
she  said,  "  although  it  will  probably 
not  realise  the  honour.  All  the  same, 
Kitty,  I  am  going  to  see  more  of  my 
friends  now,  among  other  things." 

"  Good  !  "  cried  Kitty,  clapping  her 
hands,  "  good  !  good  !  good  !  Come 
and  see  THE  FOOL'S  FOLLY  to-night ! 
I've  made  up  a  party  to  dine  at 
Prince's  and  go  to  the  theatre.  Do 
now,  there's  a  dear  ! — just  to  inaugu- 
rate the  new  era — isn't  that  the 
phrase  ? " 

"I  should  love  it,"  said  the  Mother. 
"  I  haven't  done  anything  nice  for  so 
long.  What  time  do  you  dine  ? " 

"  Early,"  replied  Kitty,  "  there's  no 
first  piece.  But  look  here,  why  not 
let  me  pick  you  up  on  the  way  ? 
Could  you  be  ready  by  half -past  six?" 

"  Oh  yes,  quite  easily.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  this  afternoon  but  just 
help  the  children  a  little  with  their 
preparation." 

Kitty  screwed  up  her  mouth.  "Oh, 
Margaret,  Margaret,  what  a  warning 


you  are  to  girls  about  to  marry  • 
Well,  I  can't  stay  now  :  I've  a  hun- 
dred things  to  do.  Au  revoir,  don't 
forget  half-past  six."  As  she  moved 
towards  the  door  her  glance  rested  on 
Robin.  "He  seems  peaceful,"  she  said. 
"  Do  you  think  he  is  really  reading  ? " 

"  I  should  say  it  was  obvious," 
answered  the  Mother. 

Kitty  shook  her  head.  "One  never 
knows,"  she  said ;  "  it's  probably  only 
a  blind  to  conceal  some  new  villainy." 

Mother  was  up  in  arms.  "  How 
dare  you  ?  "  she  said  indignantly. 
"  He's  a  darling !  " 

"  Oh  I  know  he's  a  darling,"  an- 
swered Kitty  placidly ;  "  so  is  the 
other  one ;  they're  both  darlings.  I 
can't  imagine  how  you  ever  found  a 
school  good  enough  for  them." 

"I  didn't,"  answered  the  Mother, 
falling  into  the  trap.  "  Mrs.  Ponsonby 
found  it  and  she  sends  Peter  there. 
It's  so  delightful,  a  sort  of  extension 
of  the  Kindergarten  system,  if  you 
know  what  that  is  !  " 

"Of  course  I  know,"  said  Kitty 
sagaciously.  "  I  went  into  a  Kinder- 
garten once  when  they  were  having 
an  object-lesson ;  it  was  on  the  silk- 
worm, and  they  were  all  crawling 
about  on  the  floor." 

"  Kitty,  you  are  quite  incorrigible," 
said  the  Mother.  "  Be  off  to  your 
hundred  impossible  frivolities." 

Kitty  laughed.  "  Good-bye  "  she 
called  out,  as  she  circled  down  the 
endless  staircase  from  her  friend's  flat. 
"  Look  pretty  and  don't  be  late  !  " 

The  Mother  went  back  to  the 
drawing-room  with  a  smile  on  her 
lips  ;  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  her 
to  be,  with  a  good  conscience,  once 


An  Object- Lesson. 


363 


more  an  irresponsible  among  the 
irresponsibles.  Of  late  she  had  be- 
come rather  more  tied  to  her  children 
than  she  either  desired  or  approved, 
and  it  was  a  relief  to  have  the 
responsibility  of  their  education  lifted 
from  her  shoulders  for  the  greater 
part  of  each  day. 

Their  training  was  to  be  conducted 
by  experts  whose  business  it  was  to 
fit  them  for  after  education  by  a 
carefully  planned  system,  by  which 
they  were  to  be  taught  no  mysterious 
and  incomprehensible  facts  and  dates, 
but  to  be  guided  delightfully  through 
the  elementary  stages  of  knowledge 
until  they  were  able  to  apply  the 
methods  they  had  learnt  not  only  to 
the  routine  of  the  public  school  but 
to  the  problems  of  life  itself.  It  had 
seemed  a  delightful  task  to  their 
Mother  to  be  able  to  help  at  all  in  a 
work  carried  out  in  such  a  spirit  and 
with  such  ideals,  and  she  had  joyfully 
undertaken  to  superintend  their  daily 
preparation.  She  was  turning  these 
things  over  dreamily  in  her  mind, 
when  the  voice  of  Robin  broke  into 
her  meditations.  "  Mother,  who  was 
Hector  ? " 

The  Mother  looked  at  Robin 
vaguely;  her  thoughts  could  not 
travel  quickly  to  such  a  remote  per- 
sonage. "  Who  was  who,  dear  I  "  she 
said  to  gain  breath. 

"  Hector,"  repeated  Robin,  impa- 
tiently, tapping  the  ground  with  his 
one  available  foot,  the  other  being 
curled  under  him. 

"  Hector  1 "  Her  voice  sounded 
faint  and  far-off,  but  as  she  went  on 
she  gained  courage.  "  Hector  was  a 
Greek  and  a  hero, — that  means  a  very 
brave  man.  You  will  read  about  him 
some  day." 

"  Thank  you.  I'm  reading  about 
him  now.'' 

The  Mother  took  up  her  needle  and 
began  to  work  vigorously.  What 
was  the  name  of  that  dusty  black 


book  that  had  stood  in  the  corner 
of  the  study  book-shelf  at  home  1 
Ah  yes,  she  remembered — Smith's 
SMALLER  CLASSICAL  DICTIONARY.  "  I 
shall  write  home  for  it  to-morrow,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

Before  her  new  needleful  of  silk 
had  spread  itself  out,  she  became 
aware  of  Robin's  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
with  a  puzzled  expression.  "  What 
is  it,  dear?"  she  asked.  "Are  you 
reading  about  something  that  you 
cannot  understand  ? " 

"  Yes,  Mother,"  he  replied  in  a 
dissatisfied  voice  ;  "I  cannot  under- 
stand how  Hector  was  Priam's  son  if 
he  was  a  Greek,  for  Priam  was  King 
of  Troy,  wasn't  he  ?  Perhaps  it  is  a 
mistake  though.  He  may  not  have 
been  Priam's  son  at  all,  or  Priam  may 
not  have  been  King  of  Troy.  Do  you 
think  it  is  a  mistake  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  the  mother  quickly, 
"  it  isn't  a  mistake.  I  forgot ;  how 
stupid  of  me  !  Of  course  Hector  was 
Priam's  son  and  a  Trojan.  It  was 
the  Trojans  who  made  that  big  wooden 
horse  you  know ;  you  will  read  about 
that  too,  some  day." 

This  time  Robin  laid  his  book  down 
and  stared  hard  at  his  Mother.  A 
suspicion  began  to  force  his  mind 
uneasily.  She  was  wrong  again ! 
Could  it  be  possible  that  she  didn't 
know  it  was  Grecian  cunning  that 
had  devised  the  horse  ?  His  mother, 
meanwhile,  drew  her  needle  placidly 
in  and  out  of  her  work.  If  it  had 
been  possible,  at  that  moment,  for  her 
to  have  seen  Jack  outside  the  nursery 
cupboard,  disembowelled  for  the 
occasion  and  stuffed  full  of  Greek 
warriors  in  khaki,  she  would  have 
realised  that  he  was  awaiting  the 
shades  of  night,  when  Toby's  dolls  and 
the  golly  wog  would  steal  out  silently 
and  pull  him  into  Troy  Town,  and 
then  such  a  mistake  would  have  been 
impossible. 

Robin     watched      the      unvarying 


364 


An  Object-Lesson. 


needle  restlessly.  He  was  burning  to 
gauge  his  Mother's  knowledge  of  these 
wonderful  new  things,  which,  for  a 
grown-up  person,  appeared  to  him  to 
be  surprisingly  inadequate.  Suddenly 
he  spoke.  "  Mother,  what  is  the 
French  for  ornithorhynchus  ? " 

This  time  Mother  had  no  qualms  ; 
she  answered  smiling  and  prompt : 
"  My  dear  child,  I  haven't  the  faintest 
notion." 

"  Perhaps  you  know  the  French  for 
duck-billed  platypus  1 "  Robin's  voice 
grew  stern.  "It  means  the  same  thing." 

"  No,  nor  that  either." 

"  Well  then,— water-mole  ? " 

"  No." 

Robin  kept  his  grave  stare  full  on 
his  Mother's  face ;  matters  seemed  to 
him  to  be  serious.  "  What  a  terrible 
lot  of  things  there  are  that  you  don't 
know  about,  Mother,"  he  said. 

"  Terrible  ! "  the  Mother  confessed. 
"  If  you  began  to  count  now  and 
went  on  counting  all  your  life,  you 
wouldn't  come  to  the  end." 

"Is  that  true?"  asked  Robin 
alarmed. 

"  As  true  as  you  are  you  and  I  am 
I,"  answered  the  Mother. 

Robin  turned  away  plunged  in 
gloom  ;  his  apprehension  was  realised, 
for  out  of  her  own  mouth  was  she 
condemned. 

"I  wonder  if  that  is  what  Miss 
MacTavish  meant  by  invincible  ignor- 
ance," he  said  slowly. 

The  Mother  absolutely  jumped  at 
the  priggishness  of  his  manner.  The 
system  was  growing  startling  in  its 
effects.  "  I  wonder,"  she  said 
simply.  She  had  kept  her  amuse- 
ment bravely  out  of  her  face,  but 
Robin  caught  the  suspicion  of  a 
twinkle  in  her  eye  and  wriggled  un- 
comfortably in  his  chair;  still,  in  a 
way  she  had  confessed  to  invincible 
ignorance,  whereas  he  had  given  her 
credit  for  omniscience,  and  it  was  a 
rude  jolt. 


"  Mother,"  he  began  and  paused, 
his  desire  to  wriggle  growing  more 
pronounced  and  the  red  mounting  to 
his  cheeks. 

"  Well,  dear,"  said  the  Mother. 

"  Couldn't  you,  — "  he  stopped 
again  and  this  time  his  blushes 
crept  to  the  edge  of  his  smock  — 
"couldn't  you — no  one  would  know, 
you  see — they  would  think  you  were 
a  sort  of  teacher." 

"  Couldn't  I  do  what  1 "  asked  the 
Mother  laying  down  her  work. 

"  Come  with  us, — not  into  the  boot- 
room  of  course,  but  just  into  the 
schoolroom  —  to  learn  about  things 
with  the  other  children  ? " 

It  was  out  now,  and  he  would 
have  given  his  new  paint-box  and  his 
pop-gun  not  to  have  spoken.  His 
feet  had  wandered  into  that  bewil- 
dering borderland  which,  in  common 
with  all  children,  he  instinctively 
avoided,  the  place  where  mysteries 
abounded,  where  people  laughed  at 
things  that  had  no  humour  in  them 
and  became  of  a  sudden  red  with 
anger  at  nothing  at  all,  the  place 
that  was  full  of  strange  hints,  weary- 
ing complications,  and  stinging  ridi- 
cule. He  felt  painfully  lost  as,  hot 
and  angry,  with  the  tears  sparkling 
on  his  lashes,  he  watched  the  effect 
of  his  suggestion  on  his  Mother. 
Her  self-control  had  completely  given 
way  and  she  was  laughing  with 
tears  (such  different  tears)  in  her 
eyes,  for  the  self-sufficiency  of  the 
small  mite  seemed  to  her  to  be  so 
tremendous. 

At  last  the  situation  became  in- 
tolerable and  Robin  spoke.  "  Don't, 
Mother,"  he  said,  kicking  the  chair, 
"  don't,  don't,  it's  horrible  of  you  !  " 

Then  the  Mother  paused  and  her 
laughter  gave  way  under  a  sense  of 
compunction,  for  Robin  turned  from 
her,  letting  fall  those  insistent  drops 
called  up  by  her  ridicule.  She  threw 
away  her  work  and  opened  her  arms. 


An  Object-Lesson. 


365 


"  Dear  love,"  she  cried,  "  what  a 
wicked  cruel  Mother  you  have  got ! 
There,  there,  she  will  never  laugh  at 
you  again  !  Come  and  sit  on  her  lap 
and  talk  about  wisdom." 

After  tea  the  children  came  in  to 
do  their  preparation.  The  Mother 
looked  at  the  clock ;  it  was  half-past 
five  and  Kitty  was  coming  at  half- 
past  six ;  she  had  to  dress,  but  she 
decided  to  get  their  lessons  well  started 
before  leaving  them  to  their  own 
devices  and  Henriette.  She  took  her 
seat  at  the  end  of  the  table  and 
opened  the  little  black  book  in  which 
was  written  the  list  of  subjects  for 
daily  preparation.  Write  object-lesson; 
as  her  eye  fell  on  the  phrase  she 
thought  of  Kitty's  silkworms  and 
smiled.  "  Now  then,  children,  you 
had  better  begin  with  your  object- 
lesson  ;  at  least  Robin  had ;  I  will 
give  Toby  something  else  to  do.  Be 
quick,  Robin  dear,"  she  said,  pushing 
his  exercise-book  and  a  pen  across  the 
table  to  him. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ? "  asked  Robin 
picking  up  the  book. 

"Do?  Why,  write  down  all  you 
can  remember  of  your  object-lesson  to 
be  sure." 

Robin  looked  blankly  in  front  of 
him.  "But  I  don't  remember  any- 
thing about  it  at  all,"  he  said.  "I, 
—I  don't  think  I  could  have  been 
paying  attention." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  said  the  Mother, 
"  you  must  remember  what  it  was 
about.  Come  now,  think." 

Robin  contorted  his  face  and  stared 
first  up  at  the  ceiling  and  then  at 
the  floor  and  then  out  of  the  window. 
He  wriggled,  and  twisted  his  feet 
round  the  legs  of  the  chair,  and 
rubbed  his  fingers  on  his  hair  but  all 
to  no  purpose.  "If  you  could  give 
me  a  hint  of  how  it  began,  I  could  go 
on,"  he  said. 

"But  I  can't  give  you  a  hint,  I 
wasn't  there,"  said  the  Mother.  "  Can 


you  remember  what  the  object-lesson 
was  about,  Toby  ? " 

"No,"  said  Toby  sorrowfully,  "I 
can't  remember ;  I  couldn't  have  been 
paying  attention  either.  Perhaps  it 
was  leaves.  Was  it  leaves  or  teeth, 
Robin  ?  Don't  you  remember  '  What 
are  the  three  ways  of  using  your  teeth 
besides  eating  ? ' " 

"  No."  Robin  shook  his  head.  "  It 
wasn't  teeth  ;  we  did  that  a  long  time 
ago  and  it  wasn't  leaves  either,  for  it 
was  only  yesterday  that  I  was  think- 
ing how  funny  it  was  that  leaves 
should  have  stomachs." 

"What,  dear?"  asked  his  Mother 
in  surprise. 

"  Stomachs,"  said  Robin.  "  I  think 
it  was  stomachs  that  Miss  MacTavish 
said, — anyhow  that  is  what  I  wrote 
down." 

"  Have  you  got  the  book  there  1 " 
asked  the  Mother  in  some  bewilder- 
ment, forgetting  the  need  of  haste  in 
her  curiosity.  "  Can  you  find  the 
place?" 

"  Of  course  I  can,"  answered  Robin 
briskly  turning  over  the  pages  of  his 
exercise-book.  "  Here  it  is  !  '  Leaves 
have  a  large  surface  for  their  size. 
The  stomachs  are  found  at  the  back 
of  the  leaf.' " 

"  Stomata  ! "  exclaimed  Mother  sud- 
denly with  dawning  comprehension. 

"  Stomata  I  "  repeated  Robin  after 
her  as  though  it  were  a  password, — 
"  why  1 " 

The  Mother  was  non-plussed  ;  there 
appeared  to  be  no  answer  to  such  a 
question.  Robin  continued,  "  What 
a  funny  word,  Mother  !  What  does 
it  mean  1  " 

"  You  had  the  object-lesson, 
Robin,"  answered  his  Mother  se- 
verely, "  I  hadn't.  If  you  don't 
understand  it  now,  you  had  better 
ask  Miss  MacTavish  to  explain  it  to 
you.  I  haven't  time  to  teach  you 
botany.  Come  along,  we  really  must 
get  on  quicker." 


366 


An  Object-Lesson . 


"But  I  do  understand  all  Miss 
MacTavish  says,"  returned  Robin 
offended.  "  It  is  only—  " 

"Perhaps,"  interrupted  Toby  plea- 
santly, a  smile  illuminating  his  face, 
"  perhaps  the  lesson  was  on  pickle- 
sticks." 

The  Mother's  fingers  beat  an    im- 
patient tattoo  on  the  table.   "Children, 
children,"  she  said,  "  we  have  no  time 
to  talk.    What  are  picklesticks,  Toby  1 " 
"  You  said  that  we  hadn't  any  time 
to  talk,"  answered  Toby  sulkily,  "and 
now  you  talk  yourself." 
"  Answer  my  question." 
"  Well,      now,"     answered      Toby 
gravely,    "if    you    were    building    a 
nest  in  a  pond —  " 

The  Mother  leant  back  with  a  jerk ; 
at  that  moment  she  would  have  wel- 
comed the  Mad  Hatter  for  a  little 
relevant  conversation.  Robin  put 
his  hand  over  hers  soothingly.  "  He 
means  sticklebacks,  Mummy  dear ; 
he  only  calls  them  picklesticks.  You 
know  thab  sticklebacks  always — " 

"  Robin,"  said  his  Mother  in  even 
tones,  the  result  of  successful  self- 
repression,  "  we  have  no  time  to  talk. 
Write  Object  Lesson  III  at  the  top 
of  the  page." 

Robin  clutched  his  pen  and  in  slow 
upright  letters  did  as  he  was  told. 
"  What  next,  Mummy  ? "  he  asked 
with  imperturbable  good-humour. 
"  I've  written  that  ever  so  nicely." 

"Well,  what  is  the  object-lesson 
about  ? " 

"  That's  just  what  we  don't  know  ! 
Aren't  you  going  to  tell  us  1  What- 
ever was  the  good  of  beginning  it  at 
all  if  you  don't  know  either  1  I  can't 
write  an  object-lesson  that  nobody 
knows!  " 

The  Mother  groaned  inwardly.  The 
hands  of  the  clock  were  moving  in- 
exorably onwards  ;  more  than  twenty 
minutes  had  passed  and  the  little  hand 
was  near  the  hour.  "  I  shall  never  see 
A  FOOL'S  FOLLY  at  this  rate,"  she 


thought ;  "  not  outside  of  my  own  flat 
at  all  events." 

Suddenly  Toby  withdrew  his  eyes 
from  staring  into  vacancy,  and  fixed 
them  on  his  Mother.  "  I've  remem- 
bered Mummy,"  he  said,  "  I've  remem- 
bered !  Volcanoes  !  " 

"  Volcanoes  !  "  exclaimed  Robin, 
"  truly  ?  Shall  I  write  down  vol- 
canoes, Mother  1  " 

The  Mother  hesitated.  "Well  really, 
I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "If  you 
don't  remember  a  word  of  the  lesson, 
what  you  write  won't  be  your  own 
composition,  will  it  ?  " 

"  What's  composition  1 " 

"  Well,  your  own  make  up,  your 
own  words,  your  own  ideas." 

"  Oh  yes,  it  will,"  said  Robin  cheer- 
fully. "I  shall  remember  my  ideas 
directly  Toby  tells  me  them.  I'm 
beginning  to  remember  now.  Go  on 
Toby  !  What  about  volcanoes  ? " 

"  Well,"  said  Toby  sententiously, 
"  the  inside  of  the  earth  is  very  hot 
and  volcanoes  connect  with  it." 

It  sounded  promising.  The  Mother 
took  heart  of  grace  as  she  heard 
Henriette  putting  out  her  evening 
things ;  at  the  same  time  her  eyes 
avoided  the  clock. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Robin, 
biting  the  end  of  his  pen. 

"  I  shall  have  to  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning," answered  Toby  gravely,  "  and 
if  you  will  sit  very  quiet,  I  will  tell 
you  about  it.  It  is  most  interesting." 

"  Pooh,  you  needn't  think  such  an 
awful  lot  of  yourself,  because  you 
happen  to  have  been  listening !  It's 
just  a  fluke  that  I  didn't  hear  as  well 
as  you." 

"  The  beginning  is  that  once  upon 
a  time  the  earth  was  a  little  bit  of 
the  sun,"  said  Toby  ignoring  his 
brother's  remarks.  "Do  you  under- 
stand, Robin?" 
Robin  nodded. 

"Well,  one  day  the  earth  got 
wriggled  off  because  the  sun  went 


An  Object-Lesson. 


367 


on  twisting  about  and  going  on, — 
from  hotness  I  suppose.  Do  you 
understand,  Robin  1 " 

Robin  nodded  again.  "  It  was 
boiling  perhaps,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Toby.  "  It  was 
boiling  and  the  little  bit  was  boiling 
too;  but  the  little  bit  was  such  a 
teeny  weeny  little  bit,  that  its  outside 
soon  got  cold,  and  then  God  made  the 
Garden  of  Eden  and  Adam  and  Eve." 

"  What  a  funny  object-lesson, 
Toby,"  said  Robin,  looking  at  his 
brother  doubtfully.  "  Are  you  sure 
that—" 

"  Be  quiet !  You  said  that  you 
didn't  remember  a  word  about  it. 
I'm  going  on.  The  inside,  you  see, 
didn't  matter  to  Adam  and  Eve  any 
more  than  it  does  to  us,  so  it  went  on 
boiling  and  it  goes  on  boiling  now 
and  when  it  over-boils  it  squirts  up 
stuff,  and  that's  volcanoes." 

"How  do  you  spell  volcanoes, 
Mother  dear  1 "  asked  Robin,  pre- 
paring to  write  down  all  the  informa- 
tion he  had  just  received. 

But  the  Mother  didn't  answer ; 
she  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
the  note-book  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression on  her  face.  "  I  can't  make 
it  out  at  all,"  she  said.  "  I  have  been 
looking  at  Friday's  preparation  and 
to-day  is  only  Thursday.  You  don't 
have  your  object-lesson  until  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  Don't  we  ? "  said  Robin,  opening 
his  eyes.  -"Then  that  was  why  I 
couldn't  remember  it." 

"  But  why  in  the  world  didn't  you 
tell  me  that  I  had  made  a  mistake 
instead  of  behaving  in  that  idiotic 
way  1 "  asked  the  Mother  sharply. 

"We  didn't  behave  in  an  idiotic 
way,"  answered  Robin  indignantly. 
"  You  said  '  Write  down  Object-Lesson 
III.'  and  I  wrote  it  down ;  and  then 
you  said  '  Try  and  remember  what  it 
was  about,'  and  I  tried  to  remember 
what  it  was  about ;  and  I  couldn't 


because     it    wasn't    about   anything, 
because  we  didn't  have  it." 

"  Then  why  did  Toby  talk  all  that 
nonsense  about  volcanoes  ?  Really, 
you  are  quite  hopeless  ;  I  give  you 
both  up  !  " 

"  Then  you  are  a  wicked  Mummy," 
said  Toby  gravely. 

Mother  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed,  and  as  she  did  so,  she  saw 
that  there  was  only  ten  minutes  left 
of  her  time.  The  laugh  died  on  her 
lips,  but  she  resigned  herself  to  the 
inevitable  with  a  good  grace. 

"Tell  me,  Toby  dear,"  she  said, 
putting  her  arm  round  the  little 
boy,  "  why  did  you  tell  that  long 
story  ?  " 

"  I  was  remembering,"  said  Toby ; 
"  you  told  me  to  try  and  remember 
something,  so  I  remembered  volcanoes." 

"  But  why  did  you  say  it  was  an 
object-lesson,  when  you  never  had  an 
object-lesson  at  all  1  " 

"I  didn't,"  said  Toby;  "you  said 
that,  or  Robin,  I  forget  which,  but 
I  thought  that  perhaps  it  was.  You 
see,  I  had  forgotten  how  I  had  heard 
about  volcanoes  and  I  had  forgotten 
the  object-lesson,  so  two  forgettings 
made  one  remembering.  Do  you  see, 
Mother  ? " 

The  Mother  shook  her  head.  "  I'm 
afraid  I  don't,"  she  said. 

"  I  know  how  you  heard  about 
volcanoes,  Toby,"  said  Robin.  "  It 
was  the  geography-lesson  of  the  first 
class  and  you  were  standing  in  the 
corner  being  punished  for  fiddling." 

"  Of  course  it  was  !  "  said  Toby 
brightening.  "  I  remember  now.  I'm 
so  glad  that  I  remember  !  it  was 
such  a  lovely  lesson." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  heard  all 
that  about  Adam  and  Eve,"  said 
Robin  contemplatively. 

"  Oh  that  wasn't  there  at  all,"  put 
in  Toby  quickly.  "  I  thought  of  that 
all  myself.  Miss  MacTavish  doesn't 
like  Adam  and  Eve  or  Abraham  or 


368 


An  Object-Lesson. 


any  of  those  people  one  bit.     Mother, 
why  doesn't  Miss  MacTavish — " 

There  was  a  sharp  ring  at  the  door, 
followed  almost  immediately  by  the 
apparition  of  a  pink  cloud  of  frills  and 
chiffon. 

"Well!"  The  pink  cloud  shook 
itself  and  Kitty, — an  indignant  Kitty 
— burst  forth.  "  Upon  my  word, 
Margaret,  you  are  too  bad  !  " 

She  took  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance,  and,  although  not  very  much 
surprised  at  any  new  eccentricity  dis- 
played by  her  friend,  was  for  the 
moment  exeeedingly  wrathful. 

The  Mother,  finding  that  her  apolo- 
gies were  taken  out  of  her  mouth, 
was  quietly  ruling  lines  with  a  pencil. 

"  You  are  an  unreliable  woman, 
Margaret !  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  dear ;  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  much  I  have  wanted  to 
come,"  answered  the  Mother,  laying 
down  her  pencil.  "  But  look,  you  see 
it  is  impossible.  There  is  not  the 
slightest  use  in  my  sending  the  boys 
to  school  if  they  don't  prepare  their 
lessons  every  day,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Haven't  they  nearly  finished  the 
horrid  things  ? "  cried  Kitty. 

"  They  haven't  begun,"  answered 
the  Mother,  half  laughing  and  half 
crying.  "  They  have  been  combating 
windmills  in  the  shape  of  an  object- 
lesson  that  didn't  exist." 

Kitty  put  her  hand  up  to  her  head. 
"  You  are  very  confusing,  Margaret," 
she  observed ;  then  her  righteous 
anger  blazed  afresh.  "  Oh,  it's  sicken- 
ing, and  so  ridiculous  !  I  never,  in 
all  my  life,  heard  of  any  woman  going 
on  as  you  do  !  I  did  think  that  you 
would  have  reformed  when  you  had 
found  a  school,  but  really  it  seems  to 
have  made  things  worse.  Oh  why, 
why,  why  couldn't  you  have  sent 
them  to  a  common  ordinary  school 
without  a  system  1 "  She  paused  for 
breath  and  then  continued  solemnly  : 
"  I  think  you  are  mad,  Margaret ! 


That  is  the  only  way  that  it  can 
be  accounted  for.  Detestable  little 
children,  why  have  you  made  your 
mother  go  mad  ?  " 

The  air  became  electric  as  Robin 
and  Toby  stared  open-mouthed  from 
Kitty  to  Mother  and  then  back  from 
Mother  to  Kitty.  At  last  the  storm 
broke ;  they  could  bear  the  strain 
no  longer  and  simultaneously  as  the 
paroxysm  seized  them,  they  opened 
their  mouths  and  roared. 

Kitty  caught  hold  of  the  Mother's 
two  hands,  pulling  her  out  of  the 
room  and  then  shut  the  door  firmly 
behind  them  and  the  noise. 

"There,  there,  I'm  disgraceful. 
Goodness  how  they  yell !  But  listen 
now,  Margaret,  you  must  come.  If 
you  are  too  late  for  dinner,  go  on  and 
meet  us  at  the  theatre.  I  will  leave 
word  at  the  box-office.  If  you  don't 
come,  I  shall  think  that  you  are 
angry  with  me,  but  truly,  it  was  for 
your  own  sake,  as  much  as  anything, 
for  if  you  shut  yourself  up  like  this 
perpetually,  I  won't  be  answerable 
for  the  consequences." 

The  Mother  leaned  forward  and 
kissed  her.  "  Thank  you,  dear,  of 
course  I  understand.  I'll  come  if  I 
can.  Good-bye." 

"  No  no,  not  good-bye,"  cried  Kitty, 
stamping  her  foot,  "  au  revoir  !  You 
just  knock  those  two  polished  corners 
off  to  bed  and  be  a  good,  happy,  sane 
woman  again." 

As  the  Mother  opened  the  door, 
both  the  children  flung  themselves 
upon  her.  "Mummy  darling,  Mummy 
darling,  we're  not  making  you  mad, 
are  we  1 "  "  You  won't  have  to  go 
and  live  among  the  tombs  like  the 
man  in  the  Bible  !  "  "  Or  wrap  your- 
self in  a  sheet  and  carry  a  bell  ! " 
"  Oh,  say  that  you  are  not  mad,  and 
say  that  you  love  us,  and  say  that  we 
are  not  naughty,  and  say  that  Auntie 
Kitty  is  a  horrible  woman  !  " 

The  Mother  gently  disengaged  her- 


An  Object-Lesson. 


369 


self  from  the  clinging  little  fingers. 
"  No,  dears,  I'm  quite  in  ray  right 
mind,  make  yourselves  easy;  if  you 
get  on  with  your  preparation  you  will 
be  good  boys.  Auntie  Kitty  didn't 
understand ;  you  see  Auntie  Kitty 
hasn't  got  any  little  children."  She 
once  more  took  her  seat  at  the  end  of 
the  table.  "  Now  then,  let  us  go  on 
and  be  quite  sure  this  time  that  we 
have  got  the  right  lesson.  Thursday, 
geography  :  what  geography  have  you 
got  to  do,  and  where  is  the  book  ? " 

"  Oh,  we  don't  have  a  book,"  said 
Robin  ;  "  we  never  have  a  book.  We 
have  to  make  gummy  islands." 

"  Gummy  islands  !  "  repeated  the 
Mother. 

"  Yes,"  explained  Toby ;  "  we  trace 
an  island  out  of  the  atlas,  and  then 
we  gum  it  all  over,  and  after  that  we 
cover  it  all  up  with  sand,  and  the 
sand  sticks  !  It's  a  lovely  play  !  " 

"  What  island  have  you  to  make 
for  to-morrow  ? " 

"New  Guinea,"  cried  both  the 
children  promptly. 

The  Mother's  heart  felt  a  little 
lighter  ;  it  was  so  much  easier  to  do 
one's  duty  when  one  had  something 
definite  to  go  upon,  and  New  Guinea 
certainly  existed.  "  Get  the  atlas," 
she  cried  gaily.  The  atlas  was  pro- 
duced, also  pens,  pencils,  tracing- 
paper  and  gum.  "  Do  you  write  in 
the  places  1 "  asked  the  Mother,  study- 
ing the  map. 

"I'm  not  quite  sure  about  the 
places,"  answered  Toby;  "but  we 
have  to  put  in  the  birds  and  the 
trees  and  the  coal  and  the  diamonds 
and  the  people  and  the  manufactures 
and  the  fishes  and — " 

"  Not  the  fishes,  Toby,"  said  Robin. 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  quite  sure  that  we 
have  to  put  in  the  fishes,"  insisted 
Toby.  "  I  don't  care  what  you  do, 
but  I  shall  put  in  my  fishes." 

"Where     is    the     geography-book 
where  we   can  find  all  this  informa- 
No.  509. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


tion?"  asked  the  Mother,  putting 
down  the  map  and  turning  Robin's 
knapsack  inside  out  in  search  of  it. 

"Book?"  cried  Robin.  "Oh  we 
don't  get  it  out  of  a  book.  Miss 
MacTavish  hates  books ;  you've  got 
to  tell  us." 

"  When  you  do  geography  with  me," 
replied  the  Mother  sternly,  laying 
down  the  knapsack,  "  you  put  the 
places,  which  you  copy  out  of  the 
atlas,  into  your  maps  and  not  another 
word  about  anything  else." 

"  Mayn't  I  put  in  even  a  bird  of 
paradise  1 "  asked  Robin  gloomily. 

"  No,  I  won't  make  myself  respon- 
sible for  even  a  bird  of  paradise," 
answered  the  Mother.  "  If  Miss 
MacTavish  told  you  about  a  bird  of 
paradise,  put  him  in ;  if  she  didn't, 
leave  him  out." 

"Well  she  did,  then,"  answered 
Robin;  "New  Guinea  abounds  in 
birds  of  paradise." 

"  Come,  come,  begin  ! "  said  Mother. 
"  Have  you  got  everything  now  1 " 

"  We  haven't  got  anything." 

"Nonsense,  here  is  tracing-paper, 
pen,  ink,  and  gum ;  what  more  do 
you  want?" 

"  Sand,"  answered  Robin. 

"  Oh  yes,  Miss  MacTavish  said  that 
we  were  to  ask  cook  for  the  sand," 
put  in  Toby. 

"  Sand  !  "  echoed  the  Mother. 

"  Silver  sand ;  I  told  you  so ;  but 
all  cooks  have  silver  sand,  Miss  Mac- 
Tavish says." 

An  idea  was  floating  nebulously  in 
the  Mother's  mind  and  as  she  went 
to  the  bell,  it  began  to  take  form  and 
substance. 

"  Ask  cook  for  a  little  silver  sand 
in  a  basin,  Ann,  please,"  she  said  in 
a  slightly  constrained  voice  to  the 
astonished  parlourmaid. 

Matters  had  been  pushed  too  far 
and  she  began  to  feel  that  life,  with 
a  system,  was  more  wearing  than  life 
without  one.  "  I  will  see  Miss  Mac- 

B    B 


370 


An  Object-Lesson. 


Tavish  to-morrow  at  any  rate,"  she 
murmured  to  herself.  "  I  will  not 
undertake  this  kind  of  work." 

She  was  deep  in  thought  when  the 
door  opened  and  Ann  again  stood 
before  her.  "  Please  Ma'am,  cook 
says  that  there  isn't  a  grain  of  silver 
sand  in  the  house." 

"  Oh  well,  that  settles  it ! "  said 
the  Mother  decidedly.  "  You  may 
go  now,  children.  There  is  no  more 
preparation  to-night." 

"  You  mean  that  there  is  no  pre- 
paration to-night,  Mummy  dear,"  said 
Robin,  gathering  up  the  pens  and 
exercise-books.  "  We  haven't  had 
any  yet,  have  we  ?  " 

The  Mother  looked  at  the  clock. 
"  No,"  she  answered,  "  you  are  quite 
right.  We  have  just  spent  one  whole 
hour  and  a  half  in  doing  nothing  at  all." 


"  Oh,  well,  we  are  going  to  do 
something  now,"  cried  Toby,  capering 
off  into  the  nursery.  "  Come  on, 
Robin,  let's  dress  up  and  have  a 
play  ! " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  cried  the 
Mother  briskly,  as  she  rang  for 
Henriette.  "  You  are  going  to  bed, 
my  dear  little  sons.  It's  my  turn 
now ;  I  am  the  person  who  is  going 
to  dress  up  and  have  a  play." 

"  You,  Mummy  ! "  cried  both  the 
boys  in  amazement.  "  You  dress  up !" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mother.  "  Why 
not  ?  You  want  to  keep  all  the  fun 
to  yourselves." 

"  But — but — it's  so  queer  !  We 
ought  to,  for  we  are  boys,  you  see, 
and  you — you  are  a  Mother." 

"  I  know,"  said  the  Mother  rue- 
fully, "that's  just  it!" 


THAT   STRAIN   AGAIN. 


A  LONELY  sound  awakes  me,  long 
Before  the  coming  of  the  light, — 
The  storm-cock's  rich  imperious  song 
Dropped  from  the  lime-tree's  leafless  height. 

Divinely  sweet  those  matins  ring 
Amid  the  dark,  and  winter's  dearth  ; 
It  is  the  Orpheus  of  the  Spring 
Calls  the  Eurydice  of  Earth. 


371 


SIR   WILLIAM   MOLESWORTH   AND   THE   COLONIAL 
REFORMERS.1 


MRS.    FAWCETT   has   done   a   good 
service  in  giving  us  a  biography  of 
Sir  William  Molesworth,  the  Cornish 
baronet  who,  living  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Victorian  era,  became  one  of 
the  leading  lights  of  that  interesting 
but  rather  heterogeneous  band  of  en- 
thusiasts known  as  Colonial  Reformers, 
or  Philosophical  Radicals.    The  whole 
movement  was  complicated,  and  arose 
from   a   variety  of   causes.      In  one 
sense  it  reflected   those  political  and 
social  ideas  which   were  the  natural 
corollary  of  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832  ; 
in    another    it   was  a   Party   protest 
against   the   nerveless    policy   of    the 
Whigs  of  the  day  who,  as  politicians, 
did  not  seem  to  have  the  courage  of 
their  opinions,  and,  further,  it  was  a 
protest  on  behalf  of  British  colonisa- 
tion and  the  best  methods  of  settling 
a  new  country.     The  names  of  Lord 
Durham,  John  Stuart  Mill,  Roebuck, 
Hume,  Grote,  E.  G.  Wakefield,  Charles 
Buller,  as  well  as  that  of  Sir  William 
Molesworth,     amply     illustrate     this 
diversity    of    aim.       History,    philo- 
sophy,   social    science,    philanthropy, 
colonisation,  all  had  their  expounders 
at  the  hands  of  this  brilliant  coterie. 

For  the  moment  we  are  more  con- 
cerned with  their  ideas  on  colonies 
and  colonisation,  especially  as  we  now 
seem  to  be  reaping  a  full  harvest  of 
colonial  loyalty  and  colonial  patriotism. 
At  certain  stages  of  our  national 
history  it  may  not  be  altogether  an 
idle  task  to  count  up  results  and 
assign  proper  causes,  and  if  we  can 

1  LIFE  OP  THE  RIGHT  HON.  SIB  WILLIAM 
MOLESWORTH,  BART.,  M  P.,  F.K.S.  ;  by 
Mrs.  Fawcett.  London :  1901. 


trace  the  present  contentment  in 
Canada,  Australia,  and  New  Zealand 
back  to  the  clear  principles  enunciated 
by  this  band  of  Colonial  Reformers, 
then  we  are  upon  fruitful  ground. 

It  is  not   necessary  to  look  back 
very  far  to  understand  how  hard  was 
the  task  of  Colonial  Reformers  in  the 
early  days  of  Queen  Victoria.     The 
Colonial  Office  itself  had  long  been  in 
a  hopeless  state  of  departmental  con- 
fusion.    In   1802  colonial  affairs  had 
been  attached  to  the  War  Office,  Lord 
Hobart  having  been  the  first  Secretary 
of  State  for  War  and  the  Colonies,  a 
conjunction    of    irreconcilable    offices 
which  actually  lasted  to  the  Aberdeen 
Ministry,  when  the  Duke  of  Newcastle 
was  the  last  Minister  who  held  the 
two   offices   together.      The  new  era 
might  practically  be  said  to  have  com- 
menced with  Sir  William  Molesworth, 
who  was  appointed  Secretary  of  State 
for  the  Colonies  alone  in  July,  1855, 
under  Lord  Palmerston's  Government, 
an  office  he  was  spared  to  hold  only 
a  few  months,  but  which  was  a  fitting 
climax  to  his  career.     The  inconveni- 
ences of  the  double  office,  which  Sir 
William  did  so  much  in  his  character 
as  a  Colonial  Reformer  to  demonstrate, 
were   also    made    clear    in    a    debate 
raised  by  Sir  John  Pakington  in  1855, 
in  the  course  of  which,  to  use  his  own 
words,    "  a   state  of   public    business 
hardly  decorous  "  was  revealed  ;  while 
the  Colonial  Office  itself  was  described 
in  a  witty  apothegm  of  Lord  Derby's 
as  "The  office   at  War  with  all  the 
Colonies."       At    certain    stages,    no 
doubt,  of  our  colonial  history  a  mili- 
tary governor  is   required,   especially 

B   B      2 


372        Sir   William  Molesivortli  and  the  Colonial  Reformers. 


in  the  case  of  native  wars  and  com- 
plications ;  but  the  sooner  he  retires 
in  favour  of  a  civil  administrator  the 
better.  As  recently  as  1881,  when 
Sir  Owen  Lanyon  was  appointed  Ad- 
ministrator in  the  Transvaal  after 
the  first  annexation,  the  mistake  was 
made  of  introducing  a  military  regime 
when  a  civil  commissioner  of  approved 
experience  would  certainly  have  been 
more  acceptable.  In  the  future 
settlement  of  South  Africa  the  best 
hand,  surely,  will  be  not  the  hand 
that  has  descended,  justly  and  rightly 
as  we  think,  in  the  form  of  a  mailed 
fist,  but  the  hand  of  the  trained 
civilian.  When  Lord  Bathurst  was 
at  the  head  of  colonial  affairs  under 
the  old  regime  his  parting  words  to 
a  colonial  governor  going  on  his 
distant  journey  were,  "  Good  bye, 
my  good  fellow,  good  luck  to  you,  and 
let  us  hear  as  little  of  you  as  possible." 
The  words  are  harmless  enough  in 
themselves,  but  in  combination  with 
many  other  proofs  they  may  be  inter- 
preted as  revealing  a  carelessness  and 
indifference  to  colonial  affairs  charac- 
teristic of  the  gentlemen  who  sat  as 
Secretaries  of  War  and  the  Colonies. 
So  far  as  the  Whigs  were  concerned 
there  was  little  real  enthusiasm  for 
our  colonies,  few  indications  that  they 
recognised  their  value  or  courted  their 
loyalty.  They  accepted  blindly  the 
axiom  of  Turgot  that  colonies  were 
like  fruit,  destined  to  ripen  certainly 
on  the  parent  stem,  but  then  to  fall 
to  the  ground  and  begin  an  inde- 
pendent growth.  Political  economists 
and  financial  reformers  all  combined 
to  give  evidence  against  the  colonies. 
In  1830  Sir  Henry  Parnell  (Lord 
Congleton),  the  Chairman  of  Mr. 
Canning's  Parliamentary  Finance  Com- 
mittee, proposed  to  get  rid  of  Ceylon, 
Cape  Mauritius,  and  our  North 
American  colonies  at  one  fell  swoop, 
it  being  clear  to  his  mind  that  the 
public  desired  no  commercial  advan- 


tage from  them  which  it  might  not 
have  without  them.  The  history  of 
the  colonies,  he  maintained,  was  for 
many  years  a  history  of  losses  and  of 
the  destruction  of  capital.  It  must 
be  remembered  also  that  so  late 
as  1865  a  Parliamentary  Committee 
advised  giving  up  all  our  colonies  in 
West  Africa. 

Sir  William  Molesworth's  first 
object  was  to  ameliorate  the  condition 
of  the  convicts,  and  in  1837  he 
moved  for  a  Select  Committee  on 
Transportation.  In  1851  he  made 
his  last  speech  in  Parliament  against 
the  system,  and  so  for  sixteen  years 
this  especial  department  of  home  and 
colonial  reform  engrossed  his  earnest 
attention.  At  this  period  of  our 
colonial  development  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  grasp  fully  the  evils  of 
the  convict-system  as  it  existed  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Victorian  era.  The 
reformer  of  this  evil,  which  had  to  be 
grappled  with  and  remedied  before  the 
purity  of  colonial  life  and  the  capacity 
of  the  colonists  for  self-government 
could  be  in  any  way  asserted,  ran 
counter  to  the  opinions  of  those  poli- 
ticians and  economists  at  home,  many 
of  them  working  in  the  character  of 
social  reformers  themselves,  who  really 
thought  that  transportation  for  crime 
was  not  only  a  strong  deterrent  of 
crime  in  itself,  but  also  an  easy  way 
of  relieving  existing  pressure  upon  the 
prisons.  The  initial  cost,  it  was 
argued,  of  transportation  to  Botany 
Bay  was  calculated  at  about  £30  a 
head,  but  this  was  the  first  and  last 
expense.  Mr.  Cunningham,  in  some 
well-known  letters  from  New  South 
Wales,  put  the  economical  argument 
thus  :  "  Every  rogue  whom  you  retain 
at  home  takes  the  bread  out  of  the 
mouth  of  an  honest  man ;  as  long, 
therefore,  as  England  cannot  keep 
her  honest  poor,  so  long  will  it  be  to 
her  interest  to  turn  all  her  roguish 
poor  out  of  her  bosom  to  thrive  else- 


Sir  William  Molesworth  and  the  Colonial  Reformers.         373 


where."  In  1828  there  were  upwards 
of  four  thousand  convicts  on  board 
the  hulks  employed  on  the  dockyards 
and  other  public  works  at  an  annual 
expense  of  £60,000,  and  the  whole 
of  these  would  be  turned  loose  upon 
society  in  seven  years.  How  much 
better,  therefore,  was  it  to  transport 
them  !  Starting  life  under  new  con- 
ditions the  convicts  had  a  better 
chance  of  being  reformed  and,  as 
time  went  on  and  they  accumulated 
property,  of  becoming  decent  members 
of  a  society  less  permeated  by  tradi- 
tions and  distinctions  of  class  than 
that  at  home. 

It  certainly  seems  true  that  French 
publicists  in  the  time  of  Napoleon 
looked  upon  the  British  schemes  of 
transportation  as  illustrated  in  Botany 
Bay  in  the  light  of  sound  experiments 
in  political  economy,  and  the  French 
Imperial  Institute  of  the  day  reported 
favourably  upon  it.  Indeed,  the  French 
themselves  for  long  had  their  eyes 
upon  New  Zealand  as  a  promising 
place  for  a  penal  colony.  Had  trans- 
portation been  in  any  way  systein- 
atised,  or  the  welfare  of  the  convicts 
considered  in  a  proper  spirit,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  it  might  have  con- 
tinued to  exist  a  generation  or  so 
longer  in  the  history  of  our  colonies. 
But  a  reference  to  the  proceedings 
of  the  Molesworth  Committee  dis- 
closed such  an  abominable  and  in- 
famous state  of  things  that  it  stood 
condemned  at  once.  The  wonder  is 
that  it  continued  so  long,  the  fact 
being  that  prison-reform  at  home, 
the  alternative  to  transportation,  was 
a  plant  of  remarkably  slow  growth. 
How  slow  it  was  we  may  infer  from 
the  pages  of  Charles  Dickens,  Charles 
Reade,  and  many  other  writers. 
Another  obstacle  was  found  in  the 
attitude  of  the  colonists  themselves. 
In  a  new  country  like  Australia 
labour  was  scarce,  and  convicts  sup- 
plied the  want.  Why  then  should 


a  supply  of  labour  be  stopped  which 
at  first  sight  seemed  to  benefit  both 
the  mother  country  and  the  colonies 
at  one  and  the  same  time  1  It  was 
really  extraordinary  to  notice  how 
determined  statesmen  at  home  were 
to  shut  their  eyes  to  the  depth  and 
degradation  of  the  moral  evil.  They 
never  could  understand  that  the 
colonists  would  ever  regard  con- 
victs in  any  other  light  than  an.  un- 
mixed blessing,  and  so  in  1848-9, 
when  the  Cape  colonists  forming 
themselves  into  an  Anti-Convict 
Association,  refused  to  supply  the 
two  hundred  and  eighty-two  convicts 
on  board  the  NEPTUNE  with  meat 
or  bread,  Earl  Grey  (an  excellent 
statesman  in  his  way)  rubbed  his 
eyes  with  astonishment  and  won- 
dered why  he  had  been  so  grossly 
misinformed  about  the  strength  of 
colonial  opinion. 

The  play  of  Party-politics,  then 
as  now  (for  herein  lies  some  advan- 
tage in  studying  Mrs.  Fawcett's 
book)  stood  in  the  way  of  a  right 
colonial  policy  and  the  consolidation 
of  the  British  Empire.  Sir  Spencer 
Walpole  in  his  HISTORY  OP  ENG- 
LAND (iii.,  414),  remarked  that  very 
little  came  of  Roebuck's  Committee 
to  enquire  into  the  claims  of  the 
Canadian  colonists,  because  "  Whigs 
and  Tories  in  England  took  a  much 
more  immediate  interest  in  the  crises 
which  were  destroying  the  Whig 
ministry  than  in  the  agony  of  a 
distant  colony."  Surely  here  is  a 
notable  plague-spot  of  contemporary 
English  politics.  Mutatis  mutandis, 
it  seems  at  the  present  moment  as  if 
the  motley  assortment  of  political 
units  known  as  the  Pro  Boer  Party 
at  home  cared  far  less  for  the  real 
welfare  of  South  Africa  than  for 
their  own  petty  designs,  and  their 
infinitely  small  electioneering  am- 
bitions. Patriotism  has  disappeared 
in  the  ranks  of  one  Party  in  the  State 


374        Sir  William  Molesworth  and  the  Colonial  Reformers. 


exactly  when  it  was  most  needed  in 
the  very  throes  of  a  national  peril. 
In  the  days  of  the  Canadian  revolt 
the  public  danger  was  small  and 
insignificant  contrasted  with  that 
which  has  recently  hung  over  the 
issues  in  South  Africa.  In  Canada 
there  were  never  any  perils  arising 
from  complications  in  Europe,  but  in 
the  case  of  South  Africa  we  have 
gone  "  upon  the  edge  of  the  razor." 
Colonial  volunteers,  who  have  fought 
for  our  existence  and  prestige  as  a 
nation  in  South  Africa,  and  have 
known  from  actual  experience  how 
much  has  been  really  at  stake,  have 
imbibed  deep  and  lasting  ideas  upon 
the  unspeakable  degradation  of  Party- 
life  in  England,  which  has  ended  in 
vilifying  our  army  and  besmirching 
our  reputation  in  the  eyes  of  Europe. 
Can  they  ever  respect  this  Party-life  in 
the  mother  country  ?  The  answer  lies 
in  the  implied,  if  not  open,  rebuke  of 
Mr.  Seddon  in  New  Zealand. 

There  is  yet  another  point  for  our 
instruction  arising  out  of  the  Cana- 
dian crisis  of  1837-8,  and  this  is 
suggested  by  the  action  of  the  Colonial 
Reformers  themselves  who,  it  must 
be  understood,  were  not  invariably 
right.  Like  all  men  struggling  to 
the  light  they  sometimes  made  mis- 
takes. In  the  sixth  number  of  the 
LONDON  AND  WESTMINSTER  REVIEW, 
a  journal  under  the  especial  direction 
of  Sir  William  Molesworth  and  John 
Stuart  Mill,  there  appeared  an  inspired 
article  on  "The  Radical  Party  and 
Canada."  Allusion  was  there  made  to 
a  notable  split  between  the  Radicals 
and  the  Whigs,  the  former  organising 
themselves  into  a  separate  party  and 
going  into  open  and  declared  opposi- 
tion to  Lord  John  Russell ;  and  the 
opinion  was  openly  expressed  that  in 
the  history  of  North  American 
colonisation  the  name  of  a  Whig 
would  be  as  infamous  as  that  of  a 
Tory  in  Ireland.  Further,  the  main 


features  of  the  revised  Radical  pro- 
gramme were  stated  to  be  "  the 
Ballot,  justice  to  Ireland,  justice  to 
Canada."  It  is  needless  to  point  out 
here  that,  at  the  time  of  the  Canadian 
crisis,  the  Colonial  Reformers  were, 
from  a  Parliamentary  and  also  from 
a  public  point  of  view,  a  very  weak 
Party.  Judging  from  a  test  division 
in  1836,  when  the  House  was  asked 
to  declare  that  it  was  against  its  own 
dignity  and  independence  to  have  a 
paid  Canadian  agent,  like  Mr.  Roe- 
buck, the  Whigs,  assisted  by  the 
whole  weight  of  the  Tory  Party, 
rejected  an  amendment  brought  for- 
ward by  Temple  Leader,  mumber  for 
Bridgwater,  by  three  hundred  and 
eighteen  votes  to  fifty-six.  It  is 
clear  that  the  Colonial  Reformers 
did  not  strengthen  their  position  by 
confusing  home  and  colonial  issues. 
There  might  have  been  and,  no  doubt, 
there  were,  some  Whig  and  Tory 
members  who  would  have  preferred 
to  listen  to  a  clear  statement  of  the 
case  for  Canada  without  any  allusion 
to  the  ballot  or  Ireland.  Supposing 
for  a  moment  that  the  particular 
question  of  electing  a  Legislative 
Council  for  Canada,  and  not  nominat- 
ing it,  was  before  the  House,  what 
profit  could  there  be  in  making  the 
decision  part  and  parcel  of  a  policy 
which  endorsed,  say,  Roman  Catholic 
Emancipation  in  Ireland  ?  Again,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  in  1836 
Sir  William  Molesworth  in  company 
with  Grote,  Hume,  Leader,  and 
Roebuck  had  formed  an  Anti-Corn 
Law  Association.  The  fact  is  that 
the  whole  sphere  of  home  questions 
should  have  been  kept  distinct  from 
colonial  issues.  It  was  not  exactly 
the  fault  of  the  Colonial  Reformers 
that  both  were  confused  in  one  general 
programme.  It  was  the  fault  of  our 
Party-system,  and  we  seem  to  be  more 
deeply  entangled  than  ever  in  it  at 
the  present  moment. 


Sir  William  Molesworth  and  the  Colonial  Reformers.         375 


The  case   of   Canada   looked   very 
hopeless  for  a  long  time  until  Lord 
Durham  was  sent  as  a  kind  of  "  un- 
employed  Caesar "  to  report   upon  it, 
aided  and  guided  by  Edward  Gibbon 
Wakefield   and   Charles  Buller.     We 
know  the  sequel.     The  Report  itself 
was  excellent,   but  Party  politicians 
at  home  did  their  best  to  discredit  its 
author  and  drive  him  to  resignation. 
Lord    Durham    had    the    boldness  to 
grapple  with  the  situation  and  to  deal 
firmly   with  rebellion.     Vilifiers    and 
traducers  said  that  he  had  surrounded 
himself  with  his  own  advisers,  that  he 
had  sentenced  prisoners  to  transporta- 
tion to  Bermuda  whither  his  commis- 
sion did  not  extend,  and  that  he  had 
threatened  death  to  the  leaders  of  the 
rebellion  if  they  returned.     His  case 
was  really  to  some  extent  like  that  of 
Governor  Eyre,  and  also  like  that  of 
Sir  Bartle  Frere,  both  officers  of  the 
Crown  who  were  suddenly  summoned 
to  deal  with  rebellion,  the  former  with 
the   Jamaica   rioters   and    the   latter 
with  the  rebel  Gaika  and  Galeka  clans 
in  Kaffraria.     It  is  strange   now  to 
think    that    Lord    Durham   had    the 
support  of  the  Philosophical  Radicals 
of  the  day,   while   Sir    Bartle  Frere 
drew  down  upon  his  head  the  vials  of 
Radical  wrath.     All  these  officers  of 
the  Crown  were  sacrificed  at  the  time 
and  commended  afterwards.     In  the 
Canadian  imbroglio  John  Stuart  Mill 
presents  rather  a  curious  study  by  the 
light    of    latter-day    Radicalism.      In 
the  article  in  the  WESTMINSTER  RE- 
VIEW already  alluded  to,  and  supposed 
to  express  his  views  as  well  as  those 
of    Sir    William    Molesworth,    Lord 
Durham  is  speeded  on  his  errand  to 
Canada :   "  The   whole  institutions  of 
the  two  great  Provinces  were  prostrate 
before  him  and  Canada  was  a  tabula 
rasa.       The    dictatorship     of    which 
Lord    Durham    was    the    depositary 
admitted  of  justification ;  for  when  a 
country  was  divided  into  two  parties 


exasperated  by  the  taste  of  each 
other's  blood,  an  armed  Umpire  with 
strength  to  make  himself  obeyed  [this 
sounds  very  much  like  the  "  prancing 
proconsul "  of  latter-day  Radicals] 
was  a  blessing  beyond  all  price.  Such 
a  mediator  it  behoved  the  mother 
country  to  be."  Evidently,  the 
Philosophical  Radicals  of  early  Vic- 
torian days  approved  of  strong  mea- 
sures and  a  firm  hand. 

Here  again  it  may  be  noted  that 
the  very  arguments  which  were  held 
to  apply  to  Canada  in  1837  may 
surely  hold  good  in  South  Africa 
to-day,  all  the  more  because  the 
general  situation  there  is  more  criti- 
cal. Instead  of  Lord  Durham  there 
is  Lord  Milner,  and  "  the  institu- 
tions of  two  Provinces  lie  at  his 
feet."  The  moral  is  to  give  him 
a  free  hand,  if  we  argue  from  the 
Canadian  analogy  and  apply  it  liter- 
ally. It  is  the  general  fashion  in 
some  quarters  to  prescribe  the  Cana- 
dian example  as  the  cure  for  South 
African  evils.  Certainly,  we  may 
say,  only  adhere  to  it  step  by  step. 
Suspend  the  constitutions  first,  and 
then,  as  Baron  Sydenham  of  Toronto, 
"  the  merchant  pacificator  "  of  Canada, 
showed  us,  introduce  gradually  repre- 
sentative institutions  as  well  as  reforms 
in  finance  and  education  before  giving 
the  complete  boon  of  responsible 
government.  In  the  very  unedifying 
game  of  Parliamentary  ping-pong, — 
to  adopt  a  simile  not  wholly  out  of 
keeping  with  the  levity  and  reckless- 
ness with  which  colonial  issues  are 
bandied  on  this  side  and  on  that — 
the  colonists  themselves  may  not 
unnaturally  murmur 

Quicquid    delirant    reges,     plectuntur 
Achivi, 

and  long  to  be  freed  altogether  from 
the  yoke.  Herein  lies  one  of  the 
great  dangers  awaiting  our  Empire 


376        Sir  William  Molesworth  and  the  Colonial  Reformers. 


in  the  future.  Probably  few  politi- 
cians at  home  realise  in  the  least  how 
inexpressively  futile  and  irksome  the 
proceedings  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons are  to  the  colonists.  They 
cannot  be  expected  to  have  the  same 
ingrained  respect  for  it  as  an  institu- 
tion with  its  roots  deep  down  in  the 
history  of  the  past.  They  compare 
it  with  their  new  Assemblies  and 
weigh  its  merits  as  a  body  of  legis- 
lators summoned  "  to  despatch  busi- 
ness," and  they  find  it  wanting. 
Some  years  ago  a  well-known  and 
prominent  burgher  of  the  late  Orange 
Free  State  was  asked  to  express  his 
candid  opinion  as  to  the  advisability 
of  federating  with  the  Cape  Colony 
and  Natal  and  so  of  coming  under 
the  folds  of  the  British  flag.  The 
old  Dutchman,  after  brief  reflection, 
replied  that  he  had  no  objection  to 
come  under  the  British  Crown  and 
the  British  flag,  but  that  he  had 
every  objection  in  the  world  to  come 
under  the  House  of  Commons  at 
Westminster.  After  the  experiences 
of  the  past  he  felt  quite  sure  that 
the  interests  of  the  Orange  Free 
State  would  not  receive  the  reason- 
able and  enlightened  treatment  they 
deserved. 

The  position  is  shown  very  well  in 
a  letter  written  by  Wakefield,  to  Mr. 
G.  W.  Young  the  father  of  Sir  F. 
Young,  dated  December  29th,  1849. 

I  agree  with  you  that  there  is  a  chance 
that  the  Protectionists  may  throw  out 
the  Government,  get  into  power  and  try 
what  a  dissolution  may  do  for  them. 
But  by  what  means  ?  Certainly  not  by 
a  motion  in  favour  of  Protection.  That 
cock  won't  fight  in  the  present  House  of 
Commons,  except  to  be  beaten  flagrantly. 
Then  by  what  means  ?  By  no  other 
than  defeating  the  Government  on  a 
Colonial  motion.  By  that  means  Pro- 
tection may  get  an  appeal  to  the  country 
and  see  what  strength  there  is  in  it. 
But  the  game  is,  in  great 
measure,  in  your  hands,  because  you 
are  a  known  colonizer  and  Colonial  Re- 


former— almost    the    only  leading    Pro- 
tectionist who  is. 


Upon  another  occasion  Wakefield 
would  be  glad  to  form  a  society 
composed  of  men  of  all  Parties  for 
the  reform  of  colonial  government, 
as  if,  for  an  interval,  he  were  breath- 
ing a  better  atmosphere,  which  was 
soon  to  be  tainted  when,  again, 
in  a  letter  to  C.  B.  Adderley  he 
writes  (December  7th,  1849)  that 
Molesworth's  adhesion  to  the  Colonial 
Government  Society  will  involve 
Cobden  and  the  Free  Traders.  What 
a  hotch-potch  of  politics,  we  can  but 
cry,  what  a  mixture  of  diverse  in- 
terests !  No  doubt  it  was  Wakefield's 
object,  as  well  as  that  of  other 
Colonial  Reformers  "  to  carry  into 
real  and  not  pretended  effect  the 
principle  of  Representative  and  truly 
Responsible  Government  for  the  true 
Colonies."  The  exigencies,  however, 
of  Parliamentary  life  and  the  claims 
of  Party  adherents  had  to  be  con- 
sidered, and  while  Wakefield  wrote 
to  Molesworth  to  work  in  organising 
"a  sort  of  Colonial  Reform  party 
which  should  be  ready  to  act  on  the 
very  first  day  of  the  Session,"  he  had 
to  enlist  those  as  supporters  who  did 
not  see  eye  to  eye  with  him  on 
questions  of  trade.  The  Colonial  Re- 
formers in  their  extremely  compli- 
cated task  had  to  catch  at  straws, 
and  we  can  hardly  wonder  at  their 
failure  as  a  composite  political  Party. 

The  most  untiring  genius  of  all  was 
undoubtedly  Wakefield,  and  when  in 
1898  the  British  Association  met  at 
Bristol  the  Honble.  W.  Pember  Reeves, 
Agent-General  for  New  Zealand,  made 
a  great  point  of  his  services  to  the 
British  Empire.  He  took  a  great 
share  in  the  successful  adjustment  of 
the  Canadian  difficulty  under  Lord 
Durham  ;  he  was  mainly  instru- 
mental in  abolishing  the  convict- 
system  ;  he  helped  by  his  energy  to 


Sir  William  Molesworth  and  the  Colonial  Beformers.         377 


briug  about  colonial  self-government ; 
he  saved  New  Zealand  from  falling 
into  the  hands  of  France,  and  he  was 
the  virtual  founder  of  South  Australia. 
In  fact,  his  main  work  was  the 
revival  of  the  spirit  of  true  colonisa- 
tion within  the  Empire.  The  secret 
of  his  success  lay,  we  venture  to 
think,  in  his  individual  character  not 
in  his  power  to  group  parties  and 
sections,  and  the  same  remark  seems 
to  apply  more  or  less  to  Sir  William 
Molesworth  who  was  straightforward 
and  definite  in  all  his  ideas.  On 
the  subject  of  South  Africa  he  has 
left  on  record  a  very  plain-spoken 
individual  opinion,  not  necessarily  the 
opinion  of  the  Colonial  Reformers  of 
the  day,  for  Roebuck  in  his  book 
(1849)  on  a  Plan  for  the  Govern- 
ment of  some  of  our  Colonies  in- 
cluded South  Africa  in  his  vision  of 
"  Federated  Commonwealths,"  placing 
it  in  the  same  category  with  Canada 
and  Australasia,  but  one  founded 
on  certain  historical  and  economical 
arguments.  For  these  there  was  a 
certain  amount  of  justification,  the 
Imperial  Government  always  expend- 
ing an  enormous  amount  of  money  in 
wars  but  never  following  them  up 
with  a  definite  policy.  In  one  of  his 
last  speeches  in  Parliament  (if  not 
the  very  last),  Sir  William  stated, 
July  31st,  1855,  that  our  military  ex- 
penditure at  the  Cape  then  amounted 
to  between  £400,000  and  £500,000 
a  year,  to  say  nothing  of  the  series 
of  Kaffir  wars  which  on  the  average 
had  cost  Great  Britain  £1,000,000  a 
year.  By  the  side  of  recent  expendi- 
tures these  amounts  seem  small  in- 
deed, but  England  has  learned  to  her 
cost  the  terrible  results  of  vacilla- 
tion and  infirmity  of  purpose.  Sir 
William,  however,  instead  of  taking 
the  view  that  national  and  imperial 
expenditure  ought  justly  to  be  re- 
garded as  pledges  to  stay  in  South 
Africa,  adopted  the  contrary  attitude 


and  argued  that  it  should  mean 
withdrawal.  His  views  have  been 
embodied  in  a  pamphlet  under  the 
heading  of  MATERIALS  FOR  A  SPEECH 
MADE  IN  DEFENCE  OF  THE  POLICY  OF 
ABANDONING  THE  ORANGE  RlVER  TER- 
RITORY, MAY,  1854,  published  in 
October,  1878,  at  the  request  of  the 
late  President  Kruger  and  General 
Joubert.  These  Boers  thought  that 
the  facts  and  arguments  put  forward 
for  the  abandonment  of  the  Orange 
River  Sovereignty  were,  from  their 
point  of  view,  so  true  and  just  that 
by  inference  they  might  powerfully 
aid  the  cause  of  the  Transvaal. 

A  perusal  of  this  pamphlet  certainly 
shows  that  Sir  William  knew  his 
South  African  history  well,  and  was 
at  home  in  the  perplexing  turns  of 
policy  there,  but,  for  all  that,  it  was 
no  great  brief  for  the  Boers  them- 
selves. It  was  rather  a  counsel  of 
despair.  England's  sovereignty  should 
be  limited  to  the  coast  regions,  espe- 
cially as  the  uplands  and  plains  of 
the  interior  appeared  to  be  nothing 
better  than  a  howling  wilderness  full 
of  wild  beasts  and  natives.  The  same 
kind  of  argument  for  shelving  South 
African  responsibilities  appeared  much 
later  in  our  history,  during  the 
Bechuanaland  debates  (1884-5).  Lord 
Derby  was  much  of  the  same  opinion 
as  Sir  William  Molesworth  as  to  the 
worthlessness  of  the  South  African 
veldt,  ignoring  altogether  the  very 
important  point  that  Bechuanaland 
afforded  the  road  to  the  interior,  and 
also  that  the  barren-looking  mimosa- 
clad  veldt  sometimes  conceals  mineral 
wealth. 

Sir  William  took  his  stand  on  the 
Sand  River  Convention  of  1852  and 
thought  that  its  exact  and  express 
fulfilment  spelt  finality  in  South 
African  politics.  He  never  paused 
to  enquire  whether  the  Boers  kept 
their  side  of  the  agreement,  especially 
on  the  subject  of  the  natives  and  the 


378        Sir  William  Molesivorth  and  the  Colonial  Reformers. 


great  question  of  slavery.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  Boers  have  never 
concluded  any  treaty  with  Great 
Britain  which  they  did  not  mean  to 
violate,  and  did  flagrantly  violate  both 
in  letter  and  spirit  upon  the  earliest 
possible  occasion. 

The  rdle  of  the  Christian  missionary 
in  South  Africa  never  appealed  to 
Sir  William,  and  although  David 
Livingstone  was  actually  working  and 
exploring  in  Bechuanaland  and  in  the 
valley  of  the  Zambesi  at  the  time  he 
spoke,  he  certainly  was  misinformed 
as  to  the  value  of  the  great  traveller's 
work.  Otherwise  he  would  never 
have  said,  "  I  believe  that  there  is 
not  one  well  authenticated  instance 
of  the  conversion  to  Christianity  of 
any  person  belonging  to  the  great 
Kaffir  race.  The  only  result  of  the 
attempt  to  improve  these  savages  has 
been  to  give  them  a  taste  for  spiritu- 
ous liquors  and  to  inspire  them  with 
an  ardent  longing  for  muskets  and 
gunpowder."  We  cannot  follow  Sir 
William  here,  but  we  can  very  easily 
see  why  his  pamphlet  was  so  emi- 
nently acceptable  to  Messrs.  Kruger 
and  Joubert.  Views  of  South  African 
policy  seem  fated  to  be  sensational 
and  kaleidoscopic,  and  consequently 
we  are  scarcely  surprised  to  read  in 
Lord  Norton's  COLONIAL  POLICY  AND 
HISTORY  (published  in  1869)  that 
at  that  particular  time  there  was  a 
general  desire  among  the  Dutch  to 
be  re-united  in  some  way  to  the 
British  Government,  a  prevalent 
opinion  that  all  South  Africa  habit- 
able by  Europeans  should  come  under 
some  central  authority.  The  Duke 
of  Buckingham  was  in  favour  of  it, 
and  so  was  Mr.  Card  well,  but  some- 
how the  great  opportunity  was  missed. 


The  moment  was  there,  but  unfortu- 
nately the  man  was  wanting. 

To  conclude, — if  there  be  any 
wisdom  in  the  saying  that  out  of  the 
mistakes  of  the  past  we  may  learn  to 
be  wise  for  the  future,  Mrs.  Fawcett's 
book  should  be  read  with  great  profit. 
Sir  William  Molesworth  emphatically 
sounded  the  keynote  of  a  policy 
destined  to  be  with  us  long,  unless 
we  misread  the  signs  of  the  times, — 
the  policy  of  understanding  and 
utilising  our  Colonial  Empire  in  every 
way,  especially  for  the  purposes  of 
trade  and  Imperial  defence.  This 
policy  must  be  practically  a  national 
policy.  Its  absolute  importance  should 
lift  it  at  once  above  the  mire  of 
mere  Party-conflicts.  Judging  from 
recent  history  we  are  still  far  from 
this  exalted  frame  of  mind.  Should 
a  Philosophical  Radical  arise  from  his 
grave  now  in  England  he  would  find 
that  the  term  Radicalism  has  long 
stunk  in  the  nostrils  of  the  colonists. 
The  motley  crew  which  represents 
the  Radical  Party  have  long  set 
their  faces  against  colonial  feeling 
and  colonial  sentiment,  and  we  have 
heard  of  a  Radical  orator  escaping 
with  difficulty  from  a  Birmingham 
audience  disguised  as  a  policeman, 
a  very  notable  transformation,  how- 
ever we  may  look  at  it. 

Could  there  be  any  symptom  more 
significant  than  that  of  the  change 
of  opinion  and  the  shifting  of  Parties 
in  England  ?  We  want  another 
Gibbon  Wakefield  who  would  form  a 
society  composed  of  men  of  all  Parties 
to  approach  the  vast  colonial  and 
Imperial  problems  now  coming  into 
view,  as  well  as  the  untiring  zeal  of 
a  Molesworth  to  give  it  representative 
and  Parliamentary  expression. 


379 


SHEPHERDING   ON   THE   FELLS   IN   WINTER 


THE  hours  immediately  preceding 
a  severe  snow-storm,  when  the  leaden, 
lowering  sky  presages  an  evil  time, 
are  busy  ones  with  the  shepherd 
on  the  fells.  Daily,  whatever  the 
weather,  he  has  been  compelled  to 
court  the  pastures  of  the  uplands  so 
that  his  flocks  may  as  long  as  possible 
subsist  on  the  scanty  herbage  remain- 
ing there.  On  our  northern  fells  the 
shepherd's  chief  winter  duty  is  to 
"  look  "  his  sheep,  that  is,  to  patrol 
the  wild  heafs,  or  mountain-pastures, 
and  see  that  none  are  suffering  from 
accident  or  ailment,  counting  them 
meanwhile,  and  watching  keenly  to 
detect  truants,  both  to  and  from  his 
flock.  His  charge  is  scattered  over 
a  wide  area  when  the  first  signs  of 
storm  appear,  and  he  has  to  collect 
them  as  quickly  as  possible  and  drive 
them  to  some  selected  portion  whence 
they  will  not  be  inclined  to  ramble, 
and  where  there  is  little  danger  of 
their  being  overwhelmed  in  the  tre- 
mendous drifts  which  are  blown 
together. 

We  had  climbed  the  mountains 
bounding  our  dale  and  were  retreat- 
ing before  the  wild  threatening  sky 
when  we  saw  far  beneath  us  the 
Thorns  shepherd  collecting  his  flock 
from  the  wide  heaf  extending  upwards 
from  the  head  of  the  pass.  Though 
the  shepherd  was  working  his  hardest, 
it  was  clear  that  he  could  not  com- 
plete his  task  before  the  storm  broke. 
Every  gully  was  cleared  at  the 
greatest  possible  speed,  his  dogs 
racing  round  the  flanks  of  the  wide 

I  breast  of  sheep,  hunting  laggards  out 
from  various  shelters  by  boulder  and 
ghyll,  and  driving  the  whole  helter- 


skelter  toward  the  centre.  As  we 
made  our  way  along  rockstrewn  High- 
Crag-End,  we  saw  across  the  narrow 
glen  other  shepherds,  frantically  work- 
ing to  get  their  flocks  also  to  shelter. 
A  slight  squall, — forerunner  of  the 
storm — struck  us  as  we  plunged  down 
towards  the  Thorns  enclosure,  and' 
then  the  force  of  the  wind  for  a 
few  minutes  abated,  dying  away  in 
a  moan  along  the  grassy  slopes.  As 
the  shepherd  redoubled  his  exertions 
in  this  momentary  lull,  the  air 
darkened  ;  it  seemed  indeed  that 
the  leaden  vault  dropped  down,  en- 
veloping us,  and  blotting  out  the  dull 
light  of  the  January  day.  There 
was  a  distant  wailing  and  booming ; 
the  nearing  blast  was  fretting  with 
its  enormous  strength  among  the 
rugged  crags  high  above  our  heads. 
In  deepening  gloom  we  pushed  on. 
At  the  Thorns  enclosure  we  found 
that  the  dogs  had  in  almost  total 
darkness  completed  their  task,  and 
were  now  hurrying  in  the  last  of 
the  dazed  sheep.  Jack,  the  shepherd, 
stood  at  the  gateway  and  counted 
them  as  they  passed  to  safety.  This 
small  marshy  basin  at  the  head  of 
the  dale,  sheltered  somewhat  from 
the  wildest  gales  by  an  almost  semi- 
circular scaur,  was  where,  from  many 
generations,  the  Thorns  sheep  had 
been  driven  upon  the  approach  of  a 
storm.  As  we  groped  our  way  down 
the  hillside,  the  shepherd  told  us  that 
but  few  fleeces  were  missing  from  his 
flock.  The  storm's  first  fury  now 
broke  around  us  and,  with  pitiful 
bleatings,  the  sheep,  crowding  into 
the  circumscribed  area  within  our 
ken,  lay  down  with  their  backs 


380 


Shepherding  on  the  Fells  in  Winter. 


turned  to  the  white  laden  blast.  In 
this  position  they  would  remain  till 
the  storm  had  passed,  whether  it 
lasted  for  one  day  or  seven,  whether 
they  were  on  the  exposed  upland 
with  the  gale's  worst  gusts  screeching 
around  them,  or  in  the  ghylls  with 
drift  forming  a  hundred  feet  deep 
above  them.  About  an  hour  later 
we  reached  home.  During  the  long 
evening  our  shepherd  braved  the 
storm  to  go  through  the  dalehead 
and  find  whether  every  shepherd  be- 
longing to  our  fell  had  yet  come  in 
from  his  day's  toil.  In  three  hours 
he  returned  with  the  news  that  all 
were  safe. 

With  fears  thus  set  at  rest,  we  were 
able  to  sit  down  to  listen  to  the  old 
farmer's  stories  of  danger  and  heroism, 
in  times  old  and  new,  faced  by  those 
who  gain  their  livings  on  the  stormy 
mountains.  He  told  of  many  hair- 
breadth escapes  and  a  few  fatalities. 
One  was  particularly  tragic.  At  the 
head  of  one  of  the  smaller  valleys 
near  this  is  a  ruined  cottage,  at  one 
time  tenanted  by  the  shepherd  to  the 
largest  farm  in  the  dale.  One  Decem- 
ber morning,  about  the  time  of 
Waterloo,  the  shepherd  started  out 
to  drive  his  flock  some  miles  across 
the  wastes.  At  noon  a  very  heavy 
snowstorm  came  on,  and  just  as  the 
day  was  closing,  the  shepherd's 
wife  heard  dogs  barking  and  sheep 
bleating  at  the  gateway  between  the 
valley  fields  and  the  open  fell.  For 
a  while  she  paid  little  attention  to 
these  sounds,  thinking  that  her  hus- 
band would  open  the  wicket  and 
allow  his  flock  to  pass  through.  As 
time  went  on,  and  the  sounds  came 
no  nearer,  she  felt  that  something 
was  amiss,  and  wrapping  her  shawl 
about  her  went  out  to  the  gate  her- 
self. In  the  white  whirl  she  saw 
sheep  and  dogs, — but  her  husband 
was  not  with  them.  Guided  by  the 
dogs  she  ventured  far  into  the  fear- 


ful storm  till  her  strength  gave  out, 
and  so  exhausted  was  she  that  she 
barely  dragged  herself  home  to  her 
five  small  children. 

At  this  point  the  old  man  ceased 
his  narrative,  for  over  the  wild  thun- 
derings  of  the  gale  rang  the  clamour 
of  our  dogs.  The  kitchen  door  was 
opened  wide  and,  in  the  fold,  half 
blinded  by  the  sudden  glare  in  his 
face,  stood  the  white  shrouded  figure 
of  a  man.  He  walked  wearily  to- 
wards us  and  half  fell  with  fatigue 
as  he  crossed  the  threshold.  A  dozen 
hands  were  instantly  at  work  strip- 
ping off  his  outer  garments,  when  one 
of  our  men  recognised  him  as  a  shep- 
herd belonging  to  Moresdale.  "  How 
came  you  here  ? "  was  the  question. 
"  Are  you  alone  ? "  Half  dazed  by 
the  sudden  transference  from  griping 
cold  to  genial  warmth,  the  man  did 
not  for  a  few  moments  answer.  Then 
he  related  how  at  dawning  he  had 
set  off  to  bring  down  his  sheep,  how, 
when  his  work  was  almost  through, 
the  storm  had  burst,  how  he  tried  in 
vain  to  get  down  to  the  farms,  and 
how,  in  the  darkness,  he  missed  even 
his  dogs.-  After  this,  gradually  losing 
strength,  he  had  ploughed  for  hours 
through  the  raging  storm.  Once  he 
came  to  where  a  cliff  fell  steeply 
away;  again  and  again  he  had 
reached  wire  fences  and  followed 
them  awhile  only  to  lose  their  guid- 
ance at  some  deep  wide  drift ;  for 
at  least  an  hour,  he  thought,  he  had 
walked  about  a  field  near  by,  seeking 
to  reach  an  illusory  light.  At  last 
he  heard  our  dogs  bark.  Such  an 
incident  is  not  a  rare  one  among  the 
stormy  fells,  and  the  presence  of  one 
who  had  so  narrowly  escaped  death 
gave  the  more  zest  to  the  sequel  of 
the  old  man's  tale,  which  continued 
thus. 

The  storm  raged  unabated  in  vio- 
lence for  a  week,  when  the  widow, — 
for  thus  she  now  was — managed  to 


Shepherding  on  the  Fells  in  Winter. 


381 


force  her  way  to  the  nearest  farm- 
house (some  four  miles  away),  and 
raise  the  alarm.  In  an  hour  every 
man  in  the  countryside  was  afoot, 
and,  guided  by  the  shepherd's  own 
dogs,  the  body  was  soon  found.  In 
crossing  a  narrow,  steep  ghyll  it 
seemed  that  he  had  missed  his  foot- 
ing on  the  snow,  and  in  the  fall  his 
head  had  struck  against  a  protruding 
rock.  To  the  insensibility  thus  caused 
had  gradually  succeeded  the  inertia 
of  severe  cold  and,  without  a  struggle, 
the  man's  life  had  ebbed  away. 

All  night  the  snow  fell ;  before 
daybreak  the  white  flakes  ceased  for 
a  while,  and  this  cessation  was  not 
complete  before  the  whole  household 
was  astir,  and  we  turned  out  to  view 
the  dale  in  its  new  garb.  A  full 
moon  was  riding  majestically  in  the 
cold  blue  sky,  from  which  a  million 
stars  twinkled.  Our  host,  however, 
would  not  suffer  the  shepherd  to 
venture  out  to  his  distant  flock,  and 
his  weatherwise  caution  was  almost 
immediately  justified  by  the  appear- 
ance in  the  south-west  of  more  snow- 
clouds.  The  lull  in  the  storm  lasted 
but  an  hour,  and  only  to  break  out 
more  fiercely  than  before.  It  was 
not  till  thirty  hours  later  that  it 
became  possible  to  give  adequate 
attention  to  the  sheep  on  the  fells. 
Thrice  in  the  meantime  had  a  tem- 
porary cessation  of  the  storm  been 
seized  upon  as  an  opportunity  to 
survey  the  ewes  in  the  low-lying 
pastures  near  the  homestead.  After 
one  of  these  inspections  the  shepherd 
reported  five  of  their  number  missing, 
and  also  that  the  gale  was  piling  a 
huge  drift  level  with  the  fence  at  the 
lower  corner  of  the  field.  The  dogs 
were  brought  out,  and,  just  as  the 
white  blast  again  seethed  up  the  dale, 
we  began  to  locate  the  missing  animals. 
The  snow  was  not  yet  crusted  with 
frost,  and  at  every  step  we  sank 
deep  into  the  powdery  mass,  but  the 


collies,  though  floundering  up  to  the 
hips  at  every  moment,  could  still 
scent  the  buried  sheep.  The  gale  had 
now  become  so  furious  that  the  top- 
most layers  of  snow  were  being  swept 
down  into  our  excavation  almost  as 
fast  as  our  spades  could  throw  them 
out.  We  gained  some  relief  by  build- 
ing up  a  parapet  of  the  harder  snow 
to  windward,  adding  to  our  defences 
as  the  continual  silting-up  made  neces- 
sary. The  drift  was  only  some  eight 
feet  deep,  and  one  or  two  of  the  sheep 
were  not  buried  to  any  great  depth, 
so  after  an  hour's  hard  struggle, 
during  which  the  storm  seemed  more 
than  once  likely  to  add  to  its  prisoners 
by  burying  men,  dogs,  and  all  in  one 
common  heap,  the  victory  lay  with  us, 
and  the  five  ewes  were  driven  back, 
protesting,  to  the  higher  and  safer 
ground.  In  the  teeth  of  the  blast 
we  pushed  knee-deep  through  the 
snow  back  to  the  homestead.  At 
noon  on  the  third  day  the  heavy 
clouds  cleared,  and  the  pale  chill  sun- 
shine gleamed  over  hill-sides,  coppices, 
and  fields  clogged  with  snow,  while 
a  frosty  silence  brooded  forlornly  over 
all,  as  it  seemed  to  ears  almost 
deafened  by  the  thundering  onslaughts 
of  the  gale. 

Then,  through  the  deep  drifts  and 
across  tracts  from  which  the  wind 
had  swept  the  snow,  five  of  us,  spade 
on  shoulder  arid  dogs  trotting  patiently 
at  heel,  made  our  way  towards  the 
Thorns  high  intake,  where  our  flock 
should  be.  We  had  hopes  that  our 
own  task  would  be  a  light  one.  When 
struck  by  a  storm  it  is  the  habit  of 
sheep,  as  one  may  say,  to  grin  and 
bear  it ;  but  immediately  calm  follows 
the  stress,  it  is  equally  sheep-like  to 
be  up  and  away  as  rapidly  as  legs 
can  go.  To  what  remote  places  a 
sheep  may  get  after  a  snowstorm  can 
be  imagined,  when  it  is  stated  that  in 
the  dozen  miles  between  the  Thorns 
enclosure  and  Helvellyn  there  are  not 


382 


Shepherding  on  the  Fells  in  Winter. 


more  than  seven  fences,  each  of  which 
can  be  passed  at  a  score  of  points 
after  a  heavy  fall. 

We  took  the  quickest  way  under 
High-Crag-End,  where  wide  stretches 
of  rock  and  grass  had  been  blown 
clear  of  snow,  and  were  soon  at  our 
enclosure.  Many  sheep  were  wander- 
ing about  in  a  dazed  fashion,  digging 
deep  furrows  into  the  snow  in  search 
of  something  eatable  ;  now  and  again 
one  would  stop  in  its  work,  and,  look- 
ing askance  around  from  the  bleak 
snow-clad  hillocks  to  the  forbidding 
white  mountain  barrier  and,  higher, 
to  the  cheerless  blue  sky,  give  forth 
a  wild  pitiful  bleating  in  which  one 
comrade  after  another  would  join  till 
the  still  air  rang  to  the  echoing  plaint. 
Very  quickly,  as  he  stalked  about  the 
enclosure,  the  shepherd  counted  his 
flock,  announcing  finally  that  only 
some  six  in  all  were  missing.  "  I  saw 
two-three  white-faces  in  the  beckside 
before  we  left,"  he  said,  and,  as  this 
and  all  other  gullies  and  inequalities 
of  the  great  moor  were  drifted  level, 
we  knew  at  once  that  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  digging.  At  a 
word  the  dogs  raced  along  in  front, 
quartering  the  glistening  surface 
thoroughly.  First  one,  then  another, 
stopped  and  began  to  scratch  frantic- 
ally at  the  drift,  "  They'll  be  here," 
said  the  shepherd,  and  stepping  back 
a  few  feet  we  began  to  dig.  After  a 
few  minutes'  hard  work  the  first  sheep 
was  released,  and  was  driven  by  the 
dogs  to  its  comrades ;  three  others, 
who  seemed  none  the  worse  for  their 
fifty  hours'  imprisonment,  were  1'eached 
by  a  short  passage ;  the  rest  were 
much  more  difficult  to  get  at.  At 
the  outset  of  the  storm  they  had 
sheltered  under  the  lee  of  a  crag  in 
the  ghyll-side,  and  the  whirlwinds  of 
snow  had  filled  the  hollow  to  the 
brim,  arching  over  the  streamlet.  In 
the  absence  of  the  shepherd,  who  was 
examining  a  lame  sheep,  we  began  to 


dig  down  at  a  few  feet  from  the  damp 
breath -patches  which,  in  striking  con- 
trast to  the  frost-spangled  surface, 
show  pretty  closely  the  whereabouts 
of  a  missing  sheep.  Our  pit  had  got 
fairly  deep  when,  on  our  leading 
spadesman  stepping  into  it,  there  was 
a  sudden  creaking  and  rending  of 
snow,  and  down  he  went,  clean  out 
of  sight.  We  had  dug  into  the 
natural  arch  over  the  waterway  at 
its  thinnest  part,  and  our  friend  was 
precipitated  some  twelve  feet  into  the 
broth  the  tiny  brook  was  carrying 
down.  We  drew  him  up  at  once, 
but  his  clothes  were  soaking,  and,  for 
his  health's  sake,  we  sent  him  at  a 
trot  back  to  the  Thorns.  Wiser  by 
this  mishap,  we  set  to  work  again 
and,  with  the  aid  of  the  shepherd, 
in  time  exhumed  the  other  two  sheep. 
One  of  these  was  almost  dead  with 
cold,  its  lair  having  been  so  near  the 
beckside  that  when  the  stream  became 
swollen  with  melting  snow  the  rising 
waters  had  reached  it  and  soaked  its 
fleece.  Imprisoned  so  closely,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  had  it  been  left  until 
the  thaw,  really  began,  it  would  have 
been  suffocated, — a  common  fate  in 
such  positions. 

The  sheep  on  our  own  immediate 
domain  attended  to,  and  our  fence 
re  erected  where  the  pressure  of  the 
wind  had  torn  it  from  its  slender 
foundations,  we  walked  across  to  the 
Kirt  Crag  allotments.  Here  the 
shepherd  had  been  forced  to  abandon 
his  flock  in  a  deep  glen  surrounded 
by  rough  crags.  Jacob  Mattison  was 
a  master  in  his  craft,  and  that  he  too 
should  have  been  overwhelmed  excused 
every  one  else.  We  got  to  the  ghyll 
just  as  daylight  began  to  fade,  and 
seeing  that  the  buried  sheep  would 
take  no  harm  from  a  few  hours'  delay, 
and  moreover  that  the  glaring,  smoky 
sunset  threatened  a  return  of  yester- 
day's horrors,  nothing  was  done  save 
to  drive  to  the  security  of  the  fold 


Shepherding  on  the  Fells  in  Winter. 


383 


such  sheep  as  were  wandering  about 
on  the  fell-side. 

While  we  were  thus  employed  word 
was  brought  that  Will,  the  shepherd 
of  the  Hollins,  was  missing.  He  had 
ventured  out  several  hours  ago  in  the 
last  temporary  lull  of  the  storm  to  go 
round  a  portion  of  his  fell,  arranging 
that  his  comrade  should  take  the  other 
part.  Wilson  came  back  safe  and 
sound,  but  Will  he  had  not  met 
since  they  parted.  The  news  had 
spread  far  in  a  short  hour ;  every  dog 
and  man  in  the  dalehead  was  already 
in  requisition  and  we  hastened  to 
take  our  place  on  the  Hollins  heaf. 
The  patrol  swung  out  along  the  drifts, 
here  and  there  stopping  to  exhume 
what  the  infallible  instinct  of  the  dogs 
indicated, — in  every  case  a  sheep. 
Two  hours  passed ;  daylight  was  suc- 
ceeded by  moonlight ;  we  were  fighting 
against  time,  and  every  second  was 
precious.  Then  the  still  air  was  rent 
with  a  wild  shout  of  relief,  as,  sup- 
ported by  a  young  shepherd  from 
Mid  Stang,  Will  was  seen  limping 
along  the  fell  towards  us.  His 
story  was  brief.  After  reaching  the 
point  arranged  as  a  rendezvous  with 
his  comrade,  and  not  seeing  that 
worthy,  he  had  essayed  to  complete 
the  round  of  the  fell,  despite  the 
terrific  storm,  fearing  that  some  acci- 
dent had  befallen  Wilson.  He  had 
almost  reached  the  most  distant  corner 
of  the  heaf,  when,  in  crossing  a  slippery 
crag-bed,  he  had  fallen,  catching  his 
leg  in  a  cranny  of  the  rock  and  so 
twisting  his  knee  that  further  progress 
was  almost  impossible.  For  a  few 
minutes  he  had  sat  facing  the  awful 
prospect  of  a  lingering  death  from 
exposure,  then  recollecting  that,  some 
half-mile  away,  across  very  open, 
rocky  ground,  there  was  a  rudely 
built  hut  in  the  next  heaf,  he  had 
painfully  essayed  to  make  his  way 
there.  The  journey  took  him  over 
an  hour  in  his  numbed  and  lame 


condition.  Even  in  the  shelter  of 
the  hut  the  bitter  cold  racked  his 
limbs  adding  torment  to  his  injury, 
and,  as  he  truly  averred,  had  he  not 
lain  between  his  dogs  and  encouraged 
them  to  nestle  close  to  him,  he  would 
assuredly  have  been  frozen  to  death 
ere  the  Mid  Stang  shepherd  visited 
the  hut. 

Day  after  day  we  now  went  on  to 
the  fells.  Jack,  the  shepherd,  looked 
his  sheep,  and  then  joined  us  in  assist- 
ing Jacob  to  disentomb  his  flock,  which 
numbered  a  thousand.  Five  hundred 
of  these,  who  had  escaped  the  drifts, 
were  folded  on  the  day  that  the 
storm  ceased.  On  the  next  day,  over 
two  hundred  were  brought  in,  and  on 
the  third  day  nearly  the  same  number. 
These  sheep  had  been  buried  six  feet, 
from  which  depth  the  breath-marks 
on  the  snow-crust  are  plainly  visible. 
Each  day  the  depth  to  be  probed 
increased,  and  of  course  the  number 
of  sheep  released  became  correspond- 
ingly less.  On  the  ninth  day,  my 
comrades  and  myself  drove  a  tunnel 
into  a  big  drift  piled  against  the  crag- 
giest part  of  the  hill-side.  Instead  of 
digging  straight  down  we  took  the 
drift  length- wise,  and,  gradually  sink- 
ing deeper,  came  to  the  level  on  which 
the  sheep  were.  At  the  outset  our 
proceedings  were  much  hampered  by 
the  caving  in  of  the  walls  and  roof  of 
the  tunnel,  and  on  one  occasion  we 
had  to  combine  with  those  in  the 
open  to  dig  a  way  out  again.  Deeper 
down  we  found  the  snow  packed 
denser  and  thus  safer  to  deal  with. 
Space  does  not  permit  the  description 
of  every  incident,  but  by  this  method 
we  came  within  reach  of  some  two 
more  sheep.  These,  though  buried  so 
long,  were  quite  lively,  for,  when  the 
last  piece  of  snow  was  removed,  they 
scurried  through  the  gloomy  passage 
and  into  the  clear  biting  air  at  full 
speed. 

When  I  looked  at  the  glen  in  which 


Shepherding  on  the  Fells  in  Winter. 


Jacob  Mattison's  flock  had  been  over- 
whelmed and  saw  the  huge  masses  of 
snow  banked  up  against  the  crags, 
I  thought  that  from  this  place  surely 
would  the  last  of  the  buried  sheep  be 
released,  but  I  was  mistaken.  Forty- 
one  days  after  the  storm  sirens  had 
screamed  their  last  defiance  from  the 
uplands,  in  wandering  through  the 
dale  my  eye  was  attracted  by  some 
men  moving  about  the  edges  of  a 
narrow  chine,  or  rift  in  the  rock, 
through  which  a  stream  descended 
from  the  moor.  To  half  its  depth 
this  was  still  filled  with  snow,  the 
last  patch  of  white  remaining  near 
our  dale.  Scrambling  through  a 
coppice,  we  reached  a  green  sledge- 
road  which  carried  us  to  where  the 
shepherds  had  congregated.  They 
were  consulting  how  to  dig  through 
the  drift  in  which  the  dogs  had  located 
three  distinct  breathing-places,  though 
on  the  thaw-grimed  surface  none  of 
these  was  visible  to  us.  The  mass  of 
snow  was  not  very  great,  but  there 
was  reason  to  fear  that  a  large  piece 
of  superincumbent  cliff  had  broken 
from  its  base  and  was  being  held  in 
position  by  the  drift.  Of  course  if 
much  of  this  were  excavated  there  was 
no  saying  how  many  yards  of  the  ravine 
might  not  fall  in  upon  the  workers. 
The  council  was  divided  :  some  were 
for  waiting  the  general  thaw  and 
sacrificing  the  sheep,  others  for  their 
rescue  and  risking  the  fall  of  a  thou- 
sand tons  of  rock  in  the  attempt ; 
and  the  latter  opinion  prevailed. 
Starting  at  the  lower  edge  of  the 
drift,  the  small  aperture  of  the  water- 
way was  enlarged  to  admit  a  man 
stooping.  As  he  cut  his  way  further 
in,  another  was  posted  to  throw  back 
the  material  the  first  loosened.  We 
were  fortunate  enough  to  get  an  early 
place  among  the  workers  and  ere  long 
were  hewing  out  blocks  of  wet  snow 
to  ease  our  leader.  The  dogs,  how- 
ever, when  taken  into  the  tunnel, 


found  the  scent  bad,  and  the  reason 
was  soon  made  plain  Striking  for- 
ward and  upward  with  the  pick  loose 
stones  of  various  sizes  were  encoun- 
tered, showirg  that  there  had  been 
a,  conStrifEtfblt]  landslip  either  during 
/  or  immediately  after  the  storm.  In 
1  front  our  progress  was  now  stopped 
b^r-  targe  boulder  lying  right  athwart 
our  path.  We  gave  up  all  hope  of 
success  ;  the  situation  was  desperately 
unsafe,  since  at  any  moment  the 
loosened  crags  above  might  crash 
down  and  bury  us  in  our  tunnel, 
but  our  leader,  after  ascertaining  the 
extent  of  the  obstruction,  daringly 
decided  to  go  ahead.  The  tunnel 
was  accordingly  driven  over  the  stone. 
Old  Towler,  here  brought  in,  gave 
the  first  welcome  signs  of  approach  to 
our  search,  and  like  moles  we  burrowed 
ahead,  sadly  troubling  the  men  behind 
to  keep  the  tunnel  clear  of  our  dis- 
lodged snow.  At  last,  after  a  feverish 
spell  of  work,  a  hardened  mass  of  snow 
was  encountered ;  the  keen  shepherd 
ran  his  spade  round  and  separated  it, 
disclosing  a  sheep,  but  what  a  sheep  ! 
Words  cannot  describe  its  appearance, 
but  memory  can  never  forget  the 
glazed  sightless  eyes,  the  mouth  feebly 
*  opening  and  closing,  but  giving  forth 
no  sound.  Vitality  was  restored  by 
aid  of  stimulants  and  the  emaciated 
animal  was  carried  down  to  the  nearest 
farm.  The  other  two  sheep  were 
reached  about  an  hour  later;  they 
had  been  buried  next  the  foot  of  the 
sheer  rock  and  had,  in  their  hunger, 
sucked  up  every  particle  of  soil  within 
reach,  and  even  licked  the  living  rock 
in  order  to  gain  some  slight  relief. 

Our  task  being  ended,  we  left  the 
dark  tunnel  safely.  The  splintered 
rock,  which  had  so  nearly  daunted  us, 
came  down  when  the  first  flood  of 
spring  thawed  the  last  sheet  of  ice 
beneath  its  loosened  base. 

WILLIAM  T.  PALMER. 


385 


THE    LEGION    OF    THE    LOST. 


IN  the  private  drawer  in  the  private 
safe  in  the  private  bureau  of  a  certain 
War-Office  is  the  official  record  of  a 
certain  regiment.  The  very  sight  of 
the  outside  of  it  puts  the  Minister  of 
War  for  the  time  being  into  an  evil 
humour.  If  he  has  to  open  that 
drawer  he  uses  unofficial  language, 
and  closes  it  again  with  a  bang  that 
is  a  commination  in  itself.  For  the 
record  of  that  regiment  is  closed, — 
or  rather  it  is  not  closed  ;  it  breaks 
off  without  any  ending  whatever. 
The  regiment  itself  has  disappeared, 
— not  on  the  field  of  battl^  'here 
to  disappear  is  to  live  for  ever.  This 
regiment  did  what  no  other  regiment 
ever  succeeded  in  doing.  It  vanished, 
— into  thin  air  and  elsewhere ;  and  this 
is  the  first  time  the  story  has  been  told. 

In  its  own  country  it  was  known 
as  the  Legion  of  the  Lost,  a  name 
which,  in  view  of  what  happened,  is 
not  without  its  prophetic  touch.  It 
was  composed  of  the  off-scourings  of 
an  army  which  had  become  rotten 
through  many  years  of  peace.  War 
is  a  horror,  and  the  necessity  for 
being  ever  ready  for  war  a  grievous 
burden.  At  times,  in  the  long  slow 
years  of  peace,  the  war-machine  grows 
foul, — as  any  other  machine  grows 
foul  for  lack  of  use — and  this  machine 
is  only  to  be  cleansed  by  blood.  Much 
depends  on  temperament,  and  these 
men  belonged  to  a  nation  who  could 
always  do  anything  better  than  wait. 
No  man  who  has  ever  seen  even  the 
fringe  of  the  trail  of  blood  and  fire 
may  speak  lightly  of  war  ;  but,  to  a 
nation  such  as  this,  war  seems  one  of 
the  necessities  of  life.  Without  the 
letting  of  blood  the  body  politic  grows 
No.  509. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


corrupt.  In  the  opening  of  the  veins 
is  certain  relief, — especially  to  the 
head — and  a  certain  drastic  cleansing 
throughout  the  limbs.  And  well  the 
head  has  known  it. 

There  are  black  sheep  in  every  army  - 
When  their  fleeces  were  judged  beyond 
the  power  of  anything  but  blood  to 
cleanse,  the  black  sheep  of  this  army 
were  sent  to  the  Legion  of  the  Lost. 
I  have  spoken  of  it  as  a  regiment. 
To  be  precise  it  was  only  a  detach- 
ment, and  there  were  several  similar 
ones,  all  kept  as  far  apart  from  one 
another  as  possible,  and  each,  except 
in  the  simple  detail  of  numbers,  a 
regiment  in  itself  and  fully  consti- 
tuted as  such, — heavily  over-officered 
of  course,  and  every  officer  armed  to 
the  teeth ;  but  that  was  sheer  neces- 
sity, considering  the  elements  they 
had  to  keep  under  control,  or  at  all 
events  at  arm's  length.  It  was  the 
military  ash-pit,  the  convict  estab- 
lishment of  the  army,  and  several 
times  worse  than  the  hulks.  And 
since  one  does  not  locate  one's  ash- 
pit any  nearer  one's  dwelling  than 
is  absolutely  necessary,  this  military 
sink  was  situated  across  seas  in  a  red- 
hot  land  of  sands  and  withering  sun, 
— possibly  with  a  view  to  the  thin- 
ning of  hot  blood  by  external  heat ; 
possibly  in  the  hope  that  perpetual 
sun-baths  might  prove  as  beneficial  to 
the  moral  as  they  had  been  proved 
to  be  to  the  material  fibre ;  possibly 
with  a  humane  idea  of  affording  this 
human  refuse  a  foretaste  of  the  here- 
after, and  of  acclimatising  it  by 
degrees  to  that  state  in  which  its 
eternal  future  might  naturally  be 
expected  to  be  spent. 

c  c 


386 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


When  a  man  perforce  entered  the 
Legion  of  the  Lost  he  abandoned  hope 
but  did  not  as  a  rule  give  himself  up 
to  despair.  On  the  contrary  he  set 
himself  to  the  enjoyment  of  life,  such 
as  it  was,  after  the  manner  of  a  lost 
soul.  His  enjoyments  were  peculiar, 
and  not  to  be  described  in  detail.  In 
their  higher  flights  they  rose  occasion- 
ally to  the  murder  of  an  officer.  His 
own  life  hung  at  any  moment  on  the 
pressure  of  his  officer's  finger.  At  all 
times  he  resented  such  a  state  of 
matters,  even  though  custom  had 
habituated  him  to  it.  At  times  he 
brought  the  balance  even  by  pressing 
his  own  trigger  first. 

The  sun  was  setting  away  out  there 
over  the  desert.  In  a  few  minutes  it 
would  be  night.  Three  men  lay  on 
the  sand  and  turned  the  last  moments 
of  daylight  to  profitable  account  in 
the  throwing  of  dice.  The  dice  were 
home-made,  roughly  shaped  out  of 
mutton-bones,  the  points  red  dots  of 
blood.  From  the  intentness  of  their 
faces  the  stake  was  evidently  a  high 
one. 

"  Seven  ! "  growled  the  first  thrower 
in  his  throat.  He  was  a  thin  angular 
man,  with  prominent  cheekbones  and 
deep-set  eyes.  His  face  was  like  a 
hawk's,  and  his  hands  were  bony 
claws.  He  went  by  the  name  of 
Zaphr,  which  I  believe  has  something 
to  do  with  a  hawk  or  a  vulture. 
Every  man  in  the  Legion  had  his 
nickname.  Some  of  them  knew  no 
other,  and  some  would  have  resented 
the  use  of  their  rightful  names  as 
much  as  their  companions  would  have 
been  astonished  by  them. 

Number  Two  took  the  bones  be- 
tween his  big  red  hands  and  dropped 
them  lightly  on  the  smoothed  sand. 
"  Eight !  Curse  the  luck  !  He'll  beat 
me  yet."  He  said  it  with  much 
vehemence,  but  the  others  laughed, 
which  made  him  angry.  "  Well  then, 
what  ? "  he  asked  roughly  and  all 


a-bristle.  He  was  the  exact  opposite 
of  Number  One,  inclined  to  fat  in 
spite  of  all  hindrances,  coarse,  flabby, 
brutalised.  His  nickname  was  Bour- 
reau,  the  Butcher,  and  he  looked  it, 
every  hair  of  him.  His  greatest 
pleasure  in  life  was  in  slaughtering 
the  beasts  for  the  regiment,  and  they 
suffered  much  at  his  hands.  He 
was  big  and  heavy,  and  by  nature  a 
bully.  His  comrades  made  light  of 
his  courage,  except  where  such  things 
as  sheep  and  pigs  were  concerned ; 
and  as  bullying  in  the  Legion  was 
the  special  prerogative  of  the  ser- 
geants, and  would  have  provoked 
prompt  reprisals  if  attempted  by  one 
of  the  rank  and  file  themselves,  the 
Butcher  took  it  out  of  the  sheep 
whose  powers  of  retaliation  were 
limited. 

"Now,  P'tit,"  said  Number  One, 
"shake  'em  up  and  see  what  le  ban 
Dieu  sends  you." 

Number  Three  was  small  and  slight. 
From  the  back  he  looked  like  a  school- 
boy, but  his  smooth  long  face  was  the 
face  of  a  priest.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
he  had  studied  for  the  priesthood  with 
a  view  .to  escaping  service,  but  had 
failed  in  his  examinations  to  the 
utmost  limit  of  the  law,  and  had 
fallen  from  grace  in  divers  other  ways. 
There  was  that  in  his  face  which  none 
could  understand.  At  times  it  looked 
very  old,  older  than  any  man's  face 
has  any  right  to  look  however  old  he 
may  or  may  not  be.  He  went  by  the 
generic  name  of  Petit  Corbeau, — 
Crow  being  a  common  nickname  for 
the  wearers  of  the  black  robe — but 
this  was  generally  shortened  into 
P'tit, 

Little  Mr.  Crow  shook  the  dice  up 
and  down  in  his  balled  hands  so  long 
that  the  Butcher  growled,  "  Come  on, 
come  on  !  Get  done,  man  !  " 

P'tit's  little  close-set  eyes  laughed 
into  the  Hawk's  eyes  opposite  though 
his  face  was  quite  unmoved.  He 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


387 


continued  to  rattle  the  bones  between 
his  palms,  and  the  Butcher's  red  face 
twisted  up  into  a  scowl.  It  seemed 
to  afford  the  little  man  much  satis- 
faction. 

"Have  done,  have  done!"  growled 
the  Butcher  again.  "  We  don't  want 
to  be  all  night  over  it." 

Then  with  a  final  rattle  the  dice 
fell. 

"  Nine !  Confound  it,  you're  in 
luck ! "  said  the  Butcher,  and  the 
other  two  laughed  again  at  the  touch 
of  relief  which  would  into  his  voice. 

Little  Mr.  Crow  had  not  even 
looked  at  the  dice.  Ho  was  watching 
the  Butcher's  face  with  infinite  amuse- 
ment. 

"Hullo,  boys!  I'm  in  this.  What's 
the  stake  ? " 

It  was  a  new  voice,  hoarse  and 
scrapy  as  though  with  over-use,  and 
a  new  hand  reached  over  their  shoul- 
ders and  grabbed  the  dice. 

"  Hola,  Sunstroke  !  We  began  to 
think  they'd  forgotten  you  as  they 
did  the  poor  Barabbas,"  said  P'tit. 

"  Not  me,  my  boy !  I've  been 
singing  so  loud  they  couldn't  possibly 
forget  me.  I'm  as  hoarse  as  a  crow 
and  my  bones  creak.  Listen  ! "  and 
he  bent  stiffly  to  and  fro,  but  the 
creaking  was  not  audible. 

He  was  aptly  named,  being  a  big 
man  with  bold  blue  eyes  and  straw- 
coloured  hair  and  beard,  and  a  good- 
humoured,  intelligent  face.  At  the 
moment  he  looked  very  hungry  and 
visibly  tired  out.  He  had  just  been 
released  from  punishment  in  the  silo, 
— a  perpendicular  hole  in  the  sand 
into  which  the  prisoner  is  dropped 
and  left  to  make  himself  as  comfort- 
able as  he  can  for  twenty-four  or 
forty-eight  hours,  and  fed  on  bread 
and  water.  The  unfortunate  Barab- 
bas had  somehow  been  overlooked  and 
left  in  the  silo  for  over  a  week. 
When  he  died  nobody  knew,  and 
truth  to  tell  nobody  particularly  cared. 


"Come!  What's  the  stake?" 
asked  Sunstroke,  as  he  dropped  heavily 
on  to  the  sand  and  rattled  the  dice  in 
his  big  hand. 

The  three  looked  at  one  another 
for  a  second.  Then  P'tit  said  quietly, 
"  Coquerico." 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  big  man,  with  a 
blaze  in  his  eyes.  "  I'm  on  !  How's 
the  score?"  and  he  shook  the  dice 
joyfully. 

"  Seven,"  said  Zaphr  the  Hawk. 

"Eight,"  said  Bourreau  the  Butcher. 

"  Nine,"  said  little  Mr.  Crow. 

"  Tchutt !  I  can  beat  that,"  said 
the  big  man,  and  dropped  the  dice  in 
the  sand. 

"  Twelve  !  I  win  !  I  told  you  so  ! 
When  ? " 

"  Before  next  Sunday,"  said  Bour- 
reau in  the  best  of  spirits. 

"  Right !  Now  let's  get  something 
to  eat,"  and  they  strolled  away  to 
their  tent. 

They  passed  Sergeant  Coquerico  on 
the  way  and  saluted  him  with  puncti- 
lious politeness. 

"  Vale,  vale,  moriturum  te  salu- 
tamus  !  "  murmured  P'tit,  jibing 
grimly  with  the  old  farewell. 

"What's  that?"  said  Sunstroke, 
who  had  not  studied  for  the  priest- 
hood. 

"  Adieu,  Coquerico,"  said  Little 
Mr.  Crow.  For  Sergeant  Coquerico 
was  to  die  before  Sunday,  and  the 
dice  had  selected  Sunstroke  as  the 
instrument  of  his  dismissal. 

The  Providence,  however,  which 
watches  over  even  such  things  as 
sergeants  of  the  Line  had  other  ends 
in  view  for  all  of  them. 

In  the  early  dawn  an  orderly  gal- 
loped in  with  despatches  for  the 
colonel,  and  by  the  hour  at  which 
they  were  usually  cursing  through 
early  drill,  tents  had  been  struck,  and 
the  detachment  was  en  route  for  rail- 
head,—  a  pleasant  excitement  visible 
among  the  officers,  and  a  certain 

c  c  2 


388 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


dogged  anticipation  even  among  the 
men, — anything  for  a  change,  for  the 
desert  was  deadly  dull. 

Two  days  later  they  were  rolling 
through  the  blue  seas  towards  Port 
Said  on  that  very  ancient  transport 
PRIDE  OP  THE  EAST,  a  fateful  name 
again,  for  pride  rides  to  a  fall  as 
surely  as  the  sun  sinks  to  the  west. 
By  the  end  of  the  first  day  most  of 
them  were  thinking  with  regret  of  the 
comparative  solidity  of  their  desert 
sands,  where,  parbleu  !  if  it  was  dull 
one's  stomach  at  all  events  kept  in 
its  right  place. 

The  PRIDE  OP  THE  EAST  was  the 
oldest  transport  in  the  service,  and 
a  bibulous  old  tub  she  was.  A  wet 
ship  even  in  fine  weather,  she  seemed 
to  roll  more  when  the  sea  was  smooth 
than  when  it  was  rough,  if  that  were 
possible.  She  had  accommodation, 
such  as  it  was,  for  two  hundred  men  ; 
when  two  hundred  and  fifty  were 
crowded  into  her  she  was  more  un- 
comfortable even  than  her  builders 
had  intended  to  make  her.  There 
were  in  addition  ten  officers,  and 
twenty-four  non-commissioned  officers 
on  board,  while  the  officers  and  crew 
of  the  ship  amounted  in  round  num- 
bers to  fifty  all  told.  There  were 
therefore  in  all  three  hundred  and 
thirty-four  men  on  board,  and  until 
they  made  Port  Said  two  hundred 
and  eighty-two  of  them  were  mistrables 
of  the  most  miserable.  Thirty-four 
of  these  were  indeed  borne  up,  more 
or  less,  by  a  sense  of  duty,  which 
however  failed  to  keep  them  from 
being  exceedingly  sea-sick ;  the  odd 
two  were  exceptions  to  the  general 
rule,  and  these  were  the  gentlemen 
we  have  already  been  introduced  to, — 
Mr.  Sunstroke  and  Little  Mr.  Crow. 

Why  they  were  exempt  from  the 
prevailing  epidemic  it  is  impossible  to 
say ;  kismet,  perhaps,  as  their  desert 
friends  would  have  said.  Sergeant 
Coquerico  was  there,  as  sick  a  man  as 


any.  Sunday  was  past  and  yet  he 
lived.  Many  times  before  Sunday 
came  he  would  have  been  grateful  if 
Sunstroke  had  executed  the  decree 
of  the  dice  and  put  him  out  of  his 
misery.  But  Little  Mr.  Crow  had 
bidden  Sunstroke  hold  his  hand,  and 
bit  by  bit  he  told  him  why ;  and  as 
he  listened  Sunstroke's  bold  blue  eyes 
began  to  blaze  as  P'tit's  little  black 
ones  had  been  blazing  ever  since  they 
got  the  route,  and  he  learned  whither 
they  were  bound. 

It  took  P'tit  some  time  and  much 
earnest  whispering  to  make  Sunstroke 
understand  all  the  possibilities.  When 
he  did  so  he  swore  in  his  moustache 
by  the  sacred  name  of  a  dog  that  it 
was  magnificent,  and  General  Bosquet 
himself,  if  he  had  been  alive,  would 
certainly  have  called  it  by  some  other 
name  than  war. 

Once  in  the  canal,  the  two  hundred 
and  forty-eight  recovered  themselves 
somewhat.  By  the  time  they  had 
measui-ed  the  length  of  the  Red  Sea 
their  eyes  too  were  smouldering  and 
blazing  with  varying  degrees  of  in- 
tensity. For  Little  Mr.  Crow  and 
jovial  Mr.  Sunstroke  had  been  busy 
among  them,  and  the  fire  in  their 
eyes  was  only  the  outward  and  visible 
sign  of  the  fires  they  had  kindled 
within. 

They  were  signalled  at  Aden  and 
rolled  away  through  the  Straits  of 
Bab-el-Mandeb.  There  the  known 
record  ends.  The  PRIDE  OP  THE  EAST, 
with  the  Legion  of  the  Lost  on  board, 
wallowed  away  towards  Guardafui  and 
vanished  from  human  ken. 

We  need  not  become  accessories, 
even  after  the  fact,  by  a  too  detailed 
knowledge  of  what  followed.  It 
would  not  be  nice  reading.  Broad 
facts  will  suffice. 

Four  days  later  the  Somali  coast 
was  roused  suddenly  and  brusquely 
from  its  undisturbed  sleep  of  the  ages 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


389 


and  witnessed  strange  doings.  I 
cannot  tell  you  where  the  actual 
landing  took  place,  but  it  was  some- 
where between  Kiunga  and  Kimana, 
almost  on  the  equator,  probably  one 
or  two  degrees  south. 

A  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand  blurred  the  white  sky-line  be- 
tween the  upper  and  the  lower  blues. 
It  grew  like  a  tree,  only  more  quickly. 
A  dot  appeared  below  it, — the  root 
of  the  tree.  The  dot  increased  in 
size  and  consistency  and  came  straight 
for  the  shore,  as  if  bound  on  an  over- 
land trip  to  the  great  lakes  them- 
selves. Presently  it  turned  and 
lengthened  out  into  a  great  steamship 
with  no  flag  flying,  wallowing  lazily 
as  if  its  work  was  almost  over,  and 
puffing  out  jets  of  white  steam  here 
and  there. 

Then  there  came  great  traffic  be- 
tween the  ship  and  the  shore.  And 
as  the  white  water-beetles  with  the 
flashing  legs  plied  to  and  fro  con- 
tinuously, the  shore  became  more  and 
more  crowded  with  men  and  things 
in  vast  profusion.  The  work  went  on 
unceasingly  and  the  piles  on  shore 
grew  ever  higher  and  higher, — things 
that  made  for  life  and  things  that 
made  for  death.  And  he  who  seemed 
to  rule  was  a  big  man  with  blazing 
blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair,  and  ever 
by  his  side  was  a  small  dark  man 
with  the  back  of  a  schoolboy  and  the 
face  of  a  priest.  Tents  rose  on  the 
sandy  shore,  fires  were  lighted,  savoury 
smells  such  as  it  had  never  dreamed 
of  tickled  the  nose  of  that  astonished 
coast,  and  its  ears  were  filled  with 
unwonted  sounds  of  revelry  by  day 
and  by  night. 

By  day,  however,  there  was  much 
work  to  be  done,  and  they  took  it  in 
turns  to  do  it.  By  the  third  day  the 
ship  was  stripped  of  all  they  could 
use.  Then  the  lazy  wallower  turned 
and  rolled  away  from  the  land,  slowly 
and  reluctantly  as  though  loth  to  go, 


and  the  crowd  lined  the  shore  to 
watch.  And  presently  the  very  last 
water  beetle  left  her  side  and  came 
plodding  slowly  home,  bringing  the 
sunny-haired  man  and  a  number  of 
grimy-faced  ones  in  blue  cotton,  and 
at  times  they  stopped  and  all  sat  look- 
ing at  the  ship. 

But  they  had  been  ashore  some 
time  before  a  muffled  exclamation 
broke  out  all  along  the  line  of  gazers 
like  an  ill-fired  volley,  and  the  sea  in 
front  of  them  was  smooth  and  flawless 
to  the  sky-line.  There  was  no  rolling 
pall  of  smoke,  no  thunderous  explosion. 
These  might  have  attracted  the  obser- 
vation of  the  English  cruisers  down 
Patta  way,  or  the  nearer  attention  of 
passing  ships.  Just  the  turning  of  a 
few  cocks  down  below  and  the  PRIDE 
OP  THE  EAST  had  had  her  fall  and 
was  dredging  the  sands  of  the  Indian 
Ocean. 

They  were  quieter  on  shore  that 
night  than  they  had  been  on  previous 
nights.  They  had  been  cutting  links, 
— and  other  things — for  days  past, 
but  now  the  last  link  of  all  was  cut. 
There  had  been  no  possible  turning 
back  before,  but  somehow  the  sinking 
of  the  ship  emphasised  the  fact  and 
brought  it  home  to  them.  AVild  as 
they  were,  brutalised  and  rough 
beyond  belief  almost,  there  were 
thoughtful  ones  among  them  that 
night. 

In  the  morning  the  sunny-haired 
man  with  the  blazing  blue  eyes 
gathered  them  round  him  and  spoke 
to  them  words  they  could  under- 
stand, only  a  few  words  and  to  the 
point. 

"  Comrades,"  he  said,  "  we  are  free 
of  the  yoke.  The  future  is  our  own. 
Over  there  to  the  west  lies  our  New 
World.  There  are  great  rivers,  great 
lakes,  food  in  abundance,  all  the 
wives  you  want,  and  gold  for  the 
finding.  When  we  have  conquered 
our  kingdom,  and  got  the  gold,  we 


390 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


will  find  ways  of  getting  home  again 
and  each  man  can  play  Monte  Christo 
for  himself.  To  do  all  this  there 
must  be  a  leader,  and  there  must  be 
discipline,  or  it  will  all  end  in  ruin. 
The  way  is  long  :  we  may  have  to 
fight ;  but  the  country  is  there,  and 
all  we  have  to  do  is  to  go  on  and  on 
till  we  reach  it.  We  are  a  Republic 
and  you  have  chosen  me  President ; 
I  will  choose  certain  ones  to  help  me. 
For  your  own  sakes,  and  for  all  our 
sakes,  I  trust  you  will  all  join  me  in 
keeping  order,  and  will  act  for  the 
common  good.  If  anyone  has  any 
complaint  to  make  let  him  make  it 
to  me  ;  I  will  see  that  every  man  has 
his  rights." 

They  shouted  acquiescence,  and 
some  gathered  round  to  discuss  the 
next  move. 

In  all  there  were  exactly  two  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  of  them — lost 
souls  all,  all  in,  and  out  of,  the  same 
boat.  And  the  remaining  sixty-nine  1 
They  were  gone, — where  sergeants 
cease  from  troubling  and  faithful 
mariners  have  rest.  With  them  went 
ten  of  the  Lost  ones,  who  went  perforce 
in  company  with  those  they  sent,  and 
so  perhaps  were  less  lost  than  those 
who  stayed  behind  ;  their  troubles  at 
all  events  were  ended  so  far  as  we  are 
concerned.  Of  the  ship's  crew  some 
twenty-five  had  joined  the  mutineers, 
mostly  grimy-faced  men  from  below 
whose  lives  had  been  spent  in  torment 
and  who  jumped  at  the  prospect  of  a 
change  which  could  hardly  be  for  the 
worse.  And  the  brain  of  all  that 
desperate  deed  was  Little  Mr.  Crow, 
but  Mr.  Sunstroke  was  the  head  and 
hand  and  front. 

A  week  was  given  to  rest  and 
recovery  from  the  sickness  of  the  sea. 
Officers  were  appointed  whose  sugges- 
tions had  in  them  no  faintest  approach 
to  the  manner  of  the  late  Sergeant 
Coquerico.  A  certain  amount  of  mild 
drilling  was  indulged  in,  and  the 


things  got  out  of  the  ship  were 
reduced  to  portable  packages. 

Then  President  Sunstroke  with 
fifty  men  went  for  a  stroll  into  the 
country  to  see  if  they  could  strike  the 
local  Flageollet  and  arrange  with  him 
for  the  transport  of  their  baggage  on 
their  own  terms.  They  came  in  time 
upon  a  Somali  village,  the  natural 
light-heartedness  of  whose  inhabitants 
clouded  somewhat  at  the  sight  of  so 
many  well-armed  and  forceful-looking 
strangers.  They  were  strong  enough 
to  have  demanded  all  they  wanted 
and  to  have  taken  it  if  they  were 
refused ;  but  little  Mr.  Crow  wisely 
advised  the  making  of  no  more 
enemies  than  was  absolutely  necessary. 
So  they  struck  a  bargain  by  signs  and 
a  few  Arabic  words,  and  eventually 
returned  to  camp  with  carriers  enough 
for  all  their  loads  and  half-a-dozen 
camels  for  the  heavier  baggage.  By 
sheer  intuition  and  common  sense 
President  Sunstroke  engaged  the  men 
for  only  as  far  as  the  next  place  where 
carriers  might  be  had  :  "  They'll  go 
more  willingly  if  they  know  they're 
not  going  far,"  he  said ;  but  the 
camels  he  bought  outright  in  ex- 
change for  rifles  and  cartridges.  With 
a  last  look  at  the  sea,  the  great  com- 
pany,— the  greatest  company  of  armed 
white  men  that  country  had  ever 
seen,  I  suppose, — turned  and  headed 
due  west  by  the  ship's  spare  compass. 
The  proud  black  man  who  carried  the 
compass  regarded  it  as  a  fetish  of 
peculiar  power,  if  not  the  actual 
god  of  the  white  men,  and  treated 
it  accordingly. 

So,  over  the  endless  plains  they 
went, — now  all  sand  and  stones,  now 
covered  with  heath  and  scrub  and 
thorny  mimosa  and  scarifying  cacti  ; 
and  again  breaking  noisily  through 
the  arched  solitudes  of  mighty  forests, 
or  picking  a  precarious  path  amid  the 
deadly  silences  of  pestiferous  swamps. 
They  began  their  march  before  the 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


391 


sun  each  day,  and  rested  when  their 
shadows  were  under  their  feet,  to 
start  again  when  they  were  lengthen- 
ing out  behind  them.  Fresh  meat  was 
plentiful,  antelopes  abounded  on  the 
plains  and  wild  ducks  in  the  swamps, 
and  each  man  had  his  turn  at  the 
sport.  In  the  villages  where  they 
changed  carriers  maize  and  bananas 
were  generally  obtainable  ;  so  the 
tinned  meats  from  the  ship  were  held 
in  reserve  in  case  the  country  in  front 
s.iould  prove  less  bountiful. 

Fifteen  miles  a  day  was  about  as 
much  as  they  could  manage  with 
comfort.  All  time  was  before  them 
and  there  was  no  need  for  undue 
haste.  They  struck  a  broad  river, — 
probably  the  Tana — and  followed  it 
up  so  long  as  it  came  from  the  west, 
and  they  lived  on  fish  and  waterfowl, 
and  life  was  one  long  picnic.  And  so 
far,  with  abundance  of  food,  and  no 
more  work  than  was  good  for  health 
and  appetite,  and  every  man  his  own 
master  yet  all  pulling  one  way,  no- 
thing had  occurred  to  disturb  the 
peace  of  the  community.  The  peoples 
among  whom  they  passed,  overawed 
by  their  numbers  and  the  determina- 
tion of  their  looks,  yielded  to  their 
requirements  without  a  word,  and 
were  glad  to  be  rid  of  them  at  any 
price  within  their  means.  And  so 
far,  too,  no  occasion  had  arisen  for 
any  exhibition  of  authority  adverse  to 
the  general  wishes.  One  mind  was 
in  them  all,  and  that  to  get  on  to  the 
promised  land  as  speedily  as  present 
comfort  would  permit. 

The  river  began  at  last  to  come 
towards  them  from  the  south,  and 
reluctantly  they  parted  company  with 
it.  Rumours,  too,  began  to  increase 
with  every  foot  they  advanced,  of  bad 
lands  in  front, — lands  bad  in  them- 
selves for  the  feeding  of  so  large  a 
company,  and  overrun  by  mighty 
warriors  who  meted  out  certain  death 
to  all  who  set  foot  within  their  bor- 


ders. Hence  followed  a  tightening  of 
discipline  and  some  grumbling  at  the 
unaccustomed  feel  of  it.  Then  came 
dark  days  on  stony  steppes,  where 
water  was  barely  to  be  found  and 
game  not  at  all.  But  they  fell  back 
on  their  stores  and  pushed  on.  And 
as  troubles  never  come  singly,  there 
were  dangers  behind  as  well  as  before. 
For  of  late  they  had  had  nothing  to 
give  in  payment  to  their  carriers,  and 
their  services  had  been  perforce  and 
the  obligation  much  resented.  So,  as 
the  carriers  could  get  no  pay,  they 
hung  like  an  impalpable  cloud  on  the 
rear  of  the  column  and  picked  up 
what  they  could.  From  being  beasts 
of  burden  they  became  beasts  of  prey, 
and  the  life  of  a  man  was  of  small 
account  when  it  stood  between  them 
and  their  desire.  But  the  cloud  was 
impalpable  only  when  the  white  men 
tried  to  retaliate ;  it  scattered  and 
vanished  before  their  angry  reprisals, 
and  gathered  again  like  a  swarm  of 
hornets  when  they  retired. 

They  lost  men,  and,  worse  still, 
they  lost  morale.  Men  they  could 
afford  to  lose  to  a  certain  extent ;  of 
morale  their  original  stock  was  none 
too  large  and  any  depletion  of  it  was 
a  serious  matter.  But  nerves,  even 
the  nerves  of  seasoned  men,  will  get 
jangled  with  constant  straining.  A 
fight  would  have  done  them  a  world 
of  good,  but  the  shadows  behind 
were  not  to  be  grappled  with,  and 
those  in  front  were  darker  still  and 
still  less  tangible. 

President  Sunstroke's  jolly  face 
was  clouded  with  the  shadows  in 
front ;  the  troubles  behind  did  not 
greatly  affect  him.  He  ground  his 
teeth  and  swore  in  his  moustache  and 
ached  for  a  fight  that  should  clear 
the  way  and  quicken  the  flow  of  the 
red  blood,  even  though  it  flowed 
outside  as  well  as  inside.  And  Little 
Mr.  Crow  tramped  on  by  his  side, 
laughing  at  troubles  and  keeping 


392 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


them  to  their  course  by  the  ship's 
compass,  which  he  had  carried  him- 
self ever  since  he  had  been  forced 
to  shoot  its  bearer  for  trying  to  make 
off  with  it. 

The  troubles  increased.  All  out- 
going and  nothing  coming  in  tends 
to  bankruptcy  in  provisions  as  well 
as  in  cash.  Short  commons  drew 
forth  murmurs  loud  and  long.  Still 
hope  dies  hard ;  what  was  behind 
they  knew,  and  the  promised  land 
might  be  just  a  day  ahead.  So  they 
ate  their  sulky  camels  and  pushed 
on  stolidly  with  empty  stomachs  and 
overfull  mouths.  And  one  day  the 
sun  sank  towards  the  north  and 
another  day  towards  the  south,  and 
Little  Mr.  Crow,  knowing  that  the 
ground  they  were  walking  on  was 
playing  high  jinks  with  his  compass, 
thereafter  steered  by  the  sun.  And 
some  days  there  was  no  sun  but 
only  whirling  sheets  of  rain,  which 
gave  them  water  indeed  but  did 
not  make  for  bodily  comfort.  Their 
course  became  erratic.  The  only 
things  that  never  varied,  except  in 
degree,  were  their  perpetual  discom- 
forts and  their  growing  discontent. 

That  they  held  together  so  long  as 
they  did  was  very  wonderful.  It 
•was  a  case  of  adhesion  from  force 
of  outward  circumstances  rather  than 
of  cohesion  from  mutual  attraction. 
They  kept  together  because  the 
man  who  straggled  died.  But  such 
a  state  of  things  could  not  last. 
What  strange  results  might  have 
followed,  if  they  had  succeeded  in 
working  their  way  through  to  a  land 
of  plenty  in  a  united  whole,  it  is 
impossible  to  say.  Imagination  runs 
riot  over  it,  and  their  wildest  dreams 
were  perhaps  not  too  wild.  But  it 
was  not  to  be. 

They  got  across  the  stony  wilder- 
ness at  last  only  to  find  the  pro- 
mised land  a  greater  desert  still, — 
burnt  grass,  skeleton  trees,  water  in- 


deed, but  no  game,  no  cattle,  no 
villages,  and  black  death  spread 
broad  before  them  by  the  inhabitants 
who  wanted  none  of  them. 

Then  the  storm  broke.  President 
Sunstroke,  conferring  gloomily  in  his 
tent  with  Little  Mr.  Crow,  became 
aware  of  a  tumult  without.  He 
unbuttoned  the  flap  of  his  revolver 
and  strode  out  to  investigate ;  he 
had  smoothed  so  many  difficulties 
that  his  own  temper  was  become 
like  the  edge  of  a  saw. 

He  found  a  division  in  the  camp. 
Men  were  doggedly  loading  them- 
selves with  packages  of  food  from 
the  scanty  stores.  "  Well,  what's  all 
this  ?  "  asked  the  President,  as  he 
walked  in  among  them. 

"  We're  going  back,"  said  one. 
And  said  another,  "  We've  had 
enough  of  this." 

"  Going  back  where  ? " 

"  To  the  river.  We  were  fools 
ever  to  leave  it." 

"  But  that  is  folly—  " 

"  See  here,  Sunstroke,  we've  talked 
it  all  over  and  we're  not  going  on. 
We  know  what's  behind  and  we 
don't  know  what's  in  front,  and 
what's  more  you  don't  either."  This 
came  from  Bourreau,  who  somehow 
still  contrived  to  look  stout  and 
butcherly  while  all  around  were  lean 
and  sallow. 

"  And  what's  behind  1  "  asked 
Little  Mr.  Crow  quietly. 

"  The  river,  and  plenty  to  eat." 

"  And  a  land  full  of  savages 
between  you  and  it,  and  nowhere 
to  go  when  you  get  there." 

"  The  end  is  the  same  in  any 
case,  and  it's  a  pleasanter  road. 
Better  die  full  than  empty." 

Bourreau  however  took  a  shorter 
road  still  and  died  where  he  stood, 
and  Sunstroke  waved  back  the  rest 
with  his  smoking  revolver  and  tried 
his  best  to  argue  them  out  of  it. 
Safety  lay  in  keeping  together  ;  any 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


393 


day  might  bring  them  to  better 
country  ;  they  had  gone  through  the 
worst — 

"  We've  heard  all  that  before," 
said  the  malcontents.  "  It  doesn't 
fill  one's  stomach.  We're  going  to 
keep  together,  but  we're  not  going 
on.  The  river  is  still  there ;  we're 
going  back  to  it." 

He  could  not  shoot  the  lot.  Cir- 
cumstances were  too  much  for  him. 
"  Very  well,"  he  said  ;  "  you  are  fools 
and  you  will  die,  but  that  is  your  own 
look  out.  But  you  take  only  your 
fair  share  of  what  is  left.  Now,  who 
goes  forward  and  who  goes  back  ? " 
He  drew  a  furrow  in  the  blackened 
earth  with  his  heel.  "  For  the  River 
of  Death,  that  side  !  For  the  Land 
of  Gold,  this ! "  and  by  degrees  the 
companies  drew  apart. 

It  took  time  and  much  partisan 
talk  to  make  the  division  complete. 
When  at  last  the  waverers  had  made 
up  their  minds  the  bands  were  as 
nearly  as  possible  equal.  Then  Sun- 
stroke and  Mr.  Crow  gravely  divided 
the  stores  ;  those  for  the  river  marched 
away,  and  gloom  fell  on  those  who 
remained.  And  wild  black  eyes 
watched  the  strange  proceedings  of 
the  white  men,  and  understood  them, 
and  rolled  with  joyful  anticipation. 
For  what  is  too  big  for  one  bite  is 
sometimes  possible  for  two,  and  these 
fierce  eyes  belonged  to  no  carriers  of 
loads  but  to  bearers  of  broad-bladed 
spears  and  short  spatulate  swords  and 
shields  with  strange  devices. 

In  camp  that  night  they  heard 
constant  firing  from  the  direction  in 
which  the  recalcitrants  had  gone,  and 
they  said  to  themselves  that  so  far 
Sunstroke  and  Mr.  Crow  were  right, 
and  perhaps  they  might  also  be  right 
as  to  better  country  being  ahead. 
And  next  morning  they  took  the 
route  in  higher  spirits,  all  being  at 
all  events  of  one  mind. 

Far  away  to  the   south   that  day 


they  got  a  glimpse  of  a  great  white 
mountain  covered  with  snow,  and 
away  in  front  of  them  rose  other 
ridges,  blue  in  the  distance.  Beyond 
that  blue  line  anything  might  lie. 
They  pushed  on  valiantly,  but  all 
around  them  the  land  lay  black  and 
stark,  and  apparently  tenantless. 

The  blue  ridges  lost  their  soft  out- 
lines and  resolved  themselves  into 
rugged  heaps  with  black  scarped  sides 
as  they  drew  nearer  to  them.  They 
looked  forbidding  enough  to  guard 
the  treasures  of  a  New  World.  Their 
very  menace  was  a  provocation  and 
a  challenge.  The  wayfarers  pricked 
up  as  to  a  trumpet-call  and  pushed  on 
with  new  vigour. 

Since  they  had  parted  from  their 
comrades  the  hornet  attacks  in  the 
rear  had  ceased ;  for  they  were  no 
longer  now  in  a  carrier-country  but 
in  a  land  of  warriors  who  delight  in 
war  for  war's  own  sake  apart  from 
thoughts  of  gain.  And  these  were  at 
present  engaged  in  the  pleasant  task 
of  eating  up  the  other  division,  till 
there  was  nothing  left  to  eat,  and 
then,  with  their  appetites  quickened 
by  what  they  had  fed  on  and  their 
spears  still  wet,  the  feathered  men 
turned  for  their  second  bite. 

Experience  had  taught  them  some 
sharp  lessons.  They  waited  till  the 
little  column  was  brokenly  threading 
its  way  across  a  lifeless  rock-strewn 
valley.  Then  without  a  moment's 
warning  the  dead  valley  bristled  into 
deadly  life,  and  the  silence  was  rent 
with  yells  that  made  thin  blood  run 
cold  and  mottled  lean  yellow  cheeks 
with  red  and  white. 

The  white  men  drew  into  a  bunch 
and  faced  the  rush  of  yelling  devils 
with  a  scattering  volley  and  deep- 
breathed  curses.  Bullets  spatted  on 
rocks,  and  ripped  through  leather 
shields,  and  went  softly  home  into 
glistening  black  bodies.  Feathered 
faces  fell  twisting  among  the  flints 


394 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


and  rolled  there  yelling  still,  and 
winged  feet  padded  lightly  over  them 
to  thrust  and  stab  into  the  rolling 
smoke,  and  to  hurl  defiance  and  broad 
razor-blades  at  every  spit  of  flame. 
The  ground  was  strewn  with  feathered 
men  and  painted  shields,  with  knob- 
kerries,  spears,  and  swords,  and  yet 
through  the  smoke  the  place  seemed 
all  alive  with  them  still. 

But  sword  and  spear  and  painted 
shield  could  not  break  through  that 
ring  of  fire,  and  at  last  the  black  men 
drew  off,  and  the  white  men  had  time 
to  breathe  and  to  look  into  one 
another's  faces,  and  to  curse  more 
freely  and  to  think  of  their  wounds 
and  wounded.  Half  a  dozen  dead 
there  were,  cloven  with  the  broad 
spear  heads,  and  half  a  score  of 
wounded,  Little  Mr.  Crow  among 
them  with  a  foot  almost  severed  by 
a  falling  blade.  He  had  bound  it  up 
as  well  as  he  could,  but  his  face  was 
white  and  he  could  not  stand.  "  Make 
for  the  hills,"  he  said,  as  Sunstroke 
came  up  to  him.  "  It's  your  best 
chance." 

"All  in  good  time.  They've  had 
their  soup  for  to-day ;  it'll  take  them 
some  time  to  digest  it.  Now  let's  see 
to  that  foot.  I  tell  you  they  cut, 
those  things." 

"  Yes,"  said  Little  Mr.  Crow,  winc- 
ing again  at  remembrance  of  the 
cold  slice  of  the  steel.  "  They  cut. 
You  must  get  on,  Sunstroke, — get 
on." 

But  on  looking  into  matters  Sun- 
stroke decided  to  stop  where  they 
were  for  the  night.  There  was  water 
close  at  hand,  and  some  of  the  wounded 
were  past  moving,  3ret  could  not  be 
left.  So  they  built  a  wall  of  stones 
from  boulder  to  boulder,  made  all 
their  preparations  for  an  early  start 
on  the  morrow,  posted  sentries,  and 
lay  there  that  night.  By  morning  six 
of  the  wounded  were  dead.  Before 
dawn  they  slung  the  others  between 


tent-poles  and  set  off  as  quietly  as 
possible  towards  the  hills.  It  was 
hard  travelling  at  best,  and  for  the 
wounded  deadly  work.  The  bearers 
stumbled  on  through  the  half  light 
and  came  to  constant  grief,  though 
the  poles  changed  hands  every  quarter 
of  an  hour.  Sunstroke,  bending  over 
Little  Mr.  Crow  after  one  such  fall, 
found  him  white  and  senseless.  He 
poured  cognac  down  his  throat  and 
then  took  him  up  on  his  own  back, 
and  setting  his  teeth  and  bending 
double,  breasted  the  ascent  once  more. 
And  each  time  when  he  stopped  to 
rest  he  found  the  tale  of  wounded 
shrunk,  till  the  burden  he  carried 
was  the  only  one  left. 

Then  the  sun  came  out,  and  first 
cheered  and  then  smote  them.  They 
looked  anxiously  for  their  enemies 
but  not  a  feather  was  visible. 

"The  soup  was  too  hot  for  them," 
said  Sunstroke  cheerfully. 

"Get  to  the  hills,"  urged  Little 
Mr.  Crow. 

But  hill-distances  are  deceptive  and 
the  travelling  was  a  nightmare.  Be- 
fore mid-day,  with  the  hills  looming 
close  and  yet  a  considerable  way  off, 
the  men  flung  themselves  down  and 
declared  they  could  go  no  further, 
and  their  purple-faced  leader,  with 
the  veins  standing  out  like  blue  cords 
on  his  temple  and  neck,  laid  his 
burden  gently  down  and  assented. 
They  threw  out  sentinels  and  set  to 
work  to  build  a  defence,  but  before  it 
was  half  up  the  sentinels  were  run- 
ning for  their  lives.  Sunstroke  set 
half  his  men  to  their  guns  and 
dragged  and  carried  with  the  rest, 
and  cheered  and  cursed  them  all  im- 
partially, till  the  breastwork  fulfilled 
its  name.  Then,  lying  down  behind 
it  and  firing  through  it,  they  stopped 
the  rush  of  the  feathered  men  again 
and  again  and  again,  till  at  last  they 
gave  it  up  and  vanished  along  the 
hillside,  and  this  time  casualties  on  this 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


395 


side  the  defence  were  few  and  of 
small  account. 

"You  see,"  said  Sunstroke,  to  his 
weary  crew,  "  we  beat  them  every 
time.  When  we  reach  the  place  we're 
going  to  we  shall  be  on  top  all  the 
time."  To  which  some  of  them  said 
"  Ay, — when  !  "  and  the  rest  all 
thought  it.  But  he  cheered  them 
like  a  born  leader,  and  doled  out 
provisions  with  as  free  a  hand  as  he 
dared,  and  hoped  with  all  his  heart 
that  the  other  side  of  the  hills  would 
bring  them  better  faring;  for  at  the 
rate  at  which  they  had  eaten  that  day 
there  were  not  two  more  days'  pro- 
visions left. 

They  were  up  again  with  the  dawn 
in  a  chill  creeping  mist,  and  by  noon 
they  stood  under  the  upper  strata  of 
the  cliffs.  Why  the  black  men  never 
attacked  in  the  morning  they  could 
not  understand,  but  were  none  the 
less  grateful. 

And  now,  learning  by  experience, 
the  voyagers  cast  round  at  once  for  a 
fortress  before  the  next  assault  should 
be  given.  And  there  up  the  hillside 
they  found  it  ready  to  their  hand, — 
a  black  cavernous  mouth  gaping  wide 
for  them.  They  climbed  eagerly  along 
a  narrow  path,  turned  a  corner,  and 
found  a  wonder. 

It  was  as  though  a  great  drawer 
had  been  partly  drawn  out  from  the 
face  of  the  cliff  and  so  left.  The 
drawer  was  a  mighty  hollowed  tank, 
forty  feet  wide  and  ten  feet  deep. 
How  far  it  ran  in  under  the  cliff  they 
could  not  see,  but  the  effect  of  it,  at 
the  cliff-end,  was  a  cavern  sheltered 
most  completely  from  over-observation 
or  assault,  with  a  forecourt  enclosed 
by  a  stone  rampart  ten  feet  high.  In 
the  forecourt  were  native  huts  shaped 
like  bee-hives,  apparently  unoccupied. 

"  We  can  hold  that  against  the 
world,"  said  Sunstroke,  and  they 
dropped  into  the  enclosure. 

There  was    none    to   dispute    their 


entry.  The  place  was  deserted,  a 
fortress  impregnable  against  all  as- 
saults from  without.  Here,  if  they 
could  overcome  the  difficulties  of  the 
commissariat,  they  might  rest  secure 
for  as  long  as  they  chose.  They 
pulled  down  the  bee-hives  and  re- 
joiced in  the  warmth  of  fires  that 
night.  The  cave  was  dry,  too  dry, 
the  floor  being  covered  a  foot  deep 
with  refuse  of  cattle  and  musty  forage. 
It  was  pungent,  and  full  of  creeping 
things,  but  it  made  excellent  bedding 
for  stone-worn  bones.  They  still  had 
some  water  in  their  bottles,  and  they 
ate  and  drank  and  slept  in  peace, 
posting  sentries,  however,  against 
surprise. 

The  night  passed  without  disturb- 
ance, and  mounting  their  parapet  in 
the  morning  they  could  see  no  trace 
of  their  enemies.  A  dozen  men  were 
detailed  for  water-duty  and  set  off 
with  their  bottles  and  rifles.  Climb- 
ing the  enclosure,  they  turned  the 
corner  of  the  cliff-path  and  dis- 
appeared. They  never  returned,  and 
no  sound  of  their  ending  reached  the 
others. 

The  cavern  was  gloomy  that  night. 
They  ate  in  silence  and  sparingly, 
and  wondered  what  had  become  of 
their  comrades.  Little  Mr.  Crow  was 
feverish  with  his  wound,  which  was 
besides  horribly  painful  for  want  of 
fresh  bandages.  His  face  was  white 
and  pinched,  and  at  times  he  moaned 
huskily  for  water.  Sunstroke  wetted 
his  lips  with  cognac,  but  cognac  is 
not  water  and  the  parched  lips 
rebelled.  In  the  chill  mist  before 
the  dawn  he  gathered  half  a  dozen 
water-bottles,  took  his  revolver  and 
one  of  the  razor-edged  spatulate 
swords  he  had  picked  up  as  a  keep- 
sake, and  with  a  whispered  word 
slipped  past  the  sentry  and  along  the 
path. 

He  was  back  in  an  hour,  with  the 
bottles  filled,  the  broad  blade  of  the 


396 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


sword  sticking  clammily  to  its  sheath, 
and  a  very  grim  face  on  him.  "  They 
have  built  bee-hives  round  the  water 
and  were  all  snoring  inside  like  pigs, 
all  except  one  on  sentry-go,  and  him 
I  killed  before  he  could  cry  out,"  he 
told  them,  and  they  found  small 
comfort  in  it.  But  the  water  was 
acceptable,  and  they  treasured  it  like 
liquid  gold. 

A  very  thoughtful  man  was  Presi- 
dent Sunstroke  that  day.  He  care- 
fully explored  the  cavern  for  other 
outlets,  but  found  none.  It  ran  into 
the  cliff  a  couple  of  hundred  feet  and 
ended  abruptly.  In  the  afternoon  he 
called  them  all  to  council  and  gave 
them  the  results  of  his  cogitations. 
"  We  are  here,"  he  said,  "  like  rats  in 
a  trap,  and  whether  we  can  break  out 
remains  to  be  seen.  The  guard  I  saw 
round  the  water-hole  was  only  a 
guard.  It  is  probably  increased  by 
this  time.  Where  the  rest  may  be  I 
cannot  say ;  they  seem  to  spring  out 
of  the  ground.  There  are  two  things 
we  can  do, — stop  here,  or  try  to  go 
on.  If  we  stop  we  shall  starve, — 
unless  they  tire  out,  which  is  not 
likely." 

"  Fight,"  said  one. 

"  Quick  death  is  better  than  slow, 
said  another. 

"  It  is  all  one  in  the  end." 

And  so  they  decided  to  fight  their 
way  out. 

"  They  seem  at  their  limpest  in  the 
early  morning,"  said  Sunstroke,  "so 
we  will  go  to-morrow  morning.  Get 
everything  ready ;  we  must  be  away 
before  daylight." 

They  saw  to  their  rifles,  prepared 
half  a  dozen  ambulances  from  the 
remains  of  the  tents,  slept, — those  of 
them  who  could — took  a  hasty  meal 
in  the  dark  of  the  morning,  and 
stole  away  round  the  mountain-path 
through  the  creeping  folds  of  the  mist. 
But  their  wily  jailers  had  foreseen 
this,  and  much  as  they  hated  the  cold 


and  damp  they  hated  the  white  men 
more. 

Sunstroke  in  the  van  saw  a  dark 
form  loom  before  him  in  the  fog  and 
cut  its  yell  in  two  with  a  slash  of  its 
native  steel.  But  the  mischief  was 
done  and  the  hillside  sprang  into  life. 
The  white  men  closed  up  into  column 
of  fours,  with  poor  Little  Mr.  Crow 
in  the  centre,  and  pressed  steadily  on 
and  up,  shooting  down  everything 
that  opposed  them.  Soon  they  were 
the  centre  of  a  vast  howling  throng. 
The  mist  bristled  with  leaping  men 
and  tossing  arms,  and  the  heavy 
spears  rained  like  hail  on  the  close 
packed  ranks.  It  was  a  grim  and 
ghastly  fight  and  could  have  but  one 
ending.  They  were  borne  back  and 
back.  They  came  on  the  turn  of  the 
winding  path  and  broke  and  made  for 
safety.  Little  Mr.  Crow's  bearers 
dropped  him  as  they  fell,  and  he  lay 
still  and  waited  for  the  end.  A 
strong  arm  enfolded  him  and  a 
revolver  crackled  above  his  head.  He 
was  round  the  turn  of  the  path  and 
the  howling  dulled  suddenly  in  his 
ears.  A  black  head  came  sneaking 
round  the  corner ;  he  was  bumped 
and  bruised  against  the  rock,  and  the 
black  head  went  rolling  down  hill  like 
a  grisly  football. 

And  so  they  were  back  in  their 
hole,  but  quite  half  their  number  lay 
on  the  hillside,  some  dead  and  some 
miserably  alive,  and  of  those  who  got 
back  scarce  one  but  had  his  wounds. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
They  sat  and  lay  in  gloomy  silence, 
no  word  of  hope  among  them. 

In  the  afternoon  with  a  hideous 
flop  a  headless  white  body  fell  into 
the  forecourt ;  another  and  another 
followed,  till  the  ghastly  pile  grew 
high,  and  the  survivors  sat  and 
watched  and  deemed  them  happier 
than  themselves.  Hideous  birds  came 
swooping  over  the  dead,  and  their 
glassy  eyes  gleamed  malevolently  at 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


397 


sight  of  the  living.  Sunstroke  had 
been  for  heaving  the  bodies  over- 
board. Now,  instead,  he  sat  inside 
the  cavern  and  shot  the  birds,  and 
they  lighted  fires  and  cooked  them. 
Horrible  food  it  was,  coarse  and 
stringy  and  tasting  of  death, — but  it 
was  food,  and  they  had  no  other,  and 
they  lived  on  carrion-eaters  for  four 
days. 

That  day  there  was  shouting  on  the 
plateau  below,  and  from  the  rampart 
they  watched  the  torture  of  their 
comrades  by  the  feathered  fiends.  To 
sit  and  watch  in  silence  was  impos- 
sible. The  range  was  long  but  they 
rained  shot  on  them  till  the  black 
men  fled  out  of  sight  dragging  their 
dead  and  wounded  with  them  ;  and 
then  Sunstroke,  who  was  an  excellent 
shot,  devoted  himself  to  putting  the 
victims  out  of  their  misery. 

Night  brought  no  cessation  of  the 
horrors.  Great  fires  blazed  round 
the  angles  of  the  rocks  below,  and 
the  shrieks  of  burning  men  rose  up 
to  the  cavern.  Then  a  figure  enve- 
loped in  flame  rushed  wildly  across 
the  open  space  with  gleaming  spear- 
points  spurring  it  on.  Sunstroke 
shot  it  as  it  ran,  and  another,  and 
another. 

The  next  day  was  the  same,  and 
then,  the  victims  being  all  used  up, 
the  siege  settled  back  into  its  old 
routine.  Occasionally  a  bird  of  prey 
came  swooping  down  into  the  fore- 
court, exulting  in  its  find,  and  none 
ever  went  away.  But  at  last  they 
had  to  get  rid  of  the  bodies,  and  with 
averted  faces  they  dropped  them  one 
by  one  over  the  rampart.  That 
night  the  rocks  below  were  alive  with 
a  hideous  crew  who  screamed  and 
laughed  and  tore  as  they  scratched 
and  scrabbled  over  their  prey,  and 
Sunstroke,  with  the  pangs  of  hunger 
ravening  in  him,  made  a  rope  of  shirts 
and  sword-belts  and  was  let  down 
over  the  rampart  to  the  rocks.  He 


shot  three  of  the  sneaking  brutes,  and 
took  their  bodies  up  into  the  cavern. 
Then,  greatly  venturing,  he  gathered 
the  water-bottles  and  silently  de- 
scended the  rocks  again,  but  only  to 
find  the  black  men  on  the  alert,  and 
to  come  back  empty-handed. 

They  suffered  terribly  from  thirst, 
especially  poor  Little  Mr.  Crow,  who 
wandered  in  his  mind  at  times,  and 
babbled  of  flowing  streams,  and  yet 
did  not  die.  The  food,  too,  twisted 
them  with  internal  pains,  and  one 
morning  two  of  them  lay  where  they 
had  slept  and  knew  no  waking.  At 
night  their  bodies  went  over  the 
rampart  and  the  survivors  got  two 
carrion-beasts  in  exchange. 

Each  day  had  its  tale  of  dead,  and 
the  living  envied  them.  Yet  two 
only,  in  their  misery,  shot  themselves ; 
so  strongly  will  men  cling  to  life  even 
under  the  most  hopeless  conditions. 
But  one  by  one  they  dropped  out  and 
went  over  the  rampart,  and  an  occa- 
sional carrion-beast  came  back,  and 
its  flesh  and  blood  were  meat  and 
drink  to  those  who  were  left.  And 
once  again  Sunstroke  stole  down  the 
rocks  in  the  chill  of  the  dawn,  and 
this  time  brought  back  a  bottleful  of 
muddy  water  from  a  tiny  hole  too 
small  to  have  a  guard.  He  could 
probably  have  got  clear  away  in  the 
mist,  but  he  would  not,  and  the 
muddy  water  went  mostly  to  Little 
Mr.  Crow. 

Three  separate  times  at  long  inter- 
vals black  heads  came  craning  round 
the  corner  of  the  path  to  see  how 
they  were  getting  on,  and  each  time 
the  owner  died,  and  once  a  black 
hand  was  seen  waving  a  bunch  of 
grass  there  ;  but  they  did  not  under- 
stand it,  and  a  bullet  went  through 
the  hand  and  the  grass  floated  sadly 
down  the  mountain-side. 

One  by  one  the  starving  men  crept 
quietly  into  corners  and  died,  and 
their  bodies  were  dropped  quietly 


398 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


over  the  rampart  in  the  dark,  and  the 
carrion-beasts  yelled  and  scrabbled 
over  them  and  dragged  them  hideously 
about  among  the  rocks.  And  so  the 
time  came  at  last  when  of  all  the 
garrison  none  remained  alive  save 
Sunstroke  and  Little  Mr.  Crow  ;  Sun- 
stroke, because  he  had  been  the 
strongest  of  them  all,  and  Little  Mr. 
Crow  because  he  had  been  the  weakest, 
and  Sunstroke  had  tended  him  like 
a  brother,  reserving  for  him  the  least 
disgusting  bits  of  carrion,  and  giving 
him  muddy  water  to  drink  when  the 
others  had  only  blood. 

One  dreadful  day,  when  these  two 
lay  alone,  the  feathered  men,  tired  of 
waiting,  tried  to  carry  the  stronghold 
by  assault.  But  Sunstroke  was  ready 
for  them  and  the  corner  was  a  bad 
one  for  rushing.  He  had  the  rifles 
piled  in  front  of  him,  and  no  man 
who  got  round  the  corner  lived  to 
report  how  many  men  were  left  in  the 
cave.  At  night  he  crept  out  and 
tumbled  the  black  bodies  down  the 
mountain- side,  and  the  flesh-eaters 
below  had  a  mighty  feast  and  chilled 
the  listeners'  blood  with  their  merri- 
ment. 

They  had  been  two  whole  days 
without  bite  or  drink.  Early  each 
morning  Sunstroke  had  been  down 
among  the  rocks  groping  patiently  for 
mud  at  risk  of  his  life  and  had  found 
none.  The  second  time  he  could 
barely  climb  back  over  the  rampart. 
They  lay  on  the  pungent  flooring, 
Little  Mr.  Crow  murmuring  uncouth 
babblements  in  a  foreign  tongue,  and 
requests  for  water  which  cut  like  a 
knife  ;  Sunstroke  with  a  rifle  to  his 
hand  and  a  pile  of  cartridges  beside 
it,  and  his  eye  on  the  path  up  there 
to  the  left  which  swung  up  and  down 
in  the  air  at  times  and  went  wavering 
away  round  the  corner. 

They  had  sucked  and  sucked  again 
the  bones  that  had  been  cast  aside 
clean  picked  long  before,  and  Sun- 


stroke's mind  had  been  running  much 
on  the  best  way  of  ending  it.  A 
couple  of  shots  and  it  would  be  over. 
Whatever  lay  beyond  could  hardly  be 
worse  than  what  they  were  suffering. 
But  as  yet  he  had  not  been  able  to 
bring  his  mind  to  shooting  Little  Mr. 
Crow ;  it  felt  too  much  like  cold- 
blooded murder. 

The  sun  set  red  that  night.  He 
could  not  see  it,  for  the  cave  faced 
south,  but  the  rocks  were  red  and  the 
plain  was  red  and  the  sky,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Little  Mr.  Crow's 
face  was  red,  which  was  odd  because 
it  had  been  so  white  before.  But 
soon  the  red  glow  faded.  Little  Mr. 
Crow's  face  gleamed  dusky  white  for 
a  minute  or  two  and  then  faded  out. 
Sunstroke  crept  over  to  him  and  sat 
by  his  side.  He  took  one  of  the  limp 
hands  in  his  and  it  felt  cold. 

"  Water  !  "  murmured  Little  Mr. 
Crow. 

"  Yes,  yes,  soon,"  said  Sunstroke 
soothingly,  as  he  had  done  a  hundred 
times  before  that  day. 

Presently  Little  Mr.  Crow  lay  quiet, 
and  the  other  laid  some  spare  tunics 
over  him,  and  piled  the  musty  forage 
round  and  over  them  to  keep  the 
sick  man  warm.  And  for  his  own 
comfort,  and  for  company's  sake,  he 
lit  a  fire  in  the  mouth  of  the  cave, 
for  he  must  keep  watch  lest  the 
feathered  men  should  steal  in  on 
them  unawares.  He  dozed  now  and 
again  with  his  hand  on  his  rifle, 
starting  suddenly  wide  awake  with 
a  jerk,  and  he  walked  at  times  to 
get  himself  still  more  awake,  and 
chewed  a  bullet  to  quench  his  thirst. 
And  when  the  night  was  chilling  to 
the  dawn,  and  the  mist  came  creeping 
in,  he  took  his  revolver  and  the 
short  sword,  and  a  water-bottle,  and 
let  himself  down  by  the  rope  over 
the  rampart  once  more.  "What 
good  ?  what  good  1 "  he  said  to  him- 
self, but  yet  he  went. 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


399 


He  knew  by  the  feel  now  where 
it  was  useless  to  search.  Up  round 
there  to  the  left  was  the  hole  where 
he  had  got  water  once  before  by 
killing  the  guard.  He  would  try 
there  once  more  ;  they  would  not  be 
looking  for  him  down  below,  and  he 
might  be  able  to  get  near  enough  to 
kill  his  man  again  before  he  gave 
the  alarm.  And,  full  of  the  idea, 
he  crept  along  the  hill-side,  foot  by 
foot,  with  an  anxious  pause  between 
each  step. 

He  saw  the  beehives  looming 
through  the  mist  at  last,  and  lay 
waiting  for  sign  of  the  watch.  He 
crept  nearer, — and  still  nearer, — and 
still  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing. 
He  crept  right  up  to  the  pool  and 
buried  his  face  in  it.  If  it  meant 
death  the  next  minute,  he  could  not 
refrain  with  the  water  right  under 
his  nose.  His  ears  strained  to  burst- 
ing as  he  sucked  it  in  in  great  eager 
gulps,  but  he  heard  not  the  slightest 
sound.  He  filled  his  bottle  and 
crept  silently  away. 

But  that  first  full  drink  for  many 
days  had  given  him  strength,  and 
courage  he  had  never  lacked.  He 
had  got  his  water,  and  he  would  as 
lief  pay  for  it  as  not.  He  stopped 
and  then  crept  back,  right  up  to 
the  side  of  the  bee-hive.  There  was 
no  sound, — and  he  worked  his  way 
round  to  the  front.  The  mat  that 
should  have  covered  the  doorway 
was  gone.  His  head  was  in  the 
opening,  and  still  he  heard  no  sound ; 
but  he  feared  some  trick,  and  he 
dared  not  go  inside.  The  place 
seemed  deserted,  but  the  crawling 
mist  on  the  hill-side  might  hide  an 
army;  black  eyes,  which  he  could 
not  see,  might  be  watching  his  every 
movement.  The  thought  of  it  grew 
on  his  nerves.  Down  below  were  the 
plains  ;  he  could  creep  down  through 
the  mist,  and  on,  and  on,  and  on ;  by 
daylight  he  could  be  miles  away.  It 


might  mean  life  !  And  Little  Mr. 
Crow  !  Sunstroke  sat  down  suddenly 
where  he  stood,  lest  his  legs  should 
carry  him  off  against  his  will. 

The  mist  grew  luminous,  and  the 
sun  came  out  and  sucked  it  up.  He 
lay  like  a  stone  among  the  stones, 
and  waited  and  watched.  It  was 
broad  day  ;  the  place  was  deserted. 
Still  he  lay  and  watched.  Then  he 
got  up  and  walked  to  the  bee-hives. 
In  one  he  found  a  handful  of  maize, 
and  he  picked  up  every  scrap  of  it  and 
nibbled  a  grain  or  two  himself.  For 
a  long  time  he  stood  gazing  eagerly 
out  over  the  desolate  plains  below 
and  saw  no  sign  of  life.  Then  with 
water  in  one  hand  and  food  in  the 
other,  he  hastened  up  the  hill  to  tell 
Little  Mr,  Crow  the  good  news. 

He  could  not  wait  till  he  got  there, 
but  cried  to  him  from  the  path, — 
"  Courage,  Little  One,  the  devils 
have  gone  !  Here  is  food  and  drink," 
and  he  dropped  down  into  the  fore- 
court. And  then,  as  his  eyes  fell 
on  Little  Mr.  Crow's  face,  the  bottle 
fell  from  his  one  hand,  and  the 
maize  jerked  out  of  the  other;  for 
Little  Mr.  Crow  was  dead,  and  had 
been  dead  for  many  hours. 

At  first  he  would  not  believe  it, 
though  the  shrunken  form  was  stiff 
and  the  face  clammy  cold.  He  had 
fainted,  he  %^ould  come  round;  he 
was  asleep,  he  would  waken.  He 
sat  staring  at  the  white  face,  while 
his  hand  wandered  instinctively  after 
the  grains  of  maize  and  carried  them 
one  by  one  to  his  mouth.  When  at 
last  he  knew  that  his  friend  was 
dead,  and  it  was  borne  in  upon  him 
that  he  was  alone, — the  last  man — 
he  knelt  beside  the  quiet  figure  and 
wept  over  it  like  a  child.  Then, 
when  his  grief  was  spent,  he  covered 
the  body  up,  and  taking  a  rifle  and 
a  bottle  of  water,  went  slowly  away 
along  the  path. 

Round  the  corner  he  went,  and  up 


400 


The  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


the  mountain  side.  He  was  the  Legion 
of  the  Lost ;  he  was  going  to  the 
promised  land. 

The  sun  blazed  down  on  him,  but 
he  stumbled  on  among  the  rocks. 
The  promised  land  lay  just  over  the 
hill-top  there ;  he  must  get  on,  get 
on.  Thousand  thunders  !  It  seemed 
to  get  further  away  the  more  he 
climbed  ;  but  it  beckoned  him  on,  and 
on,  and  up.  Just  behind  it  lay  the 

"  Name  of  a  dog  !  Stand  still 

there,  hill-top  !  Stand,  I  say  !  "  He 
shouted  to  it;  he  threatened  it  with 
his  rifle ;  he  climbed  on,  and  on,  and 
up.  And  at  last  he  drew  his  scraping 
feet  up  the  crumbled  flutings  of  the 
topmost  ledge,  and  lay  spent  on  the 
great  plateau  of  the  summit,  where 
the  sun  smote  like  a  hammer.  And 
far  away  in  front  was  a  shimmering 
blue  that  looked  like  the  sea. 

He  lay  for  a  long  time  while  the 
white  sun  sucked  up  his  strength  as 
it  had  sucked  up  the  morning  mist. 
Then  he  rose  and  stumbled  on  across 
the  plain  that  looked  so  level  and 
was  so  rough, — and  at  times  his 
eyes  were  closed  because  of  the 
drumming  in  his  head,  and  at  such 
times  he  fell  and  bruised  himself, 
and  rose  with  a  muttered  curse  and 
staggered  on.  But  he  got  to  the 
other  side  at  last  and  sank  wearily 
down  in  a  cleft  of  the  rocks.  There 
lay  the  promised  land  spread  before 
him  like  a  mighty  map, — the  land 
of  his  dreams  and  more.  It  was  a 
long  way  down  and  he  was  too  tired 
to  seek  a  road.  He  would  rest. 
Heavens,  how  hot  that  sun  was ! 
He  tipped  his  bottle  to  his  lips,  but  it 
was  empty,  and  his  thirst  was  doubled. 


He  lay  back  and  looked  out 
dreamily  over  his  kingdom  with  half 
closed  eyes.  He  saw  great  rolling 
plains  covered  with  grass  and  darker 
stretches  of  forest-land.  He  saw  a 
gleaming  silver  snake  that  wound 
in  and  out  and  broadened  as  it 
went,  till  it  ran  into  the  dip  of 
the  sky  and  was  lost.  He  saw 
moving  things  far  down  below  him, 
tiny  black  dots  which  passed  to  and 
fro,  some  slowly,  some  quickly.  Up 
in  the  blue  sky  he  saw  a  carrion- 
bird  poised  watchfully. 

And  then  he  saw  the  river  darken, 
and  the  shadows  begin  to  creep 
about,  and  everything  below  him 
was  wrapped  in  purple  mist  like  the 
bloom  on  a  rich  ripe  plum, — just 
like  those  big  plums  that  grew  near 
the  well  at  home  in  Brittany.  How 
often  he  had  stolen  them  and  got 
cuffed  for  his  pains.  She  had  a 
heavy  hand  and  a  sounding  voice, 
the  little  mother,  and  a  heart  of 
gold.  Ay  me  ! 

The  sun  dipped  behind  the  ridge 
on  his  left  and  the  air  darkened 
with  a  chill.  He  was  very  tired ; 
he  would  sleep,  there  where  he  was. 
And  to-morrow, — to-morrow, — 

But  when  the  morning  mists  crept 
round  the  hill-top  the  tale  of  the 
Lost  was  complete.  And  all  that 
day  the  carrion-bird  kept  a  watchful 
eye  on  the  motionless  figure  which  sat 
looking  out  over  the  plains  from  its 
cleft  in  the  rock.  And  on  the 
third  day  it  ventured  at  last  to 
drop  lightly  down  upon  the  quiet 
head. 

JOHN  OXENHAM. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


APRIL,    1902. 


A    PATH    IN    THE    GREAT    WATERS. 


THE  little  Dorsetshire  town  of 
Poole  was  a  busy  and  important  sea- 
port in  the  year  1803.  It  is  busy 
and  important  still,  but  the  years 
which  have  passed  so  lightly  over 
the  town,  have  not  improved  the 
harbour.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago,  old  fashioned  ships  of  five  and 
six  hundred  tons,  beak-heads,  poop- 
lanthorns  and  all,  could  lie,  loaded, 
alongside  the  Great  Quay,  where  a 
large  Newfoundland  fishing-trade  was 
carried  on ;  but  smaller  vessels  lie 
there  now,  and  there  is  less  water 
under  them.  There  is  little  change 
in  the  appearance  of  the  place  ;  the 
wooded  island  of  Branksea,  or  Brown- 
sea  (it  is  called  by  both  names),  lies 
just  in  front  of  it ;  and  island  and 
harbour  alike  are  enclosed  by  the  furze- 
covered  sand-spits  which  stretch  out 
as  though  Hampshire  on  the  one 
side  were  reaching  out  hands  to 
Purbeck  on  the  other  to  enclasp  and 
cut  off  ships,  harbour,  town  and  all, 
from  Poole  Bay,  But  it  is  as  easy  to 
keep  a  boy  shut  in  the  nursery  as  to 
bind  the  landward  streams  that  seek 
their  way  to  the  great  sea ;  the  boy 
finds  his  way  out  into  the  world,  and 
the  ebb-tide  runs  deep  and  fast 
through  the  channel  opposite  Brank- 
sea Castle. 

There  was  then, — for  aught  I  know, 

there   may  be   still — an    old    tavern, 

which  stood  in  a  convenient  position 

among  the  houses  and  warehouses  on 

No.  510. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


the  landward  side  of  the  road  which 
skirted  the  Great  Quay.  Fifty  yards 
or  so  from  its  open  door  were  the 
stone  stairs  where  the  tides  crept  up 
and  down,  and  ships'  boats  made  fast, 
and  seamen  and  fishermen  camo 
ashore  to  rest  from  their  labours. 
They  always  rested  in  the  same  way, 
— leaning  against  whatever  was  con- 
venient, with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets.  Also  they  needed  much 
liquid  refreshment;  for  the  sea,  look 
you,  is  salt,  and  therefore  a  sailor  in 
repose  is  usually  thirsty.  The  little 
tavern  stood  ready  to  satisfy  their 
legitimate  desires,  and  those  who 
were  not  resting  outside  of  it  were 
usually  to  be  found  refreshing  them- 
selves inside.  On  this  chilly  Septem- 
ber evening,  when  stormy  grey  clouds 
were  driving  in  long  procession  out  of 
the  south-west,  and  dull  grey  waves 
were  keeping  step  with  them  all 
across  the  harbour,  there  was  more 
attraction  inside  than  out.  The 
warm  glow  of  a  fire  shone  through 
the  red  curtains  of  the  long  room 
beside  the  bar.  A  sign-board,  swing- 
ing from  an  iron  bracket  over  the 
door,  displayed  a  house-painter's  im- 
pression of  a  fat  old  sloop,  and  the 
legend  The  Portsmouth  Packet,  by 
William  Steele.  Two  hoys  made  the 
passage  twice  a  week,  one  up  and 
one  down,  from  Portsmouth  to  Poole, 
wind,  weather,  and  French  privateers 
permitting ;  and  here  freights  were 

D    D 


402 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


paid,  passages  booked,  and  goods 
warehoused.  If  the  cellars  sometimes 
contained  stuff  that  had  paid  no  duty 
to  King  George,  that  concerned  no- 
body but  the  landlord  and  the 
Revenue  officers;  and  they  were 
kept  exceedingly  busy,  for  most  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  sea-coast, 
gentle  and  simple,  were  more  or 
less  in  sympathy  with  the  free- 
traders. 

The  Portsmouth  hoy  had  come  in 
early  in  the  afternoon  and  was  lying 
at  the  quay.  An  armed  cutter,  flying 
a  naval  pendant,  had  followed  her, 
and  now  lay  at  anchor  in  the  channel, 
three  hundred  yards  out.  As  the 
sun  went  down  (it  was  so  hidden  in 
leaden  clouds,  that  nothing  but  the 
almanac  announced  the  fact),  her 
boat  was  hoisted  out,  and  four  sea- 
men rowed  the  lieutenant  in  com- 
mand to  the  stairs.  No  sooner  had 
he  disappeared  up  one  of  the  narrow 
streets  which  led  through  the  mer- 
chants' warehouses  into  the  High 
Street,  than  two  of  the  men  made 
the  best  of  their  way  towards  the 
Portsmouth  Packet,  while  the  other 
two  took  the  boat  back  to  the  cutter. 
A  last  hail  came  across  the  water  : 
"  Remember,  you  two  !  Skipper'll  be 
down  at  eleven.  You've  got  to  be 
here  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour 
before ;  and  if  so  be  you've  shipped 
more  than  you  can  carry,  you'll  pay 
more  than  the  reckonin' " ;  and  the 
click  of  the  oars  grew  fainter  as  they 
pulled  back  to  the  cutter. 

"  Now  then,"  said  the  elder  of 
the  two,  a  rough  fellow  in  rough 
sea-clothes,  fisherman's  boots,  canvas 
petticoat,  Guernsey  frock,  and  fur 
cap,  "you  ain't  in  such  a  blessed 
hurry  that  you  can't  stop  for  a 
mouthful  o'  rum,  John  Corsellis  ?  It 
won't  hurt  you,  nor  yet  them  long 
togs  of  yourn." 

The  younger  man  was  clad  in  the 
height  of  naval  dandyism :  striped 


blue  and  white  trousers  falling  loosely 
round  the  ankle  and  short  enough 
to  exhibit  grey  yarn  stockings  and 
buckled  shoes  ;  a  short  blue  jacket, 
brass-buttoned,  and  open  in  front  to 
show  a  checked  shirt  and  loose  black 
neckerchief ;  the  whole  crowned  with 
a  black  tarpaulin  hat  and  a  carefully 
tied  pigtail  which  reached  almost  to 
the  hem  of  his  jacket,  or  as  he 
would  have  phrased  it,  "  down  to  his 
transom." 

"  Ain't  got  time,  Jim  Collins  ;  it'll 
take  me  nigh  half  an  hour  to  get 
word  to  my  gal  up  Parkstone  way  ; 
and  then  she's  got  to  make  an  excuse 
to  get  out." 

"  Have  you  got  one, — like  the  chap 
in  the  song — at  every  port  ?  There 
was  one  at  Porchmouth,  and  the 
widder  at  Weymouth  as  keeps  the 
Ship,  and  one  at  Devonport,  and 
another  at  Fowey,  and  this  one ; 
beside  others  as  I  can't  call  to  mind." 

"Well,  you  see,  it's  like  this.  A 
chap  feels  lonesome  like,  adrift  in 
a  strange  port,  if  he  ain't  got  a  gal's 
waist  to  take  a  hitch  round.  It's 
good  for  me,  and  I  don't  know  as  it 
does  any  harm  to  them.  Reckon 
we're  both  satisfied." 

"Both?"  said  Jim.  "  There's  too 
many  of  'em.  That's  the  trouble. 
You're  trying  to  command  a  whole 
fleet,  and  no  signals  either.  A 
woman's  all  right  while  you  stays  on 
the  quarter-deck  and  cons  her  your- 
self ;  but  directly  you're  over  the 
side,  there's  some  other  chap  takes 
charge,  and  he  ain't  agoin'  to  keep 
station  for  you." 

"  You're  nigh  as  doleful  as  them 
Falmouth  men  on  the  cutter,  always 
a  foretellin'  disasters." 

"  Ain't  them  Falmouth  men  got 
reason  to  grumble  ?  Every  seaman 
has  some  rights,  I  reckon;  but  that 
Walker,  he  up  and  steers  right 
through  or  over,  hazin',  bad  grub, 
and  all,  just  as  if  we  was  dogs." 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


403 


"  What  are  we  to  do  then  1 
Mutiny?  " 

"  It  might  come  to  that.  Others 
have  done  it  afore." 

"  Yes,  and  been  laid  by  the  heels. 
I  ain't  no  ways  wishful  to  get  five 
hundred  round  the  fleet,  or  be  hanged, 
— like  them  Albanaises  what  we  saw 
to  Plymouth." 

"  Don't  you  intend  to  do  nothing, 
then  ? " 

"  Yes ;  I'm  goin'  to  see  my  gal." 

"That's  you  all  over,  John.  You 
keep  no  look  out  ahead,  and  you  won't 
shift  your  helm  for  anything  that's 
a-coming ;  ram  jam,  right  ahead, 
never  take  no  thought ! " 

"  Life  ain't  like  a  purser's  cheese, 
with  all  the  profit  in  the  parin's. 
There's  no  sense  in  shortenin'  sail  to- 
day because  it  may  come  on  to  blow 
to-morrow.  Carry  on  and  make  a 
passage,  that's  my  way  of  it ;  time 
enough  to  snug  down  when  the  squall 
comes.  Here,  take  a  drink  and  cheer 
up.  Off  she  goes !  "  and  Corsellis  set 
off  up  the  Parkstone  Road  as  fast  as 
his  sea-legs  could  carry  him,  while 
Collins  bore  up  for  the  Portsmouth 
Packet. 

The  type  to  which  John  Corsellis 
belonged  was  not  uncommon  among 
the  curiously  diversified  seamen  of 
that  date.  Curly-haired  (save  for  the 
pigtail),  blue-eyed,  and  well-grown, 
the  son  of  a  broken-down  hard-drink- 
ing Cornish  seaman,  he  had  shipped, 
as  a  ragged  boy,  on  board  of  a 
West-country  privateer,  and  had  been 
pressed  into  the  Navy  at  eighteen. 
Afloat  he  was  a  quiet,  disciplined, 
capable  seaman ;  ashore  he  was  as 
mischievous  and  irresponsible  as  a 
monkey.  He  had  no  more  ambition 
than  a  sheep,  no  more  book-learning 
than  a  jackass,  and  no  less  courage 
than  a  bull-dog.  To  fear  God  and 
honour  the  King, — both  at  a  respect- 
ful distance, — to  obey  orders,  and  to 
hate  a  Frenchman  as  the  Devil,  were 


the  principal  articles  of  his  simple 
creed.  To  risk  his  life  for  prize- 
money,  to  grumble  because  there  was 
no  more  of  it,  and  then  fling  it  away 
as  if  the  hard-earned  coins  were  drops 
of  water,  was  his  practice.  He  had 
no  sentimental  affection  for  the  sea, 
but  he  loved  a  comfortable  ship  and  a 
good  sea-boat.  The  shore  to  him  was 
a  place  of  relaxation,  where  sailor-men 
went  for  a  spree  because  liquor  and 
girls  were  to  be  found  there  ;  of  the 
joys  of  home  or  domestic  happiness 
he  had  no  more  conception  than  a 
sea-gull.  He  had  neither  thrift  nor 
forethought,  but  he  would  do  nothing 
that  he  considered  mean  or  dirty.  In 
his  dealings  with  beauty  the  tender- 
ness of  his  heart  was  only  equalled  by 
the  toughness  of  his  conscience,  and 
in  love  he  was  constant  as  the 
needle  to  the  Pole, — but  with  a  very 
considerable  allowance  for  deviation. 
He  was  ignorant,  reckless,  and  in- 
temperate, but  his  vices  harmed  few 
beside  himself,  while  his  rough  virtues 
were  of  the  highest  value  to  the 
nation.  Meanwhile,  he  was  one  of 
that  obscure  body  of  seamen  who 
were  building  up  the  British  Empire, 
while  nine-tenths  of  the  people  sang 
their  praises,  and  the  other  tenth 
stole  their  money. 

A  fairly  numerous  company  was 
assembled  in  the  long  room  to  the 
left  of  the  bar  when  Jem  Collins 
entered,  townsmen,  fishermen,  and 
seamen.  There  were  oaken  tables  and 
benches ;  a  high-backed  settle  stood 
on  each  side  of  the  fire-place,  and 
William  Steele,  the  landlord,  stood 
with  his  back  to  it,  pipe  in  hand.  He 
was  in  his  shirt- sleeves,  his  apron 
twisted  up  round  his  waist,  and  his 
striped  waistcoat  with  its  deep- flapped 
pockets  tied  tightly  with  strings 
across  the  place  where  the  small  of 
his  back  had  once  been.  Big,  taci- 
turn, and  stolid,  he  fanned  the 
smoke  away  with  his  hand,  before 

D   D    2 


404 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


he  nodded  to  Collins  and  gave  him 
good-evening. 

"  Are  you  from  the  cutter,  mate  1 " 
"  Aye,  aye,  King's  cutter  PIGMY, — 
just  brought  the  skipper  ashore." 

"  Who  commands  her  now  1 "  asked 
the  landlord. 

"Lootenant  Walker,  since  last 
March,  when  Jerry  Coghlan  was 
moved  into  the  NIMBLE." 

"Walker?"  said  the  landlord 
slowly.  "  'Twas  Walker  that  had  the 
NIMBLE  before,  wasn't  it  1 " 

"  So  'twas.  I'll  take  a  glass  of  rum 
and  a  pipe  o'  tobacco,  thankee.  He've 
got  us  now,  worse  luck." 

"What's  wrong  with  Walker, 
then?" 

"  Walker  ?  He's  in  too  much  of  a 
hurry  to  make  his  fortune.  He's  got 
a  wife  and  kid  ashore  at  Dartmouth. 
Kid's  one  year  old,  but  I'm  blest  if 
Walker  ain't  got  him  on  the  cutter's 
,  books  a'ready  and  rated  A.B.  More'n 
that,  he  sent  one  of  the  hands  up  to 
Portsmouth  in  the  kid's  name,  to 
draw  the  five-pound  bounty;  give 
him  a  crown,  he  did,  to  hold  his 
tongue,  and  put  the  rest  in  his  own 
pocket.  Half  our  stores  goes  ashore 
to  his  house,  and  we  gets  salt  herrin's 
and  any  sort  of  truck  to  make  out 
with.  He's  a  reg'lar  hung-in-chains, 
so  he  is.  Somebody's  got  to  get  even 
with  Mr.  Lootenant  Walker  one  of 
these  days,  and  it'll  be  a  full  day's 
job  too." 

"Is  the  press  hot  in  Portsmouth, 
mate?"  enquired  a  long-voyage  man, 
a  Southseaman,  as  they  were  called 
at  that  time. 

"  Nothin'  to  speak  of  now ;  but, 
Lord,  you  should  have  seen  it  three 
months  back  !  Cleared  every  ship 
in  the  Camber,  they  did,  and  the 
skippers  left  all  alone,  in  charge." 

"  Cleared  the  theatre  too,  didn't 
they  ? " 

The  cutter's  man  grinned,  as  one 
who  recalls  a  pleasant  memory.  "  No, 


that  was  at  Plymouth, — took  'em  all 
out  of  the  gallery,  at  the  Dock 
Theatre, — on'y  left  the  women  to 
see  the  show." 

"  Weren't  the  town  pretty  wild 
about  it  ? " 

"  Not  they  !  There  was  a  broken 
head  or  two,  but  all  taken  in  good 
part ;  and  we  was  complimented  in 
the  newspaper." 

"  Ugh  !  "  grumbled  an  undersized 
townsman  in  top-boots,  "  and  they 
calls  this  a  free  country  !  " 

"  'Twouldn't  be  so  for  long,  if 
'twasn't  for  the  fleet  as  keeps  Boney 
away ;  and  ships  ain't  much  use  with- 
out men  to  work  'em.  But  I  allow 
it  was  curious  how  easy  folk  took  it. 
Now,  if  it  had  been  a  Revenue  job, 
seizin'  contraband  stuff,  like  as  not 
there'd  have  been  shootin'  and  a  lot 
of  poor  fellows  hurt  and  killed.  Here 
we  was,  takin'  the  men  themselves, 
and  no  more  than  a  rough-and-tumble, 
say  no  more  about  it,  and  never  a 
weapon  shown,  on'y  a  stick  or  two." 

"  That's  right  and  proper  enough," 
said  an  old  fisherman.  "  Someone's 
got  to  'fight  the  French,  and  shut  'em 
up  in  Bullong.  Admiral  Nelson  his- 
self  can't  do  it  without  men,  and  we 
know  we've  all  got  to  go,  if  so  be 
King  George  wants  us." 

"  Well,  don't  he  want  his  taxes  and 
duties,  and  what  not  ?  " 

"  Not  he  !  He've  a  got  millions. 
What  do  a  little  bit  o'  tea  and  spirits 
matter  to  he  ?  'Tis  nothin'  to  him ; 
but  'tis  our  livin',  and  bread  and 
butter  for  the  kids.  We  can  spare 
the  men ;  like  enough  they'd  on'y  be 
in  mischief  if  they  was  ashore.  But 
as  for  them  Revenue  swine,  as  goes 

7  O 

about  sneakin'  and  spyin'  how  to 
steal  poor  men's  goods  and  jail  'em, — 
there,  I'd  drown  the  lot,  if  I'd  my 
way  of  it !  " 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of 
approval. 

"Damnation    to   all    Custom-house 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


405 


and  Revenue  men,  says  I,"  growled 
another  man,  and  the  sentiment 
seemed  popular. 

"  Time  of  peace  is  a  bad  time  for 
free-traders,"  observed  a  quiet  trades- 
man-like man  in  snuff-brown,  with 
knee-breeches  and  buckled  shoes. 
"  While  the  war  was  on  the  cruisers 
were  busy  lookin'  for  the  Frenchmen  ; 
directly  the  peace  was  declared,  they'd 
nothing  to  do,  so  all  the  lot,  frigates, 
sloops  and  all,  was  set  to  hunt  the 
smugglers." 

"  D'ye  remember  Billy  Swayne  ? " 
said  another.  "  He  was  the  man 
that  owed  'em  a  grudge." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  landlord,  medita- 
tively. "I  only  clapped  eyes  on 
Billy  Swayne  once,  when  me  and 
Joe,  my  man,  went  over  so  far  as 
Falmouth,  about, — well,  about  a  bit 
of  business.  He  didn't  use  this  coast 
at  all, — at  no  time,  he  didn't — but  I 
see  him  then.  Billy  always  said 
'twas  no  fair  capture ;  that's  what 
made  him  so  wild,  according  to  what 
I  was  told." 

"  Couldn't  well  have  been  no  fairer 
as  I  can  see,"  chuckled  the  old  fisher- 
man. "They  took  Billy,  and  they 
took  his  boat,  and  they  took  his  cargo  ; 
and  they  fined  him  all  the  money  he'd 
got,  and  give  him  six  months  as 
well.  He'd  ought  to  ha'  been  satis- 
fied." 

"  No,  'twasn't  that ;  but  they'd  al- 
tered the  law.  Up  to  July  last  year 
contraband  couldn't  be  seized  outside 
the  four-league  line.  Billy  had  been 
over  on  the  French  side  a  goodish 
while,  and  the  SWIFT, — that  was  his 
boat,  a  sweet  cutter  that  had  been 
the  BONAPARTE,  a  French  privateer — 
sailed  out  of  Granville  the  very  day 
they  got  word  over  that  the  limit 
was  to  be  eight  leagues.  A  easterly 
gale  blowed  him  fair  out  of  the 
Channel,  and  it  took  him  a  matter  of 
ten  days  to  beat  back.  When  he 
was  six  leagues  off  the  Dodman,  up 


comes  the  NIMBLE  cutter.  Knowin' 
he  was  well  outside,  Billy  took  no 
notice,  and  let  'em  come  aboard. 
There  was  the  stuff,  five  hundred 
tubs,  just  under  the  hatches  when 
they  raised  'em.  '  This  is  seized,'  says 
Walker ;  and  Billy  looks  at  him  and 
laughs.  '  Yours  is  a  dirty  business, 
Lootenant,'  he  says,  '  but  you  might 
so  well  take  the  trouble  to  learn  it. 
I  reckon  I'm  all  of  six  leagues  out.' 
'  That  would  ha'  been  all  right  a  week 
ago,  my  man,'  says  Walker,  '  but  it's 
eight  leagues  now,  and  I've  got  you.' 
They  say, — them  as  was  there — that 
Billy  swore  till  the  head-sheets  fair 
rattled  and  shook — him  bein'  hove  to  ; 
but  anyway  they  took  him ;  and  he 
took  his  oath  he'd  have  Walker's  life, 
for  chousin'  him  like  that." 

"  Billy  was  a  hard  man,  for  sure  !  " 
said  the  fisherman.  "They  say  he 
run  down  a  Custom's  boat  once,  and 
never  stopped  to  pick  'em  up.  He'd 
sunk  his  tubs,  and  buoyed  'em.  '  If 
it's  the  stuff  they're  seekin','  he  says, 
'let  'em  go  to  the  bottom  and  find 
it.' " 

"How  many  hands  might  you  have 
aboard  the  PIGMY  now  ? "  asked  one. 
"  I  heard  say  they  took  all  the  men 
out  of  the  small  craft  when  the  war 
begun  again,  to  man  the  line-of-battle 
ships." 

"  So  they  did,  last  June ;  some  of 
ours  was  turned  over  to  the  CANOPUS, 
and  some  to  the  VILL-DE-PARRY. 
Left  us  with  on'y  a  dozen,  they  did ; 
that  would  ha'  been  the  time  for 
your  Billy  Swayne  to  come  ath'art 
us.  But  we  was  in  Falmouth  a  week 
later,  lookin'  for  men  ;  and  a  score  or 
more  came  to  Walker  when  he  was 
ashore,  volunteered  for  the  PIGMY, 
and  got  the  bounty, — said  they'd  be- 
longed to  a  letter-of-marque  as  was 
taken  by  a  French  privateer.  The 
Frenchmen  took  the  guns,  ammuni- 
tion and  arms  out  of  her, — made  us 
laugh  a  bit,  it  did — took  the  mate 


406 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


too,  for  a  keepsake  like — and  then 
ransomed  the  ship  for  a  hundred  and 
sixty  pounds.  So  they  took  her 
home,  and  was  turned  adrift." 

"  Did  they  say  what  ship  ? " 

"  Let's  see,  something  out  of  Ply- 
mouth. Ah !  JOSEPH  AND  GRACE, — 
that's  what  it  were." 

"  Dunno  how  that  could  be,"  said 
a  seamen.  "I  heard  tell  in  Plymouth 
that  the  JOSEPH  AND  GRACE  had  been 
re-armed,  and  sent  to  sea  in  a  hurry 
to  get  the  owners'  money  back ;  and 
the  crew  was  kept  on, — so  they  said." 

"  I  expect  Walker  wanted  the  men 
more  than  the  story,"  said  Collins ; 
"any  way  he  took  'em." 

The  wild  south-west  wind  that 
swept  the  Channel  and  wreathed  the 
headlands  of  Purbeck  with  flying 
rain-clouds,  drove  many  to  shelter 
from  its  violence  that  night.  It 
drove  John  Corsellis,  wet  and  happy, 
with  his  sweetheart's  kisses  tingling 
on  his  lips,  into  the  Portsmouth 
Packet,  accompanying  him  into  the 
house  with  a  rush  of  wind  and  rain 
that  slammed  the  doors  and  guttered 
the  candles.  With  a  louder  howl  and 
a  stormier  swirl  of  rain  it  ushered 
in  another  of  the  cutter's  crew,  who 
came  to  call  his  shipmates  to  their 
waiting  boat.  They  asked  him  to 
drink,  and  turning  to  give  his  order, 
he  encountered  the  landlord's  dull 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  in  a  steady 
stare.  For  a  moment  the  two  looked 
at  each  other  in  silence  ;  then,  turn- 
ing his  back  on  Steele,  the  newcomer, 
without  a  word,  went  out  again  into 
the  wind  and  the  darkness.  The 
other  two  paid  their  shot,  and  fol- 
lowed him. 

It  was  just  eleven.  First  one 
guest,  and  then  another,  announced 
that  he  was  "  for  home-along ;  "  and 
with  many  noisy  good-nights  plunged 
into  the  foul  weather  outside.  When 
all  had  departed,  and  the  potman  was 
closing  the  house,  Steele  went  to 


the  door  and  stood  for  a  while,  half 
sheltered  behind  it.  He  saw  the 
lanthorn  brought  from  the  boat  to 
the  quay-edge,  to  guide  the  cloaked 
lieutenant  down  the  slippery  stairs. 
He  heard  the  order,  "  Give  way, 
men  ! "  and  the  smack  of  the  oars 
as  they  fell  together  on  the  water. 
Then  the  dancing  boat  moved,  a 
shadowy  shape,  across  the  tide,  break- 
ing up  its  wavering  reflections.  It 
reached  the  cutter,  and  the  swaying 
lanthorn  passed  up  the  side  and  dis- 
appeared, while  the  cutter's  riding 
light  swung  mistily  across  the.  dark 
shadow  of  Branksea  Island. 

"  Joe !  " 

"  What  is  it,  Guv'nor  ?  " 

"  You  saw  that  chap  that  came  in 
just  before  closing,  and  went  out 
again  in  a  hurry  ?  " 

"I  did." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  afore  1 " 

"  Not  as  I  knows  on,  Guv'nor." 

"Think  again,  Joe.  The  man 
were  clean-shaved.  Well,  put  a  pair 
of  whiskers  on  that  face,  most  big 
enough  to  cover  it ;  put  gold  rings  in 
his  ears,  and  clap  a  skirt  and  gilt 
buttons  on  that  jacket  of  his.  D'ye 
know  him  now?" 

"  Can't  say  I  do,  Guv'nor.  Who 
is  he? " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,  Joe,  if  there 
was  goin'  to  be  trouble  aboard  the 
PIGMY  cutter,  for  that  there  man  was 
Billy  Swayne." 

The  hired  armed  cutter,  PIGMY,  as 
she  was  officially  described,  was  a 
boat  of  about  a  hundred  and  forty 
tons,  stoutly  built  of  oak.  She  was 
eighteen  years  old,  painted  black  and 
yellow,  with  a  round  bow  and  a 
square  transom,  surmounted  by  a 
counter  so  short  that  it  looked  like 
a  cornice.  Her  bowsprit  was  very 
long,  and  the  mainsail  had  a  square 
head  with  little  peak  to  it.  The 
topmast  carried  a  square  topsail,  and 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


407 


on  the  lower  topsail-yard  was  set  a 
kind  of  boom-foresail,  goosewinged 
across  the  forestay,  with  the  clews 
hauled  out  to  the  ends  of  a  swinging 
boom,  hoisted  half  way  up  the  lower 
mast.  On  her  deck,  twenty-three 
feet  wide,  she  carried  two  long  six- 
pounders  and  ten  twelve-pounder 
carronades.  The  officer's  cabin  was 
aft,  a  little  box  of  a  place  only  five 
feet  and  a  half  high,  with  a  narrow 
table  in  the  middle  and  cabins  on 
each  side  for  the  lieutenant  and  the 
master.  Forward  of  that  was  another 
cabin  with  standing  berths  on  each 
side  for  the  warrant-officers  and  the 
two  midshipmen ;  and  the  berth-deck 
of  the  crew,  some  forty  men,  took  up 
all  the  rest  of  her.  The  main  hatch- 
way admitted  light  and  air  to  the 
berth-deck,  and  a  skylight  and  a 
small  companion-way  served  for  the 
quarters  aft.  There  was  very  little 
room  on  her  deck,  for  the  boat  and 
spare  spars  filled  the  space  between 
the  companion  and  the  main-hatch, 
while  the  carronades  and  slides  left 
but  a  narrow  gangway  on  each  side 
of  them. 

About  the  end  of  September  the 
PIGMY  was  on  her  regular  cruising 
ground  in  the  chops  of  the  Channel, 
working  slowly  to  windward  against 
a  light  westerly  wind.  She  was  short- 
handed,  for  she  had  captured  and 
sent  in  a  small  privateer  and  a  brig, 
and  both  the  midshipmen  and  a  dozen 
of  the  crew  had  been  sent  away  in 
charge  of  them.  The  privateer  had 
shown  fight,  wounded  two  men,  and 
sent  a  shot  through  the  bottom  of 
the  boat :  the  carpenter's  patches 
had  leaked  badly ;  and  as  the 
weather  was  fine  the  boat  was 
towing  astern  to  allow  the  new 
seams  to  "take  up."  The  wind  was 
falling  light  and  the  horizon  was 
hazy,  with  low  flat  clouds  that 
threatened  fog. 

"  I    think    I    shall    haul    up    for 


Plymouth  to-morrow,  Mr.  Martin," 
said  Walker,  as  he  took  a  fisher- 
man's walk  (five  steps  and  over- 
board) with  the  master  about  sun- 
down. "We're  too  short-handed  to 
do  any  good,  and  the  men  we've  got 
are  the  worst  I've  ever  sailed  with. 
Boatswain  tells  me  they  answered 
him  back  and  threatened  him  when 
he  went  forward  to  stop  a  row  this 
afternoon." 

"That's  the  Falmouth  lot,  sir; 
the  sooner  we  get  them  under  the 
guns  of  a  frigate  the  better  I  shall 
be  pleased.  I'm  sorry  you  didn't 
send  some  of  them  away  in  the 
prizes  and  keep  our  old  trusties 
aboard  here." 

"  If  I  had,  like  as  not  we'd  never 
have  seen  men  or  prizes  again. 
How  could  I  send  away  these  black- 
guards in  charge  of  a  midshipman  1 
They're  half-mutinous  now." 

"  That's  so,  sir ;  and  that  re- 
minds me  of  something.  I  met  the 
boatswain  of  the  NIMBLE  ashore  in 
Plymouth,  and  he  asked  me  if  it 
was  true  that  we'd  shipped  a  crew 
of  smugglers.  Said  he'd  heard  talk 
about  it  ashore." 

"  Smugglers,  eh  1 "  said  Walker 
thoughtfully.  "  Well,  it's  possible. 
I  was  pretty  busy  in  the  NIMBLE  and 
seized  a  good  few  cargoes.  There's 
plenty  of  smugglers  that  owe  me  a 
grudge ;  and  hang  me  if  I  haven't 
thought  once  or  twice  that  I'd  seen 
some  of  their  ugly  faces  before. 
We'll  keep  watch  and  watch  till  we 
get  in,  Mr.  Martin.  See  that  none 
but  the  old  hands  come  aft  to  take 
the  helm ;  we'll  keep  those  brutes 
forward.  Send  the  gunner  to  me  in 
the  cabin ;  and  mind  you,  turn  in 
all  standing,  ready  for  a  call." 

The  fog  thickened.  When  the 
watch  was  changed  at  midnight 
and  the  master  relieved  the  lieu- 
tenant, a  sudden  noise  broke  out 
forward,  a  noise  of  loud  voices  and 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


struggling  feet.  The  first  of  the 
watch  to  come  on  deck  was  Corsellis. 
He  came  up  hurriedly,  hatless,  with- 
out a  jacket,  and  bare-footed,  and 
went  aft  at  once  to  relieve  the  helm. 
The  noise  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it 
began,  and  the  rest  of  the  watch 
passed  forward,  a  blur  in  the  fog 
about  the  mast.  There  was  not 
wind  enough  to  keep  a  course,  and 
the  boom  swung  slowly  in-board. 

"  Wind's  died  right  away,  sir  ; 
she  won't  steer." 

"  Then  we  must  just  wait  till  the 
breeze  conies  again  and  blows  this 
filthy  fog  clear,"  said  the  master. 
"  Hullo  !  What's  the  matter  with 
your  face  1  It's  bleeding  ;  and 
where's  your  hat  and  jacket  1 " 

"  Bit  of  a  row  forward,  sir.  They 
was  tryin'  to  prevent  the  old  hands 
comin'  on  deck." 

«  They,— who  ? " 

"  Them  Falmouth  men,  sir.  I  broke 
through  'em  ;  and  I'm  just  as  glad  to 
be  on  deck,  jacket  or  no  jacket,  wet 
or  dry,  for  I  think  the  Devil's  broke 
loose  aboard  this  ship." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Was  all  the  arms  returned  after 
the  action  with  the  privateer,  sir  1 " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because  I  see  cutlasses  and  pistols 
down  forward  just  now." 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  said  the  master. 
"  Look  here,  if  that's  so,  you'd  best 
speak  up  plain.  Do  you  think  there's 
going  to  be  trouble  to-night  ? " 

"  Dunno  what  to  think,  sir.  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  it." 

The  master  took  a  turn  across  the 
deck.  Then,  bidding  Corsellis  keep 
his  eyes  open,  and  sing  out  lively  if 
he  saw  any  of  them  coming  aft,  he 
went  below.  Presently  a  faint  light 
glimmered  through  the  skylight ;  it 
could  not  be  seen  from  forward,  be- 
cause the  companion-way  was  between, 
but  the  fog  seemed  to  glow  with  it. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  master  re- 


turned, wearing  his  sword,  followed 
by  Walker,  the  gunner,  and  the 
boatswain,  each  with  a  couple  of 
loaded  muskets  which  they  stowed 
carefully  on  the  top  of  the  companion- 
hatch,  with  a  coat  over  them  to  keep 
the  primings  dry.  All  were  armed. 

"  Is  the  door  in  the  forward  bulk- 
head secured,  sir  1 "  asked  the  master 
in  a  low  voice. 

"The  carpenter's  screwing  it  up 
now,"  said  Walker.  "  Here  he  is. 
All  fast,  Carpenter  ?  " 

"  Yes  sir ;  but  they've  just  been 
trying  the  door." 

"  Slip  forward  quietly,  two  of  you, 
and  see  if  you  can  clap  the  hatch  on. 
It's  better  to  tackle  one  watch  at  a 
time,  if  we  can." 

The  carpenter  and  boatswain  crept 
forward  keeping  under  the  shelter  of 
the  bulwark.  They  reached  the  hatch- 
way unobserved,  but  as  they  laid 
hands  on  the  cover  a  voice  hailed 
them  from  forward.  "  Let  that  hatch 
be,  d'ye  hear  1  Below  there !  Tumble 
up  quick  !  " 

There  was  a  rush  of  men  up  the 
hatchway,  and  the  two  warrant-officers 
ran  aft  and  seized  each  a  musket. 
They  took  the  port  side ;  the  rest 
held  the  starboard. 

"  Who  is  that  that  dares  give 
orders  on  my  ship  ? "  shouted  Walker. 
"  Why  are  you  laying  aft  ?  Go  for- 
ward to  your  duty  !  " 

"  Duty  be  damned  !  I'll  attend  to 
my  duty  and  you  too,  presently.  Who 
am  I  ?  I'm  Billy  Swayne,  I  am,  the 
man  you  robbed  and  ruined,  you 
swindling  thief  !  You  thought  you 
was  damned  clever  that  day ;  but  I'm 
cleverer  than  you,  you  cuckoo,  and 
you  never  knowed  ine.  You're  a-going 
to  know  me  now.  Listen  to  me,  you 
there,  aft.  It's  the  lootenant  I  want ; 
I'm  goin'  to  twist  his  neck.  The  rest 
of  you  would  as  lief  save  your  lives 
as  not,  I  reckon.  Give  me  Walker, 
and  I'll  set  the  rest  of  you  safe  ashore 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


409 


in  a  French  port.  Resist,  and  I'll 
make  a  HERMIONE  job  of  it." 

No  one  answered.  There  was  a 
heavy  flap  of  canvas  and  the  boom 
swung  out  on  the  port  side  to  the 
stretch  of  the  sheet,  and  brought  up 
•with  a  jerk ;  the  breeze  was  coming. 

"Now  then,  you  !  "  growled  Swayne 
again.  "  It's  life  or  death,  no  less. 
What's  your  answer  1 " 

"  Here's  mine !  "  roared  the  gunner, 
and  let  fly  at  Swayne,  missing  him 
and  killing  a  man  behind  him. 

Walker  and  the  rest  followed  with 
a  straggling  volley.  Two  or  three  of 
the  mutineers  dropped,  but  the  rest 
replied  with  a  dozen  scattered  pistol- 
shots,  and  the  gunner  collapsed  against 
the  port  bulwark,  shot  through  the 
heart. 

"  Take  the  boat,  sir  !  It's  our  only 
chance,"  cried  Corsellis,  letting  go  the 
tiller. 

"  Haul  her  up  on  the  starboard 
quarter  in  case  we  want  her,"  said 
Walker.  "Stand  by,  all  of  you! 
Here  they  come  ! " 

The  rush  of  the  mutineers  was 
beaten  back  on  the  weather  side  ;  but 
the  carpenter,  left  alone,  was  driven 
across  the  deck,  and  the  defenders 
were  penned  into  the  starboard 
quarter.  Corsellis  hauled  the  boat 
up.  A  light  puff  of  air  filled  the 
mainsail,  and  left  to  herself,  the 
cutter  ran  up  into  the  wind  with 
everything  shivering. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Martin,"  said  Walker  ; 
"  you  first,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

Martin  dropped  into  the  boat ;  he 
was  a  thickset,  heavy  man,  and  his 
weight  depressed  her  bows  ;  she  took 
a  sudden  sheer  across  to  port,  where 
some  of  the  mutineers  were  clustered. 
One  of  them, — Jim  Collins — threw 
his  leg  over  the  rail,  and,  reaching 
out,  caught  the  master  by  the  collar. 
Martin  clutched  his  wrist,  and  tried 
to  draw  a  pistol ;  but  a  shot  fired 
over  Collins's  shoulder  struck  him  in 


the  head,  and  he  fell  backwards  into 
the  boat,  dragging  Collins  over  the 
stern  after  him. 

Swayne  dodged  under  the  boom 
and  rushed  at  Walker,  followed  by 
half-a-dozen  more ;  but  the  boatswain 
brought  his  cutlass  down  on  Swayne's 
shoulder  and  clinching,  the  two  rolled 
together  on  the  deck.  The  carpenter 
lay  across  a  carronade,  with  his  skull 
split. 

Suddenly  the  mainsail  filled  on  the 
other  tack.  The  boom  swung  heavily- 
over  to  starboard,  with  a  clatter  of 
blocks,  and  brought  up  with  a  jerk 
that  shook  the  ship.  Walker,  who 
was  standing  on  the  rail  waiting  his 
chance  to  jump,  received  the  full 
weight  of  the  boom  on  the  side  of 
his  head  and  went  overboard.  Cor- 
sellis, trying  to  haul  the  boat  across, 
was  kneeling  on  the  slack  of  the  sheet 
and  was  thrown  clear  over  the  counter 
as  it  sprang  taut,  losing  hold  of  the 
painter  as  he  fell.  The  boat  dropped 
astern  and  was  lost  in  the  fog  as  the 
cutter  forged  slowly  ahead. 

Corsellis  was  a  very  indifferent 
swimmer  at  the  best  of  times  ;  and 
now,  breathless  from  a  hand-to-hand 
fight,  he  had  little  hope  of  saving 
himself.  The  cold  was  numbing. 
The  sea  had  seemed  smooth  enough 
from  the  deck  of  the  cutter;  but  a 
long  swell  was  rolling  in  from  the 
Atlantic  which  appeared  overwhelm- 
ing to  a  swimmer  who  could  scarcely 
keep  his  head  above  water.  Even 
without  his  jacket  and  barefooted, 
his  clothes  hampered  him.  The  cutter 
was  under  way  ;  there  was  no  chance 
of  reaching  her,  even  if  it  had  been 
safe  to  do  so.  His  only  chance,  and 
that  a  poor  one,  was  to  follow  the 
run  of  the  sea  and  find  the  drifting 
boat ;  she  could  not  be  many  yards 
away.  The  breeze  was  freshening 
and  already  the  fog  was  shredding 
away,  driving  past  in  long  fantastic 
wreaths  like  ghostly  winding-sheets. 


410 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


It  was  only  a  surface  fog,  and  as  it 
thinned  a  ray  of  moonlight  silvered 
it,  but  it  clung  clammily  to  the  water 
and  he  could  see  no  further  than  the 
round  back  of  the  last  roller  that  had 
swept  past  him  and  dropped  him  into 
the  hollow  behind  it.     The  temptation 
to  hurry  his  stroke  was  almost  over- 
powering; but  he  retained   sufficient 
self-control  to  resist  it,  for  he  dared 
not  exhaust  the  little  strength  that 
was  left  him.     At  the  end  of  five  or 
six  minutes  he  was  getting  his  breath 
in  short  gasps  and  sinking  lower  and 
lower.     As  he  was  borne  up  on  the 
shoulder  of  one  long  black  wave  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bow  of  the 
boat,  hove  up  upon  the  back  of  the 
next ;    and    as    the   sea   swept   from 
under   him   and    he   sank    into    the 
valley  behind  it  she  was  almost  over 
his  head.     The  painter  was  trailing 
over  the  bow  and  he  caught  it  and 
tried  to  drag  himself  up  ;  but  as  he 
lifted  his  arm  to  clutch  the  gunwale 
he  went  down  and  drank  deep.     A 
second  time  he  tried,  and  caught  it, 
but  his  numbed  fingers  could  not  keep 
their  hold  and  he  sank  again.     Blind 
and   choking  he  snatched  at  it  once 
more  ;  and  this   time  a  hand  caught 
him  by  the  wrist  and  hauled  him  up 
till  he  got  both  arms  over  the  gun- 
wale.    Then  his  leg  was  seized  and 
dragged    over   the   side.       He   rolled 
into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  utterly 
exhausted,    and    lay    there,    scarcely 
conscious  if  he  were  alive  or  dead. 

He  was  soaked  and  shivering,  yet 
there  was  comfort  in  the  sense  of 
rest  after  extreme  exhaustion.  Lying 
there,  still  almost  upon  the  border- 
land of  this  world  and  the  next,  he 
had  an  experience  that  was  new  to 
his  happy-go-lucky  existence.  He 
thought,  and,  so  far  as  he  was  able, 
he  thought  seriously.  Death  had 
been  face  to  face  with  him,  stared 
him  in  the  eyes,  and  passed  him  by ; 
death  by  the  bullet,  by  the  steel,  and 


by  the  cold  black  water.  They  had 
encountered  before,  but  never  before 
had  he  seen  him  so  close,  so  busy, 
and  so  sudden.  He  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  great  mysteries  that  were 
strange  and  terrible  to  him.  Not 
poppy  nor  mandragora  could  restore 
to  him  the  light  heart  of  yesterday ; 
the  every-day  world  had  suddenly 
grown  strange  and  unfamiliar.  Later 
he  remembered  one  thing  which 
seemed  curious ;  among  all  the  sudden 
and  violent  forms  death  had  assumed, 
he  had  foreborne  to  show  himself  in 
the  grim  shape  in  which  he  was  to 
come  at  last. 

Presently  he  dragged  himself  up 
with  one  arm  over  the  bow  thwart, 
and  looked  round  him.  Sitting  in 
the  stern  sheets  was  Jim  Collins,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  chin 
resting  on  his  hands  ;  the  master's 
cutlass  lay  across  his  lap  and  a  pistol 
was  handy  on  the  seat  beside  him. 
Between  them  lay  the  body  of  the 
master,  like  a  broken  doll ;  his  legs 
over  one  thwart,  his  head  thrust  for- 
ward by  another ;  dead  surely,  for 
only  death  could  leave  a  man  so 
hideously  a-sprawl. 

Collins  looked  across  at  him,  grin- 
ning in  the  moonlight.  "  What  cheer, 
messmate  ?  You  was  pretty  nigh 
gone  when  I  ketched  hold  of  you, 
wasn't  you  ? " 

Dazed  as  he  was,  the  rage  of  the 
fight  still  flickered  up  in  Corsellis's 
muddled  brain.  "  You're  a  bloody 
mutineer,  Jem  Collins.  We've  been 
mates,  you  and  me,  since  we  shipped, 
but  by  the  Lord  !  I'll  hang  you  if 
ever  we  gets  ashore." 

"  That's  good  quarter-deck  talk, 
John,  and  does  you  credit.  But  how 
was  you  going  to  do  it  ? " 

"  I  know  enough  to  hang  you,  you'll 
allow  ;  and  I'll  give  my  evidence." 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  I'd  be 
doin'  the  while,  John  ?  We're  mess- 
mates, says  you,  and  I  reckon  I've 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


saved   your   life,    and    no   one   more 
surprised    than    me    when   you    come 
cruisin'    alongside    like    a    mermaid. 
But  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  you  hang  me, 
not   yet   awhile,    I    ain't.      I've   got 
a  tongue,  haven't  I  ?     And  I  can  kiss 
the  book  as   well  as  another.     Over 
and  above  that,   I   can  spin  a  sight 
better  yarn  than  what  you  can.'' 
"  What  d'ye  mean  1 " 
"  Just   this.       If    I'm    hanged    for 
a  mutineer,   where  was  you,   do  you 
suppose  ?     If  I  swear  you  was  in  it, 
where's  your  evidence  ?     Who'll  speak 
for  you  1     Not  Walker,  for  he's  over- 
board ;    I    saw   him    go.       Not    the 
master,    here,   for  he's   dead  as  nits. 
So  was  the  rest  of  'em  by  what   I 
see  ;  and  if  not,   Swayne  won't  give 
'em  a  chance  to  talk.     The  three  as 
wouldn't  join   saw  nothing,  for  they 
was  lashed  in  their  hammocks  below ; 
and  you  may  take  your   Bible  oath 
that  Swayne  and  his  lot  won't  tally 
on  to  your  yarn." 
"  It's  the  truth  ! " 
"  Ah  !  and  truth  is  truth,  says  you. 
So  'tis ;  but  a  lie's  better  if  it  seems 
more    likely.      Seems    to    me,    we're 
shipmates  still,  my  lad,  and  sink  or 
swim  together.     Now  it's  no  use  our 
pulling   ourselves    to   bits   trying    to 
overhaul  the  cutter.     She  ain't  look- 
ing for  us,   and  it's  breezin'  up   an' 
she's  goin'  at  the  rate  of  knots.    We're 
all  of   thirty  mile   from  the   nearest 
land,     and    that's     French,     Morlaix 
or     thereabouts ;    and    that's    where, 
Swayne'll  make   for,  for  he's  known 
there,  so  he    said.       We    daren't   be 
picked  up  by  one  of  our  cruisers,  for 
that's  death,  my  son,  and  you  may  lay 
to  it.     What  we  want  is  a  Frenchman 
or  a  neutral,  and  blessed  quick   too, 
or  we'll  starve  aboard  this  here  boat. 
And  look-a-here,  John,  the  sooner  we 
gets  rid  of  that,"  he  nodded  at  the 
body  of  the  master,   "the  better  for 
all  concerned." 

Corsellis  took  no  notice.     He  was 


shivering,  and  not  with  cold  and  wet 
alone.  Until  Collins  spoke  he  had 
not  realised  his  danger ;  now  he  was 
looking  down  a  long  vista  of  ugly 
possibilities ;  at  the  end  of  them  all 
was  some  one  swinging  from  a  yard- 
arm,  and  the  figure  seemed  familiar. 

Collins  emptied  the  dead  man's 
pockets ;  a  silver  watch  disappeared 
inside  his  jacket,  and  dividing  a  few 
guineas  and  some  silver  into  two 
portions,  he  offered  one  to  Corsellis. 

"No,"  said  Corsellis,  shivering; 
"it's  blood-money." 

"  I  don't  deny  that's  a  right  and 
proper  way  for  you  to  look  at  it, 
shipmate.  You  hadn't  as  good  reason 
to  hate  Walker,  not  by  half,  as  what 
I  had ;  you  never  had  your  back 
scratched.  Howsomever,  there's  no 
sense  in  pitching  good  money  over- 
board, so  I'll  keep  it.  Over  he 
goes ! "  And  with  a  strong  heave 
he  rolled  the  master's  body  over  the 
side. 

Loyalty,  with  Corsellis,  was  neither 
a  settled  principle  nor  an  emotion. 
A  sea-waif  from  his  youth  up,  he  had 
acquired  it  as  a  habit.  When  the 
habit  was  rudely  interrupted  by  the 
mutiny  he  had  no  deep  or  settled 
conviction  to  hold  him  straight;  he 
could  only  follow  the  lead  of  the  ship- 
mate who  was  stronger  and  cleverer 
than  he,  and  it  was  his  instinct  to 
obey  orders.  If  Collins  told  him  that 
it  was  death  for  him  to  set  foot  again 
on  a  King's  ship,  where  he  might  be 
recognised  as  one  of  the  PIGMY'S  crew, 
— well,  that  was  hard,  for  after  all 
he  had  done  the  best  he  could.  But 
Collins  was  a  long-headed  chap  and 
knew  more  than  most.  They  must 
stick  together  and  wait  for  a  fair 
wind.  Collins  would  know  how  to 
work  a  traverse  by-and-by,  and  get 
back.  Plenty  of  other  good  men  had 
been  mixed  up  in  the  recent  mutinies, 
and  under  a  cloud ;  and  lots  of  them 
had  gone  back  to  their  duty,  and 


412 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


fought  for  the  King  as  they  ought. 
They  were  on  a  lee-shore  now,  no 
doubt ;  all  they  could  do  was  to  stand 
on  under  easy  sail,  and  keep  the  lead 
going ;  and  anyway  Collins  was  in 
charge. 

They  spoke  little,  keeping  watch 
and  watch  till  day  broke.  After- 
wards they  starved  and  dozed  by 
turns ;  till  about  two  in  the  afternoon, 
Corsellis,  his  teeth  chattering  in  his 
head  with  the  chill  of  a  dozen  hours 
in  dripping  clothes,  pointed  away  to 
the  southward.  "  Jim,  there's  a  sail 
away  yonder.  What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Take  the  oars  till  we  can  make 
her  out.  If  she's  one  of  our  cruisers, 
we've  got  to  keep  out  of  sight.  If 
she's  a  trader  or  a  Frenchman,  well 
and  good ;  but  it's  the  yard-arm  for 
us  to  be  taken  aboard  a  cruiser. 
You've  good  eyes,  John  ;  what  do 
you  make  of  her  ?  " 

"  Top-sail  schooner.  We  ain't  got 
a  many  schooner  cruisers  ;  likely  she's 
French." 

"  Lord  send  it  is  so !  Don't  let 
her  come  too  near  till  we're  sartain 
sure." 

The  absence  of  a  pendant  reassured 
them  a  little.  Perhaps  twenty  hours 
without  food  inclined  them  to  take 
chances ;  the  schooner  was  steering  to 
pass  close  by  them,  and  presently  they 
put  up  an  oar  with  a  jacket  on  it. 
The  schooner  hove-to  close  to  them, 
and  they  pulled  alongside.  They 
were  in  luck ;  it  was  a  French  pri- 
vateer, hailing  from  St.  Malo ;  a 
well-known  one  too,  the  MALOUINE, 
Captain  L'Orient. 

The  captain  could  speak  a  little 
English,  and  Collins  told  him  as  much 
as  was  convenient  for  him  to  know ; 
but  the  yarn  would  not  have  satisfied 
a  child. 

"  C'est  bien  curieux,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, with  a  shrug.  "  I  find  you  out 
here,  en  pleine  mer,  in  man-of-war 
boat,  ze  bottom  all  bloody,  hein  ?  I 


do  not  tink  you  care  to  go  ashore  in 
English  port.  Dey  hang  you  up,  eh  ? 
If  I  take  you  to  France,  dey  put 
you  in  prison,  two,  tree  years,  for 
example.  Better  to  remain  wiz  me. 
Many  of  my  equipage, — crew,  you  say 
— away  in  prizes,  and  I  have  need 
of  Englishman  to  respond  to  English 
hail,  see  ?  Vat  you  say  1 " 

Collins  looked  at  Corsellis;  but 
this  was  a  situation  for  which  Cor- 
sellis's  training  had  prepared  him. 
He  spat  carefully  on  the  sacred 
quarter-deck,  looked  the  Frenchman 
straight  in  the  face,  and  expressed  the 
traditional  sentiment  of  the  British 
Navy.  "I'll  see  you  damned  first, 
from  truck  to  keelson,  I  will,  and 
from  fashion-piece  to  wing-transom  ; 
and  not  then  I  won't,  you  frog- 
eatin'  mounseer !  "  Again  he  spat 
ceremoniously  on  the  planks  to  mark 
his  peroration  ;  then  crossing  the  deck 
with  the  grace  and  dignity  of  a  three- 
decker  in  a  tide-way,  leaned  against 
the  rail,  folded  his  arms,  and  scowled, 
as  bitterly  as  his  boyish  features 
would  permit,  at  the  indignant 
Frenchman. 

The  captain  half  drew  his  sword, 
spluttering  threats,  but  Collins,  speak- 
ing low,  appeased  him.  "  He  ain't 
quite  right  in  his  head,  mounseer. 
He  was  queer-like  in  the  boat,  and 
he's  wet  to  the  skin.  Don't  you  go 
for  to  put  him  in  irons.  Leave  him 
to  me,  and  I'll  argey  with  him ;  he'll 
do  what  I  say." 

"Ver'  well,"  said  L'Orient.  "If 
he  stop  foolish,  dere  will  always  be 
time  to  imprison  him  when  I  go  in. 
I  give  him  two,  tree  days.  Now  go 
forward." 

The  discipline  of  a  privateer  was 
more  elastic  than  that  of  a  man-of- 
war,  and  for  the  next  week  the  two 
masterless  men  went  about  the  ship 
much  as  they  pleased.  They  messed 
with  the  crew  forward,  and  turned 
in  at  night  into  two  of  the  spare 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


413 


hammocks,  doing  no  duty  and  stand- 
ing no  watch.  But  all  Collius's  argu- 
ments failed  to  move  Corsellis.  He 
absolutely  refused  to  enter  as  a 
privateersman,  and  was  firm  in  his 
determination  to  go  to  prison  as 
soon  as  the  MALOUINE  put  in  to  a 
French  port,  always  provided  that 
he  could  not  give  them  the  slip  first. 
He  never  got  the  chance  to  do  either. 
A  West  Indiaman  was  captured  and 
sent  in,  and  he  watched  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  smuggle  himself  on  board 
of  her,  to  take  his  chance  as  one  of 
her  crew;  but  Collins  and  he  were 
confined  below  during  the  chase,  and 
only  allowed  on  deck  after  the  prize- 
crew  had  sailed  with  her. 

One  morning,  when  the  grey  mist 
thinned  off  the  sea,  a  man-of-war 
brig  loomed  largely  through  the 
haze,  not  three  miles  away;  and 
the  MALOUINE,  only  half-manned, 
crowded  all  sail  to  a  light  easterly 
wind  to  escape,  while  the  brig  set 
every  stitch  that  would  draw  in 
chase.  The  MALOUINE  was  foul,  and 
her  heels  were  clogged,  but  mast- 
wedges  were  knocked  up,  standing 
rigging  slackened,  sails  wetted,  and 
she  kept  out  of  range  for  six  hours, 
neither  pursuer  nor  pursued  doing 
more  than  five  knots.  At  about 
three  in  the  afternoon  the  brig  had 
closed  to  less  than  a  mile  distance 
on  the  weather-quarter  of  the  MA- 
LOUINE, and  a  red  flash  came  from 
her  starboard  bow  port,  followed  by 
a  tumbling  cloud  of  white  smoke, 
and  the  scream  of  a  six-pound  shot. 
As  the  heavy  thud  of  the  report 
passed  echoing  away  a  spout  of 
spray  rose  within  two  hundred  yards 
of  the  Frenchman's  stern,  and  the 
ricochetting  ball  almost  reached  her. 
The  MALOUINE'S  four-pounders  were 
as  yet  unequal  to  the  range;  but  a 
few  minutes  later  a  shot  from  the 
brig  passed  through  the  foot  of  the 
mainsail,  and  an  answering  shot  from 


the  Frenchman  knocked  some  splin- 
ters from  the  brig's  bulwarks.  Only 
two  or  three  guns  could  be  brought 
to  bear  on  either  ship,  but  they  were 
served  for  all  they  were  worth.  A 
well-aimed  shot  from  the  brig  killed 
two  and  wounded  three  more  of  one 
gun's  crew,  dismounting  the  gun,  and 
every  minute  brought  the  brig  nearer. 
She  was  steering  a  course  that  would 
bring  her  abreast  of  the  chase  at 
about  a  hundred  yards  distance,  and 
already  the  four  forward  guns  on  her 
starboard  side  were  in  action.  The 
two  renegades  kept  out  of  the  way, 
well  forward  by  the  windlass. 

"Now  look  you  here,  John,"  said 
Collins,  alert  and  apparently  as  con- 
fident as  ever,  though  his  voice  shook 
with  excitement.  "  That  chap's  sar- 
tain  to  run  us  aboard.  If  it  comes 
to  boardin'  you  and  me  go  below 
and  stop  there.  When  we're  taken, 
we'll  up  and  tell  'em  straight  that 
we're  prisoners.  You  mind  the  West 
Indiaman  we  sent  in  ?  WHITE  SWAN 
of  London,  Wilson  master,  homeward 
bound  from  Jamaiky,  forty  days  out ; 
that  were  our  ship,  and  we  was  not 
allowed  to  go  with  the  rest,  along  of 
the  schooner  bein'  shorthanded." 

"  How  about  the  Frenchmen  ? 
Won't  they  split  on  us  1  Pretty 
slack  yarn,  ain't  it  1 " 

"  What  in  thunder  are  we  to  do 
else  ?  Our  necks  are  fair  in  a  halter 
as  you  may  say,  and  the  rope  rove. 
It's  just  a  bare  chance  to  get  'em  out. 
There  ain't  no  yarn  as  we  can  spin 
that's  anyway  ship-shape ;  we're  all 
aback  and  our  luck's  dead  out." 

"  Why  not  tell  'em  the  real  yarn  1 " 

"  'Cause  no  one'd  believe  it.  If 
it's  true  as  Gospel  it's  no  use  if  it 
don't  seem  so.  Hi  !  Look-a-yonder  ! 
By  the  Lord,  we've  a  chance  yet  ? " 

A  lucky  shot  had  struck  the  brig's 
lee  main-yard  arm,  and  carried  it 
away  close  to  the  slings.  Half  the 
main-course  and  main-topsail  folded 


414 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


up  like  a  broken  kite ;  the  brig  stag- 
gered and  lost  way,  while  a  yell  of 
triumph  came  from  the  Frenchmen 
crowded  aft.  Their  triumph  was 
soon  ended.  A  shot,  ranging  high 
as  the  brig  rose  on  the  swell,  struck 
the  schooner's  fore- topmast  just  above 
the  cap  and  cut  it  right  out  of  her. 
Topsail,  topgallant-sail,  and  a  raffle  of 
spars  and  rigging  went  over  the  side 
and  towed  there  heavily.  The  flying 
jib,  its  halliards  cut  through,  dropped 
into  the  sea  and  dragged  from  the  jib- 
boom  end  ;  the  jib  ran  bagging  and 
fluttering  down  with  the  stay ;  the 
schooner  would  neither  sail  nor  steer. 

The  Frenchmen  rushing  to  the  lee- 
rail  hacked  at  the  wreck  with  axes 
and  cutlasses ;  Collins,  scrambling 
over  the  forecastle  barricade,  dropped 
into  the  head  and  went  out  on  the 
foot-rope  to  cut  the  flying-jib  clear, 
followed  by  Corsellis.  The  tack  was 
foul  round  the  jibboom-end,  but  he 
hacked  through  rope,  canvas,  and  all, 
and  the  sail  fell,  fouled  the  bob-stay, 
and  gathered  in  thick  folds  round  the 
stem. 

"  Clear  the  blasted  thing,  can't 
you  ?  "  roared  Collins.  Corsellis 
scrambled  down  the  head-rails  on 
the  lee-side,  and  supporting  himself 
by  the  hempen  cable  hanging  from 
the  hawse-hole,  tried  to  drag  the  sail 
clear. 

The  big  eigh teen-gun  brig  ranged 
up  to  windward,  not  sixty  yards 
away.  Three  or  four  of  the  schooner's 
larboard  guns  were  fired  in  a  strag- 
gling broadside ;  but  a  volley  of 
musketry  rattled  across  her  deck, 
and  Collins  doubled  up  over  the 
jibboom.  The  full  broadside  of  the 
brig  crashed  into  the  schooner. 
There  was  a  blaze  of  flame,  a  stun- 
ning roar,  and  a  shock  like  an  earth- 
quake. The  whole  afterpart  of  the 
schooner  opened  out  like  a  basket, 
and  rolling  once  or  twice  drunkenly, 
she  went  down,  leaving  only  a  few 


fragments  of  scorched  wreckage,  and 
a  cloud  of  fat  black  smoke  hanging 
over  them. 

The  brig's  boats  were  lowered  and 
pulled  across  and  across  that  reeking 
patch  of  sea.  There  were  many  dead, 
scorched  and  mutilated,  but  only  two 
living  men  ;  Collins,  shot  through  the 
body  and  bleeding  to  death,  and 
Corsellis,  supporting  himself  and  his 
unconscious  messmate  on  the  wreck 
of  the  fore-topmast. 

"  Name  of  that  schooner  1 "  said 
the  officer  in  charge. 

Corsellis,  busy  with  Collins's  wound, 
answered  at  once  :  "  French  privateer 
MALOUINE,  sir,  Captain  L'Orient." 

"  And  how  the  devil  do  you,  an 
Englishman,  come  to  be  aboard  of 
her  ? " 

Corsellis  remembered  his  instruc- 
tions. "  Prisoners,  sir.  Taken  in  the 
WHITE  SWAN  of  London,  Captain 
Wilson,  from  Jamaica." 

"  You've  got  your  story  pat. 
There's  never  a  French  privateer 
afloat  that  hasn't  got  two  or  three 
such  prisoners.  See  any  more,  men  ? 
Give  way,  then." 

Collins  was  carried  below  to  the 
surgeon,  and  soon  after,  a  man  was 
sent  to  fetch  Corsellis.  "Your  mate's 
slipping  his  wind,"  he  said  ;  "he  wants 
to  see  you." 

Collins  was  sinking  fast.  The  sur- 
geon was  busy  and  the  two  were  left 
together. 

"John — that  you1?  I  can't  see — 
I'm  sorry — I  got  you  into  this  mess. 
I  meant — for  the  best.  Tell  'em  the 
truth — take  care  of  yourself.  Send 
— for  an  officer — I'll  speak  for  you — 
all  I  can." 

"Too  late,  Jim,"  said  Corsellis. 
"  I've  told  'em  the  yarn  you  said, 
WHITE  SWAX  and  all !  " 

"  My  God — then  you're  on  the 
rocks,  John — and  it's  me  that  put 
you  there  !  John — I'm  goin' — I've 
no  time — say  you  forgive  me." 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


415 


"  Lord,  yes,  Jim.  Take  a  turn, 
mate,  and  hold  on  !  "  But  Jim  was 
gone. 

They  gave  Corsellis  a  dry  rig-out, 
and  left  him  for  a  while  to  his  own 
reflections.  He  had  never  con- 
tracted the  habit  of  thinking,  and 
now,  though  he  tried  to  face  his 
position  and  think  out  some  rational 
course  of  action,  he  could  not  keep 
his  mind  from  wandering.  Poor  Jim  ! 
An  hour  ago  he  had  been  a  strong 
man  ;  now,  he  was,  what  1  Dead  1 
Aye — that's  what  they  called  it.  It 
didn't  matter  to  him  now,  how  things 
went, — even  if  he  knew.  But  for 
himself,  Corsellis  !  He'd  better  face 
it.  Why,  if  things  went  ill  with  him, 
it  might  be  his  turn  next !  To  be 
hanged, — ugh  !  Jim  had  better  luck, 
to  go  easy  in  his  hammock,  chaplain 
or  no  chaplain. 

A  man  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "I'm  master-at-arms  aboard 
this  brig,"  he  said;  "you're  to  come 
to  the  captain." 

With  his  one  epaulette  on  the  left 
shoulder,  Commander  Pulling  of  the 
K.ANC4AROO  brig,  was  seated  at  the 
cabin-table,  his  first-lieutenant  stand- 
ing by  his  side. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 
"John— Ellis,    sir."      It    was   the 
first  name  that  came  into  his  head. 
"  What  was  the  schooner  1  " 
"LA   MALOUINE,    sir,   privateer  of 
St.  Maloes,  Captain  L'Orient." 
"What  was  her  force?" 
"Ten  four-pounders  and  about  fifty 
men,  sir,  but  many  of  'em  was  away 
in   prizes;    there    wasn't   more    than 
thirty  aboard." 

"  According  to  your  statement  you, 
and  the  man  who  was  picked  up  with 
you,  belonged  to  a  prize  of  hers,  the 
WHITE  SWAN,  West  Indiaman,  eh  !  " 

Corsellis  hesitated,  his  hands 
clenched  tight,  before  he  muttered 
huskily,  "  Yes,  sir." 

"You'll  have  to  stand  your  trial  for 


being  on  board  an  enemy's  privateer, 
you  know.  If  your  story  is  true,  it 
will  be  at  the  Old  Bailey ;  but  if, 
as  I  suspect,  you're  a  deserter  from 
the  Navy,  it  will  be  a  court-martial. 
Better  say  nothing  till  you  get  legal 
advice." 

For  the  first  month  Corsellis  was 
confined  in  the  civil  prison,  but  his 
pitiless  destiny  was  untiring  and 
would  not  leave  him  long  even  in  so 
much  peace  as  may  be  found  in  gaol, 
A  cartel  arrived  from  Morlaix  with 
exchanged  prisoners,  and  she  brought 
news  of  the  mutiny  of  the  PIGMY. 
The  mutineers  had  taken  her  into 
Morlaix,  and  had  at  once  dispersed ; 
it  was  supposed  that  many  of  them 
had  entered  in  various  privateers  of 
that  port  and  St.  Malo.  The  boat- 
swain, who  was  found  on  board 
severely  wounded,  reported  that  the 
lieutenant,  master,  gunner,  arid  car- 
penter had  been  murdered.  There 
was  a  parade  of  all  the  prisoners  in 
the  gaol  a  few  days  later,  when 
Corsellis  was  recognised  by  half-a- 
dozen  men,  and  was  at  once  sent  in 
irons  to  the  guard-ship. 

At  nine  o'clock  one  morning  in 
January  a  jack  was  hoisted  at  the 
mizen-peak  of  the  SAN  JOSEF  of  one 
hundred  and  ten  guns,  then  lying  in 
Plymouth  Sound,  and  the  deep  boom 
of  a  gun  announced  the  assembling  of 
a  general  court-martial.  Their  Lord- 
ships had  issued  their  commission  to 
the  Rear-Admiral,  third-in-command, 
as  President.  He  arrived  in  his 
barge,  followed  by  twelve  post- 
captains,  who  had  been  summoned 
as  members  of  the  court,  and  their 
boats  were  crowded  at  the  great  three- 
decker's  booms  and  gangway  like 
carriages  outside  a  theatre. 

In  the  absence  of  the  Judge- 
Advocate  and  his  deputy  a  leading 
Plymouth  lawyer  was  appointed  to 
act  in  their  stead.  He  knew  the 
duties  of  the  office  well,  for  there 


416 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


had  been  many  recent  courts-martial ; 
and  the  HERMIONE,  the  DANAE,  and 
the  ALBANAISE  had  furnished  many 
precedents  for  the  trial,  and  execution, 
of  mutineers. 

A  naval  court-martial  must  always 
be  an  impressive  spectacle ;  but  it 
could  never  have  a  more  effective 
setting  than  the  low-pitched,  heavily- 
timbered  cabins  of  the  old  line-of- 
battle  ships.  The  President  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  long  table,  and  six 
captains,  in  order  of  seniority,  sat  on 
either  side.  At  the  foot  (the  forward 
end)  was  the  chair  of  the  Judge- 
Advocate,  and  at  his  left  stood  the 
prisoner,  his  head  within  a  few  inches 
of  the  massive  beams  above  him. 
The  light  from  the  skylight  in 
the  quarter-deck  fell  on  the  seated 
members  of  the  court  and  on  the 
paper-strewn  table  between  them  ; 
the  face  of  the  man  whose  fate  they 
were  about  to  decide  was  in  the 
falling  shadow.  At  a  small  table 
within  arms'  length  of  him  sat  his 
counsel,  or  "  next  friend  ;  "  a  lawyer 
who  had  been  instructed  to  defend 
him  by  the  widow  who  kept  the  Ship 
at  Weymouth,  the  only  friend  who 
came  to  help  Corsellis  in  his  hour  of 
need.  The  witnesses  stood  in  a  knot 
together  at  the  right  hand  of  the 
Judge- Advocate,  and  a  little  crowd  of 
spectators,  naval  and  civilian,  stood 
about  the  doorways  and  along  the 
forward  bulkhead. 

There  was  little  hesitation  or  delay 
about  the  proceedings.  The  court 
being  sworn  and  the  prisoner  brought 
in  by  the  provost-marshal,  the 
charges  were  read  by  the  Judge- 
'  Vdvocate,  —  mutiny,  murder,  and 
piracy,  having  been  taken  on  board 
a  French  privateer  in  arms  against 
the  subjects  of  the  King.  Formal 
evidence  was  put  in  of  the  mutiny 
on  board  the  PIGMY  and  the  murder 
of  the  officers,  as  reported  by  the 
cartel ;  and  then  one  witness  after 


another  took  his  place  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  Judge- Advocate,  and  gave 
his  sworn  testimony.  Two  or  three 
swore  to  Corsellis's  identity  as  one 
of  the  PIGMY'S  crew;  and  to  each 
of  these  a  question,  written  by  the 
prisoner's  counsel  and  handed  by  the 
prisoner  to  the  Judge-Advocate,  was 
put  as  to  the  character  borne  by 
Corsellis  ;  in  each  case  the  answer 
was  most  favourable.  Men  from  the 
KANGAROO  proved  that  he,  together 
with  another  man  mortally  wounded, 
had  been  picked  up  from  the  wreck- 
age of  the  MALOUINE  privateer  after 
an  engagement  in  which  several  of 
the  brig's  crew  had  lost  their  lives. 
A  watch  was  produced  which  had 
been  found  in  the  pocket  of  the 
wounded  man,  and  was  identified  by 
a  Plymouth  watchmaker  as  the  pro- 
perty of  William  Martin,  late  master 
of  the  PIGMY,  for  whom  he  had 
repaired  it.  That  was  the  case  for 
the  Crown. 

The  prisoner's  defence,  drawn  up  by 
his  counsel,  was  then  read  by  the 
Judge- Advocate.  It  was  the  plain 
story  of  the  actual  facts,  plainly  told 
by  the  counsel,  and  set  fairly  before 
the  court  by  the  Judge- Advocate. 
That  it  was  wild  and  improbable  wag 
no  fault  of  theirs  ;  but  its  effect 
upon  the  court  was  decidedly  unfavour- 
able to  the  prisoner.  The  President 
put  a  few  questions. 

"During  the  struggle  on  tke  PIGMY, 
prisoner,  did  you  become  a'yare  that 
the  man  Collins  was  one  of  the 
mutineers  1 " 

The  prisoner  hesitated,  arid  turned 
hurriedly  to  his  counsel. 

"  Your  answer  cannot  harm  him 
now,"  said  the  President.  "  Answer 
my  question."  \ 

"  I  saw  him  among  the  mutineers." 

"  When  he  dragged  you  into  the 
boat,  was  anything  said  ?  " 

"  I  called  him  a  mutineer,  and  told 
him  I'd  hang  him  if  we  got  ashore.'' 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


417 


There  was  a  movement  in  the 
court.  One  or  two  of  the  members 
shifted  in  their  chairs  to  get  a  better 
view  of  the  prisoner's  face. 

"  What  then  ? " 

"He  told  me  he'd  hang  me  if  I 
gave  evidence  against  him." 

A  sound  like  an  indrawn  breath 
passed  round  the  cabin ;  the  favour- 
able impression  of  a  moment  had 
gone  by. 

"  You  sat  quietly  in  the  boat  with 
him ;  you  saw  him  rifle  the  master's 
pockets  and  throw  him  overboard, 
and  you  did  nothing  ? " 

"  What  could  I  do  1  He  was  armed 
and  I  wasn't.  And, — he  was  my 
messmate,  and  he'd  saved  my  life.  I 
wish  to  God  Almighty  he'd  let  me 
drown  !  " 

"  Afterwards  you  entered  with  him 
on  board  the  privateer  1  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  never  did.  When  the 
captain  asked  me,  I  told  him  I'd  see 
him  damned  first." 

"  Were  you  kept  in  confinement 
after  that  1 " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
were  left  at  liberty,  after  your  refusal 
to  join,  to  run  about  the  ship  as  you 
pleased  ? " 

"  I  believe  'twas  thought  we'd  join 
'em  later,  sir.  I  meant  to  go  to 
prison,  or  to  run  if  we  got  the  chance ; 
as  God  is  my  judge,  I  did." 

"  Why  did  you  make  a  false  state- 
ment when  you  were  picked  up,  and 
conceal  your  identity  1  " 

"  Because  he, — my  mate  that's  dead 
— asked  me." 

When  the  court  was  cleared  for  the 
members  to  deliberate  upon  their  find- 
ing, some  few  were  inclined  to  give 
credit  to  the  prisoner's  statement ;  but 
the  Judge- Advocate,  being  asked  how 
far  the  court  was  justified  in  attaching 
weight  to  a  statement  unsupported  by 
any  evidence,  cited  a  charge  delivered 
to  a  jury  by  Mr.  Justice  Buller  four 
No.  510. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


years  before,  in  a  similar  case,  tried 
at  the  Old  Bailey ;  when  he  told  them 
"  that  if  they  admitted  the  excuse  of 
the  prisoner  they  would  have  all  the 
French  privateers  manned  by  British 
subjects,  and  their  commerce  would 
then  be  in  a  miserable  situation." 

The  Judge- Advocate  then  put  the 
question  to  each  member  separately, 
beginning  with  the  junior  captain  : 
"  Are  you  of  opinion  that  the  charge 
against  the  prisoner  is  proved  or  not 
proved  ?  "  Two  were  for  acquittal 
on  the  charges  of  mutiny  and  murder  ; 
the  rest  considered  all  the  charges 
proved,  and  in  accordance  with  this 
finding  the  court  pronounced  sentence 
of  death. 

The  doors  were  opened  and  the 
prisoner  brought  in.  The  President 
announced  the  finding  of  the  court, 
and  informed  the  prisoner  that  the 
sentence  would  be  sent  to  the  Lords 
Commissioners  of  the  Admiralty  for 
confirmation. 

Upon  a  cold  wet  morning  some 
weeks  later,  a  gun  was  fired  from  the 
SAN  JOSEF  and  the  yellow  flag,  the 
fatal  signal  for  an  execution,  was 
run  up  to  the  foretopgallant-masthead. 
The  same  flag  was  hoisted  on  the 
frigate  where  the  execution  was  to 
take  place,  and  the  crews  of  all  the 
ships  in  the  Sound  were  mustered  on 
deck  to  hear  the  Articles  of  War 
read,  and  to  await  in  silence  the 
dread  example  which  was  to  be  set 
before  them.  A  lieutenant  with  an 
armed  boat's  crew,,  was  sent  off  from 
each  of  them,  and  they  gathered 
around  the  gangways  on  either  side 
of  the  frigate.  One  man  from  each 
boat  was  summoned  on  board  to  assist 
in  the  execution  ;  and  then  the  boats 
drew  back  and  lay  on  their  oars  in 
the  dreary  drizzle  to  give  passage  to 
the  boat  from  the  SAN  JOSEF  which 
brought  the  provost-marshal,  the  chap- 
lain, and  the  condemned  man  to  the 
last  ship  he  would  ever  go  on  board  of. 

E  E 


418 


A  Path  in  the  Great  Waters. 


They  read  his  sentence  to  him  on 
the  quarter-deck,  and  asked  him  if 
he  desired  to  make  any  statement. 

"On'y  this, — I'm  a  sailor,  and  I'll 
die  as  a  sailor  should ;  but  more  than 
that,  I'll  die  innocent.  The  God  I'm 
goin'  before  is  my  witness  that  I  never 
was  a  mutineer  nor  yet  a  murderer. 
I've  always  tried  to  keep  a  straight 
course,  but  it  seems  as  if  there'd  been 
something  stronger  than  me, — a  cur- 
rent like — setting  me  down  to  leeward 
all  the  while.  I  wish  you  all  better 
luck  than  me,  as  have  always  done  my 
duty.  Some  day  or  other  the  truth'll 
come  out,  and  then  perhaps  you'll 
remember  all  this, —  "  he  looked 
hurriedly  round  him — "and  do  me 
justice.  That's  all !  " 

He  walked  quietly  forward  with 
the  provost-marshal,  and  the  mixed 
crowd  of  seamen,  mostly  strangers  to 
each  other,  tallied  on  to  the  fall. 
One  dropped  on  the  wet  deck  in  a 
dead  faint,  but  the  rest  hung  on  to 
the  rope  and  waited  with  heads 


hung  downward  miserably.  The  fatal 
gun  was  fired  and  they  stumbled 
blindly  aft,  thankful  that  their  faces 
were  turned  away  from  their  ugly 
work.  So  John  Corsellis,  who  was 
guilty  of  no  crime,  but  had  always 
done  his  duty  to  the  best  of  his 
ability,  paid  for  his  folly  and  ignor- 
ance at  the  current  wages  of  sin. 
Wickedness  and  folly  often  stand  in 
the  dock  side  by  side ;  and  in  this 
world  at  least,  wickedness  often  gets 
off  with  the  lighter  sentence. 

They  never  knew  the  truth.  When 
the  boatswain  was  exchanged  three 
years  afterwards,  he  came  to  Plymouth 
and  heard  the  story.  He  could  not 
get  rid  of  a  hazy  impression  that  he 
had  seen  Corsellis  by  the  lieutenant's 
side,  helping  with  the  boat.  If  that 
was  so, — well,  it  was  very  hard  on 
him.  But  he  couldn't  be  sure  ;  least 
said  was  soonest  mended,  and  after 
all,  it  was  the  luck  of  a  sailor. 

W.  J.  FLETCHER, 


ST.    LUCIA,    1778. 


BEFORE  the  opening  of  the  fourth 
campaign  of  the  War  of  American 
Independence  in  1778,  the  entire 
aspect  of  the  struggle  was  changed 
by  France's  open  declaration  of  hos- 
tilities against  England.  So  far^the 
British  had  enjoyed  undisputed  supre- 
macy at  sea  on  the  American  coast, 
and  had  turned  it  to  good  account. 
The  fleet  had  carried  Howe's  small 
army  away  from  destruction  in  Boston 
in  1775;  it  had  brought  it  back  to 
the  capture  of  New  York  and  Rhode 
Island  in  1776  and  of  Philadelphia 
in  1777  ;  and,  but  for  the  imbecility 
of  Lord  George  Germaine,  it  would 
have  averted  the  disaster  of  Saratoga 
by  transporting  Burgoyne  to  New 
York.  By  the  entry  of  the  French 
navy  on  the  scene,  however,  all  this 
was  changed.  Doubtless  there  were 
many  who  would  gladly  have  aban- 
doned all  operations  against  America 
and  turned  the  whole  strength  of 
England  against  France ;  but  this 
was  forbidden  by  the  aggressive  atti- 
tude of  the  Americans  themselves. 
It  is  customary  to  represent  them 
as  an  innocent,  down-trodden  people, 
who  were  driven  by  ill-treatment  to 
take  up  arms  for  their  defence.  No- 
thing could  be  further  from  the  fact. 
The  revolutionary  party  in  Boston 
was  from  the  first  bent  on  aggression. 
The  riots  over  the  Stamp  Act  were 
violent  beyond  all  proportion  to  the 
provocation  :  the  invasion  of  Canada 
'receded  any  attempt  to  drive  the 
ritish  from  Boston  ;  and  the  despatch 
>f  seditious  emissaries  to  the  West 
Indies,  and  actual  raids  upon  Ber- 
muda and  the  Bahamas,  furnish 
additional  evidence  that  the  revolu- 


tionary leaders  were  inflated  with 
offensive  schemes  of  the  most  ambitious 
kind.  The  withdrawal  of  British 
troops  from  America  would  have 
brought  about  a  fresh  invasion  of 
Canada,  and  a  joint  attack  of  Ameri- 
cans and  French  upon  the  West 
Indies.  The  British  foiled  the  first 
by  continuing  offensive  operations  on 
the  Continent.  Their  measures  to 
protect  the  West  Indies  are  the  sub- 
ject of  the  present  article. 

Both  the  British  and  the  French 
possessions  in  the  Caribbean  Archi- 
pelago were  and  are  divided  into  two 
groups,  the  eastward  and  the  west- 
ward or,  in  the  more  familiar  terms 
of  the  trade- wind,  the  windward  and 
the  leeward.  Those  of  the  windward 
chain,  with  which  alone  we  are  at 
present  concerned,  were  at  that  time 
even  more  curiously  divided  between 
the  two  nations  than  at  present. 
To  windward  of  all  lies  Barbados, 
then  as  always  English,  in  a  most 
advantageous  position,  since  being 
the  nearest  to  Europe  it  was  the 
first  to  receive  troops  and  supplies 
from  the  old  country,  and  could  count 
upon  a  fair  wind  to  distribute  them 
among  the  other  islands.  It  -as 
beyond  all  others  wealthy  and  pros- 
perous, but  having  unfortunately 
no  safe  harbour,  it  could  not  be 
used  as  a  naval  base  of  operations. 
One  hundred  and  fifty  miles  south- 
west of  Barbados  is  Tobago,  then  the 
most  southerly  of  our  West  Indian 
possessions  ;  and  from  Tobago  north- 
ward there  run  in  succession  the 
English  islands  of  Grenada  and  St. 
Vincent,  which  have  none  of  them 
any  safe  harbour  of  importance,  and 

E  E  2 


420 


St.  Lucia,  1778. 


were  then  so  slightly  settled  and  so 
thinly  populated  as  to  be  of  compara- 
tively little  value.  Each  one  of  them 
possessed  a  small  garrison  of  three  or 
four  hundred  men,  sufficient  to  pro- 
tect them  against  the  raids  of  the 
native  Caribs  (who  were  as  yet  still 
numerous  and  inclined  to  mischief), 
but  wholly  inadequate  to  repel  a 
French  attack. 

North  of  St.  Vincent,  however,  the 
chain  of  the  British  possessions  was 
broken  first  by  the  French  island  of 
St.  Lucia,  with  its  excellent  harbour 
of  Port  Castries,  which  was  well  forti- 
fied.    Next  to  St.  Lucia  lies  another 
French  island,  Martinique,   with  the 
harbour     then     called     Fort    Royal, 
which  also  was  strongly  fortified  and 
held     by     a     considerable     garrison, 
having    been    for    years    the    head- 
quarters   of    the    French    to    wind- 
ward.     Thirty  miles  north  of   Mar- 
tinique   comes    Dominica,    a    British 
island,  with  no  safe  harbour,  and  at 
that    time  little    settled    and   weakly 
held;  then  comes  Guadeloupe,  another 
French  island,  with  a  fine  and  well 
fortified    harbour ;    and    to    north    of 
Guadeloupe  lies  the  cluster  of  British 
islets  known  officially  as  the  Leeward 
Islands,   all  of   them  rich    and  pros- 
perous at  that  time,  but  with  no  good 
port   except   at   Antigua,    where    St. 
John's    constituted    the    one   British 
naval    station.     The   trend    of    these 
eastern  islands  being  in  a  curve  from 
south-west    to    north-west,    they   are 
subject  among  themselves  to  the  in- 
exorable law  of  the  trade- wind ;  and 
hence  Grenada,  St.  Vincent,  and  St. 
Lucia   are    still    officially   called    the 
Windward,    and    Antigua    with    her 
sisters    the    Leeward    Islands.       For 
instance,  though  you  might  sail  from 
Martinique    to    Dominica    in    a    few 
hours,  you  could  not  beat  back  from 
Dominica  to  Martinique  in  less  than 
three  or  four  days  against  wind  and 
current  ;    similarly    the  passage  from 


Barbados  to  Martinique  would  occupy 
twenty-four  hours,  but  the  return 
voyage  was  bound  to  occupy  a  fort- 
night or  three  weeks  at  least,  and 
might  on  occasion  prove  absolutely 
impossible.  But  the  chief  advantage 
lay  on  the  side  of  the  French,  for, 
with  the  exception  of  Barbados,  Mar- 
tinique and  St.  Lucia  are  the  most 
easterly  of  the  whole  chain,  and  they 
have  good  harbours  whereas  Barbados 
has  none.  The  task  for  the  British 
was  to  find  a  position  to  seal  the 
fountain-head  of  French  aggression 
at  Martinique. 

Hence  it  was  that  in  the  middle 
of  1778  the  Commander-in-Chief  in 
America  received  orders  to  ship 
about  six  thousand  of  his  troops  to 
Barbados  for  a  secret  expedition  to 
the  West  Indies.  A  powerful  French 
fleet  under  Count  d'Estaing  had  been 
on  the  American  coast  the  whole 
summer  but  had  accomplished  nothing, 
and  finally  had  sailed  on  November 
4th  for  Martinique,  to  spend  a  pro- 
fitable winter  in  the  West  Indies. 
On  the  very  same  day  Commodore 
Hotham  sailed  from  New  York,  escort- 
ing the  fifty-nine  transports  on  which 
the  British  troops  were  embarked,  and 
set  his  course  likewise  for  the  West 
Indies.  As  the  two  commanders  had 
started  together,  so  they  arrived  prac- 
tically together  at  their  destination. 
D'Estaing  with  twelve  unencum- 
bered ships  reached  Martinique  on 
December  9th  ;  twenty-four  hours 
later  Hotham  brought  the  whole  of 
his  unwieldy  charge  into  Carlisle  Bay 
at  Barbados,  and  found,  as  he  ex- 
pected, a  squadron  lying  there  at 
anchor. 

Very  beautiful  the  sight  must  have 
been  as  the  huge  fleet  came  sliding 
in  over  the  clear,  blue  water,  with 
the  sails  shining  white  under  the 
tropical  sun  and  the  line  of  red  coats 
round  every  ship's  side.  Very  wel- 
come too  to  the  men  must  have  been 


St.  Lucia,  1778. 


421 


the  view  of  the  low  hills,  with  their 
robe  of  green  sugar-cane  and  their 
crown  of  wind-mills,  after  a  cold  and 
stormy  passage  of  thirty-six  days : 
possibly  more  welcome  still  was  the 
glimpse  of  rum-shops  on  the  foreshore. 
But  flying  on  one  of  the  line-of-battle 
ships  was  the  flag  of  Rear-Admiral 
Barrington,  from  whom  came  at  once 
a  stern  order  that  not  a  man  must 
go  ashore,  but  that  all  must  work 
their  hardest  to  ship  water  and 
stores,  and  to  make  good  defects. 
No  doubt  there  was  grumbling ;  no 
doubt  there  were  longing  glances  at 
innocent-looking  cocoa-nuts,  contain- 
ing something  stronger  than  milk, 
which  were  visible  among  the  vege- 
tables in  the  negroes'  bumboats.  Still 
fresh  meat  and  bananas  were  some 
compensation  for  the  loss  of  the 
liquor,  and  it  may  be  guessed  that 
at  least  a  tot  of  rum  was  served  out 
to  all  at  the  end  of  a  hard  day's  work. 
For  within  twenty-four  hours  all  was 
ready  :  the  sick  had  been  landed  and 
the  needful  stores  embarked ;  and 
then,  without  a  moment's  delay,  the 
anchors  were  weighed  and  the  sails 
let  fall,  and  fleet  and  transports 
vanished  away  to  leeward  before  the 
trade- wind. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  December 
13th  every  soldier  on  deck  was  strain- 
ing his  eyes  at  two  little  blue  mounds 
which  peeped  over  the  horizon  far  to 
the  south-west.  Higher  and  higher 
they  rose,  like  two  tall  sugar-loaves 
out  of  the  sea,  while  the  lower  peaks 
of  a  tangled  confusion  of  hills  rose 
likewise  on  their  northern  side.  The 
sugar-loaves  were  the  Pitons  of  St. 
Lucia,  the  troops  were  told,  marking 
the  southern  end  of  the  island.  Then 
another  mass  of  blue  mountains  rose 
to  the  north-west,  which  could  be  no 
other  than  Martinique.  The  fleet  now 
ran  round  the  northern  end  of  St. 
Lucia,  altered  its  course  from  west 
to  south  and  closed  in  with  the 


western  coast,  till  all  could  see  the 
beautiful  chaos  of  lofty  volcanic  moun- 
tains in  their  heavy  mantle  of  tropical 
forest.  But  the  officers  noticed  that 
one  or  two  of  the  lower  hills  were 
square-topped  and  had  flags  flying  on 
them,  while  from  three  different  head- 
lands there  came  puffs  of  white  smoke 
as  the  fleet  passed  by,  and  the  round- 
shot  flew  skimming  over  the  water, 
generally  falling  far  short  of  the  ships 
but  twice  striking  one  or  two  of  them." 
A  deep,  narrow  bay  shrinking  far  into 
the  heart  of  the  hills,  with  a  cluster 
of  houses  at  its  head,  attracted  every 
soldier's  eye,  for  they  were  told  that 
it  was  Port  Castries ;  but  the  Ad- 
miral held  on  his  course  for  two 
miles  south  of  it,  when  the  leading 
ship  suddenly  put  her  helm  over,  and 
at  two  o'clock  dropped  her  anchor  in 
an  inlet  called  Grand  Cul  de  Sac. 
The  rest  of  the  fleet  followed,  the 
troops  eagerly  preparing  for  disem- 
barkation, and  within  a  very  short 
time  the  boats  were  filled  with  red- 
coats on  their  way  to  the  shore. 

By  five  o'clock  one  brigade  of  the 
troops  under  General  Medows  was 
landed  complete  with  arms,  accoutre- 
ments, and  one  day's  provisions  only, 
and  at  once  began  its  march,  the 
light  companies  of  the  whole  force 
leading  the  way.  The  direction  of 
the  column  was  northward,  and  the 
only  track  was  a  path  following  the 
spur  of  a  very  steep  hill  through 
thick  and  impenetrable  jungle;  but 
the  patient  soldiers  plodded  along  it 
in  single  file  for  two  weary  miles  in 
the  failing  light,  when  a  sputter  of 
musketry  in  their  front  made  the 
light  infantry  dash  forward,  just  in 
time  to  see  a  small  party  of  French- 
men running  for  their  lives.  One  of 
them  was  caught,  but  would  give  no 
information,  except  that,  though  taken, 
he  personally  was  still  unconquered, 
and  that  there  were  plenty  of  French- 
men on  the  island  to  defend  it.  It 


422 


St.  Lucia,  1778. 


being  now  dark  the  troops  bivouacked 
where  they  stood,  and  at  daybreak 
found  themselves  at  the  foot  of  a 
much  higher  and  steeper  hill  than 
that  which  they  had  passed,  with 
a  party  of  the  enemy  awaiting  them 
in  their  fortifications  at  the  summit. 
Five  more  battalions  of  the  British 
force  joined  the  advanced  brigade 
shortly  after  daybreak,  and  the  whole 
then  continued  their  forward  move- 
ment, with  no  further  molestation 
than  a  few  shot  plunging  down  from 
the  French  cannon  above  them.  The 
way  still  led  through  the  same  narrow 
track  up  an  extremely  steep  ascent, 
where  it  would  have  been  easy  for  a 
resolute  force,  however  weak,  to  check 
them.  But  on  reaching  the  top, 
breathless  with  the  long  climb  in 
the  tropical  heat,  they  met  with  a 
flag  of  truce,  and,  after  the  firing  of 
a  few  shots  by  some  ignorant  inhabi- 
tants, they  received  peaceable  posses- 
sion of  all  the  fortifications,  with  the 
buildings,  stores,  and  guns  within 
them.  The  garrison  of  St.  Lucia  had 
evidently  not  yet  arrived  in  the 
island ;  and  the  Morne  Fortune,  for 
this  hill  was  no  other,  was  thus  cap- 
tured practically  without  resistance. 

From  the  summit  of  the  height 
the  British  looked  down  on  the  har- 
bour of  Castries  Bay  beneath  them 
and  on  the  few  houses  at  its  head, 
but  saw  no  sign  of  cultivation, 
nothing  but  range  upon  range  of 
mountains,  even  higher  than  th«e 
Morne  Fortune,  all  covered  with 
jungle,  and  crowned  by  a  bank  of 
mist  which  presently  broke  in  a 
deluge  of  tropical  rain.  Medows's 
brigade  then  descended  the  hill  to 
the  harbour,  marched  round  the 
head  of  it,  and  without  firing  a 
shot  took  possession  of  a  peninsula 
called  the  Vigie,  which  bounds  it  on 
the  northern  side.  Thus  the  whole 
of  the  forts  and  batteries,  mounting 
in  all  fifty-nine  guns,  which  protected 


Port  Castries,  fell  with  their  ammu- 
nition and  stores  into  the  hands  of 
the  British ;  and  a  fortified  harbour 
was  gained,  ready  made,  at  the  cost 
of  a  very  few  men  killed  and  wounded. 
All  that  the  army  now  desired  was 
that  the  squadron  would  come  in 
with  the  baggage,  for  neither  officers 
nor  men  had  anything  except  the 
clothes  in  which  they  stood.  To- 
wards evening  the  officers,  looking 
northward  towards  Martinique,  made 
out  twenty-four  sail  at  sea,  and  were 
lost  in  conjecture  as  to  what  they 
might  be ;  but  deciding  that  they 
must  be  provision-ships  from  Bar- 
bados, they  mentally  wished  them  a 
good  passage  and  went  grumbling  to 
such  rest  as  they  could  find. 

On  the  following  morning,  Decem- 
ber 15th,  the  strange  fleet  came  close 
under  the  shore  and  was  seen  to  be 
that  of  Count  D'Estaing,  consisting  of 
twenty-four  ships  of  war,  or  more  than 
double  the  number  of  Barrington's 
squadron,  with  fifty  or  sixty  smaller 
craft  evidently  full  of  troops.  General 
Grant  in  hot  haste  sent  an  officer  to 
warn  the  Admiral  in  Cul  de  Sac  Bay ; 
but  when  the  messenger  arrived  he 
found  the  whole  of  the  transports 
packed  neatly  within  the  inlet,  and 
the  men-of-war  anchored  in  perfect 
order  across  the  entrance.  Barrington 
had  seen  the  enemy's  fleet  on  the 
previous  evening,  and  having  spent 
the  night  in  making  his  dispositions, 
had  retired  to  rest  in  a  hammock 
among  his  ship's  company.  The  aide- 
de-camp  roused  him  and  delivered 
his  message  by  the  hammock's  side. 
"  Young  man,"  said  the  Admiral, 
drowsily,  "  I  cannot  write  to  the 
General  at  present ;  but  tell  him  that 
I  hope  he  is  as  much  at  ease  on 
shore  as  I  am  on  board."  And  with 
that  he  laid  his  head  on  the  pillow 
and  went  to  sleep  again. 

In  due  time  the  French  fleet  came 
up  to  the  entrance  of  the  bay  and 


St.  Lucia,  1778. 


423 


very  solemnly  filed  twice  past  the 
British  squadron  keeping  up  a  heavy 
cannonade  at  long  range,  which  did  no 
damage  whatever  beyond  the  wound- 
ing of  three  men.  Then,  deciding 
that  he  had  better  leave  Barrington 
alone,  D'Estaing  beat  back  to  Anse  de 
Choc,  a  bay  immediately  to  the  north 
of  the  Vigie  peninsula,  where  his 
troops  were  disembarked  on  the  same 
evening.  On  the  two  following  days 
his  small  craft  returned  to  Martinique 
to  fetch  more  men,  while  the  French 
men-of-war  tried  to  make  their  way 
into  Castries  harbour,  and  to  cut  off 
the  supply  of  provisions  from  the 
imprisoned  fleet  in  the  Cul-de-Sac. 
But  the  French  engineers  had  done 
their  work  so  well  when  they  fortified 
Port  Castries  that  no  ship  could  ap- 
proach within  effective  range  of  the 
Vigie ;  and  though  boats  were  easily 
prevented  from  bringing  provisions 
from  the  squadron  by  day,  they 
passed  as  easily  through  the  French 
cruisers  by  night. 

Still  the  situation  of  the  British 
was  an  anxious  one,  for  the  defeat 
of  the  army  would  mean  that  Bar- 
rington's  squadron  would  be  driven 
by  French  guns  ashore  into  the  jaws 
of  D'Estaing's  fleet,  while  the  defeat 
of  the  squadron  would  deprive  the 
army  of  its  supplies.  Moreover  the 
nature  of  the  case  had  compelled 
Grant  to  divide  his  small  force. 
Four  battalions,  under  Sir  Henry 
Calder,  had  been  left  to  guard  the 
heights  around  Cul  de  Sac  Bay  to 
prevent  attack  upon  the  transports 
from  the  land,  and  to  maintain  com- 
munication with  Morne  Fortune. 
Five  more  battalions  held  Morne 
Fortune  itself  to  secure  the  south 
shore  of  Port  Castries,  while  the  re- 
maining three  under  Medows  held 
the  peninsula  of  Vigie.  This  penin- 
sula presented  a  strong  defensive 
position,  since  the  approach  to  it 
lay  across  an  isthmus  little  more 


than  two  hundred  yards  wide  at  its 
narrowest  point ;  and  Medows  had 
accordingly  drawn  up  the  bulk  of 
his  force  in  rear  of  this  neck,  with  a 
single  advanced  post  beyond  it  on  the 
mainland. 

The  French  meanwhile  had  taken 
up  a  position  at  right  angles  to 
Medows's  line  and  not  more  than  two 
miles  distant  from  it,  pushing  for- 
wards their  picquets  until  the  French 
sentries  could,  —  and  in  one  case 
actually  did — exchange  pinches  of 
snuff  with  the  British.  The  question 
was,  what  were  D'Estaing's  inten- 
tions'? What  he  would  have  liked, 
no  doubt,  would  have  been  for 
Medows  to  have  withdrawn  the  whole 
of  his  troops  in  rear  of  the  neck, 
when  he  could  have  left  a  sufficient 
force  to  hold  him  in  check,  and 
marched  round  the  head  of  the  har- 
bour with  the  remainder  to  attack 
Morne  Fortune ;  but  Medows  had 
been  careful,  as  we  have  seen,  to  pre- 
serve egress  from  the  peninsula  by 
means  of  an  advanced  post.  There 
remained,  therefore,  one  of  two  alter- 
natives,— to  leave  a  force  to  contain 
that  of  Medows,  and  to  move  the 
bulk  of  the  French  troops  to  Cul  de 
Sac  Bay,  so  as  to  overwhelm  Calder, 
or  to  make  an  end  of  Medows,  if 
possible,  at  a  single  stroke.  A  clue 
to  D'Estaing's  designs  was  obtained 
on  the  evening  of  the  17th,  when  a 
French  deserter  came  into  Vigie  with 
the  news  that  the  French  were  so 
posted  as  to  isolate  the  brigade  on  the 
peninsula  completely,  and  that  they 
intended  to  attack  it  forthwith  with 
twelve  thousand  men.  Medows's 
officers  shrugged  their  shoulders  at 
a  mere  deserter's  story,  but,  reflecting 
on  the  tried  excellence  and  long  ex- 
perience of  their  own  men,  rather 
hoped  that  it  might  be  true. 

Indeed  the  brigade  occupying  Vigie, 
though  mustering  but  thirteen  hun- 
dred men,  was  of  no  ordinary  quality. 


424 


St.  Lucia,  1778. 


It  consisted  of  the  5th,  now  known  as 
the  Northumberland  Fusiliers,  and  the 
grenadier  companies  and  light  com- 
panies of  the  4th,  15th,  27th,  28th, 
35th,  40th,  46th,  and  55th,  massed 
into  a  grenadier  battalion  and  a  light 
infantry  battalion  as  was  the  fashion 
of  the  day.  The  flank-companies,  as 
they  were  called,  were  the  finest  men 
of  their  regiments,  and  the  regiments 
in  themselves  were  composed  of  no 
common  soldiers.  Most  of  them  had 
been  engaged  at  Bunker's  Hill,  and 
every  one  of  them  in  the  victorious 
actions  of  Brooklyn,  Fort  Washington, 
and  Brandywine.  The  commander  of 
this  detachment,  too,  Colonel  Medows, 
had  served  in  Germany  under  Prince 
Ferdinand  of  Brunswick,  and  had 
fought  through  most  of  the  American 
war ;  while  he  was  by  nature  not  only 
a  good  and  daring  soldier,  but  a  man 
of  so  buoyant  a  temper  and  so 
cheerful  a  wit  that  no  one  could  feel 
discouraged  in  his  presence.  His 
epigrams  enlivened  more  than  one 
storming-party  afterwards  in  India, 
and  on  one  occasion  he  actually 
averted  a  panic  by  a  timely  jest. 

Throughout  the  night  of  the  17th 
the  rain  fell  heavily,  continuing 
until  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
when  it  was  observed  that  the  French 
were  nearer  to  the  British  advanced 
posts  than  usual,  and  in  greater 
numbers.  The  main  position  of  the 
British,  in  rear  of  the  neck  of  the 
peninsula,  lay  on  the  slope  of  a  low 
rugged  hill,  the  foot  of  which  was 
covered  with  scrub.  Outside  the 
neck,  the  advanced  post  of  five  com- 
panies of  light  infantry  was  stationed 
upon  two  low  hills;  and  this  was 
the  point  which  appeared  to  be 
threatened  by  the  enemy.  General 
Medows  and  two  of  his  battalion- 
commanders  went  down  to  it  to  see 
what  might  be  going  forward ;  when 
to  their  horror  the  officers  in  the  rear 
of  the  neck  saw  two  strong  French 


battalions  emerge  suddenly  from  a  belt 
of  low  brushwood  along  the  beach,  and 
move  up  against  the  front  and  flank 
of  the  light  infantry  as  if  to  cut  them 
off.  It  was  an  awkward  moment, 
for  the  General  seemed  to  be  in 
danger  of  being  cut  off  also,  and, 
in  the  absence  of  orders,  many 
doubted  whether  the  main  body 
ought  not  to  advance  in  order  to 
rescue  their  comrades.  But  presently 
Medows  came  back  perfectly  cool  and 
composed.  "The  light  infantry  will 
take  care  of  themselves,"  he  said ; 
"  as  for  you,  stand  fast." 

The  light  infantry  did  take  care 
of  themselves,  for  they  had  learned 
some  useful  lessons  in  America. 
Advancing  in  skirmishing  order,  and 
keeping  themselves  always  under- 
cover, they  maintained  at  close  range 
a  most  destructive  fire  upon  the 
heavy  French  columns.  If  the 
French  attempted  to  extend,  they 
threatened  a  charge  with  the  bayo- 
net ;  when  the  French  closed  up, 
they  were  themselves  already  ex- 
tended and  pouring  in  a  galling  fire ; 
when  the  French  advanced  with 
solidity  and  determination,  they  re- 
tired as  if  beaten  and  disappeared, 
but  only  to  renew  their  fire,  invisible 
themselves,  from  every  direction. 
But  when  at  last  one  of  the  French 
battalions  gave  way,  they  followed 
them  and  completed  the  rout  with  the 
bayonet.  Meanwhile  the  rest  of  the 
French  army  came  up  slowly  in  solid 
columns  to  the  attack  of  the  main 
position,  unobserved  by  the  light 
infantry  who  were  returning  to  the 
defence  of  their  advanced  post. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,"  yelled  their 
comrades  and  the  grenadiers  from 
behind  the  neck  ;  but  the  light  com- 
panies would  not  hear,  until  regaining 
the  slope  they  saw  their  danger,  and 
dashed  into  the  scrub  to  join  the 
main  body.  They  made  their  escape 
in  safety,  thanks  in  part  to  the  den- 


St.  Lucia,  1778. 


425 


sity  of  the  brushwood,  but  thanks 
above  all  to  Captain  Downing,  Lieu- 
tenant Waring,  and  Privates  Rose, 
Duffy,  and  Hargrove  of  the  55th,  who 
stood  alone  and  unaided  in  a  narrow 
path  to  cover  their  retreat.  These 
five  gallant  fellows  parried  the 
bayonet-thrusts  for  long  until  War- 
ing was  run  through  the  body,  and 
Downing  was  on  the  point  of  sharing 
his  fate,  when  a  French  officer  stepped 
forward  and  touched  his  sword  with 
a  significant  gesture.  There  was  no 
resisting  so  chivalrous  an  appeal,  and 
Downing  with  his  three  companions 
surrendered. 

The  French  now  developed  their 
attack  upon  the  main  position,  filling 
the  scrub  near  the  foot  of  the  hill 
with  their  light  troops,  while  their  bat- 
talions in  massive  columns  continued 
their  slow  and  steady  advance.  The 
British  field-guns  (four  three-pounders) 
now  opened  fire,  quickly  silencing  the 
still  lighter  pieces  of  the  French ;  and 
the  grenadiers,  who  were  fast  drop- 
ping under  the  bullets  of  the  enemy's 
sharp-shooters,  likewise  began  their 
fire,  in  perfect  order  and  without 
confusion,  husbanding  every  cartridge, 
for  they  had  but  thirty  rounds  a  man. 
Meanwhile  the  French  columns  never 
fired  a  shot,  though  whole  ranks  of 
them  were  swept  away  by  the  British 
cannon.  They  endured  the  punish- 
ment with  all  the  bravery  of  their 
nation,  but  made  no  progress,  though 
they  kept  changing  direction  to  right 
and  left  as  if  looking  for  the  easiest 
way  to  ascend  the  hill.  One  of  them 
broke  twice  and  was  twice  rallied, 
until  at  last  they  all  came  to  a  dead 
halt,  still  within  range  of  the  British, 
and  there  like  helpless  images  they 
stood  or  fell. 

Meanwhile  the  British  on  their  side 
were  falling  fast,  and  ammunition 
began  to  fail.  The  French,  too, 
brought  forward  fresh  battalions  as 
if  determined  to  carry  the  position ; 


and  Medows  gave  the  order  to  cease 
fire  until  the  enemy  came  within  very 
close  range,  when  the  troops  should 
retire  under  the  smoke  of  their  volleys 
to  the  summit  of  the  hill,  form  line, 
and  charge  with  the  bayonet.  The 
British  musketry  fell  silent  accord- 
ingly, and  the  men,  reserving  five 
rounds  a  piece,  sat  down  and  endured 
the  enemy's  fire ;  but  still  the  French 
did  not  advance.  Fresh  ammunition 
from  the  magazine  on  Morne  Fortune 
was  presently  brought  across  the  har- 
bour in  a  boat,  and  on  the  reopening 
of  the  British  fire  the  French  retired 
in  confusion.  The  fight  had  lasted  for 
three  hours,  from  eight  until  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  casualties  of  the  British  did 
not  exceed  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
one,  of  whom  thirteen  only  were 
killed ;  the  grenadiers  losing  close 
upon  ninety  officers  and  men  and 
the  light  infantry  over  sixty.  Medows 
himself  was  wounded  early  in  the  day, 
but  never  left  the  field  for  a  moment ; 
and  when  the  action  was  over  he  visited 
every  wounded  officer  and  man  before 
he  would  receive  the  surgeon's  atten- 
tion himself.  His  epigrammatic  soul 
had  been  greatly  cheered  by  an  answer 
returned  to  him  by  a  young  subaltern, 
Lieutenant  Gomm  of  the  46th,  who 
in  the  heat  of  the  action  was  wounded 
in  the  eye.  "  I  hope  that  you  have 
not  lost  your  eye,  sir,"  said  the 
General.  "I  believe  I  have,  sir," 
replied  Gomm,  "  but  with  the  other 
I  shall  see  you  victorious  this  day." 
Meanwhile  the  unwounded  officers 
made  their  way  to  the  neck  where 
the  French  columns  had  stood,  and 
came  upon  a  scene  which  turned 
them  sick.  The  white-coats,  hideously 
stained,  lay  thick  upon  the  ground, 
over  four  hundred  men  being  killed 
outright,  and  twelve  hundred  griev- 
ously wounded.  Very  soon  every 
British  soldier  who  could  be  spared 
was  ministering  to  the  poor  fellows, 


426 


St.  Lucia,  1778. 


and  some  of  the  officers  were  for 
burying  the  dead;  but  here  Medows 
interposed,  saying  that  the  French 
must  do  that  for  themselves.  So  a 
flag  of  truce  was  sent  to  Count 
D'Estaing  accompanied  by  a  bugle- 
horn,  which  having  been  at  first  fired 
upon  (since  the  French  were  not 
aware  that  the  bugle  had  already 
begun  to  replace  the  drum)  was 
courteously  received  and  dismissed. 
Four  hundred  Frenchmen  came  down 
to  inter  their  dead,  but  after  six 
hours  had  not  finished  their  work, 
which  our  men  were  fain  to  complete 
for  themselves. 

Even  so,  however,  D'Estaing  did 
not  wholly  abandon  the  hope  of  ex- 
pelling the  British.  On  the  day 
following  the  action  he  sent  thirty 
transports  full  of  troops  to  the  south 
of  Cul  de  Sac,  where  they  landed 
with  the  intention  of  seizing  some 
heights  that  overlooked  the  bay, 
erecting  mortar-batteries  on  them  and 
bombarding  the  transports  that  were 
crowded  together  in  the  inlet.  But 
Sir  Henry  Calder  speedily  detached 
some  of  the  35th  and  40th  to  seize 
the  heights,  and  the  French,  finding 
themselves  forestalled,  would  not 
hazard  another  attack.  The  attempt 
was  therefore  abandoned,  and  after 
a  week  more  of  sullen  delay  D'Estaing, 
on  December  28th,  returned  with  his 
ships  and  the  remains  of  his  army  to 
Martinique.  The  few  French  posts 
that  still  remained  then  hauled  down 
their  flags ;  and  on  January  6th 
Admiral  Byron,  having  been  delayed 
by  storms, — the  usual  luck  of  Foul- 
weather  Jack,  as  the  men  called 
him — arrived  with  his  fleet,  securing 
to  the  British  the  possession  of  St. 
Lucia. 

Thus  closed  an  extremely  remark- 
able little  campaign,  one  of  the  few 
of  which  it  may  truly  be  said  that 
the  whole  issue  turned  upon  twenty- 
four  hours  of  time.  Had  Barrington 


delayed  for  one  day  longer  at  Barbados, 
his  squadron  and  transports  must  have 
fallen  a  prey  to  D'Estaing's  far  supe- 
rior fleet.  Even  then,  had  Grant 
waited  till  next  dawn  instead  of 
landing  his  troops  and  beginning  his 
march  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
the  French  militia  with  their  small 
nucleus  of  regular  troops  might  have 
held  Morne  Fortune  until  D'Estaing 
came  to  their  relief.  The  island  once 
occupied  and  D'Estaing  fairly  on  the 
spot,  it  remained  for  the  British  com- 
manders by  land  and  sea  to  play  their 
parts  to  perfection,  for  the  defeat  of 
either  meant  disaster  to  both.  Yet 
so  admirable  were  the  dispositions 
not  only  of  Barrington  and  Grant, 
but  of  Grant's  brigadiers,  Calder  and 
Medows,  that  D'Estaing  was  driven 
back  with  shame  and  with  heavy  loss 
to  Martinique. 

The  action  on  the  Vigie  is  also 
notable  in  itself,  being  the  first 
example  of  the  employment  of  the 
new  British  tactics,  learned  in 
America,  against  the  old  system 
favoured  in  Europe.  The  French 
were  puzzled  beyond  measure  by  the 
work  of  the  British  light  infantry. 
They  had  chasseurs  of  their  own,  but 
these  were  never  supposed  to  make 
any  serious  resistance,  whereas  five 
companies  of  British  chasseurs  had 
made  havoc  of  two  battalions  which 
outnumbered  them  by  four  to  one,  not 
only  by  defence  but  by  counter-attack. 
Beyond  all  question  Medows  relied 
not  a  little  on  the  moral  effect  of 
these  new  tactics  upon  troops  trained 
in  an  older  school,  for  the  mainten- 
ance of  these  five  companies  in  their 
isolated  position  was  obviously  an 
extremely  hazardous  step.  Yet  he 
took  that  step  deliberately,  and  he 
was  fully  justified  by  success.  Every 
officer  and  man  of  his  force  knew  what 
to  do,  and  did  it;  whereas  the  French, 
though  they  stood  bravely  enough, 
were  absolutely  at  a  loss.  In  fact 


St.  Lucia,  1778. 


427 


the  behaviour  of  Medows's  battalions 
was  exactly  that  of  the  famous  Light 
Division  in  its  palmiest  days ;  thus 
confirming  the  forgotten  fact  that 
Moore's  reforms  in  tactics  were  built 
on  the  experience  of  America. 

For  the  rest,    St.  Lucia    remained 
in  British    hands  until    the   close   of 
the   war,    with    the    most   important 
results.      Grant,    an   excellent   officer 
with  the  greatest  admiration  for  the 
Navy,    perceived    its    value   at   once. 
"  We    are   here,    in    a    way    looking 
into     Fort     Royal,"    he     wrote, — at 
the    very   gate,    in    other    words,    of 
the   chief    French    naval    station    to 
windward — and  he  resolved  that  such 
a  station  should  not   easily  be   lost. 
Lord   George   Germaine  who,  for  the 
sins  of   England,  was   acting  at  this 
time  as  her  Minister  of  War,  wished 
to    disperse    the    garrison    over    the 
neighbouring    British     islands ;     but 
Grant    absolutely  refused    to  do   so. 
Three    of    the    islands    were    indeed 
taken    by    the    French,    but    Grant 
declined  to  accept  the  blame  for  these 
mishaps,  retorting  upon  this  insolent 
Secretary  of    State    that   it  was    his 
lordship's  own  fault   if   islands  were 
captured,  since  this  could  never  have 
happened  unless  the  British  had  been 
of  inferior  strength  at  sea.     The  mor- 
tality among  the  troops  in  St.  Lucia 
was  indeed  terrible,  until  in  1780  a 
hurricane,  by  laying  the  whole  of  the 
forest     low,    improved     the    climate 
amazingly.      But     healthy     or      un- 
healthy the  island  was  securely  held, 
though  the  French   made  more  than 
one   attempt   to   retake   it ;    and   in 
1782    its   value    was   proved    to   the 
full. 

The  next  inlet  to  the  north  of 
Anse  du  Choc  is  known  as  Gros 
Islet  Bay,  deriving  its  name  from  a 
rocky  islet,  called  by  the  British 
Pigeon  Island.  It  is  a  desolate, 


barren  hillock,  strewn  with  the  bones 
of  whales  and  honeycombed  by  dis- 
used tanks  and  the  foundations  of 
ruined  store-houses  and  magazines. 
Once  it  was  garrisoned,  and  still  it 
is  an  historic  spot.  In  this  bay 
for  many  weeks  in  the  spring  of 
1782  lay  Admiral  Rodney's  fleet, 
while  a  chain  of  frigates  connected 
him  by  signal  with  the  ships  that 
watched  the  French  fleet  some  fifty 
miles  to  northward  in  its  safe  harbour 
at  Martinique ;  and  on  this  Pigeon 
Island,  it  is  said,  the  great  admiral 
used  to  take  his  stand,  day  after  day, 
with  his  glass  under  his  arm,  watching 
for  the  signal  that  the  French  would 
sail, — "  in  a  way  looking  into  Fort 
Royal,"  as  Grant  said.  On  April  8th 
the  long-awaited  signal  fluttered  down 
the  line  of  frigates,  and  the  fleet 
weighed  anchor,  to  win,  on  the 
12th,  the  Battle  of  the  Saints  and 
thereby  to  assure  the  confederated 
enemies  of  England,  whether  foreign 
or  rebel,  that  she  had  still  the  power 
to  make  them  tremble. 

St.  Lucia  was  restored  to  the  French 
by  the  peace  of  1783,  and  reconquered 
after  a  far  more  arduous  struggle  by 
Abercromby  and  Moore  in  1795,  to 
pass  finally  into  our  possession  by  the 
Peace  of  Paris  in  1814.  It  is  now 
what  it  was  designed  to  be  in  1778, 
our  principal  naval  station  to  wind- 
ward ;  and  it  may  be  therefore  that 
the  old  fortifications  on  Morne  For- 
tune have  within  recent  years  been 
swept  away.  But  Pigeon  Island 
remains,  and  probably  there  are 
few  admirals  on  the  West  Indian 
Station  who  do  not  pay  it  a  visit,  in 
order  (to  use  the  words  of  one  whom 
I  was  myself  privileged  to  accompany) 
"  to  stand  where  old  Rodney  stood 
before  he  went  out  to  lick  the 
French." 

J.    W.    FORTESCUE. 


428 


PRIMROSE-DAY. 

PRIMROSE  DAY,  and  all  the  streets 
With  a  borrowed  gold  are  gay, 
Honeyed  are  with  borrowed  sweets. 
Everywhere  the  vision  meets 
Hints  and  glints  of  country  places  ; 
Hollows  full  of  crumpling  fern, 
Whispers  of  a  hurrying  burn, 
And  a  skylark  far  above 
Chanting  Godwards  laud  and  love  ; 
Fields  of  daisies,  bluebell-sheets, — 
All  these  lovelinesses  rise 
Clear  before  the  glamoured  eyes 
Looking  in  these  primrose  faces. 

Wonderful  it  is  to  see 

Their  delicious  wizardry  : 

How  with  petals  soft  and  cold 

They  have  wrought  on  heart  and  brain, 

Till  the  clock  turns  back  again, 

And  we  see  with  eyes  washed  clear 

From  the  film  of  day  and  year. 

We  are  young  that  had  grown  old 

Chasing  Hope  and  finding  Fear  : 

We  are  young,  and  we  believe 

Both  in  Eden  and  in  Eve  : 

Fairyland  to  us  is  free 

By  the  rainbow's  golden  key. 

While  we  wear  these  yellow  flowers 

Youth  and  Memory  are  ours  ; 

Though  to-morrow  we  shall  be 

Left  alone  with  Memory. 


429 


ART    AND    LIFE. 


WHAT  about  Bohemia  1  Is  it 
perhaps  as  mythical  as  Shakespeare's 
fabled  country  by  the  sea,  or  as  obso- 
lete as  the  nationality  of  the  people 
from  whom  it  takes  its  name?  What 
is  it,  where  is  it,  and  above  all  why 
is  it1?  Is  there  any  occasion  or  excuse 
for  it?  Is  it  a  vital  part  of  the 
artistic  life  or  only  an  excrescence  on 
it,  the  cradle  or  the  grave  of  genius  ? 
In  short,  what  is  the  bearing  of  a 
man's  life  upon  his  work,  and  how 
far  is  it  necessary  or  to  be  desired, 
either  in  the  interests  of  the  man  or 
of  his  work,  that  he  should  adopt  a 
life  in  some  degree  peculiar  to  his 
calling  ?  These  are  the  questions  it 
is  here  proposed  to  discuss,  and  from 
a  point  of  view  midway  between  the 
extremes  of  prejudice,  from  a  stand- 
point, that  is  to  say,  as  remote  from 
the  orthodoxy  which  is  shocked  at 
the  Bohemianism  that  does  not  wear 
a  tall  silk  hat  in  town  as  from  the  un- 
orthodoxy  that  would  think  it  Philis- 
tine to  neglect  any  opportunity  of 
outraging  public  opinion. 

There  is  a  fantastic  idea  of  the 
artistic  life  which  is  no  doubt  mythi- 
cal ;  but  even  for  that  there  was  a 
foundation  :  the  very  myth  which  has 
grown  about  it  really  goes  to  prove 
the  existence  of  Bohemia.  Nor  is  it 
by  any  means  extinct,  though  its 
shores  shift  so  with  the  tide  of  fashion 
that  it  is  impossible  to  fix  them  with 
precision. 

Bohemianism  is  as  old  as  vagrancy ; 
Homer  has  been  claimed  as  a  Bohe- 
mian ;  but  the  term  in  its  modern 
sense  is  relatively  modern.  Balzac 
may  be  said  to  have  given  it  currency 
by  the  publication  of  UN  PRINCE  DE 


BOHESIE  in  1840;  and  soon  after 
that  Henri  Murger  threw  the  country 
open,  so  to  speak,  in  the  famous 
SCENES  DE  LA  VIE  DE  BOHEME. 
These  godfathers  of  the  vague  domain 
were  of  opinion  that  Bohemia  existed 
only,  and  could  only  exist,  in  Paris  : 
one  of  them  located  it  definitely  in 
the  Boulevard  des  Italiens ;  but  they 
both  lived  (like  many  another  Parisian) 
in  a  world  which  did  not  extend  far 
beyond  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  The 
truth  is  that,  though  there  may  be 
something  racial  in  the  tendency 
towards  it,  it  stands  for  no  nation 
but  for  a  phase  of  life.  The  Bohemia 
of  Balzac  and  Murger  is  naturally  not 
that  of  Thackeray  and  Robertson, 
but,  wherever  there  is  society,  upon 
its  outskirts  lies  Bohemia.  To  the 
born  Bohemian  all  the  world  is 
Bohemia,  and  Bohemia  all  the  world. 
As  one  of  its  poets  has  sung: 

Though  the  latitude's  rather  uncertain, 
The  longitude  equally  vague, 

That  person  I  pity  who  knows  not  the 

city, 
The  beautiful  city  of  Prague. 

And  what  is  this  Bohemian  exist- 
ence? It  differs,  of  course,  in  dif- 
ferent localities,  and  in  the  same 
locality  it  changes  from  generation  to 
generation ;  but  it  follows  always  a 
direction  somewhat  apart  from  the 
current  of  accepted  conventions.  It 
arises  perhaps  out  of  a  certain  shyness 
of  society, — sauvage  is  the  French 
epithet — which,  whether  or  not  char- 
acteristic of  the  Red  Indian,  is  a 
distinguishing  instinct  of  certain  of 
us  who  find  it  necessary  to  full 
artistic  activity  to  live  a  life  some- 


430 


Art  and  Life. 


what  apart.  The  Savage  of  the 
twentieth  century  lives  and  orders 
his  life  quite  otherwise  than  the  men 
who  founded,  for  example,  the  Savage 
Club.  In  dress  and  bearing  he  is 
irreproachable,  he  is  far  "from  affect- 
ing the  dishevelled,  he  has  long  since 
abandoned  the  Owls'  Nest,  he  has 
been  known  to  entertain  Royalty ;  he 
may  be  himself  a  Lord  Chief  Justice ; 
but  at  heart  he  is,  or  was  (or  else  he 
is  an  impostor)  a  rebel  against  con- 
vention, vowed  to  go  his  own  way, 
lead  his  own  life,  the  life  of  freedom 
necessary  to  his  nature  and  to  the 
exercise  of  his  calling. 

The  name  of  Bohemian  calls  to 
mind  the  wandering  gipsy  life;  and 
there  is  a  race  of  artists  tempera- 
mentally of  the  tribe  of  the  Zingari, 
passionate  lovers  of  nature,  vagabond 
of  mind  if  not  of  body,  with  a  dash 
perhaps  of  the  mountebank  or  itine- 
rant showman  in  them,  though  it  is 
only  with  words  and  colours  that  they 
juggle ;  some  there  are  who  never 
get  beyond  their  Wander-Jahr,  never 
settle  down  to  steady  work,  —  the 
strolling  players  at  art,  they  might 
be  called — but  Bohemians  are  not,  as 
the  name  might  be  taken  to  imply, 
nomadic  ;  they  live  even  too  narrowly 
within  the  confines  of  the  artistic 
milieu.  That  is  what  they  seek,  that 
is  the  vindication  of  their  fraternity. 
Their  revolt  against  Philistia  may  be  of 
the  mildest.  The  frame  of  mind  which 
in  the  Middle  Ages  led  bookish  men 
to  seek  shelter  in  the  cloister,  where, 
amid  surroundings  comparatively  pro- 
pitious and  society  not  uncongenial, 
it  was  possible  to  pursue  in  peace 
their  learned  or  artistic  vocation, 
brings  them  nowadays  sooner  or  later 
to  Bohemia, — for  a  time  at  least, 
until  perhaps  the  path  of  matrimony 
lures  them  away.  The  attitude  of  the 
Bohemian  may  be  something  short  of 
active  rebellion  against  convention ; 
strictly  speaking  it  need  not  amount 


to  more  than  non-conformity, — about 
the  last  word  by  which  he  would 
himself  describe  it. 

Convention  is  the  measure  of  com- 
mon convenience;  and  great  is  the 
convenience  of  conformity.  We  are 
tempted,  if  only  to  avoid  the  wear 
and  tear  of  existence,  tamely  to  agree 
in  word  and  deed  with  whatever  may 
be  currently  accepted.  But  what  if, 
in  the  case  of  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment, the  endeavour  to  conform 
should  result  only  in  continual  fric- 
tion ?  It  is  in  order  to  avoid  daily 
and  hourly  friction  that  the  artist 
once  for  all  declines  to  conform. 
Convenience  in  his  case  consists  in 
conforming  to  a  rule  of  life  framed 
with  a  view  to  artistic  needs,  not 
social  considerations. 

"  Great  men,"  said  Balzac,  "  belong 
to  their  works."  The  artist  may  be 
too  ready  to  take  himself  for  a  great 
man,  but,  great  or  small,  he  belongs 
to  his  work.  The  way  an  artist  lives 
is  his  affair.  The  hours  he  works, 
what  time  he  goes  to  bed  or  gets  up 
in  the  morning,  the  fashion  of  his 
clothes,  the  society  he  frequents,  the 
amusements  of  his  idle  hours,  concern 
himself  alone ;  and  him  they  concern 
more  deeply  than  is  always  under- 
stood. He  has,  for  one  thing,  to 
keep  clear  of  much  which,  natural  as 
it  may  be  to  others,  would  be  to  him 
fruitless  expenditure.  The  habits  of 
Philistia,  based  as  they  are  upon  the 
ways  and  wants  of  the  well-to-do, 
may  or  may  not  be  adapted  to  the 
needs  of  business  and  professional 
men  ;  they  do  not  in  the  least  meet 
those  of  the  artist.  We  hear  of  high 
prices  given  for  works  of  art  (espe- 
cially when  once  the  artist  is  safely 
dead  and  does  not  benefit  thereby), 
but  artists  find  it  as  a  rule  difficult 
enough  to  pay  their  way,  and  they 
are  acting  only  in  self-defence  when 
they  refuse  to  spend  upon  what  is 
not  merely  unnecessary,  but  would 


Art  and  Life. 


be  no  luxury  to  them  if  they  had  it, 
the  hard-earned  money  they  can 
so  much  better  lay  out  in  things 
which,  luxuries  though  they  might 
be  to  others,  are  necessities  to  them  ; 
in  books,  for  example,  travel,  rest, 
recreation,  and  all  manner  of  what 
may  seem  extravagance  but  is  really 
not  merely  helpful  but  essential  to 
their  craft.  It  is  only  on  condition 
of  a  sort  of  selfishness, — at  all  events 
it  is  sure  to  be  called  selfishness — 
that  a  man  whose  work  is  individual 
does  his  best.  And  in  repudiating 
those  conventions  of  society  which 
hinder  him  in  doing  it  he  is  acting 
in  the  general  interest  no  less  than 
in  his  own.  In  his  case  duty  to 
society  consists  in  doing  good  work, 
not  in  conforming  to  its  ways, — even 
were  that  possible,  which  to  him  it 
may  not  be.  His  endeavour  to  do 
as  others  do  seldom  results  in  anything 
worth  doing. 

Our  work  is  only  partly  ours.  In 
part  it  is  the  result  of  circumstances, 
and  very  especially  of  our  surround- 
ings. We  must  take  art  as  it  is, 
with  all  the  sensibility  and  super- 
sensitiveness  of  the  artist.  It  is 
quite  certain  that  talents  which  in 
the  sunshine  of  sympathy  would 
blossom  freely  are  nipped  long  before 
appreciation  falls  to  zero ;  and  it  is 
in  pursuit  of  the  equable  temperature 
conducive  to  productiveness  in  him, 
that  the  artist  gravitates  towards 
Bohemia,  establishes  perchance  his 
own  Bohemia,  gathering  to  him  others 
of  his  kind.  For  want  of  some  such 
haven  the  village  poet  is  driven  to 
seek  the  half-congenial  shelter  of  the 
ale-house.  It  is  only  by  rare  excep- 
tion that  a  man  like  Anthony 
Trollope  can  ply  his  craft  with  the 
regularity  of  a  man  of  business,  can 
lead  the  life  of  everybody  and  do  his 
own  work  at  the  same  time ;  and  the 
phenomenon  of  an  author  putting  his 
art  into  words  at  the  rate  of  so 


many  an  hour  for  so  many  hours 
every  day,  is  probably  to  be  accounted 
for  by  the  rather  prosaic  character  of 
his  particular  art.  Mr.  Andrew  Lang 
once  likened  himself  (as  compared 
with  the  wilder  singing-bird)  to  "a 
punctual  domesticated  barndoor-fowl 
laying  its  daily  '  article '  for  the 
breakfast-table  of  the  citizen" — that 
same  bourgeois,  by  the  way,  whom 
the  artist  affects  so  to  despise;  but 
even  the  tame  hen  resents  being 
cooped  up. 

It  was  Hamerton,  I  think,  who 
said  that  an  artist  wants  to  wake 
up  in  the  morning  with  the  feeling 
that  the  day  before  him  is  all 
his,  that  he  may  give  it  to  his 
work,  and  not  be  called  off  by  social 
or  other  claims  conflicting  with  it. 
It  is  because  he  finds  it  impossible 
to  reconcile  the  ordinary  way  of  life 
with  devotion  to  his  art,  that  he 
rebels  against  it.  His  intuition  that 
the  life  of  everyone  is  not  the  life 
for  him  argues  no  vice  or  weakness 
in  him.  That  is  very  clearly  seen  in 
the  case  of  Wordsworth,  whose  "plain 
living  and  high  thinking"  may  be 
cited  as  a  noble  form  of  Bohemianism, 
an  artist's  protest  against  the  rich 
living  and  low  thinking  of  Philistia, 
a  flat  refusal  to  fall  in  with  ways 
of  life  which  meant  nothing  to  him, 
as  compared  with  his  life's  work. 
Thoreau  again,  seeking  in  the  woods 
of  Walden  the  atmosphere  in  which 
he  could  best  work,  stands  for  a 
gipsy-like  but  still  gentle  Bohemian, 
more  at  home  in  the  solitude  of 
Nature  than  in  the  society  of  men. 
The  more  typical  form  of  Bohemian 
is  illustrated  in  Walt  Whitman, 
aggressively  rebellious,  so  fearful 
indeed  of  being  influenced  by  custom 
and  convention  as  to  make  something 
of  a  parade  of  going  counter  to  them. 
A  rebel  is  obliged  sometimes  in  self- 
defence  to  attack,  to  carry  war  into 
the  country  of  an  enemy  who  will  not 


432 


Art  and  Life. 


leave  him  in  peace.  It  is  not  mere 
bravado  which  makes  a  man  proclaim 
his  creed.  Call  him  by  a  name  to 
which  some  odium  is  attached,  and, 
if  he  cannot  shake  it  off,  he  will 
glory  in  it,  just  to  show  he  is  not 
ashamed  of  himself.  For  all  that, 
too  loud  a  boast  of  independence  is 
not  the  surest  proof  of  strong  person- 
ality ;  ideas  are  none  the  less  new  or 
true  for  being  expressed  with  due 
regard  to  the  feelings  and  prejudices 
of  others.  An  artist  has  not  only  to 
attract  an  audience  but  to  keep  it, 
and  at  times  even  to  convert  it. 

A  certain  surliness  in  the  attitude 
of  an  artist  towards  society  may  be 
accounted  for  by  its  seeming  to  hold 
out  to  him  the  promise  of  position 
or  wealth,  a  bait  which  his  artistic 
conscience  warns  him  not  to  swallow. 
He  has  been  known,  of  course,  before 
now  to  take  himself  too  seriously,  and 
society  may  well  disregard  pretensions 
not  warranted  by  work  done,  but  it 
owes  some  attention  to  the  protest  of 
a  man  like  Michel  Angelo.  "The 
world,"  he  said,  "forgets  that  the 
really  zealous  artist  is  in  duty  bound 
to  abstain  from  the  idle  trivialities 
and  current  compliments  of  society, 
not  because  he  is  high  and  mighty 
or  disdainful,  but  because  his  art 
imperatively  claims  his  energy,  all  of 
it.  If  he  had  leisure  equal  to  the 
rest  of  the  world,  the  rest  of  the 
world  might  expect  him  to  observe 
its  rules  of  etiquette  or  ceremony. 
As  it  is  they  seek  his  society  for 
their  own  honour  and  glory,  and  they 
must  put  up  with  his  crotchets." 
That  may  be  savage,  but  there  is  no 
denying  the  truth  of  it. 

The  artist,  then,  goes  his  own  way, 
contrary  as  it  may  be  to  the  neatly 
ordered  paths  of  Philistia,  no  matter 
who  may  resent  it.  Resentment  is 
partly  owing  to  misunderstanding. 
The  steady-going  citizen  is  shocked  by 
the  artist's  irregularity,  the  fitfulness 


of  his  industry,  not  realising  (how 
should  he  realise?)  that  this  is  not 
in  him  the  vice  it  would  be  in  a 
banker  or  his  clerk.  Pictures  are  not 
painted,  nor  statues  modelled,  nor 
poems  written,  with  the  regularity 
with  which  a  man  of  business  casts 
up  accounts  or  answers  letters.  An 
artist's  best  work  is  done,  not  at 
fixed  intervals,  but  when  the  fit  is  on 
him  ;  and,  short  of  making  his  moods 
an  excuse  for  shirking  work,  he  is 
not  only  justified  in  following  them, 
but  bound  in  economic  prudence  to  do 
so.  The  artist  may  be  a  bit  of  an 
idler,  but  he  is  not  always  so  idle 
as  more  regular  workers  may  think. 
He  works,  when  the  fit  is  on  him,  at 
a  pressure  greatly  beyond  that  of 
regular  routine.  There  follow  periods 
of  exhaustion  when  it  is  his  best 
wisdom  to  desist  from  work. 

Hast  in  der  bosen  Stund  geruht, 
1st  dir  die  gute  doppelt  gut.1 

So  wrote  Goethe,  and  he  was  no 
idler.  And  then,  remember,  the 
artist  whose  heart  is  in  what  he  is 
doing  never  gets  quite  free  from  it,  is 
never  so  idle  as  the  man  whose  work 
is  a  task  from  which  it  is  a  holiday 
to  escape.  An  artist  obeys  and  must 
obey  his  impulse,  happy  if  it  should 
not  carry  him  too  far.  The  peculiar 
temperament  which  is  one  of  the 
conditions,  if  not  the  one  condition, 
on  which  he  holds  his  creative  faculty, 
is  not  an  unqualified  blessing.  Often 
it  leads  him  astray.  It  is  largely 
responsible  for  his  irresponsibility, 
for  the  curious  dulness  of  his  common- 
sense,  for  his  characteristic  unfitness 
for  the  business  of  life.  And  his  way 
of  living,  the  way  necessary  it  may 
be  to  his  development  on  the  artistic 
side,  does  nothing  to  correct  the  warp 
on  the  other,  does  not  discourage 

1  Rest  always  in  the  evil  hour ; 
So  shall  you  work  with  double  power. 


Art  and  Life. 


433 


waywardness,  nor  develope  habits  of 
caution,  method,  punctuality,  and  so 
forth,  which  (though  he  can  afford 
to  do  without  the  to  him  intolerable 
routine  so  necessary  to  the  conduct 
of  more  matter-of-fact  affairs)  are 
in  some  sort  indispensable  to  great 
achievement  in  art. 

The  badge  of  all  our  tribe  is 
wilfulness ;  but  some  at  least  of 
our  apparent  unreasonableness  is,  in 
strict  truth,  a  most  rational  protest 
against  the  exorbitant  demands  com- 
monly made  upon  conformity.  That 
a  man  is  proof  against  distractions 
which,  while  affording  him  no  satis- 
faction, would  yet  hinder  him  in  his 
work,  that  he  denies  himself  what  he 
does  not  in  the  least  value  in  order 
to  make  sure  of  what  he  treasures, 
that  he  lives  simply  so  as  to  be  able 
to  work  sincerely, — is  surely  neither 
wayward  nor  wilful  but  the  perfection 
of  sweet  reasonableness. 

Plainly,  then,  the  artist's  life  is  not 
a  myth,  and  the  necessity  for  it  is  not 
extinct;  and  in  so  far  as  man,  and 
least  of  all  the  artist,  is  (with  the 
exception  of  here  and  there  an 
anchorite)  not  a  solitary  animal,  the 
aggregation  of  artists  into  com- 
munities in  which  they  may  rely 
upon  the  sympathy,  the  criticism, 
the  incentive  of  fellow  -  workers, — 
Bohemia,  in  short, — is  not  merely 
justified  ;  it  is  inevitable. 

We  pride  ourselves  upon  our  indi- 
viduality, but  absolutely  independent 
we  are  not.  The  least  sympathetic  of 
us  reflect  the  colour  of  our  surround- 
ings :  here  and  there  a  man  like 
Charles  Kingsley  seems  to  owe  almost 
everything  to  his  environment  at  the 
critical  moment  of  his  life ;  but  it 
tells  upon  us  all.  Polite  society 
makes  the  artist  something  of  a  man 
of  fashion,  just  as  the  companion- 
ship of  fellow  artists  kindles  and 
strengthens  in  him  the  spirit  which 
produces. 

No.  510. — VOL.  LXXXV, 


The  artist,  then,  is  fully  justified 
in  leading  the  life  which  suits  him. 
Adherence  to  custom  being  in  the 
main  a  matter  of  convenience,  it  is 
no  credit  to  a  man  that  it  suits  his 
purpose  to  conform,  no  discredit  that 
it  does  not.  He  needs  no  excuse  for 
a  very  wide  departure  from  the  con- 
ventions others  may  have  accepted. 
The  misfortune  is  that  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  Bohemia  the  foibles  of  the 
artist  have  full  play,  equally  with  his 
faculties,  and  thrive,  as  it  proves, 
so  abnormally,  that  the  plea  of  the 
artistic  life  is  made  to  cover  a  mul- 
titude of  sins, — some  of  them  venial, 
some  not. 

The  final  verdict  upon  Bohemianism 
must  depend  very  much  upon  what 
is  understood  by  it.  We  must  dis- 
tinguish between  its  phases.  In  one 
of  them  it  has  made  itself  sufficiently 
ridiculous.  Young  art  is  prone  to 
offer  up  incense  at  the  shrine  of  its 
own  genius,  and  the  fumes  get  into 
its  silly  head.  It  is  not  so  much 
Bohemianism  as  youthful  vanity  which 
makes  one  budding  poet  vie  with 
another  as  to  which  shall  sport  the 
most  outrageous  headgear,  and,  if 
need  be,  refer  the  matter  to  the  solemn 
arbitration  of  a  third  genius.  But 
the  atmosphere  has  something  to  do 
with  inflaming  such  youthful  vanity. 
It  has  something  to  do  with  the  state 
of  mind  in  which  a  young  gentleman 
can  dye  his  hair  crimson  and,  in  a 
yellow  waistcoat,  knee-breeches,  and 
a  Scotch  cap,  disport  himself  in  the 
Luxembourg  Gardens  ;  and  makes 
possible  the  otherwise  impossible  point 
of  view  of  his  friends  of  the  Chat 
Noir  who  were  not  only  indignant  at 
his  getting  locked  up  but  astonished. 

To  the  childish  vanity  of  dressing- 
up  has  succeeded  the  determination 
not,  if  possible,  to  be  taken  for  an 
artist  ;  of  which  two  forms  of  affec- 
tation (vain-glorious  assertion  of  one's 
calling,  and  denying  it)  the  more 

p  P 


434 


Art  and  Life. 


ridiculous  is  the  less  insincere.  In 
either  case  it  is  self-consciousness 
which  is  to  blame,  a  vanity  which 
will  not  allow  a  man  to  go  about 
his  business  without  always  thinking 
what  sort  of  a  figure  he  cuts.  Art 
outgrows  one  affectation  after  an- 
other, but  not  the  vanity  which  gives 
rise  to  them  successively.  A  lasting 
conceit  is  that  which  affects  to  be 
apart,  strange,  unnatural,  exotic,  none 
too  moral,  and  prides  itself  upon 
a  foolish  artificiality.  The  pose  of 
youthful  genius  has  been  very  happily 
hit  off  by  the  distinguished  critic,  Jules 
Lemaitre. 

To-day  certain  young  literary  men  form 
a  fresh  variety  of  the  human  race ;  they 
take  themselves  more  seriously  than 
priests,  philosophers,  or  politicians.  At 
about  the  age  of  twenty  the  malady  gets 
hold  of  them.  They  begin  by  believing 
with  the  narrowest  and  most  fanatical 
faith  that  literature  is  the  noblest  of 
human  callings,  the  only  one  possible  to 
them  (all  others  being  below  their  notice) 
and  that  it  is  really  they  who  invented 
literature.  Then  they  make  cliques  of 
three  or  two  or  even  one.  They  seek 
painfully  the  most  outrageous  forms  of 
expression.  They  are  more  naturaliste 
than  Zola,  more  impressionist  than  the 
de  Goncourts,  more  grotesquely  mystic 
than  Poe  or  Beaudelaire.  They  invent 
the  "  art  of  the  decadence,"  and  what  not. 
The  comparatively  modest  among  them 
think  they  have  discovered  psychology, 
and  talk  of  nothing  else.  Formerly  at 
the  age  of  twenty  we  knew  how  to 
admire,  we  had  some  respect  for  our 
masters,  we  had  a  naive  affection  for 
them, — Lamartine,  Hugo,  Musset  and 
the  rest — even  Augier  and  Dumas  in- 
spired us  with  some  consideration.  But 
the  arrogance  of  the  new  elite  is  un- 
bounded. The  youngsters  take  dislikes 
as  arbitrary  as  their  fancies,  and  their 
dislikes  are  as  numerous  as  their  admira- 
tions are  rare.  They  hate  and  despise 
whatever  is  not  like  themselves.  Know- 
ing nothing  they  have  a  stupid  and  stub- 
born contempt  for  the  sublimest  genius 
or  the  most  marvellous  talent  so  soon  as 
it  is  recognised.  What  with  their  intoler- 
ance and  egotism,  it  is  as  difficult  to  talk 
to  them  as  to  a  Dervish  or  a  Thug. 
They  are  neither  Christians  nor  citizens, 


nor  friends,  nor  perhaps  so  much  as  men 
— they  are  literary — each  with  his  peculiar 
creed,  in  which  he  perhaps  alone  believes, 
which  he  alone  understands,  if  he  does 
understand  it. 

M.  Lemaitre  is  speaking  only  of 
the  literary  exclusive,  but  his  words 
have  a  general  application  to  other 
artists,  and  not  of  his  country  alone. 
The  French  are  by  race  less  reticent 
than  we,  though  we  too  are  fast 
learning  to  exhibit  ourselves  without 
the  disguise  of  costume.  We  should 
not  have  far  to  look  for  English 
parallels  to  Beaudelaire  ransacking 
the  dictionary  for  strange  words  with 
which  to  flavour  his  style,  or  to 
Theophile  Gautier  professing,  in  his 
rage  for  form,  to  prefer  the  pictur- 
esque atrocities  of  the  worst  of  Roman 
Emperors  to  the  clean  life  of  the  best 
of  French  citizens,  out  of  which  there 
was  no  artistic  capital  to  be  made. 
It  is  surely  the  virus  of  Parisian  per- 
versity working  upon  a  smart  English 
writer  which  makes  him  try  and 
startle  us  by  pointing,  paradoxically, 
to  M.  Emile  Zola  as  a  "  striking  in- 
stance of  the  insanity  of  common- 
sense."  The  insincerity  of  the  author 
of  such  topsy-turvydom  is  obvious ; 
his  one  thought  is  plainly  "  to  make 
the  Philistine  sit  up"  as  he  would 
say, — a  common  foible  of  the 
Bohemian,  but  for  the  most  part 
a  mere  waste  of  fireworks.  It  is  a 
distinguishing  feature  of  the  Philis- 
tine that  he  takes  no  notice  of  the 
class  whose  fond  ambition  it  is  to 
astound  him,  even  if  he  is  so  much  as 
aware  of  its  existence.  He  neither 
sits  up  nor  jumps  out  of  his  skin,  but 
goes  quietly  about  his  business,  as 
though  the  startling  picture  had  not 
been  painted,  the  shocking  story  not 
told, — and  for  the  simple  reason  that 
it  never  comes  to  his  knowledge.  It 
is  only  human  to  take  a  rather  per- 
verse delight  in  shocking  the  straight- 
laced,  more  especially  if  we  can  flatter 


Art  and  Life. 


435 


ourselves  that  the  unorthodox  thing 
wants  to  be  said  or  ought  to  be  done ; 
but  the  justification  of  un orthodoxy, 
and  especially  of  protesting  it  aloud, 
is  absolute  sincerity,  and  much  of 
the  more  wilfully  original  art  of  our 
day  falls  lamentably  short  of  that. 
"  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  "  said 
one  city  man  to  another, — they  were 
standing  before  a  very  extreme  picture 
at  a  London  exhibition.  "  Mean  1  " 
said  the  other.  "  Why,  it  means  you 
don't  know  anything  about  it,  but 
I  do." 

A  serious  set-off  against  the  im- 
pulse and  encouragement  of  sympa- 
thetic and  appreciative  society  are  the 
pretensions  awakened  by  the  over- 
appreciation  of  critics  whose  horizon 
does  not  extend  beyond  the  confines 
of  Bohemia.  The  thorough-paced 
Bohemian  will  go  so  far  as  to  pride 
himself  upon  his  failure  ;  it  argues 
him  too  good  to  be  appreciated.  If 
by  chance  another  should  achieve  dis- 
tinction (this  argument  never  applies 
to  oneself),  if  the  Philistine  should, 
instead  of  opening  his  eyes  in  wonder, 
open  his  purse  and  buy  the  work  of 
a  Bohemian,  why,  then  it  can't  be  as 
good  as  the  thorough-goer  thought ; 
the  author  is  in  fact  suspect,  perhaps 
after  all  a  Philistine  in  disguise. 

The  contemptuous  assumption  that 
the  prosperity  of  an  artist  is  the  ruin 
of  his  art  is  less  inexcusable.  There 
is  a  quality  of  undeniable  genius 
which  appears  quickly  to  parch  in  the 
atmosphere  of  social  success.  It  is  a 
fact  (though  envy  may  quicken  the 
perception  of  it)  that  there  is  some- 
thing goes  to  success  in  art  which  is 
not  art,  which  may  be  developed  at 
the  expense  of  art,  and  in  the  end 
extinguish  it.  When  a  man  is  coin- 
ing money  he  is  probably  not  doing 
all  he  might  have  done.  Bohemian 
contempt  for  success  is  not  all 
assumed.  It  was  quite  fair  banter, 
and  not  jealousy  on  the  part  of 


Coppee's  Donadieu,  when  he  com- 
plained laughingly  of  his  old  friend, 
that  he  dared  not  blow  his  nose  till 
sundown,  because  to  drop  his  palette 
and  take  out  his  pocket-handkerchief 
was  equivalent  to  the  loss  of  a 
louis, — his  last  cold  in  the  head  cost 
him  three  thousand  francs. 

Success,  as  it  is  called,  does  not  sit 
lightly  upon  the  artist.  It  may  prove 
a  veritable  old  man  of  the  sea  upon 
his  shoulders.  His  real  success,  of 
course,  is  in  finding  full  expression 
of  what  he  had  to  say,  his  true  pride 
is  in  his  work,  and  Bohemia  fosters 
in  him  that  proper  pride,  together 
with  some  pride  of  which  the  pro- 
priety is  less  obvious.  It  encourages 
him  not  merely  to  value  art  at  its  full 
worth  but  himself,  as  its  exponent,  at 
something  more.  Unfortunately  for 
him,  the  feeling  for  art  does  not 
in  the  least  imply  a  corresponding 
faculty.  There  are  many  more  called 
than  will  ever  be  chosen,  and  some, 
who  make  sure  of  their  vocation,  hear 
only  the  voice  of  their  own  desire  to 
be  artists.  Bohemia  is  haunted  by 
these  victims  of  an  illusion  which 
grows  with  each  fresh  disappoint- 
ment only  more  stubborn,  these 
dreamers  of  dreams  never  by  any 
chance  to  come  true.  There,  too, 
are  other  "ghosts"  and  "devils," 
hacks,  and  unknown  artists  who 
never  will  be  known  —  who  have 
nothing  to  expect  from  Fortune,  for 
she  does  not  so  much  as  know  their 
address,  and  they  are  careful  not  to 
give  it,  resigning  thus  their  right 
to  complain.  There  is  nothing  for 
the  irreconcilables  who  are  prepared 
to  make  no  concession  but  to  fight 
it  out,  and,  when  worsted,  to  accept 
defeat.  Heroic  submission  is  the 
only  justification  of  what  is  else  a 
pretence  or  a  pose. 

It  is  not  proper  pride  but  vanity 
which  bids  a  man  expect  the  world 
(in  answer  to  his  outspoken  contempt 

F  p  2 


436 


Art  and  Life. 


for  it)  to  come  and  thrust  a  pedestal 
under  his  unwilling  feet.  Proper 
pride  would  urge  him  to  earn  his 
livelihood  at  no  matter  what  honest 
trade,  so  he  might  be  free  in  his 
uninspired  moments  to  work  accord- 
ing to  his  inspiration.  Such  moments 
are  not  so  many  that  they  would 
greatly  interfere  with  the  year's 
work.  Genius  itself  is  most  of  the 
time  not  fit  for  much  more  than 
plain  journey-work. 

Genius  or  journeyman,  a  worker 
must  be  the  best  judge  of  the  way 
of  living  which  suits  his  work.  Who 
else  can  know  the  circumstances  of 
his  particular  case?  Let  him  live 
accordingly ;  and,  though  his  manner 
of  life  seem  to  us  eccentric  or 
unorthodox,  it  is  justified,  as  the 
expression  of  individual  liberty,  the 
assertion  of  a  right  to  go  one's  own 
way.  It  is  the  pose  of  unorthodoxy 
which  is  so  childish,  a  defect  of  that 
quality  of  youthfulness  which  is  part 
of  the  artistic  nature.  That  eternal 
youthfulness  of  the  artist  makes  him 
the  rebel  that  he  is  against  the  con- 
ventions of  society.  But  rebellion 
works  itself  out.  Reiterated  protest 
becomes  at  last  a  trick  of  speech, 
repeated  action  falls  into  attitude, 
nonconformity  becomes  a  pose,  and, 
cruel  irony  !  Bohemianism  itself  crys- 
tallises at  last  into  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  new  convention. 

There  is  one  theory  of  the  artistic 
life  which,  sanely  speaking,  is  not 
tenable, — the  theory  of  the  artist's 
immunity  from  the  duties  of  manhood 
and  good  citizenship.  Irresponsible 
he  is  no  doubt,  in  the  sense  that  he 
does  not  recognise  his  responsibilities  ; 
but  that  does  not  absolve  him  from 
them.  The  prevalence  of  this  incur- 
able irresponsibility  among  artists 
seems  almost  to  argue  some  insanity 
of  the  artistic  nature  or  some  de- 
pravity in  the  artistic  life.  How  else 
are  we  to  account  for  the  strange 


perversion  of  the  moral  sense  which 
makes  it  easier  for  a  Burns  to  borrow 
than  to  accept  money  for  the  "  efforts 
of  his  muse,"  and  leads  his  artistic 
eulogist  to  find  this  "  noble  with  the 
nobility  of  the  Viking  "  1  The  Viking, 
no  doubt,  was  unhampered  by  any 
very  rigid  ideas  as  to  property  or  the 
means  of  acquiring  it ;  but  why  nob  lei 
Another  typical  instance  of  perverted 
pride  is  that  of  a  certain  needy  (one 
cannot  say  struggling)  artist,  to  whom 
Canova  sent  the  price  of  a  study  ;  his 
first  thought  was  to  send  it  back  ;  but 
he  eventually  swallowed  his  resent- 
ment and  stood  treat  at  the  inn  till 
the  money  was  all  spent. 

The  boast  of  irresponsibility,  on 
the  part  of  men,  some  of  whom  at 
least  were  not  without  great  gifts, 
has  almost  persuaded  us  to  mistake 
it  for  a  sign  of  genius.  And  they 
have  a  charming  way  with  them 
sometimes.  Who  does  not  prefer 
"  Dick  Steele  with  all  his  faults  to 
Addison  with  all  his  essays "  1  But 
the  assumption  that  he  was  the  better 
artist  because  as  a  man  he  could  not 
hold  himself  in  hand,  is  worse  than 
foolish.  Pope  was  a  far  better  artist, 
and  a  typical  one,  pursuing,  it  might 
be  said,  "  art  for  art's  sake  "  before 
ever  the  phrase  was  invented ;  and 
yet,  so  far  from  sacrificing  to  it  any- 
thing of  manly  independence,  he 
earned  the  wherewithal  to  live,  and, 
having  earned  it,  regarded  it,  to 
quote  the  words  of  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen, 
"as  a  retaining  fee,  not  a  discharge 
from  his  duties  as  an  artist."  That 
is  not  the  Bohemian  ideal  of  maintain- 
ing "  a  poet's  dignity,"  but  it  is  one  to 
which  Goethe  and  Shakespeare  could 
have  subscribed. 

An  artist,  it  is  said,  must  obey  his 
temperament.  He  should  at  any  rate 
not  be  its  slave.  It  is  too  much  to 
say  that  even  genius  is  at  liberty  to 
do  no  matter  what,  and  the  world  is 
to  be  thankful.  Temperament  is  but 


Art  and  Life. 


437 


a  poor  excuse  for  a  life  at  best  much 
less  effective  than  it  should  have  been. 
The  artist  is  not  to  be  judged  too 
harshly.  His  temperament  exposes 
him  possibly  to  more  than  ordinary 
temptation.  The  conditions  of  his 
life  may  not  be  of  the  healthiest  and 
most  bracing.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  there  is  something  abnormal  in 
art,  some  insanity  in  genius.  At  least 
the  artist  is  endowed  with  a  nervous 
system  liable  from  its  very  delicacy 
to  get  out  of  order ;  and  the  exhaus- 
tion of  his  nerve-power,  consequent 
upon  the  high  pressure  at  which  his 
best  work  is  done,  weakens  perhaps 
his  powers  of  defence  just  at  the 
point  where  moral  sense  is  open  to 
attack. 

The  artist,  therefore,  who  gives  way 
to  his  weakness  may  plead  the  artistic 
temperament  as  an  extenuating  cir- 
cumstance ;  but  he  is  clearly  guilty, 
and  to  claim  any  sort  of  artistic 
irresponsibility  is  something  less  than 
manly.  It  is  not  contended  that 
artists  lead  less  decent  lives  than  the 
rest  of  the  world,  though  they  may 
take  less  pains  to  hide  their  lapses 
than  some  to  whom  respectability  is 
a  part  of  their  stock  in  trade,  but 
only  that  the  plea  of  the  artistic  life 
is  no  justification  of  ill-living.  The 
personal  convenience  of  the  artist  (art 
is  essentially  personal)  excuses  nothing 
contrary  to  the  general  good.  An 
artist  is  not  exempt  from  the  obliga- 
tions of  citizenship  ;  and  if  the 
Bohemian's  contempt  for  the  Philis- 
tine implies  that  he  is,  then  his  taunt 
of  Philistinism  recoils  upon  himself. 
The  claims  of  art  and  of  life  may  not 
always  be  easy  to  adjust ;  but  they 
are  usually  adjustable.  If,  perad ven- 
ture, they  should  clash,  it  is  not  a 
case  in  which  a  man's  judgment 
should  desert  him,  nor  an  artist's 
sense  of  proportion.  It  is  only  an 
overweening  esteem  of  the  importance 
of  art,  or  of  his  own  importance, 


which,  when  it  comes,  for  example, 
to  a  choice  between  art  and  morals, 
can  blind  a  responsible  being  to  his 
plain  duty,  or  prevent  him  from  per- 
ceiving that  here  is  the  occasion  for 
the  man  to  come  to  the  front,  and 
not  slink  behind  the  artist.  Grant 
all  the  claims  of  art  upon  the  artist, 
and  suppose  (what  is  by  no  means 
granted)  that  right  conduct  were 
contrary  to  the  interests  of  art, — 
why,  then,  the  artist  would  be  called 
upon  to  risk  his  art,  as  men  are  called 
upon  to  risk  their  lives ;  and  it  would 
be  nothing  less  than  cowardice  to  hold 
back.  There  is  a  point  of  view  from 
which  a  man  of  any  principle,  or  self- 
restraint,  or  good  repute,  is  thought 
to  be  quite  lost  to  art.  Art,  it  is 
contended,  has  nothing  to  do  with 
morals.  Your  *  every  impulse  must 
run  away  with  you,  or  it  is  a  sign 
you  have  no  passion,  no  temperament. 
To  study  seriously,  to  take  a  degree, 
to  marry  fairly,  to  earn  your  living, 
pay  your  rent,  keep  decent  company, 
— what  is  that  but  to  confess,  in  acts 
each  one  more  Philistine  than  the 
other,  that  you  are  not  an  artist1? 
Art  thrives  upon  disorder !  It  is 
spontaneous,  free,  the  overflow  of 
genius  and  originality !  Was  ever 
such  perversity  ?  The  Philistine,  it 
is  true,  is  no  judge  of  art ;  but  of 
its  wholesomeness  Brown,  Jones,  or 
Robinson,  is  a  better  judge  than 
Rossetti  or  de  Maupassant. 

The  excesses  of  Bohemia  being  what 
they  are,  no  wonder  it  is  a  terror  to 
the  timid  and  a  scandal  to  the  con- 
ventional. Yet  there  is  in  sober 
truth  no  just  reason  why  its  in- 
habitants should  not  be  as  sternly 
steadfast  to  a  high  purpose  as  the 
great  Bohemian  reformer  Huss  him- 
self, as  brave  in  defence  of  true 
artistic  individuality  as  the  little 
body  of  Bohemian  patriots  who  made 
their  gallant  stand  for  nationality 
and  freedom.  The  Bohemianism 


438 


Art  and  Life. 


worthy  of  respect  is  not  a  pose  but 
a  stand  against  oppression,  a  sever- 
ance from  social  orthodoxy,  necessary 
to  the  devoted  pursuit  of  an  artistic 
ideal.  Whether  art  is  worth  the 
sacrifice  is  a  question  men  will  answer 
according  to  their  appreciation  of  art. 
To  the  artist  what  he  gives  up  is  no 
sacrifice,  and,  were  it  ten  times  a 
sacrifice,  it  is  the  price  at  which  he 
saves  his  soul  alive.  And  yet  per- 
haps he  pays  more  dearly  than  he 
knows.  There  is  a  sacrifice  to  which 
he  hardly  gives  heed  enough.  Too  ab- 
solute detachment  from  the  affairs  of 


life  does  cost  him  something.  Living 
exclusively  in  the  world  of  art,  in  his 
dreams  and  among  dreamers  like  him- 
self, he  loses  hold  upon  the  realities. 
Engrossed  in  art,  he  is  apt  to  let  pass 
the  duties  of  good  citizenship,  and 
not  seriously  to  heed  the  world  and 
what  is  going  on  in  it.  An  artist  is 
doomed  in  any  case  to  an  outlook 
through  the  spectacles  of  art ;  but  a 
real  man  should  at  least  look  things 
in  the  face,  and  take  God's  world  for 
almost  as  serious  as  his  own  creations. 

LEWIS  F.  DAY. 


439 


ODE     TO     JAPAN. 

CLASP  hands  across  the  world, 

Across  the  dim  sea-line, 
Where  with  bright  flags  unfurled 

Our  navies  breast  the  brine  ; 
Be  this  our  plighted  union  blest, 
Oh  ocean-throned  empires  of  the  East  and  West ! 

Here,  rich  with  old  delays, 

Our  ripening  freedom  grows, 
As  through  the  unhasting  days 

Unfolds  the  lingering  rose ; 
Through  sun-fed  calm,  through  smiting  shower, 
Slow  from  the  pointed  bud  outbreaks  the  full-orbed  flower. 

But  yours,  — how  long  the  sleep, 

How  swift  the  awakening  came  ! 
As  on  your  snow-fields  steep 

The  suns  of  summer  flame ; 
At  morn  the  aching  channels  glare  ; 
At  eve  the  rippling  streams  leap  on  the  ridged  stair. 

'Twas  yours  to  dream,  to  rest, 

Self-centred,  mute,  apart, 
While  out  beyond  the  West 

Strong  beat  the  world's  wild  heart ; 
Then  in  one  rapturous  hour  to  rise, 
A  giant  fresh  from  sleep,  and  clasp  the  garnered  prize  ! 

Here,  from  this  English  lawn 

Ringed  round  with  ancient  trees, 
My  spirit  seeks  the  dawn 
Across  the  Orient  seas. 
While  dark  the  lengthening  shadows  grow, 
I  paint  the  land  xmknown,  which  yet  in  dreams  I  know. 

Far  up  among  the  hills 

The  scarlet  bridges  gleam, 
Across  the  crystal  rills 

That  feed  the  plunging  stream  ; 
The  forest  sings  her  drowsy  tune  ; 
The  sharp-winged  cuckoo  floats  across  the  crescent  moon. 


440  Ode  to  Japan. 

Among  the  blue-ranged  heights 

Dark  gleam  the  odorous  pines  ; 
Star-strewn  with  holy  lights 

Glimmer  the  myriad  shrines ; 
At  eve  the  seaward-creeping  breeze 
Soft  stirs  the  drowsy  bells  along  the  temple  frieze. 

Your  snowy  mountain  draws 

To  Heaven  its  tranquil  lines  ; 
Within,  through  sulphurous  jaws, 

The  molten  torrent  shines  ; 
So  calm,  so  bold  your  years  shall  flow, 
Pure  as  yon  snows  above,  a  fiery  heart  below. 

From  us  you  shall  acquire 

Stern  labour,  sterner  truth, 
The  generous  hopes  that  fire 

The  spirit  of  our  youth  ; 
And  that  strong  faith  we  reckon  ours, 
Yet  have  not  learned  its  strength,  nor  proved  its  dearest  powers 

And  we  from  you  will  learn 

To  gild  our  days  with  grace, 
Calm  as  the  lamps  that  burn 

In  some  still  holy  place ; 
The  lesson  of  delight  to  spell, 
To  live  content  with  little,  to  serve  beauty  well. 

Your  wisdom,  sober,  mild, 

Shall  lend  our  knowledge  wings  ; 
The  star,  the  flower,  the  child, 

The  joy  of  homely  things, 
The  gracious  gifts  of  hand  and  eye, 
And  dear  familiar  peace,  and  sweetest  courtesy. 

Perchance,  some  war-vexed  hour, 

Our  thunder-throated  ships 
Shall  thrid  the  foam,  and  pour 

The  death-sleet  from  their  lips ; 
Together  raise  the  battle-song, 
To  bruise  some  impious  head,  to  right  some  tyrannous  wrong. 

But  best,  if  knit  with  love, 

As  fairer  days  increase, 
We  twain  shall  learn  to  prove 

The  world-wide  dream  of  peace  ; 
And,  smiling  at  our  ancient  fears, 
Float  hand  in  faithful  hand  across  the  golden  years. 

ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON. 


441 


NOVELS    WITH    A    MORAL. 


THE  productions  of  an  art  are 
usually  regarded  by  the  great  public 
rather  as  means  to  ends  than  as 
ends  in  themselves.  Pictures,  poems, 
plays,  all  as  a  general  rule  must 
have  some  further  object  besides  the 
aesthetic  pleasure  they  are  designed 
to  give.  Occidental  humanity,  and 
more  especially  the  English  race, 
holds  the  idea  that  pleasure  of  itself 
is  in  a  sense  wicked.  Consequently 
the  beauty  which  pleases,  unless  it 
be  wedded  to  some  ethical  or  religious 
lesson,  is  often  accounted  worldly  and 
vain.  Oriental  ideals  are  different; 
beauty  itself  is  divine,  and  ethics  can 
raise  it  no  higher.  From  time  to  time 
we  do  hear  the  cry  of  art  for  art's 
sake,  but  the  cry  is  for  the  most  part 
dull  and  meaningless  to  our  ears. 
Usually  it  serves  to  awaken  the 
enthusiasm  of  those  who  are  bored 
with  moralising,  or  to  arrest  the 
attention  of  those  who  are  seeking 
for  a  new  pose.  Here  and  there, 
irrespective  of  race  or  country,  there 
exists  the  man  who  seeks  the  ideal 
of  beauty,  making  no  question  of 
its  use,  preaching  no  sermon.  To 
the  Eastern  mind,  with  its  love  of 
abstract  speculation,  this  is  usually 
patent ;  to  the  Western  with  its 
materialism  and  utilitarianism  it 
seems  cloudy,  idle,  unreal,  and,  not 
infrequently,  wicked.  Whether  it  is 
the  wave  of  Puritanism  which  passed 
over  Europe  in  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries  that  is  re- 
sponsible for  this  temperament, 
or  whether  the  temperament  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  Puritanism,  it  is 
impossible  to  decide ;  probably  each 
accentuated  the  other. 


The  great  misfortune  of  artistic 
production  is  that  it  is  almost  bound 
to  be  accommodated  to  the  taste  of 
some  person  or  persons  other  than  its 
producer.  For  the  sake  of  a  liveli- 
hood or,  it  may  be,  for  the  more 
subtle  object  of  fame,  artists  are 
usually  tempted  to  desert,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  ideals.  Various 
attempts  have  at  different  times  been 
made  to  obviate  this  evil.  Literary 
academies,  patrons,  and  cliques  have 
striven  to  free  genius, — or  let  us  say 
talent,  for  genius  can  free  itself — 
from  the  chains  of  public  approbation. 
But  it  is  easy  to  see  that  such 
remedies  serve  only  to  narrow  the 
public  to  which  the  artist  has  to 
appeal.  Sometimes  the  desire  for 
liberty  from  the  restraints  of  public 
approval  has  induced  artists  to  com- 
bine into  schools,  and  even  to  bind 
themselves  by  vows  to  certain  ideals. 
Such  devices  have,  however,  never 
proved  completely  successful ;  they 
are  bound  to  become  irksome  sooner 
or  later,  either  because  unfettered 
genius  transcends  such  limits,  or  be- 
cause the  desire  for  fame  or  wealth 
induces  the  artist  to  meet  the 
public  taste  half-way.  Possibly  in 
the  future  we  may  have  a  combina- 
tion of  idealistic  publishers  or  picture- 
dealers,  who  will  consent  to  force 
public  taste  upwards  at  the  expense, 
for  the  moment,  of  their  incomes. 
But  even  then,  when  the  rival  firms 
are  bankrupt,  it  is  probable  that 
the  combination  will  once  more  con- 
form to  verdicts  of  popular  taste. 
The  effect  of  this  has  been  to  make 
the  works  of  the  majority  of  artists 
of  all  kinds  in  varying  degrees  reflec- 


442 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


tions  of  the  age  in  which  they  live. 
He  who  seeks  to  please  aims  at  what 
is  likely  to  please  ;  but  he  who  would 
teach,  couches  his  lessons  in  such 
forms  as  will  best  commend  them- 
selves :  in  different  degrees  the  public 
tastes,  characteristics,  and  ideals  must 
be  reflected  in  the  result.  Where, 
however,  there  is  that  vague  some- 
thing which  we  call  genius,  it  often 
seeks  neither  to  please  nor  to  teach ; 
then  and  then  alone  is  the  work 
really  independent  of  its  public. 
Something  of  an  individual  bent  there 
always  is,  greater  or  less  according  to 
the  power  of  the  artist ;  but  his  very 
individuality,  apart  from  any  definite 
or  indefinite  attempt  to  win  public 
applause,  is  naturally  impregnated 
with  the  ideals  and  aspirations  of  his 
age  and  race.  At  all  events  much 
originality  would  seem  to  be  rare  in 
art,  and,  where  it  does  apparently 
exist,  is  often  found  rather  to  have 
proceeded  from  than  to  have  inspired 
some  new  movement. 

All  this  is,  of  course,  far  more 
marked  in  the  case  of  the  fine 
than  of  the  useful  arts.  And  of 
the  fine  arts  themselves  it  would 
seem  to  apply  most  particularly  to 
the  branch  of  literature  which  is 
called  the  novel.  For  if  we  go  with 
Bacon  and  divide  literature  into  the 
three  branches  of  history,  philosophy, 
and  poetry,  or,  to  make  the  root-idea 
of  the  classification  clearer,  into  those 
forms  which  proceed  more  particularly 
from  memory,  reason,  and  imagination 
respectively,  it  is  at  once  obvious  that 
the  third  is  the  one  from  which  the 
novel  originally  springs.  That  is  to 
say,  belonging,  as  it  does,  to  the  most 
aesthetic  type  of  literature,  and  being 
perhaps  the  lightest  and  least  per- 
manent modification  of  that  type,  it 
lives  greatly  on  mere  momentary 
approbation,  and  consequently  reflects 
most  the  ephemeral  public  tastes  of 
its  time.  Each  of  these  branches  of 


literature  tends  to  invade  the  domains 
of  the  others;  indeed  the  worth  of 
this  classification  has  been  impugned 
on  the  score  of  the  impossibility  of 
any  one  type  existing  without  some 
element  of  one  or  both  of  the  others. 
The  novel,  by  its  descent  from  the 
epic  or  narrative  poem,  is  closely  con- 
nected with  history,  and  early  in  its 
career  imported  into  itself  something 
of  philosophy.  It  is  this  importation 
of  philosophy  which  forms  the  novel 
with  a  moral.  In  this  connection  we 
might  remark  that  it  is,  as  a  rule, 
neither  the  moral  deduced  from  the 
incidents,  nor  the  fact  that  the  in- 
cidents actually  occurred,  which  makes 
a  novel  a  permanent  classic.  Evanes- 
cent as  the  novel  by  its  own  attri- 
butes necessarily  is,  yet  the  permanency 
it  does  sometimes  attain  is  usually 
due  more  to  those  attributes  than  to 
the  force  of  the  imported  historical 
or  philosophical  features. 

To  trace  accurately  and  exhaus- 
tively the  story  as  a  literary  form  is 
almost  impossible,  and  certainly  un- 
necessary for  our  present  purpose ; 
but  we  may  indicate  generally  a 
certain  number  of  distinct  lines  of 
development.  The  stories  of  the 
East,  dealing  chiefly  with  supernatural 
marvels,  are  the  first  to  be  set  aside 
in  our  present  subject.  The  type 
existed  in  English  literature  and  is 
to  be  found  chiefly  in  the  chap-books 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  But  the 
moralising  element  never  intruded  to 
any  great  extent.  Another  of  the 
great  branches  of  fiction  is  the  chivalric 
story  in  all  its  different  homes  and 
periods.  As  the  stories  of  marvels 
were  to  the  commons  of  the  market- 
place, so  were  the  stories  of  chivalry 
to  the  lords  of  the  castle.  On  the 
whole  free  from  moralising,  the  fact 
that  their  main  theme  dealt  with 
ideal  virtues  and  characters  caused 
them  to  inculcate  certain  lessons  in 
the  rude  morality  of  the  times.  More- 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


443 


over  in  a  later  development  of  this 
type,  the  ARCADIA  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  we  find  that  among  other 
additions  and  variations  the  author 
developes  that  sententiousness  which 
definitely  draws  the  moral  of  his  inci- 
dents, and  scatters  his  pages  over  with 
moral  maxims  and  apophthegms.  With 
the  CHANSONS  DE  GESTE,  with  THE 
ARABIAN  NIGHTS,  with  Fryars  Bacon, 
Bungay,  Rush  and  the  rest  of  them,  we 
have  little  to  do ;  morals  may  be,  but 
as  a  rule  are  not,  drawn  from  them, 
and  we  must  pass  on  to  what  more 
directly  concerns  our  present  subject. 
From  the  twelfth  century  onward 
we  find  floating  about  Europe,  chiefly 
among  the  humbler  classes  of  society, 
a  type  of  story  essentially  different 
from  those  referred  to  above,  though 
sharing  with  the  stories  of  the  marvel- 
lous their  Eastern  origin.  This  was 
the  short  tale,  realistic  in  its  manner, 
often  comic,  and  often  didactic  in  its 
character.  Such  are  the  French  FAB- 
LIAUX, the  GESTA  ROMANORUM,  the 
SEVEN  WISE  MEN  OP  EPHESUS,  and 
many  others.  Many  of  these  reached 
England  and  were  translated  or  copied 
by  English  writers,  of  whom  the  most 
notable  is  of  course  Chaucer.  We 
are  accustomed  to  regard  it  as  essen- 
tial that  a  novel  should  be  in  prose 
and  not  in  verse,  and  we  consequently 
do  not  as  a  rule  regard  THE  CANTER- 
BURY TALES  as  novels.  Why  this 
should  be  so  is  not  entirely  clear. 
In  Chaucer's  England  the  contrary,  if 
anything,  was  the  case,  because  prose 
was  not  deemed  so  suitable  a  vehicle 
for  literature  as  verse.  In  proof  of 
this  the  apologies  which  herald  the 
only  two  of  THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 
that  are  in  prose  may  be  quoted. 
When  the  Host  stops  Chaucer's  "Rime 
of  Sire  Thopas  "  he  says  to  him  : 

Sire,  at  o  word,  thou  shalt  no  lenger 

rime. 
Let  se  wher  thou  canst  tellen  aught  in 

geste, 


Or  tellen  in  prose  somwhat  at  the  leste, 
In  which  ther  be  som  mirthe  or  som 
doctrine. 

To  which  Chaucer  replies  : 

I  wol  you  tell  a  litel  thing  in  prose, 
That  oughte  liken  you,  as  I  suppose, 
Or  elles,  certes,  ye  ben  to  dangerous. 
It  is  a  moral  tale  vertaous. 

Here  in  a  word,  as  Mr.  Raleigh 
says  in  his  HISTORY  OF  THE  ENGLISH 
NOVEL,  the  Host  positively  invites 
Chaucer  to  produce  the  first  English 
novel.  Chaucer,  however,  produces 
not  so  much  a  novel  as  a  didactic 
allegory.  And  again,  when  the 
Parson  is  called  upon  for  his  tale  he 
says  : 

I  cannot  geste  rom,  ram,  ruf,  by  my 

letter, 
And,  God  wote,  rime  hold  I  but  litel 

better. 
And  therefore,  if  you  list,  I  wol  not 

glose, 
I  wol  you  tell  a  litel  tale  in  prose. 

And  with  this  preface  he  proceeds  to 
deliver  a  treatise  on  the  Deadly  Sins 
and  their  cure.  From  these  indica- 
tions, and  from  a  general  survey  of 
the  literature  of  the  time,  we  gather 
that  prose  was  not  in  general  regarded 
as  a  vehicle  for  anything  but  a  popular 
anecdote  or  a  didactic  disquisition, 
and  that,  though  the  didactic  and 
comic  tales  of  the  Continent  had 
penetrated  to  Europe,  they  were  not 
to  be  rendered  in  prose. 

In  the  fifteenth  century,  however, 
they  began  to  be  translated  into 
English  prose,  which  the  work  of 
Mandeville  and  of  Malory  and  his 
contemporaries  caused  to  be  regarded 
as  a  sufficiently  dignified  medium  for 
literature.  Here,  then,  are  the  first 
novels  with  a  moral  in  English. 
Those  who  are  unwilling  to  seek  the 
originals  in  the  translations  printed 
by  Wynkyn  de  Worde  may  find  some 
of  the  stories,  with  alterations  and 
additions  and  with  the  moral  more  or 
less  left  to  be  inferred,  in  such  varied 


444 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


productions  as  Gower's  CONFESSIO 
AMANTIS,  Chaucer's  MAN  OF  LAWES 
TALE,  Shakespeare's  KING  LEAR  and 
MERCHANT  OP  VENICE,  Barham's 
LEECH  OF  FOLKESTONE,  Longfellow's 
KING  ROBERT  OF  SICILY,  and  THE 
STAFF  AND  SCRIP  of  Rossetti.  And 
what  is  to  be  said  of  these  stories? 
Great  literary  productions  they  cer- 
tainly were  not.  An  anecdote  was 
told,  often  coarse,  often  dull,  rarely 
neither ;  to  this  was  commonly  tacked 
a  laboured  moral,  sometimes  explain- 
ing the  story  as  an  allegory,  some- 
times merely  drawing  a  lesson  from 
the  incidents  related.  The  stories 
were  not  natives  of  English  soil,  and 
have  not  survived  in  the  form  of  a 
novel.  Nevertheless  they  deserve 
mention  as  showing  that  the  idea  of 
utilising  fiction  as  a  medium  for  a 
homily  is  as  old  as  the  eleventh 
century  in  Europe  and  survived  up 
to  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  in 
England.  Then,  as  now,  the  story 
was  welcomed  by  the  saintly-minded 
for  the  sake  of  the  moral,  and  the 
moral  swallowed  by  the  worldly  for 
the  sake  of  the  story. 

The  first  great  original  English 
novel  was  the  EUPHUES  of  John  Lyly. 
To  call  this  strange  work  a  novel  with 
a  moral  would  be  incorrect.  The 
reason  why  the  reader  finds  it  so 
hard  to  reconcile  the  EUPHUES  with 
his  idea  of  a  novel,  is  that  the  story, 
such  as  it  is,  forms  so  slight  and 
unimportant  a  part  of  the  whole 
work.  Ten  lines  would  suffice  to 
sketch  all  the  important  incidents  of 
the  book.  The  really  noticeable  fea- 
tures are  three  :  the  style,  with  its 
laboured  and  continued  alliteration, 
antithesis,  and  allusion ;  the  pseudo- 
scientific  description  of  the  charac- 
teristics and  habits  of  the  flora  and 
fauna  of  Nature ;  and  the  continual 
moralising,  with  the  occasional  diver- 
gence into  some  such  homily  as  "A 
cooling  card  for  all  fond  lovers,"  or 


"  How  the  life  of  a  young  man  should 
be  led."  Here  we  have  several  of  the 
most  notable  characteristics  of  the 
court  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Firstly, 
there  is  imitation  of  Italian  imitations 
of  a  little  known  classical  style  of 
Rome  or  Greece  or  both  combined, 
which  was  the  new  learning  among 
people  of  fashion  and  quality  ; 
secondly,  the  floods  of  the  apocryphal 
lore  of  the  Bestiaries,  which  were  as 
much  an  intellectual  disease  of  that 
age  as  statistical  calculations  are  of 
our  .own;  and  thirdly,  and  here 
especially  the  author's  own  person- 
ality comes  out,  the  traces  of  deep 
thinking  on  the  problems  of  life, 
which  formed  the  great  undercurrent 
of  the  sparkling  tide  of  Elizabethan 
life  and  literature.  Not  yet,  however, 
were  the  moral  and  the  novel  assimi- 
lated one  to  the  other ;  hardly  indeed 
had  they  any  connection  at  all.  The 
system  of  taking  for  hero  a  prig  and 
making  him  enter  into,  and  then 
moralise  upon,  the  fashionable  vices 
of  the  time  is  not  likely  to  be  entirely 
successful.  To  the  profane  reader  the 
long-winded  moralities  are  apt  to  be 
tiresome ;  to  the  pious  the  experi- 
ences which  called  them  forth  are 
apt  to  be  shocking.  Nevertheless 
Euphuism  became  the  fashion  ;  ladies 
of  the  Court  talked  and  wrote  in  the 
style,  and,  we  may  hope,  thought  out 
the  morals. 

In  a  work  published  shortly  after 
this  famous  novel  a  new  type  of 
story  was  introduced  into  England, 
this  time  from  Spain.  THE  UNFOR- 
TUNATE TRAVELLER,  or  THE  LIFE  OF 
JACK  WILTON,  was  an  English  attempt 
at  the  picaresque  romance,  that  is  to 
say  the  realistic  description  of  the 
knaveries  and  adventures  of  a  cheery, 
witty,  successful  rascal.  This  type  in 
its  inception  can  only  be  said  to  have 
a  bad  moral,  in  that  success  and  pro- 
sperity attend  the  rogue  of  a  hero, 
but  to  it  is  partially  at  any  rate  due 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


445 


the  development  of  the  realistic  novel 
to  which  we  shall  shortly  have  to 
refer  as  the  most  important  type  of 
novel  with  a  moral. 

But  before  coming  to  the  epoch  of 
realism  let  us  linger  for  a  moment  on 
one  of  the  most  unique  figures  in  our 
whole  literature.  John  Bunyan  is  the 
novelist  of  Puritan  England.  What 
he  wrote  was  allegory ;  his  moral  far 
outweighed  his  incident  in  importance, 
and  he  and  his  followers  would  have 
been  the  first  to  spurn  the  title  of 
novelist  for  him.  Nevertheless  the 
fact  remains.  His  imagination  and 
his  story-telling  power  would  at  any 
other  time  and  in  any  other  circum- 
stances have  produced  a  history  of 
adventures,  or  his  analytic  observation 
a  psychological  romance.  But  had  it 
not  been  for  his  religious  predilections 
it  is  probable  that  he  would  never 
have  followed  so  dignified  a  model 
of  style,  and  possible  that  he  would 
never  have  written  at  all.  Artificial 
in  a  sense  as  was  his  style,  didactic 
as  was  his  purpose,  he  does  not,  like 
Lyly,  weary  even  the  irreligious.  His 
work  was  not  inartistic ;  he  does  not 
conceal  his  moral  in  his  story,  nor  do 
his  teachings  crowd  out  the  incidents. 
The  reader  has  the  incidents  pre- 
sented to  him  and  is  left  to  form 
his  own  conclusions  as  to  the  exact 
lesson,  though  of  course  no  great  pene- 
tration is  required  to  do  so. 

Morals  played  no  very  important 
part  in  the  literature  which  accom- 
panied the  reaction  against  Puritan- 
ism ;  and  it  is  not,  therefore,  till  we 
come  to  the  more  settled  atmosphere 
of  the  eighteenth  century  that  we 
need  look  for  any  moralising  novels. 
Meanwhile  a  great  change  for  litera- 
ture had  come  about.  There  had 
grown  up,  perhaps  for  the  first  time 
in  our  country,  a  genuine  reading 
public.  No  longer  were  the  scholars, 
the  ecclesiastics,  or  the  courtiers  the 
sole  patrons  of  their  several  literary 


favourites.  Cliques  had  in  a  great 
measure  yielded  to  a  public  which 
paid  for  what  it  read.  More  than 
ever,  therefore,  was  literature,  and 
especially  the  novel,  likely  to  reflect 
the  chief  characteristics  of  the  age. 

If  ever  any  man  wrote  simply  to 
please  his  readers  and  to  charm  their 
money  from  them,  that  did  Daniel 
Defoe.  Developing  the  picaresque 
romance  from  the  story  of  a  knavish 
life  to  the  story  of  a  life,  and  appre- 
ciating the  fact  that  the  materialism 
of  the  age  demanded  at  all  events 
an  appearance  of  truth,  he  passed 
on  from  his  more  or  less  fictitious 
biographies  of  real,  to  those  of  unreal 
people.  And  he  was  wise  enough  to 
see  that  Puritanism  had  left  sufficient 
traces  on  the  public  he  addressed 
for  it  to  desire  some  moral  teaching 
to  be  thrown  in.  "Who  does  not 
remember  poor  Crusoe's  debit  and 
credit  account  of  the  evil  and  the 
good  in  his  condition,  and  his  final 
summing  up  in  a  receipt  to  his  Creator 
for  the  balance  of  good  1  How  keenly 
this  must  have  appealed  to  the  utili- 
tarian and  crude  moralists  of  his 
time !  Again,  let  anyone  read  the 
author's  preface  to  COLONKL  JACK, 
which  in  its  main  outlines  follows 
more  closely  than  any  the  lines  of 
the  picaresque  romance. 

The  various  turns  of  his  fortune  [he 
writes]  in  different  scenes  of  life  make  a 
delightful  field  for  the  reader  to  wander 
in  ;  a  garden  where  he  may  gather  whole- 
some and  medicinal  fruits,  none  noxious 
or  poisonous ;  where  he  will  see  virtue, 
and  the  ways  of  wisdom,  everywhere 
applauded,  honoured,  encouraged,  and 
rewarded :  vice  and  extravagance  attended 
with  sorrow,  and  every  kind  of  infelicity  : 
and  at  last,  sin  and  shame  going  together, 
the  offender  meeting  with  reproach  and 
contempt,  and  the  crimes  with  detesta- 
tion and  punishment. 

In  the  preface  to  THE  LIFE  AND 
ADVENTURES  OP  DUNCAN  CAMPBELL 
we  find  the  same  strain. 


446 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


Instead  of  making  them  (the  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen  of  Great  Britain)  a  bill 
of  fare,  out  of  patchwork  romances  of 
polluting  scandal,  the  good  old  gentleman 
who  wrote  the  Adventures  of  my  Life 
has  made  it  his  business  to  treat  them 
with  a  great  variety  of  entertaining 
passages,  which  always  terminate  in 
morals  that  tend  to  the  edification  of 
all  readers,  of  whatever  sex,  age,  or 
profession. 

Thus  did  Defoe  ensure  the  popularity 
of  his  work,  by  assuring  the  prudish 
that  all  his  realistic  descriptions 
of  low  life,  so  fascinating  in  them- 
selves, were  narrated  unto  edification. 
The  next  great  novelist  to  appear 
was  almost  a  greater  moralist  than 
any  of  his  predecessors,  if  we  except 
Bunyan.  Living  in  his  coterie  of 
sentimental  ladies  the  little  printer 
Richardson  had  once  assisted  three 
young  women  to  write  their  love- 
letters.  In  this  and  in  many  other 
ways  he  had  had  unique  opportunities 
of  probing  into  the  depths  of  the 
feminine  heart  and  mind.  When  in 
his  middle-age  he  was  asked  to 
"  prepare  a  volume  of  familiar  letters 
in  a  common  style  on  such  subjects 
as  might  be  of  use  to  those  country 
readers  who  were  unable  to  indite  for 
themselves,"  his  experiences  and  his 
view  of  life  led  him  to  suggest  that 
he  should  also  teach  them  how  "  to 
think  and  act  in  common  cases." 
These  objects  he  decided  to  forward 
by  utilising  a  story  of  country  life 
which  suited  his  particular  style  and 
sentiments.  Thus  there  grew  under 
his  hand  "PAMELA,  OR  VIRTUE  RE- 
WARDED, in  a  series  of  familiar  letters 
from  a  beautiful  young  damsel  to  her 
parents :  published  in  order  to  culti- 
vate the  principles  of  virtue  and 
religion  in  the  minds  of  the  young  of 
both  sexes."  Very  different  as  was 
the  success  of  this  adventure  from 
what  he  had  anticipated,  it  nerved 
him  to  make  his  further  famous 
efforts  in  a  similar  but  bolder  manner. 


Thus  in  the  eighteenth  century 
was  the  moralising  novel  firmly 
established.  In  Defoe's  case  the 
moralising  had  been  slightly  forced, 
but  cunningly  interwoven  with  the 
story  ;  in  Richardson's  the  moral 
was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  Never- 
theless Richardson's  art  in  unfolding 
the  story,  his  minute  dissection  of 
the  human  heart,  and  above  all  his 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  feminine 
character,  made  the  whole  a  work  of 
art.  Not  all  Fielding's  clever  parody- 
ing could  obscure  the  greatness  of  a 
genius  who  incidentally  happened  to 
be  a  prig.  It  is  not  for  the  morals 
that  we  now  read  Defoe  and  Richard- 
son ;  debit  and  credit  morality  is  for- 
tunately now  going  out  of  date.  Still, 
as  a  reflection  of  the  moral  standard 
of  the  age  even  the  moralising  is  in- 
teresting, and  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
these  authors  genuinely  attempted  to 
make  the  moral  an  integral  portion 
of  their  general  plan  instead  of  a  mere 
accretion  on  the  story,  or  a  series 
of  sermons  sufficient  to  swamp  even 
the  most  stirring  of  incidents. 

The  school  contemporary  with 
Richardson  was  ushered  in  by  Field- 
ing's JOSEPH  ANDREWS.  In  this  book, 
which  he  designed  for  a  parody  of 
PAMELA,  the  author  soon  strayed  from 
his  original  track  and  struck  out  a 
path  for  himself.  Both  Fielding  and 
Smollett  wrote  chiefly  stories  allied 
to  the  picaresque  romance  as  de- 
veloped by  Defoe.  A  certain  strain 
of  sententiousness  there  sometimes 
was  in  their  works,  but  it  was  of  any- 
thing rather  than  of  a  propagandist 
or  highly  moral  nature.  The  method 
of  Fielding,  in  whose  stories  this  is 
more  common,  was  to  let  his  various 
characters  express  their  various  views 
on  the  incidents  in  which  he  places 
them  ;  these  views  are  by  no  means 
necessarily  those  of  the  author  him- 
self, who  devotes  a  page  or  even  a 
chapter  here  and  there  to  discussing 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


447 


in  the  first  person  the  views,  actions, 
and  ^characters  of  his  dramatis  per- 
sonce.  This  was  a  great  advance  on 
the  epistolary  method  of  Richardson. 
There  the  author  himself,  teeming 
with  moral  lessons,  never  had  the 
chance  of  giving  them  to  the  world 
in  the  first  person ;  the  lessons  had 
to  be  crammed  into  the  mouths  and 
actions  of  the  comparatively  few 
characters ;  and  the  result  was  that 
the  characters  were  usually  either  of 
the  most  irritating  virtue  or  of  the 
blackest  vice,  the  former  only  liable 
to  misfortune,  the  latter  to  conver- 
sion. The  saving  grace  of  humour 
was  not  granted  to  Richardson.  He 
put  the  sentiments  of  a  prudish  old 
ladies'  man  into  the  mouths  of  all  his 
virtuous  characters,  and  painted  in 
lurid  colours  the  fashionable  vices 
he  had  but  little  opportunity  of 
observing.  The  moral  is  too  obvious, 
the  characters  too  arbitrarily  drawn 
for  any  but  the  rudest  intellects. 

The  eighteenth  century  in  England 
was  a  period  of  which  Dr.  Johnson 
expresses  the  cardinal  theory  when  he 
says  "  we  are  affected  only  as  we 
believe."  Whatever  may  have  been 
true  of  the  Englishman  of  that  cen- 
tury, this  is  certainly  not,  as  Dr. 
Johnson  thought  it  was,  true  of 
human  nature  in  general.  We  are 
not  only  affected  as  we  believe,  but 
also  as  we  imagine.  Moreover  we 
are  undoubtedly  affected  and  influ- 
enced by  our  emotions,  which  have 
very  little  to  do  with  reasoned  belief. 
Nevertheless  this  theory  seems  to  a 
great  extent  true  of  that  particular 
age ;  to  it  must  be  ascribed  that 
realism  in  literature  of  which  we 
have  spoken,  to  it  also  that  which  we 
have  called  the  debit  and  credit  school 
of  morality.  The  story  had  to  seem 
reasonably  true  before  it  could  in- 
terest ;  the  morality  had  more  or  less 
to  be  proved  by  results  before  it  could 
be  accepted.  Another  characteristic 


of  the  age,  produced  by  the  rapid 
movements  of  states  and  peoples  in 
the  direction  of  democracy,  was  the  pre- 
valence of  theorists  and  propagandists. 
Accordingly  theories  and  propaganda 
found  their  way,  though  fortunately 
not  universally,  into  many  of  the 
novels  of  the  time.  Mrs.  Behn's  ORO- 
NOOKO,  Shebbeare's  LYDIA,  and  many 
others  represent  in  the  most  unnatural 
manner  the  theory  of  the  natural  man. 
To  go  into  this  here  would  be  out  of 
place ;  let  it  suffice  to  say  that  in  the 
return  to  a  state  of  Nature  was  to  be 
sought  the  panacea  for  human  afflic- 
tions, and  the  novelists  took  a  savage 
and  burdened  him  with  every  virtue 
to  prove  their  theory.  The  pursuit 
of  the  panacea  is  also  to  be  noted  in 
that  remarkable  work,  which  has  been 
called  rather  a  study  in  imaginative 
ethics  than  a  novel,  RASSELAS  PRINCE 
OF  ABYSSINIA.  The  prince,  with  every 
concomitant  of  happiness  about  him, 
is  not  happy ;  he  therefore  goes  abroad 
to  seek  happiness  in  the  world.  A 
pastoral  life,  solitude,  marriage,  plea- 
sure, all  are  discussed  and  thrown 
aside.  The  best  that  can  be  said 
even  for  virtue  is  that  all  that  it 
can  afford  is  quietness  of  conscience, 
a  steady  prospect  of  a  happier  state ; 
this  may  enable  us  to  endure  calamity 
with  patience,  but  we  must  remember 
that  patience  must  suppose  pain. 
Pessimistic  as  all  this  is,  still  it  marks 
a  steadier  outlook,  and  is  more  real 
than  the  exaltation  of  a  state  of 
savagery.  The  lesser  physician  will 
often  have  suggested  a  cure  long 
before  the  greater  has  satisfied  him- 
self as  to  the  complaint.  Johnson 
wrote  a  work  which  is  either  one 
of  the  greatest  novels  the  world  has 
seen,  or  one  of  the  worst.  In  most 
things  that  belong  more  particularly 
to  a  novel  it  is  bad,  but  it  is  so  great 
a  masterpiece  of  nondescript  literature 
that  the  novel  would  claim  it  with 
pride  as  a  member  of  its  own  class. 


448 


Novels  loith  a  Moral. 


The  school  that  has  been  styled 
the  Tea-Table  Novelists,  comprising 
among  others  Fanny  Burney,  Jane 
Austen,  and  Mrs.  Gaskell,  has  unob- 
trusively preached  its  gentle  and 
respectable  morality  without  destroy- 
ing its  artistic  excellence.  The  virtuous 
are  rewarded,  the  wicked  are  pun- 
ished in  the  good  old  style,  but  the 
characters  are  less  stereotyped,  the 
situations  more  human  than  most 
of  those  delineated  by  Richardson. 
Fortunately,  or  unfortunately,  our 
ideals  of  domestic  virtues  have 
changed  since  the  days  of  Miss 
Austen,  so  that  her  moralities  are 
now  but  a  historic  relic.  Still  the 
fact  that  the  reader  is  more  or  less 
unconscious  of  the  sermon,  and  is 
really  interested  in  the  psychology 
and  incidents  of  the  works,  no  doubt 
commends  the  ideals  these  gentle- 
women were  preaching  more  to  us 
than  many  a  lesson  more  modern  and 
less  artistically  interwoven  with  the 
story. 

The  inevitable  reaction  against  the 
realism  and  materialism  of  the 
eighteenth  century  came  in  the  Ro- 
mantic Revival.  Whether  we  con- 
sider it  in  the  supernatural  romances 
of  Clara  Reeve,  of  Mrs.  Radclifie,  and 
of  Horace  Walpole,  in  the  historical 
romances  of  Scott,  or  in  the  psycho- 
logical romances  of  the  Brontes,  we 
come  to  the  same  conclusion,  that 
romance  has  had  in  literature  but 
little  connection  with  didactic  ten- 
dencies. We  meet  with  no  more 
important  novels  with  a  moral  until 
we  come  to  the  middle  of  the  nine- 
teenth century. 

It  is  impossible  here  to  do  any- 
thing like  justice  to  the  magnificent 
outburst  of  fiction  which  signalises 
the  middle  of  the  last  century.  It 
was  a  return  to  realism,  but  to  a  far 
truer  realism  than  had  been  known 
before.  It  was  appreciated  that  a 
minute  observation  of  life  and  char- 


acter was  absolutely  essential  to  true 
realism.  It  was  not  enough  to  de- 
lude like  Defoe,  to  know  thoroughly 
a  portion  of  human  nature  like 
Richardson.  Appearance,  name,  cir- 
cumstances, superficial  characteristics, 
inward  springs  of  action,  all  must  be 
studied  and  reproduced  to  attain  a 
true  picture  of  life.  No  one  has 
the  right  to  preach  from  an  iso- 
lated fragment  of  life.  As  Matthew 
Arnold  said  of  Sophocles,  so  might 
we  say  of  the  great  novelists,  that 
they  "  saw  life  steadily  and  saw  it 
whole."  The  old  evil  of  generalising 
from  one  or  two  particular  instances 
has  in  the  fiction  of  our  own  day 
revived ;  but  it  was  wonderfully 
absent  from  the  work  of  the  great 
artists  of  the  time  of  Thackeray. 
Let  us  content  ourselves  with  the 
consideration  of  the  methods  of  the 
three  greatest,  of  Dickens,  Thackeray, 
and  George  Eliot.  As  a  moralist 
Dickens  was  far  beneath  the  other 
two.  The  lessons  he  had  to  teach, 
the  abuses  he  strove  to  remove,  were 
concrete  and  narrow.  Whether  it 
was  the  evils  of  the  Debtors'  Prison 
or  the  absurdities  of  Departmental 
Red  Tape  that  he  wished  to  show, 
whether  the  cruelty  of  a  Quilp,  or 
the  knavery  of  a  Uriah  Heep,  it  was 
always  a  single  circumscribed  object 
of  attack.  The  reason  why  Dickens 
was  greater  than  the  didactic  novelists 
of  the  eighteenth  century  is  because 
his  pictures  of  life  were  truer,  his 
grasp  of  the  variety  of  human  char- 
acter stronger.  As  a  moralist  his 
chief  point  of  inferiority  is  due  to 
that  very  art  of  caricature  which 
establishes  him  as  a  humorist.  Cari- 
cature involves  the  exaggeration  of 
peculiarities,  and,  however  valuable 
this  may  be  for  provoking  laughter, 
it  is  apt  to  be  a  fatal  bar  to  pro- 
pounding ethics.  When  Dickens  was 
teaching  a  lesson,  he  was  apt  to  ex- 
aggerate in  each  of  his  characters  the 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


449 


peculiarity  necessary  to  their  place  in 
his  scheme.  Squeers  and  Quilp  are 
just  a  little  too  ogreish,  as  Esther 
Summerson  and  Florence  Dombey  are 
too  gentle  and  sweet.  It  is  not  by 
much  that  he  fails  in  this  respect, 
and  when  he  is  not  moralising  he 
often  does  not  fail  at  all.  But  this 
is  the  reason  why  in  his  works,  as  in 
those  of  many  another  great  novelist, 
the  minor  characters  are  better  drawn 
than  the  heroes  and  heroines.  In  the 
less  important  folk  the  author  can 
let  his  fancy  play  aided  by  his  obser- 
vation of  human  nature,  the  chief 
actors  must  have  the  peculiarity 
which  marks  their  place  in  the  chief 
incidents  accentuated,  and  it  is  often 
over-accentuated.  Dickens's  method 
was  to  inculcate  lessons  of  conduct 
or  to  urge  the  removal  of  abuses  by 
arousing  the  sympathies  and  anti- 
pathies, not  often  by  appealing 
directly  to  the  reason.  How  piti- 
able or  loveable  is  this,  how  abomin- 
able or  hateful  is  that,  is  the  train 
of  thought  he  wished  to  induce.  At 
times  he  succeeded,  but  his  greatness 
lies  outside  the  sphere  of  novels  with 
a  moral  and  must  be  left  to  other 
criticisms. 

The  method  of  Thackeray  is  entirely 
different.  He  seems  to  take  his  reader 
with  him  to  an  eminence,  whence 
he  points  out  the  figures  moving  in 
the  world  below.  "  Look,"  he  seems 
to  say,  "  at  these  poor  creatures  toil- 
ing and  suffering,'  resting  and  rejoic- 
ing ;  note  their  characters ;  let  us 
watch  them  and  moralise  a  little." 
We  are  hardly  conscious  of  any 
definite  lesson ;  here  is  vice,  there  is 
virtue.  Vice  is  not  always  punished, 
nor,  at  all  events  superficially,  does 
it  seem  unattractive ;  virtue  is  often 
insipid,  rarely  heroic.  The  very  good 
people  are  often  bores,  the  very  bad 
often  amusing.  This  is  the  world; 
make  what  you  can  of  it.  The  author 
is  willing  to  give  you  his  opinions  on 
No.  510. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


a  point  here  and  there,  and  does  so 
in  a  human,  kindly  way.  One  thing 
alone  can  make  him  really  angry,  and 
that  is  a  snob.  But  even  a  snob  may 
make  himself  useful,  and  his  snobbish- 
ness may  be  funny.  All  this  may 
seem  very  slipshod  to  the  upright, 
almost  wicked  to  the  saintly.  But 
Thackeray  and  the  mass  of  us  are 
not  upright  saints;  we  can  accept 
the  facts  of  human  nature,  even  if 
they  are  not  strictly  moral  according 
to  the  received  code.  Thackeray's 
moral  is  perhaps  not  the  loftiest,  but 
it  cannot  lead  far  astray,  for  it  is 
based  upon  truth.  Human  nature 
may  be  full  of  foibles,  faults,  and 
vanities,  but  it  is  human  nature  for 
all  that,  and  we  know  it  and  love  it. 
Make  the  best  of  it,  there  it  is.  To 
point  a  moral  from  a  story  of  human 
incident  and  character,  it  is  necessary 
that  the  delineation  of  character  and 
incident  should  be  true  to  nature, 
otherwise  the  lesson  neither  appeals 
to  reason,  nor  to  emotions,  and  con- 
sequently fails.  This  is  above  all 
what  Thackeray  appreciated.  What- 
ever differences  in  method  and  style 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  may  present 
they  have  one  feature  in  common  ; 
they  teach  or  try  to  teach  their 
lessons  by  a  direct  appeal  to  the 
emotions. 

George  Eliot,  and  after  her  Mr. 
Meredith  while  seeking  the  same 
truth  which  had  been  the  first  prin- 
ciple of  their  two  predecessors,  taught 
mainly  by  an  appeal  to  the  reason. 
The  theory  of  George  Eliot  is  that 
character  is  not  to  be  regarded  as 
simple  and  constant,  but  as  complex 
and  varying.  The  result  is  that 
throughout  life  occasions  arise  for 
decision  between  the  promptings  of 
the  one  or  of  the  other  side  of  the 
character.  From  the  consequences 
of  such  isolated  decisions  arise  the 
successes  and  failures  of  life.  No 
one  can  deny  that  sympathy  with  all 

O    G 


450 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


the  details  of  the  life  she  knew  was 
an  attribute  of  George  Eliot,  but 
emotions,  she  seems  to  say,  are  not 
to  run  riot  and  draw  morals  with- 
out the  assistance  of  reason.  Mr. 
Meredith,  with  a  somewhat  similar 
method,  teaches  differently  ;  senti- 
mentalism  he  thinks  a  fault  alike  in 
letters  and  in  life ;  it  is  closely  allied 
to  the  animal  side  of  human  nature 
and  is  the  cause  of  many  of  our  social 
evils.  This  is  a  different  lesson,  but 
it  is  taught  with  the  same  reasoned 
sympathy  as  is  claimed  by  George 
Eliot.  His  characters  are  less  varying 
because  they  have  often  to  exhibit  a 
particular  quality  or  group  of  quali- 
ties in  the  scheme  of  the  work  ;  but 
this  does  not  go  so  far  as  to  border 
on  caricature,  for  the  true  study  of 
humanity  has  developed  beyond  that 
point.  It  is  hard  to  say  whether 
we  are  to  regard  Mf .  Meredith's  work 
as  an  end  or  as  a  beginning.  In 
truth  to  natural  characters,  in  the 
absence  of  sententiousness,  in  the 
artistic  combinations  of  novel  and 
moral  he  may  be  regarded  as  the 
consummation  of  a  school.  In  the 
kind  of  morals  he  points,  and  in  the 
way  in  which  he  indicates  a  problem 
of  society  rather  than  suggests  a  rule, 
he  is  the  pioneer  of  many  who  have 
never  gone  so  far  as  he  goes. 

One  of  the  most  marked  charac- 
teristics of  our  age  is  a  certain  scep- 
ticism,— or  let  us  translate  and  say, 
a  spirit  of  enquiry.  We  cannot  or 
will  not  accept  a  dogma  unless  we 
have  no  alternative.  Rules  of  con- 
duct and  of  society  which  have  been 
accepted  throughout  the  history  of 
civilisation  to-day  require  defence. 
Consequently  the  novelist,  as  also  the 
playwright,  has  developed  a  new 
method.  An  institution  or  a  custom 
is  taken,  marriage  more  often  than 
any,  and  a  story  is  told  in  which  its 
defects  are  made  apparent.  The 
problem  as  to  whether  it  is  to  be 


upheld  or  not  is  left  unsolved,  when 
both  sides  have  vigorously  sustained 
their  arguments.  Conversation  and 
contrast  are  required  to  attract  the 
public ;  the  rival  arguments  are  there- 
fore exhibited  in  brilliant  (or  what  is 
designed  to  be  brilliant)  repartee,  and 
the  most  painful  features  of  realism 
are  often  set  off  in  sharp  relief  from 
scenes  of  the  most  artificial  or  Arca- 
dian innocence.  The  fierce  punish- 
ment the  world  metes  out  to  the 
fallen  woman  is  inflicted  amid  rural 
peace  and  simplicity ;  a  pair  of  comic, 
and  impossible,  children  give  the  title 
and  a  back-ground  to  a  work  which 
deals  with  the  most  sordid  and  miser- 
able problems  of  fashionable  morality. 
Ill-executed  as  it  so  often  is,  this 
method  can  often  prejudice,  sometimes 
disgust ;  yet  in  its  successful  exposi- 
tions it  is  capable  of  much.  If  you 
would  arouse  the  emotions  and  appeal 
at  the  same  time  to  the  reason,  it  is 
in  the  crude  contrasts  of  life  that 
your  point  can  be  best  made.  People 
are  to  be  amused,  but  they  are  also 
to  be  taught ;  nor  are  lessons  which 
we  can  apply  to  our  friends  unpleasant 
for  us  to  study.  The  life  exhibited 
must  be  true,  the  problems  vital  to 
please  the  modern  mind;  and  our 
hurried  and  jaded  minds  must  above 
all  things  have  what  pleases  them. 
Thus  again  we  find  the  tendencies  of 
the  age  reflected  in  its  literature. 
No  subject  is  too  lofty  or  too  debased 
for  full  treatment,  no  views  too  bold 
or  too  unconventional  for  exposition. 
The  breaking  up  of  the  old  order 
without  the  superimposition  of  the 
new  is  freely  accepted  ;  the  faultiness 
of  a  system  is  often  exhibited,  while 
the  obvious  logical  result  of  its  aban- 
donment is  shirked.  The  unusual 
and  bizarre  attract ;  the  obvious  and 
commonplace  repel.  The  prevailing 
weakness  is  a  certain  looseness  no  less 
of  morals  than  of  logic  and  style.  A 
smart  saying  often  pleases  more  than 


Novels  with  a  Moral. 


451 


a  heroic  or  beautiful  action,  a  sharp 
contrast  than  a  gradual  climax.  Here 
are  the  tendencies  of  a  certain  section 
of  the  English  people,  and  that  section 
comprises  most  of  the  regular  novel- 
readers.  Something  of  good  there  is 
in  all  this.  It  is  right  to  be  able  to 
tolerate  a  genuine  realism  ;  it  is  good 
to  think  at  all  on  what  have  become 
the  problems  of  life.  The  man  who 
can  take  the  rules  his  ancestors  made 
for  his  conduct  and  neither  question 
nor  break  them,  may  or  may  not  be 
virtuous,  but  he  almost  certainly  is  a 
fool.  The  man  who  starts  for  himself 
and  asks  how  far  reason  can  take  him, 
and  where  human  nature  runs  foul 
of  it,  and  who,  after  struggling  for  the 
key  to  the  problems  and  the  road  to 
the  good  and  the  right,  very  likely 
fails  to  find  either,  is  very  rarely  a 
fool  and  very  rarely  vicious. 

And  when  all  is  said  and  the 
systems  and  morals  surveyed,  does 
the  novel  really  teach  lessons  of  ethics 
or  advance  propaganda?  Has  it  really 
served  to  remove  abuses,  to  elucidate 
problems,  and  to  ventilate  wrongs? 
Who  can  say1?  Something  is  done  by 
making  a  thing  a  feature  of  general 
conversation,  and  that  a  successful 
novel  can  do.  Something  too  is  done 
by  discovering  any  loophole  at  all  in 
our  busy  lives  for  ethical  or  abstract 


problems.  But  whether  those  who 
read  the  novel  most  assiduously  are 
those  who  will  learn  and  think, 
whether  the  lesson  we  may  perhaps 
glean  is  not  invariably  applied  away 
from  ourselves,  whether  the  moral 
merely  serves  as  in  the  old  cases  to 
excuse  the  lightness,  and  other  and 
more  doubtful  fascinations,  of  the 
story,  are  questions  which  cannot  but 
occur.  And  one  other  point  arises. 
Even  if  the  novel  has  assisted  in  the 
didactic  field,  have  the  morals  been 
advantageous  to  the  literary  form  of 
the  novel  ?  So  much  has  the  novel 
been  imbued  with  this  didactic  quality 
that  it  is  hard  to  see  what  history  it 
could  otherwise  have  had.  Neverthe- 
less there  could  have,  and  indeed  there 
has  been  a  class  of  novels  at  most 
times  more  or  less  flourishing  which 
is  neither  excused  nor  popularised  by 
a  moral,  and  in  it  are  to  be  found 
some  of  the  greatest.  The  truth  is 
that  it  is  not  the  presence  or  absence 
of  a  moral,  be  it  good  or  bad,  which 
affects,  more  than  any  other  incident, 
the  excellence  of  the  story ;  that 
depends  on  other  things.  A  novel 
may  be  a  classic  despite  its  moral,  or 
it  may  die  with  ever  so  lofty  a  lesson 
stillborn. 

B.  N.  LANGDON-DAVIBS. 


a  G  2 


452 


SLAVES    OF    THE    OAR. 


WHENEVER  the  subject  of  rowing 
is  mentioned  there  comes  up  before 
us  at  once  a  picture  of  an  unhappy 
man  who,  by  reason  of  his  weight, 
was  put  into  the  middle  of  the  boat 
and  when  there  was  subjected  to  a 
series  of  insults  from  a  fierce  person 
riding  along  the  bank  on  a  horse  or  a 
bicycle.  We  (for  we  were  that  man) 
can  still  hear  the  hoarse  voice  shriek- 
ing denunciations  of  Five,  and  com- 
manding him  to  "get  his  hands 
away,"  "  not  to  bucket,"  "  to  come  up 
evenly  on  that  slide,"  "to  keep  his 
eyes  in  the  boat,"  with  a  thousand 
other  pieces  of  peremptory  advice,  all 
to  be  followed  instantly  on  pain  of 
every  most  fearful  anathema  that 
mind  of  coach  could  conceive.  We 
may  be  wrong,  but  it  seemed  to  us 
that  the  rowing-coach  becomes  more 
objurgatory  in  proportion  as  his  men 
become  more  experienced  in  the  art 
of  rowing.  Certainly  when  we  first 
took  our  seat  in  a  "  tub-pair,"  display- 
ing, like  Dionysus  in  Charon's  ferry- 
boat, a  lamentable  ignorance  as  to 
whether  it  was  proper  to  sit  "  at  the 
oar  or  upon  it,"  we  were  treated  with 
great  and  patient  kindness,  and  were 
much  flattered  at  the  end  of  our 
instruction  on  being  told  that  we  had 
a  "  keen  blade," — though  we  had  no 
sort  of  idea  what  was  meant  thereby, 
and  indeed  are  in  some  doubt  even 
now.  But  as  we  gradually  learned 
that  the  style  of  the  traditional  water- 
man is  a  thing  to  be  avoided,  the 
coach  seemed  to  think  us  ripe  for 
more  energetic  counsel  and  began  to 
let  his  caustic  tongue  play  on  us  like 
a  lambent  flame ;  and  a  great  relief 
it  must  have  been  to  him  after  so 
many  weeks  of  self-repression. 


To  be  strictly  honest  we  must 
admit  that  Four,  Three,  and  Bow  also 
came  in  for  a  good  deal  of  abuse,  and 
that  Five  was  not  quite  alone  in  his 
misery ;  and  doubtless  we  all  deserved 
it,  every  word.  Nevertheless  it 
rankled  at  the  time,  and  it  seemed  to 
us  unreasonable  that  when  we  rowed 
with  energy  and  displayed  enthusiasm 
we  were  accused  of  bucketing,  and 
when,  in  our  eagerness  to  amend  this 
fault,  we  relaxed  our  efforts  a  little 
we  were  promptly  told  that  we  were 
sugaring  or  slumming.  Often  in  the 
evening  we  conferred  with  Four, 
Three,  and  Bow  on  the  situation,  and 
spoke  with  seriousness  and  freedom. 
Three  was  usually  the  most  emphatic, 
and  he  would  stand  on  the  hearthrug 
with  his  back  to  the  fire  polishing 
his  pipe  on  the  palm  of  his  hand 
while  he  discoursed.  "I'm  beastly 
sore,"  he  would  say  to  sympathetic 
ears.  "I  tell  you  what  it  is,  this 
rowing's  mere  slavery,  and  you  don't 
even  get  any  thanks  for  it ;  the 
harder  you  work,  the  more  you  get 
cursed.  I  believe  it's  like  fishing ; 
you're  born  so, — or  else  you've  been 
at  Eton,"  he  added  on  one  occasion 
in  confused  indignation.  "  Why  on 
earth,"  he  went  on,  "  I  gave  up  foot- 
ball for  it  I  can't  imagine.  I  would 
have  been  in  the  team  by  now." 
Modesty,  let  us  add,  was  not  so 
apparent  in  Three's  conversation  as 
was  his  Scottish  origin.  Thereupon 
it  appeared  that  all  four  of  us 
would  have  achieA'ed  laurels  at  any 
other  branch  of  athletics.  Five, 
we  remember,  expressed  his  humble 
opinion  that  a  very  efficient  forward 
had  been  lost  to  the  world  of  Rugby 
football  when  he  dedicated  himself 


Slaves  of  the  Oar. 


453 


to  the  oar.  But  we  arrived  at  no 
definite  conclusion,  for  at  this  point 
Bow  hinted  that  Five  was  mistaken 
and  that  the  utmost  he  could  have 
hoped  for  might  have  been  a  "  blue " 
for  chess, — provided,  of  course,  that 
he  had  known  how  to  play  the  game. 
The  talk  now  developed  a  personal 
note,  and  the  subject  of  rowing 
was  dropped. 

Many  a  time  did  we  declaim  after 
this  sort,  but  still  we  turned  up  at 
the  boat-house  dutifully  every  day 
and  earned  our  meed  of  cursing  with 
the  sweat  of  our  bodies.  Once  even, 
when  Stroke  was  down  with  influenza, 
and  the  crew  was  allowed  to  take  a 
day  or  two  off,  it  was  Three  who  pro- 
posed going  out  in  a  four-oar,  taking 
the  coach  in  the  stern,  and  it  was 
Five,  Four,  and  Bow  who  supported 
him.  That  the  said  four-oar  was 
upset  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
landing-stage  and  that  the  coach,  who 
was  unchanged,  ruined  a  most  gor- 
geous waistcoat  thereby,  detracts  no- 
thing from  the  merit  of  our  intentions. 
These  things  will  happen,  and  a  coach 
ought  to  know  better  than  to  go  out 
on  the  treacherous  Cam  without 
changing  his  raiment.  Hereby  we 
solemnly  declare  that  the  responsi- 
bility for  the  accident  does  not  rest 
with  Five,  and  if  this  should  meet 
the  eye  of  the  gentleman  who  was 
seated  in  the  stern  when  it  occurred 
we  would  beg  him  to  take  a  note 
of  it. 

We  never  became  a  good  oar  ;  that 
is  to  say  we  were  never  more  than 
a  stop-gap  or  an  experiment  on  a 
sliding  seat,  and  we  did  not  attain 
to  the  dignity  of  a  share  in  the  May 
races.  On  these  great  occasions  it 
was  our  duty  to  stand  and  shout ;  at 
least  that  is  how  we  interpreted  it, 
for  there  was,  we  believe,  an  idea 
that  he  who  rowed  not  should  run 
while  he  shouted.  We  objected  to 
running,  for  we  considered  that  it 


could  not  justly  be  counted  as  part  of 
the  oarsman's  functions.      But   there 
came  a  time  when  we  were  made  to 
submit  to  the  indignity,  and  that  was 
when  we  went  into  training  for  the 
Lent  races  and  were  obliged  to  run 
several  minutes  before  breakfast.    Nor 
was  this  the  worst  of  it.     If  the  coach 
happened  to  be  in  a  merry  mood  he 
would  sometimes  allow  us  to  get  out 
of   the  boat   at   that   good   hostelry, 
the  Pike  and  Eel,  after  we  had  rowed 
a  course   and  were  weary.     But  we 
were   never   quite   sure    that   it  was 
a  kindness,  for  we  had  to  run  home, 
and  the  distance   to   the  boat-house 
is  a  very  good  mile, — after  a  course 
it  seems  two.     One  day  we  stooped 
to  duplicity  in    company  with  Four, 
and  stopped  running  as  soon  as  our 
tyrant   (who  was    on   a  bicycle)  was 
out  of  sight.     Now  there  is  a  church- 
yard through  which  one  must  pass  on 
the  homeward  way,  and  it  is  separated 
from  an  adjoining  meadow  by  a  low 
wall.     As  we  pursued    our   leisurely 
path  across  this    abode  of  peace  we 
were  suddenly  horrified   to   find    the 
face  of  our  coach  surveying  our  pro- 
gress from  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
without  approval.     He  upbraided   us 
sternly,  and,  though  we  admitted  our 
guilt,    we   pointed   out   to   him   that 
our  duplicity  was  as  nothing  to  that 
of  a  man  who  got  off  his  bicycle  and 
hid  behind   a    wall   for   purposes   of 
reconnoitring.     Nevertheless  he  made 
us  run  again. 

Looking  back  on  the  past  we  can- 
not imagine  how  we  ever  permitted 
ourselves  to  go  into  training.  We 
tremble  when  we  think  of  the  quan- 
tity of  food  we  consumed,  and  we 
marvel  at  having  been  able  to  digest 
it  without  the  aid  of  tobacco.  That 
we  never  rebelled  must  have  been 
due  to  the  strength  of  public  opinion, 
the  power  of  which  is  almost  as  great 
in  a  college  as  in  a  school.  Indeed 
we  can  only  remember  one  man  who, 


454 


Slaves  of  the  Oar. 


having  committed  himself  to  the  oar, 
was  strong  enough  to  break  his  chain 
when  it  came  to  the  question  of  train- 
ing. He  explained  that  he  was  a 
temperate  man  on  the  whole,  but 
that  his  only  object  in  eating  was 
that  he  might  subsequently  smoke. 
If  he  went  into  training  then,  he 
would  be  obliged  to  eat  five  times  as 
much  as  at  ordinary  times  and  that 
would  necessitate  his  being  intem- 
perate in  the  matter  of  tobacco,  for 
he  would  require  to  smoke  ten  times 
as  much  as  usual.  It  was  pointed  out 
to  him  that  he  would  not  be  allowed 
to  smoke  at  all,  whereupon  he  said 
that,  in  that  case,  he  would  assuredly 
die.  So  he  was  allowed  to  depart 
in  peace,  and  he  became  a  volunteer 
and  a  mighty  marksman,  and  won 
cups  and  medals,  which  shows,  among 
other  things,  that  it  is  easier  to  serve 
one's  country  than  one's  college. 

It  was  a  great  relief  when  the  races 
were  over,  and  we  were  free  to  eat 
the  bread  of  idleness,  and  to  dismiss 
the    memories    of    training    and    its 
rigours   in    great    clouds  of   fragrant 
smoke.    We  are  not  now  sure  whether 
the  consciousness   that    we  had  been 
bumped  as  much  as  any  boat  on  the 
river  did  not  in   a  way  add  to  our 
feeling  of  pride,  though  at  the  time 
we  professed  great  indignation.     The 
golden  mean  is  not    always    satisfac- 
tory, and  if  one  cannot  make  bumps 
it  is  at  least  something  to  be  able  to 
say    that    one    "  went    down    every 
night."     The  boat  that  merely  keeps 
its  place  excites  no  interest.     More- 
over (we  say  it  with  shame)  it  saves 
much   labour  to  be  bumped   early  in 
the    proceedings,    though    we     have 
known  it  to  cause  additional  trouble. 
On  the   last   night,  for  instance,  we 
were  bumped  as  early  as  is  considered 
decent,  so  early  in  fact  that  the  cox- 
swain refused  to  believe  it,  and  con- 
sequently did  not  hold   up  his  hand 
in  the  orthodox  manner  as  a  signal 


for  the  other  boat  to  stop  rowing. 
The  result  was  that  it  did  not  stop, 
and  rowed  into  and  over  us ;  we 
saved  ourselves  by  swimming,  but  by 
a  righteous  judgment  the  coxswain 
was  tied  up  in  the  rudder-lines  and 
was  nearly  drowned.  It  did  not 
make  him  penitent,  though,  for  when 
his  error  was  brought  home  to  him 
afterwards,  he  said  that  if  the  crew 
had  only  rowed  decently  there  would 
have  been  no  occasion  for  him  to 
hold  up  his  hand,  but,  as  it  was,  so 
incompetent  a  set  of  men  deserved 
their  ducking. 

In  these  days  our  normal  feeling 
is  one  of  calm  acquiescence  in  the 
fact  that  we  row  no  longer,  and 
something  like  pity  for  those  mis- 
guided ones  who  have  taken  our 
place;  and  yet  there  come  times 
when  we  ask  ourselves  whether  we 
would  not  give  up  all  the  placid 
delights  of  Sandow  his  exerciser 
for  those  glorious  but  interminable 
minutes  when  our  heart  failed  within 
us,  our  lungs  ceased  to  perform  their 
office,  our  ears  were  filled  with  the 
innumerable  laughter  of  ocean,  and 
our  eyes  saw  nothing  but  Six's  strain- 
ing back.  The  feelings  of  the  man 
rowing  in  a  race  have  been  excellently 
expressed  by  Mr.  B.  C.  Lehmann  in 
these  lines : 

What  thoughts  went    flying   through 

your  mind,  how  fared  it,  Five,  with 

you? 
But   Five  made  answer  solemnly :  "  I 

heard  them  fire  a  gun, 
No  other  mortal  thing   I  knew  until 

the  race  was  done." 

It  is  almost  impossible  for  those 
who  have  never  rowed  to  understand 
what  it  really  means,  for  the  know- 
ledge of  it  is  hardly  to  be  acquired 
at  second-hand,  and  if  it  were, 
there  is  hardly  any  literature  of  the 
pastime,  descriptive  literature  that  is 
to  say,  for  there  are  plenty  of  books 


Slaves  of  the  Oar. 


455 


of  instruction  and  statistics.  It 
seems  to  have  been  left  principally 
to  the  Lady-Novelist  to  set  forth  the 
aesthetic  side  of  rowing,  and  as  her 
idea  of  an  oarsman  appears  to  be  based 
on  the  size  of  his  forearm,  and  as  her 
notions  of  training  include  a  ten 
o'clock  breakfast  and  a  meerschaum 
pipe,  she  is  hardly  a  safe  guide. 
There  is  what  purports  to  be  a 
quotation  which  we  were  brought 
up  to  believe  implicitly,  "  They  all 
rowed  a  fast  stroke  but  six  rowed 
faster  than  anybody  ; "  but  it  may  be 
apocryphal,  for  we  understood  that 
it  was  not  meant  to  be  satirical,  in 
which  case  we  could  have  accepted  it 
as  fair  comment ;  we  have  seen  such 
things  but  we  have  not  known  them 
to  receive  praise  except  from  the 
Lady- Novelist.  No  doubt  the  popular 
conception  that  rowing  is  closely 
allied  to,  if  not  the  same  thing  as, 
"  being  on  the  water  in  a  boat "  is 
partly  due  to  her.  Yet  they  are  dis- 
tinct arts, — we  admit  the  other  to  be 
an  art,  though  it  is  hardly  any  better 
understood — and  should  not  be  con- 
fused. Of  course  rowing  takes  place 
on  the  water,  but  we  doubt  whether 
a  "  light  ship  "  or  even  a  "  clinker  " 
can  be  called  a  boat  except  by 
courtesy.  A  boat  is  a  large  round 
thing  capable  of  carrying  six  grown 
persons,  twelve  children,  four  hampers, 
and  an  oil  stove,  besides  the  waterman 
who  propels  it.  That  is  its  capa- 
bility ;  but  we  think,  for  purposes 
of  being  on  the  water,  that  these  are 
really  rather  too  many,  and  for  com- 
fort we  should  suggest  that  it  would 
about  hold  two  men  when  a  reason- 
able number  of  cushions  is  taken  into 
consideration.  But  we  wander  some- 
what from  the  point.  To  these 
eighteen  people  being  in  this  round 
thing  on  the  water  is  a  form  of 
aquatic  carriage-exercise  with  a 
banquet  to  follow,  and  from  it 
they  can  gather  nothing  as  to  the 


sister  art.  If,  however,  they  were 
taken  and  put  into  two  eights,  if  the 
waterman  was  instructed  to  coach 
them  from  the  bank  with  some 
liberty  in  respect  of  language,  and 
if  they  were  made  to  row  (not 
paddle)  a  course  of  a  mile  and  a 
quarter,  they  would  understand  more 
about  it.  The  idea  suggests  a  nice 
mathematical  problem  for  the  con- 
sideration of  the  ingenious.  If  six 
grown  persons  and  twelve  children 
take  two  hours  to  cover  a  distance 
of  a  mile  and  a  quarter  propelled  by 
a  waterman  in  a  round  pleasure-boat, 
how  long  will  the  same  persons  take 
to  cover  the  same  distance  in  two 
eights  when  the  waterman  is  taken 
away  from  them  ?  We  believe  there 
is  no  answer.  Perhaps,  though,  it 
would  be  well  not  to  make  the 
experiment  for  who  can  foresee 
the  consequences  ?  The  progress  of 
the  eights  might  recall  the  horrors 
recorded  by  Mr.  Kipling's  galley- 
slave  : 

Our  women  and   our    children  toiled 

beside  us  in  the  dark  — 
They  died,  we  filed  their  fetters,  and 

we  heaved  them  to  the  shark — 
We  heaved  them  to  the  fishes,  but  so 

fast  the  galley  sped, 
We   had  only  time   to  envy,  for   we 

could  not  mourn  our  dead. 

The  Lady-Novelist  is,  as  we  have 
said,  much  to  blame  for  all  this 
popular  ignorance,  but  she  is  not 
alone.  With  her  we  must  impeach 
that  interesting  person,  the  Ancient 
Mariner,  who  discourses  of  the  stern 
art  over  his  wine.  Listening  to 
him,  one  who  knows  nothing  about 
it  would  almost  be  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  rowing  is  composed 
three  parts  of  blasphemy  and  one 
part  of  carousal,  and  that  the  tow- 
path  is  nothing  more  or  less  than 
a  school  of  abuse.  For  truly  the 
Ancient  Mariner  doth  marvellously 


456 


Slaves  of  the  Oar. 


relate  concerning  the  sayings  of  the 
wild-eyed  coach,  him  of  the  motto, 
Fleeter e  si  nequeo  super os  Acheronta 
movebo ;  and  after  the  ladies  are  gone 
he  will  mouth  you  some  dozen  of  his 
rounder  oaths  with  exceeding  relish 
of  reminiscence.  Furthermore  he 
will  carry  his  audience  to  the  night 
after  the  races  when  he  and  his  crew 
"drank  out  the  stars  and  in  the 
sun,"  and  finally,  each  supporting 
each  with  mutual  arm,  wandered 
round  the  college  court  singing,  un- 
tunefully  perhaps  but  with  right 
heartiness,  the  best  of  all  boating- 
songs,  that  of  Eton.  Here  is  the 
manner  of  the  singing  most  admir- 
ably set  forth  by  a  great  writer, 
who  indeed  was  describing  another 
scene  but  has  anticipated  this. 

Now  we  sang  this  song  very  well  the 
first  time  ....  and  we  sang  it 
again  the  second  time,  not  so  but  what 
you  might  praise  it  (if  you  had  been  with 
us  all  the  evening)  ....  But  when 
that  song  was  hi  its  third  singing,  I  defy 
any  man  (however  sober)  to  have  made 
out  one  verse  from  the  other,  or  even  the 
burden  from  the  verses,  inasmuch  as 
every  man  present  ....  sang  as 
became  convenient  to  [him],  in  utter- 
ance both  of  words  and  tune. 

Also  he  will  relate  with  all  fidelity 
of  circumstance  how  after  the  sing- 
ing the  coxswain  rebelled  against 
the  mild  persuasion  of  the  rest  and 
announced  that  he  proposed  to  spend 
the  night  in  meditation  under  the 
stars,  or  what  was  left  of  them, 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  grass- 
plot  sacred  by  law  and  custom  to 
Dons  and  other  kinds  of  "  holy  vege- 
table," and  how  for  a  while  the  others 
tearfully  considered  the  situation  and 
then,  determined  to  save  their  be- 
loved coxswain  at  any  cost,  with  re- 
solute concerted  action  took  him  and 
put  him  to  bed ;  and  how  this  occurred 
thirteen  times,  and  at  the  last  the 
coxswain,  being  more  drunken  and 


therefore  more  determined,  arose 
from  his  couch  the  thirteenth  time 
and  repaired  again  to  the  grassplot 
where  in  the  grey  dawn  he  was  dis- 
covered by  a  porter. 

Thus  speaks  the  Ancient  Mariner 
to  the  horror  of  the  people,  and  it 
is  not  unlikely  that  he  speaks  the 
truth,  as  indeed  our  own  small 
experience  can  testify ;  but  these 
things  are  not  rowing.  You  shall 
hear  as  many  strange  oaths  when  the 
University  Fifteen  falls  to  it  with 
the  men  of  Cardiff  as  ever  were 
uttered  on  the  tow-path,  and  more 
notable,  for  the  keen  discontent  of 
football  is  expressed  in  many  lan- 
guages ;  there  are  the  various  inflec- 
tions of  howl  born  in  hardy  Scotland, 
wild  Wales,  and  infuriated  Ireland, 
and  under  all  there  is  the  deep  strong 
bass  of  the  Englishman  who  will 
never  be  a  slave,  and  who  requires 
the  other  nationalities  to  "  get  off  my 
head,  damn  you,  sir ! "  For  good 
sound  swearing  we  would  sooner  go 
to  the  scene  of  Rugby  football  than 
to  any  other  place ;  though,  from 
what  we  have  heard  or  read  (we 
forget  which),  America  should  be  able 
to  match  it  with  its  own  variety  of 
the  game,  in  which  the  teams  may 
choose  their  own  weapons,  and  lest 
any  should  escape,  policemen  come  on 
after  the  match  armed  with  spiked 
clubs  to  finish  off  those  that  remain. 
It  must  be  an  expensive  pastime,  but 
productive  of  magnificent  swearing ; 
if  indeed  it  be  really  so,  for  we 
confess  our  authority  is  but  slight. 

Also  the  bump-supper  cannot  by 
any  means  claim  a  monopoly  of 
hilarity  and  strange  doings.  There 
are  old  school  dinners  (oh  the  Scotch 
schools !),  football  dinners,  and  private 
and  public  rejoicings  in  comparison 
with  which  the  bump-supper  would 
seem  but  a  decorous  breakfast-party 
or  a  game  of  silent  whist.  It  was 
not  a  bump  supper  which  made  two 


Slaves  of  the  Oar. 


457 


amiable  scholars  so  enthusiastic  that 
they  were  fain  to  climb  over  a  much 
bespiked  ten  foot  wall,  in  order  that 
they  might  tear  down  a  wooden  fence 
belonging  to  the  town  and  bring  it 
back  over  the  wall  as  their  contribu- 
tion to  the  bonfire.  Nor  was  it  row- 
ing which  inspired  the  subsequent 
explanation  to  the  incensed  authori- 
ties that  they  did  it  in  "a  fit  of 
abstraction." 

And  yet  we  have  hinted  that  there 
is  a  measure  of  truth  in  the  stories 
of  the  Ancient  Mariner.  As  that 
other  Ancient  observes,  "  there  is 
truth  in  the  cups,"  and  it  is  possibly 
due  to  the  fact  that  people  are  more 
interested  in  these  wild  tales  than  in 
rowing  itself,  that  the  talker  confines 
himself  to  them  and  so  gives  the 
impression  that  they  are  rowing,  or 
at  least  the  most  important  part  of 
it.  And  what  after  all  are  these 
stories  but  traditions  handed  on  from 
one  generation  of  oarsmen  to  another, 
a  sort  of  confession  of  faith  in  the 
oar  ?  That  they  had  an  origin  there 
can  be  little  doubt,  just  as  there  is 
little  doubt  that  the  Homeric  songs 
and  the  Shakespearean  plays  had  an 
origin.  But  we  need  not  therefore 
conclude  that  they  originated  with 
the  Ancient  Mariner,  any  more  than 
we  need  take  it  for  proved  that 
Homer  originated  with  Wolf  or 
Shakespeare  with  Mrs.  Gallup.  For 
the  rest  the  stories  are  good  stories, 
and  ancient  stories,  and  certain  of 
raising  the  ready  laugh.  Take,  for 
instance,  that  of  the  coach  who 
laboured  along  after  his  crew  on  foot 
for  half  a  mile  emitting  as  he  ran 
a  curious  stream  of  oaths  ;  finally 
he  bade  them  easy,  surveyed  them 
despondently  for  some  time,  and 
ejaculated  piteously,  "It's  too  awful, 
I  can't  swear."  The  Ancient  Mariner 
always  tells  this  tale  mentioning  the 
name  of  the  college  and  the  coach. 
We  ourselves  have  heard  it  of  the 


colleges  of  Exeter,  Brazenose,  and 
Wadham  in  Oxford,  and  of  Pembroke, 
Caius,  and  Jesus  in  Cambridge ;  and 
we  confess  with  shame  that  we  have 
in  our  turn  told  it  of  another  college 
that  shall  be  nameless.  Then  there 
is  the  companion  story,  generally  told 
at  the  same  time,  of  the  coach  who 
spoke  to  his  crew  with  a  terrible 
calm :  "  You're  all  rowing  badly 
except  Six,"  whereat,  we  suppose, 
Six  experienced  some  small  feeling 
of  triumph  and  showed  it,  for  the 
coach  continued  incisively,  "and  he's 
rowing  damned  badly."  There  seems 
to  be  a  certain  fascination  about  bad 
language  in  the  abstract,  and  there 
is  nothing  that  our  antique  friend 
enjoys  more  than  telling  a  story  in 
which  the  point  turns  on  an  oath  or 
oaths.  We  do  not  understand  why 
it  should  be  so,  but  it  is  also  the 
case  that  one  is  always  amused  by 
such  a  story. 

We  have  said  that  these  incidents 
of  the  towing-path  are  matters  of 
tradition,  and  that  they  did  not 
originate  with  the  Ancient  Mariner, 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  they  do 
not  repeat  themselves  and  happen 
over  again  with  succeeding  genera- 
tions. Indeed,  we  could  give  instances 
in  which  they  have  happened,  if  not 
to  ourselves,  at  least  to  our  friends. 
We  were  actually  in  the  boat  on  one 
occasion  when  the  coxswain  perceived 
that  we  were  running  straight  into 
some  piles,  and  in  his  agitation  forgot 
the  proper  words  of  command  and 
exhorted  the  astonished  crew  to 
"  Woa  !  "  Of  course  this  produced 
no  effect,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
the  interposition  of  the  coach,  who 
remembered  the  words  for  him,  the 
boat  would  have  been  crumpled  up  and 
the  crew  with  it.  We  know  that  this 
was  not  the  first  occasion  on  which 
a  coxswain  has  cried  "  Woa  !  "  for  we 
have  heard  the  Ancient  Mariner  tell 
the  story  more  than  once,  and  have 


458 


Slaves  of  the  Oar. 


admired  the  way  in  which  he  added 
to  it  the  observations  of  the  crew  and 
the  coach,  which  we  ourselves  should 
blush  to  record.  This  seems  to  be  a 
good  opportunity  for  us  to  make  a 
statement  in  this  connection,  which 
we  hope  will  counteract  the  influence 
of  the  Ancient  Mariner's  unwise 
anecdotes,  by  which,  unintentionally 
no  doubt,  he  deludes  the  public.  We 
give  our  solemn  assurance  that  it  is 
not  in  the  least  necessary  to  learn  to 
swear  before  you  learn  to  row.  We 
knew  several, — no  perhaps  not  several, 
but  we  certainly  knew  one  or  two 
oarsmen  who  did  not  swear  at  all. 
Further  we  would  be  disposed  to 
wager  a  small  sum  that,  with  the 
exception  of  cricket,  any  other  of  the 
noble  sports  will  call  forth  as  much 
bad  language  as  rowing  and  most  of 
them  more.  We  have  no  acquaint- 
ance with  golf,  otherwise  we  would 
instance  it  boldly,  for  we  hear  awful 
things  of  it  from  sources  in  which  we 
have  confidence. 

It  has  just  occurred  to  us  that  the 
term  Ancient  Mariner  is  as  liable  to 
misunderstanding  as  are  his  stories. 
He  is  not  necessarily  a  bishop  or  a 
judge,  and  reverend  in  years  and 
station  ;  he  may  be  quite  young  and 
insignificant,  for  he  is  only  a  person 
who  has  left  the  university,  and 
whose  rowing-days  are  over  for  that 
or  other  reasons.  The  younger  he  is 
the  more  misleading  are  his  words. 
When  a  bishop  narrates  he  can  always 
begin  with  "  In  my  day,"  or  "  When 
I  was  up,"  and  that  at  once  gives  the 
impression  that  those  bold  bad  times 
are  no  more.  But  with  the  younger 
sort  the  present  is  written  on  his  face 
and  the  audience  concludes  that  the 
bold  bad  times  are  in  their  heyday 
and  that  oars,  boats,  the  towing-path, 
and  Blues  are  things  to  be  mentioned 
under  the  breath,  so  encompassed  are 
they  with  profane  swearing  and  deep 
drinking.  Let  everybody,  then,  re- 


member that  the  Ancient  Mariner  is 
not  speaking  of  rowing  at  all  when 
he  tells  his  stories,  but  of  other 
matters  which  may  or  may  not  have 
something  to  do  with  it. 

For  conversation  which  really  does 
deal  with  it  one  must  go,  not  to  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  but  to  the  Able- 
bodied  Seaman  himself.  You  shall 
find  him,  half  a  dozen  or  more  of  him, 
sitting  on  the  softest  cushions  he  can 
obtain  and  talking  profoundly  of 
matters  connected  with  the  oar  on 
almost  any  evening  during  term-time. 
He  may,  it  is  true,  touch  lightly  on 
some  new  expression  of  abuse  that 
has  fallen  from  the  coach's  lips  during 
the  afternoon,  but  in  the  main  he  will 
be  deeply  serious  and  in  earnest  as  he 
discusses  his  own  boat  and  others. 
Talking  of  subjects  which  interest  one 
especially  has  been  stigmatised  and 
is  discouraged  by  the  enlightened  as 
shop.  The  higher  spirits  at  a  uni- 
versity are  always  opposed  to  shop 
in  theory,  that  is  to  say  to  other 
people's  shop.  We  shall  never  forget 
a  little  breakfast-party  given  by  one 
of  our  friends  at  which  he  amazed  us 
by  a  remarkable  display  of  conversa- 
tional athletics,  and  seemed  to  us  to 
be  talking  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
his  own  voice.  No  subject  came 
amiss  to  him;  he  held  forth  in  the 
most  shameless  way  and  imparted  a 
vast  deal  of  unnecessary  information, 
until  the  two  other  guests  grew  weary 
and  departed.  When  they  were  gone 
we  asked  him  what  he  did  it  for,  and 
he  told  us  that  the  two  gentlemen, 
strangers  to  each  other,  were  both 
extremely  fond  of  golf,  and  that  he 
was  afraid  they  would  find  it  out 
unless  he  kept  the  talk  going.  For 
our  own  part  we  think  a  man  is  more 
likely  to  be  interesting  on  a  subject 
in  which  he  is  himself  interested,  and 
therefore  we  have  no  constitutional 
objection  to  shop,  which  is  perhaps  as 
well  for  we  used  to  talk  an  amazing 


Slaves  of  the  Oar. 


459 


amount  of  it  ourselves.  Shop  is 
always  somewhat  difficult  to  under- 
stand, unless  one  is  conversant  with 
the  technical  terms.  What  for  in- 
stance would  the  names  whiff"  or 
funny  convey  to  the  uninitiated  ? 
Even  less  we  should  think  than  nib- 
lick or  stimey,  which  to  us  personally 
convey  nothing.  We  will  therefore 
expound.  A  whiff  is  the  least  safe 
sort  of  single-sculling-boat  which  the 
public  can  commonly  obtain  for  its 
diversion,  and  it  is  morally  certain 
that  the  inexperienced  oar  will  upset 
himself  in  it.  A  funny  is  less  safe 
still,  and  the  public  would  scoff  at  the 
idea  of  going  out  in  it  at  all,  and  most 
rightly.  It  is  said  that  a  penny 
balanced  on  the  end  of  one  outrigger 
will  upset  it,  but  we  have  not  tried 
with  a  penny  though  we  have  upset 
it  in  other  ways. 

These  terms  will  occur  frequently 
in  the  conversation  of  the  Able-bodied 
Seaman.  He  has  always  seen  a  fresh- 
man swimming  or  wading  to  the  shore, 
for  it  is  calculated  that  at  least  one 
freshman  upsets  his  whiff  on  the 
lower  river  every  day  during  full  term. 
If  it  takes  place  in  Barnwell  Pool  so 
much  the  merrier  for  the  spectators, 
as  all  who  know  that  fine  expanse 
of  what  ought  to  be  water  will  agree. 
These  matters  are  by  the  way,  and 
the  Able-bodied  Seaman  does  not 
really  begin  to  talk  till  he  gets  to 
the  Eights.  Then  you  shall  hear 
many  strange  expressions.  This  crew 
has  no  beginning ;  that  crew  does  not 
keep  it  long,  the  other  crew  rolls  all 
over  the  river ;  so-and-so  gets  his 
hands  away  but  does  not  mark  the 
finish  ;  so-and-so  holds  it  out  but  is 
slow  with  his  hands  ;  in  their  course 
to-day  Emmanuel  were  a  bit  ragged 
round  Grassy ;  Magdalene  were  all 
to  pieces  at  the  Willows  ;  First  were 
well  together  up  the  Long  Reach. 


Occasionally  you  shall  hear  specula- 
tions as  to  when  Third  are  going  to 
get  out,  and  whether  Downing  will 
be  able  to  put  on,  but  these  last  are 
purely  local  hilarity.  Then  of  course 
there  is  always  the  discussion  of  the 
unhappy  individual  who  got  in  the 
way  of  the  University  Eight  sculling 
himself  in  a  tub.  He  will,  you  will 
be  told,  only  be  fined  one  guinea, 
because,  fortunately  for  him,  the  boat 
did  not  have  to  stop.  Had  that 
happened  he  would  have  had  to  pre- 
sent the  University  Boat  Club  with 
a  donation  of  five  guineas  without 
receiving  either  honour  or  gratitude 
It  is  the  worst  offence  of  all  to  cause 
the  University  boat  to  pause  in  its 
career. 

But  we  cannot  pursue  our  medita- 
tions any  further.  It  would  take  a 
volume  to  record  the  shop  talked  by 
the  Able-bodied  Seaman  in  an  evening, 
and  two  more  volumes  to  explain  it. 
We  will  leave  it  therefore,  lest  worse 
should  befall.  As  to  rowing  itself,  we 
do  not  think  we  have  succeeded  in  giv- 
ing any  information  of  value,  though, 
when  we  were  criticising  the  Lady- 
Novelist  and  the  Ancient  Mariner, 
we  certainly  intended  to  do  so.  We 
find,  however,  like  most  critics,  that 
the  thing  is  not  to  be  done, — we  will 
be  honest  enough  to  add,  at  any  rate 
by  us.  If  any  one  is  curious  about 
the  art  we  must  repeat  our  former 
contention  that  knowledge  of  it  is  not 
to  be  acquired  at  second-hand,  and 
advise  him  to  try  it  in  his  own  proper 
person.  Perhaps  then  he  will  find  out 
wherein  consists  that  nameless  fasci- 
nation of  the  oar,  which  our  poor  pen 
cannot  attempt  to  describe  or  explain, 
but  which  exists  and  must  ever  exist 
for  all  who  have  known  what  it  is  to 
swing,  eight  men  together,  out  against 
the  wind. 

NUMBER  FIVE. 


460 


KING  DROUGHT. 

MY  road  is  fenced  with  the  bleached  white  bones, 

And  strewn  with  the  blind  white  sand, 
Beside  me  a  suffering  dumb  world  moans 

On  the  breast  of  a  lonely  land. 

On  the  rim  of  the  world  the  lightnings  play, 

The  heat-waves  quiver  and  dance, 
And  the  breath  of  the  wind  is  a  sword  to  slay, 

And  the  sunbeams  each  a  lance. 

I  have  withered  the  grass  where  my  hot  hoofs  tread 

I  have  whitened  the  sapless  trees, 
I  have  driven  the  faint-heart  rains  ahead, 

To  hide  in  their  soft  green  seas  : 

I  have  bound  the  plains  with  an  iron  band, 

I  have  stricken  the  slow  streams  dumb. 
To  the  charge  of  my  vanguards  who  shall  stand  ? 

Who  stay  when  my  cohorts  come  1 

The  dust-storms  follow  and  wrap  me  round, 

The  hot  winds  ride  as  a  guard  ; 
Before  me  the  fret  of  the  swamps  is  bound, 

And  the  way  of  the  wild-fowl  barred. 

I  drop  the  whips  on  the  loose-flanked  steers, 

I  burn  their  necks  with  the  bow ; 
And  the  greenhide  rips  and  the  iron  sears 

Where  the  staggering  lean  beasts  go. 

I  lure  the  swagman  out  of  the  road 

To  the  gleam  of  a  phantom  lake  ; 
I  have  laid  him  down,  I  have  taken  his  load, 

And  he  sleeps  till  the  dead  men  wake. 

My  hurrying  hoofs  in  the  night  go  by, 

And  the  great  flocks  bleat  their  fear, 
And  follow  the  curve  of  the  creeks  burnt  dry, 

And  the  plains  scorched  brown  and  sere. 

The  worn  men  start  from  their  sleepless  rest 

With  faces  haggard  and  drawn  ; 
They  cursed  the  red  sun  into  the  west, 

And  they  curse  him  out  of  the  dawn. 

They  have  carried  my  outposts  out  and  out, 

But — blade  of  my  sword  for  a  sign  !  — 
I  am  the  Master,  the  dread  King  Drought, 

And  the  great  West  Land  is  mine  ! 

WILL  H.  OGILVIE. 


461 


THE    CHINAMEN. 


WHEN  Henry  Theobald,  thrice 
mayor  of  Wexhampton,  founded  his 
almshouse  in  that  town,  it  pleased 
him  to  confer  a  benefit  on  certain 
others  beside  the  decayed  burgesses 
for  whom  the  hospital  was  primarily 
intended.  Besides  the  chief  magis- 
tracy, he  had  held  the  posts  of 
churchwarden  to  St.  Mary's  and 
treasurer  to  the  trustees  of  the  Ilkwell 
Grammar  School ;  and,  wishing  to  be 
remembered  in  all  three  capacities,  he 
inserted  a  clause  in  the  foundation 
scheme  of  his  charity,  whereby  the 
Governors  of  Theobald's  Hospital 
were  empowered  to  let  rooms  therein 
— "(1)  to  a  clergyman  officiating  at 
the  Church  of  St.  Mary,  (2)  to  a 
person  in  the  employment  of  the 
Corporation  of  Wexhampton,  (3)  to 
a  master  in  the  Ilkwell  Grammar 
School,  in  the  event  of  there  being 
apartments  vacant,  at  a  rent  of  — 
pounds  per  annum  ;  provided  always 
that  such  persons  be  of  good  moral 
character,  and  are,  and  do  remain, 
unmarried  during  enjoyment  of  the 
chambers  allotted  to  them."  Should 
anybody  be  so  sceptical  as  to  doubt 
this,  let  him  apply  to  the  Charity 
Commissioners  for  a  copy  of  the 
deed,  and  he  will,  without  fail,  be 
satisfied. 

Hence  it  befell  that,  a  few  years 
ago,  the  ground  floor  rooms  of  No.  2 
Theobald's  Hospital  were  tenanted  by 
Mr.  John  Bindon  Winn,  assistant 
town-clerk  of  Wexhampton,  while  Mr. 
Gilbert  Crowe,  M.A.,  first  classical 
master  in  the  Ilkwell  School,  lived  in 
the  upper  story  at  No.  8.  And  as 
this  history  will  concern  itself  with 
the  doings  of  both  these  gentlemen, 


it  is  satisfactory  to  know  from  the 
first  that  they  were  persons  of  good 
moral  character. 

Of  the  two  privileged  tenants 
Crowe  was  the  senior;  and  though 
on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy  with 
his  companion,  he  frequently  ex- 
pressed a  doubt  as  to  the  wisdom  of 
the  governors  in  harbouring  one  who, 
as  he  affirmed,  could  not  invariably 
be  trusted.  For  Winn,  quiet,  orderly 
and  industrious,  had  a  weakness ;  he 
was  a  confirmed  collector  of  china, 
and  a  collector,  according  to  Crowe, 
would  never  scruple  to  purloin  any 
article  which  the  peculiar  bent  of  his 
mind  led  him  to  value.  Possibly  the 
willow-pattern  plates  from  which  the 
Companions  of  the  Hospital  ate  their 
dinner  did  not  appeal  to  Winn's 
aesthetic  taste ;  possibly  he  was  less 
enthusiastic  in  pursuit  of  his  hobby, 
or  more  honest  in  his  methods  of 
collecting,  than  Crowe  gave  him 
credit  for ;  in  any  case,  the  assistant 
town-clerk  remained  a  tenant  for 
three  years,  and  in  all  that  time, 
Harold  Milverton,  the  warden,  or 
Gustos,  never  had  occasion  to  com- 
plain of  having  lost  so  much  as  the 
lid  of  a  sauce-boat. 

The  first  floor  at  No.  2  had  long 
been  occupied  by  Mr.  James  Staun- 
ton,  a  veteran  of  ninety  years,  thirty 
of  which  had  been  passed  in  the 
almshouse.  Between  him  and  Winn 
there  was  a  firm  friendship  ;  mutual 
invitations  to  tea  were  frequently 
exchanged,  many  were  the  presents 
of  choice  snuff  sent  up-stairs  by  the 
lodger  on  the  ground  floor  to  the 
Senior  Companion,  and  long  were  the 
stories  to  which  he  listened  regarding 


462 


The  Chinamen. 


the  past  glories  of  Wexbampton  when 
James  Staunton  was  its  brighest 
ornament.  The  grief  was  universal 
when  the  venerable  man  took  to  his 
bed  and  died  therein,  bequeathing  a 
fine  jar  of  the  real  Old  Crumbledon 
Pink  ware  to  him  who  had  kept  his 
snuff-box  replenished. 

Milverton,  the  Gustos,  duly  notified 
the  Governors  of  the  vacancy  that 
had  thus  occurred  in  the  Hospital, 
but  long  before  they  had  met  to 
consult  upon  the  appointment  of  a 
successor  to  Mr.  Staunton,  the  two 
privileged  tenants  had  fully  discussed 
the  matter.  For  it  affected  them 
deeply;  a  new  curate  was  about  to 
take  up  his  duties  at  St.  Mary's,  and 
there  was  therefore  a  possibility  of  his 
coming  among  them.  The  election  of 
some  cross-grained  old  fogey  might 
inconvenience  Winn,  but  the  advent 
of  a  curate,  who  must  be  called  upon, 
would  concern  the  schoolmaster  as 
well. 

"I  devoutly  hope  that  they  will 
elect  a  Companion,"  said  Crowe,  as 
he  sat  in  Winn's  parlour.  "  You  and 
I,  with  the  Gustos,  are  enough  to 
uphold  the  gentility  of  Theobald's. 
I  admit  that  the  curate  would  make 
a  fourth  at  whist,  but  we  cannot 
count  upon  him  as  a  player." 

Winn  filled  his  pipe  from  Mr. 
Staun ton's  jar,  wherein  he  kept  his 
tobacco.  "  I  have  a  presentiment 
that  the  curate  will  be  my  neighbour," 
he  said. 

"  Never  mind  your  presentiments. 
There  is  a  very  good  chance  that  old 
Sawyer  will  be  elected,  —  he  that 
had  the  little  boot-shop  in  Church 
Lane.  He  has  a  wooden  leg  that  will 
make  the  very  deuce  of  a  noise  over 
your  head,  but  I  should  prefer  him 
to  the  parson." 

"  The  Governors  won't  have  him. 
He's  drunk  six  days  out  of  the  seven." 

"Yes,  but  he's  very  pious  when 
sober;  and  three  half-pints  of  beer  a 


day  is  all  that  he'll  get  here.  As  for 
the  wooden  leg,  what  does  it  matter 
to  you?  You  don't  have  to  correct 
my  pupils'  infamous  hexameters." 

"Don't  try  to  persuade  me  that 
you  do  any  work  at  home,  except  on 
Sundays,  Crowe.  I  know  better." 

"That  is  a  gross  libel,  and  I  am 
going  away  to  refute  it.  Your  neigh- 
bour won't  trouble  you  for  long,  in 
either  case.  I  clearly  foresee  that  you 
will  soon  disqualify  yourself  for  privi- 
lege, and  I,  in  frock  coat  and  new 
trousers,  will  offer  you  up  as  a  victim 
at  the  horns  of  the  altar,  with  the 
curate  officiating  thereat." 

"  You  may  talk  as  much  nonsense 
about  me  as  you  please,  since  nobody 
will  believe  you  for  a  moment.  But 
should  I  ever  prove  your  surmises 
correct,  don't  flatter  yourself  that 
you'll  be  best  man,  because  you  won't. 
It's  much  more  likely  that  you'll  be 
the  bride's  father." 

Crowe,  having  no  retort  to  make, 
betook  himself  to  his  quarters  across 
the  square,  and  Winn  was  left  to 
guess  how  much  of  his  most  private 
secret  was  public  property.  Hitherto 
he  had  persuaded  himself  that  he  had 
behaved  with  great  discretion,  but 
now  he  gathered  from  Crowe's  hint 
that  his  frequent  visits  to  one 
particular  house  had  not  escaped 
notice. 

Meanwhile  events  began  to  thicken. 
The  curate  arrived,  and  took  lodgings 
in  Southgate  Street,  much  to  the  satis- 
faction of  our  two  friends  in  the 
Hospital.  Furthermore,  that  respect- 
able burgess  William  Sawyer,  having 
ruined  his  business  and  quarrelled 
with  his  family,  made  formal  appli- 
cation for  admission  to  the  almshouse, 
and  was  duly  cited  to  appear  before 
the  Governors.  This  he  accordingly 
did;  but  in  such  a  condition  as 
gravely  to  scandalise  that  august 
body,  whose  members  unanimously 
resolved  that  William's  fnture  career 


The  Chinamen. 


463 


should  not  develope  itself  under  their 
auspices.  Winn  looked  forward  to 
an  undisturbed  tenancy  of  No.  2, 
though  he  might  have  known  that 
his  luck  was  too  good  to  last. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  perusing 
.e  works  of  Kant  (an  occupation 
mewhat  uncongenial,  and  only  taken 

at  the  desire  of  one  who  has  not 

t  been  introduced  to  the  public 
notice),  Milverton  called  upon  him, 
and  gave  him  tidings  that  filled  his 
soul  with  dismay.  The  curate  had 
visited  the  Hospital,  had  been  de- 
lighted with  its  monastic  seclusion, 
and  had  applied  for  privilege,  which 
the  Governors  had  granted  at  once. 

"  This  is  very  annoying,"  said  Winn, 
after  Milverton  had  told  his  news. 
"  I  understood  that  he  had  settled 
himself  in  the  town.  And  where  do 
you  think  of  quartering  him  "?  " 

He  knew  perfectly  well  that  Mil- 
verton had  no  choice  in  the  matter, 
but  if  he  were  to  have  a  neighbour 
after  all,  he  would  at  least  enjoy  the 
luxury  of  a  grievance  as  well. 

"  Why,  if  there  were  any  other 
rooms  vacant,  I  would  consult  you, 
of  course,  but  there  are  none.  So  I 
must  give  him  Staunton's  chambers, 
unless  you  care  to  move  up-stairs." 

"Thank  you,  no.  I  suppose  I 
must  submit ;  but  it's  hard  to  have 
a  parson  thrust  upon  me  at  this  time 
of  day." 

"  Oh,  come,  it's  not  so  bad  as  all 
that.  I've  met  him,  and  he  seemed 
a  very  good  sort  of  fellow." 

"  Fortunately  for  him,  I'm  a  very 
good  sort  of  fellow  too.  What's  his 
name  1 " 

"  Well,  you  are  behind  the  times. 
Never  heard  his  name,  and  all  Wex- 
hampton  talking  about  him  !  Garrett, 
— Sydney  Garrett.  He's  a  Cambridge 
man,  from  Trinity,  I  think,  and  they 
say  he's  very  strong  in  the  pulpit." 

"  Then  I  hope  he  will  confine  his 
energies  to  their  proper  sphere,  and 


abstain  from  gymnastic  exercises  over 
my  head.  When  will  he  move  in  ?  " 

"  Some  time  this  week.  I'm  send- 
ing the  painter  round  to-morrow  to 
put  up  his  name  on  the  door.  You 
needn't  look  so  dismal;  he's  an  im- 
provement on  Sawyer,  at  all  events." 

Winn  was  not  so  sure  about  that. 
For  the  sad  truth  must  be  told  that 
he  was  no  church-goer,  and  clergymen 
do  not  approve  of  such  as  he.  Mr. 
Garrett  would  probably  consider  it 
his  duty  to  attempt  a  reformation  in 
that  respect,  and  would  certainly  call 
upon  him,  unless  Winn  forestalled 
him  by  paying  the  visit  himself,  as 
indeed  he  knew  that  he  ought  to  do. 
However,  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
The  painter  came,  and  Rev.  Sydney 
Garrett  in  staring^  letters  decorated 
the  panels  of  the  door  that  had  long 
borne  the  name  of  James  Staunton. 
On  the  heels  of  the  painter  came  the 
town-carrier,  with  an  immense  load 
of  crates  and  boxes,  doubtless  con- 
taining the  theological  library  of  the 
new  tenant ;  and  one  day  towards 
the  end  of  the  week,  when  the 
assistant  town-clerk  returned  from 
his  labours,  he  gathered  from  the 
sounds  overhead  that  the  curate  had 
arrived  in  person.  It  was  evident 
that  he  wore  heavy  boots,  and  Winn 
thought  that  he  would  have  preferred 
Sawyer,  wooden  leg  and  all. 

Few  men  excel  in  the  art  of  paying 
calls,  and  Winn,  shy  by  nature,  had 
not  acquired  any  skill  in  social  eti- 
quette by  dint  of  practice.  He  knew 
that  somehow  or  other  he  must  visit 
Garrett,  and  the  mere  thought  of  the 
duty  made  him  very  dismal.  At  last 
a  brilliant  idea  struck  him  ;  he  would 
postpone  the  call,  but  he  would  go 
to  church  on  Sunday  and  see  what 
the  curate  looked  like.  A  knowledge 
of  his  outward  man  would  remove 
half  the  difficulty. 

With  this  end  in  view,  lie  gave 
Crowe  to  understand  that  he  would 


464 


The  Chinamen. 


be  unable  to  accompany  him  in  a 
projected  boating  excursion  which  had 
been  fixed  for  the  Sunday.  The 
schoolmaster  scoffed  at  his  excuses 
(which,  in  so  far  as  they  affected 
anxiety  concerning  his  spiritual  wel- 
fare, were  very  lame  indeed),  and 
alleged  that  a  more  worldly  motive 
underlay  Winn's  intentions.  "My 
dear  fellow,  of  course  I  understand," 
he  said  ;  "  her  parents  naturally  dis- 
approve of  your  bad  habits.  Go  to 
church  by  all  means ;  it  won't  be  for 
the  last  time,  I'll  warrant." 

Something  of  truth  there  may  have 
been  in  this,  but  if  there  were,  it  by 
no  means  lessened  Winn's  determina- 
tion. So  on  Sunday  morning  he 
brushed  his  hat  with  unusual  care, — 
partly  in  honour  of  the  day,  partly  for 
the  reason  that  made  a  more  famous 
bachelor  brush  his — and  punctually 
at  eleven  o'clock  entered  St.  Mary's. 

It  was  with  a  fine  sense  of  virtue 
that  he  walked  up  the  aisle  and  took 
a  seat  that  commanded  a  good  view 
of  desk  and  pulpit.  Certain  twinges 
of  conscience  he  felt,  when  he  tried 
in  vain  to  remember  the  occasion  of 
his  last  appearance  within  those 
sacred  walls  ;  but  they  vanished 
when  he  saw  that  he  was  not  the 
only  sinner  who  had  returned  to  the 
fold.  The  regular  members  of  the 
congregation  were  present  in  full 
force.  There  were  the  Companions, 
with  Milverton  in  the  front  pew  (the 
Gustos  looked  not  a  little  surprised 
when  he  recognised  his  friend) ;  there 
was  the  Mayor,  for  whom  Winn 
had  a  profound  contempt,  and  the 
Mayoress,  whom  he  held  in  the 
utmost  dread  ;  and  further  down  the 
church  was  the  Radcot  family,  with 
whom  he  intended  to  lunch  that  day, 
in  defiance  of  anything  that  Crowe 
might  say  or  think.  In  fact,  all 
Wexhampton  was  there, — except  the 
curate,  and  he,  of  course,  was  closeted 
in  the  vestry  with  the  rector. 


But  when  the  well-known  figure 
of  the  old  clergyman  appeared,  un- 
attended by  any  stranger,  many  of 
his  flock  were  disappointed,  and  Winn 
felt  peculiarly  aggrieved.  Was  it  for 
this  that  he  had  breakfasted  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual,  and  deprived  him- 
self of  his  morning  pipe  ?  But  per- 
haps Mr.  Garrett  would  preach  the 
sermon,  Nothing  of  the  sort !  So 
far  indeed  was  the  rector  from  sur- 
rendering the  pulpit,  that  he  regaled 
his  hearers  with  his  most  ancient  dis- 
course, bidding  them  remember  Lot's 
wife,  a  lady  whom  they  all  recollected 
perfectly  well,  and  whose  charms 
were  decidedly  on  the  wane.  The 
Mayor  went  to  sleep,  as  a  silent  pro- 
test, and  Winn  had  a  good  mind  to 
follow  his  example. 

The  church-going,  therefore,  was 
not  successful ;  and  yet  it  had  its 
advantages,  for  it  was  certainly  better 
to  walk  to  the  Radcots'  house  with 
the  family,  than  to  go  thither  alone. 
So  away  they  went,  Mrs.  Radcot 
and  her  elder  daughter  preceding 
Winn  and  Peggy,  while  Paterfamilias 
brought  up  the  rear  with  a  friend, 
discussing,  as  they  walked  along,  a 
question  relating  to  the  municipal 
drainage-system,  instead  of  the  morn- 
ing sermon. 

"  And  what  brought  you  to 
church  1  "  Peggy  inquired  of  Winn. 
"  I  should  have  stopped  at  home, 
only  I  understood  that  Mr.  Garrett 
was  going  to  preach.  But  of  course 
that  would  have  made  no  difference 
to  you." 

"Really,  I  wonder  why  you  think 
I  must  have  some  special  reason  for 
doing  what  everybody  else  does  as  a 
matter  of  course,"  said  Winn.  "  The 
ancient  Inquisitors  would  have  put 
me  to  the  question  if  I  didn't  go  to 
church,  but  the  modern  ones  cross- 
examine  me  if  I  do." 

"  Well,  as  you  certainly  haven't 
attended  service  for  the  last  eight 


The  Chinamen. 


465 


weeks,  I  thought  that  you  must  have  a 
particular  reason  for  coming  to-day." 

"  Is  it  really  eight  weeks  ?  Well, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  are  right. 
I  came  because  I  wanted  to  see  my 
new  fellow-lodger." 

"  But  you  could  have  seen  him  at 
home." 

"  Hardly  to  such  advantage  as  at 
church.  And  after  all,  I  didn't  see 
him,  because  he  happens  to  be  the 
curate." 

"  Why,  has  he  rooms  in  the 
Hospital  ? " 

"  That  is  what  I  mean  to  imply. 
He  lives  at  No.  2,  immediately  above 
me." 

"  That  must  be  very  nice  for  you." 

"  Well,  I  reserve  my  opinion  on 
that  point.  Goodness  knows,  I  am 
an  accommodating  person,  but  there 
are  a  few  things  which  I  must  insist 
upon.  He  must  not  ask  me  to  teach 
in  the  Sunday  School — " 

"  No,  I  think  he  had  better  not," 
remarked  Peggy. 

"He  must  knock  at  the  door  before 
coming  into  my  room,  and  on  no 
account  must  he  meddle  with  my 
china.  If  he  observes  these  condi- 
tions, I  dare  say  that  we  shall  agree 
tolerably  well." 

"  You  will  be  very  uncomfortable 
if  you  don't.  And  it  would  be  so 
convenient  to  be  on  good  terms  with 
him,  for  if  you  wanted  to  give  a 
party,  you  know,  you  could  borrow 
his  rooms  for  the  occasion.  Why, 
you  two  might  get  up  a  dance  in  the 
Hospital  !  What  fun  it  would  be  !  " 

"  Yes,  there  would  be  room  for  two 
couples, — one  in  his  rooms  and  one  in 
mine.  And  just  by  way  of  a  change, 
the  chaperones  could  sit  out  on  the 
stairs," 

"  Oh,  we  could  dance  on  the  green, 
and  dispense  with  the  chaperones 
altogether.  Mr.  Milverton  would 
certify  that  all  was  quite  proper. 
You  must  suggest  the  scheme  to  Mr. 
No.  510. — VOL.  LXXXV. 


Garrett    when   you   meet    him,"   said 
Peggy,  as  they  entered  the  house. 

Now  Wexhampton,  despite  its 
dignity  as  a  county  town,  is  not 
so  big  as  to  consider  the  arrival  of 
a  new  curate  a  trifling  matter.  So 
that  on  Peggy  announcing  that  Mr. 
Garrett  had  obtained  the  privilege  of 
Theobald's,  Winn  came  in  for  a  chorus 
of  congratulation,  as  though  there 
were  no  doubt  but  that  his  neighbour 
would  be  agreeable  to  him. 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  you  could  not 
see  him  this  morning,  Mr.  Winn," 
said  Mrs.  Radcot,  "  but  I  understand 
that  he  really  is  going  to  take  the 
service  this  afternoon.  It'  you  are  so 
very  anxious  to  meet  him,  you  have 
only  to  go  to  church  again." 

Our  friend  hastened  to  intimate,  as 
delicately  as  possible,  that  he  thought 
that  he  had  done  all  that  was 
required  of  him  in  the  morning,  and, 
having  come  to  a  safe  anchorage,  did 
not  care  about  venturing  forth  again 
so  speedily.  Indeed  it  was  not  usual 
for  Winn  to  leave  the  Radcots'  house 
very  early  in  the  afternoon.  His 
position  in  the  family  circle  was  as 
yet  undefined,  but  such  as  it  was,  it 
entitled  him  to  a  place  at  the  supper- 
table  whenever  he  lunched  with  his 
friends.  And  they  made  no  special 
efforts  to  entertain  him,  for  while 
Caroline  was  playing  the  piano  to  her 
father  after  supper,  and  as  Mrs. 
Radcot,  Peggy,  and  Winn  were 
sitting  in  the  garden,  his  hostess 
remembered  that  she  had  a  letter  to 
write,  which  he  would  perhaps  be 
kind  enough  to  post  for  her  on 
his  way  home.  So  she  left  the 
young  people  together, — whether  in- 
tentionally or  not,  who  shall  say  ? 
Write  a  letter  she  certainly  did,  for 
Winn  took  it  away  with  him,  when 
he  returned  to  the  Hospital  after  a 
very  pleasant  day,  and  found  it  quite 
safe  in  his  pocket  when  he  donned 
his  coat  next  Sunday. 

H   H 


466 


Tlie  Chinamen. 


It  was  half-past  ten  before  he 
reached  the  Hospital.  He  generally 
looked  in  at  the  Custos's  house  on 
Sunday  night,  and  he  knew  that 
Milverton  and  Crowe  were  gossiping 
together  in  the  parlour,  for  the  shadow 
of  the  latter  was  thrown  in  bold  relief 
against  the  window-blind.  But  on 
this  occasion  he  did  not  feel  drawn  to 
their  society ;  he  wanted  to  have  an 
hour  to  himself,  in  which  to  consider 
things  in  general  and  the  present  and 
prospective  condition  of  his  income  in 
particular.  A  quiet  pipe  and  a  little 
serious  thought  do  no  man  any  harm, 
and  are  better  suited  to  a  Sabbath 
evening  than  the  frivolous  conversa- 
tion of  schoolmasters  and  Custodes. 

Having  lit  his  pipe,  and  placed 
the  soda-water  and  its  appurtenances 
within  easy  reach,  he  lay  back  in  the 
armchair,  and  abandoned  himself  to 
meditation.  After  all,  he  was  not 
such  a  bad  fellow ;  his  income  was 
very  tolerable,  his  prospects  excellent, 
and  there  could  be  no  doubt  but  that 
he  was  in  love.  Wherefore,  then, 
should  he  wait  for  the  town-clerk's 
shoes  1  That  functionary  would  pro- 
bably last  for  years  yet,  and  in  the 
meantime — 

Oh,  confound  that  curate !  In- 
visible when  wanted,  he  was  painfully 
audible  now  that  Winn  desired  to 
be  undisturbed.  How  could  any  one 
arrange  his  plan  of  campaign  in  so 
delicate  a  matter  as  this,  with  a 
fellow  tramping  about  overhead  as 
though  he  were  an  entire  regiment 
of  dragoons,  horses  and  all?  The 
footsteps  hurried  to  and  fro,  doors 
were  banged  with  maddening  fre- 
quency, and  at  short  intervals  sounds 
were  heard  as  though  the  reverend 
gentleman  were  hurling  his  boots 
across  the  room.  Probably  he  has 
lost  his  hymnbook,  thought  Winn, 
but  he  is  making  a  great  fuss  about 
it.  Slam  !  That  was  the  door  of 
his  room ;  his  tread  sounded  upon 


the  landing, — upon  the  staircase, — 
in  the  passage — and  almost  before 
Winn  could  realise  the  situation,  the 
Reverend  Sydney  Garrett  was  knock- 
ing at  his  door  ! 

Winn  rose,  and  admitted  his  visitor. 
In  spite  of  his  heavy  tread,  the  curate 
of  his  imagination  had  been  a  small, 
mild  cleric  of  the  type  represented  by 
Mr.  Penley  in  THE  PRIVATE  SECRE- 
TARY, and  he  was  fairly  staggered  on 
being  confronted  with  an  immense 
fellow,  wearing  a  moustache  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  life- 
guardsman.  The  canonical  waistcoat 
and  collar  contrasted  strangely  with 
an  ancient  cricketing  jacket,  and  as  he 
bore  in  his  hand  no  work  of  devotion, 
but  a  pipe,  his  appearance  might  have 
shocked  a  bishop  of  any  austerity. 

"  Mr.  Winn,  I  think  ? "  said  he,  in 
a  very  pleasant  voice. 

Winn  admitted  the  truth  of  this 
conjecture. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  introducing 
myself  in  this  way,"  the  curate  went 
on,  "  but  could  you  oblige  me  with 
some  tobacco  ? " 

Now  Winn  had  determined  that 
his  neighbour  was  in  search  of  a 
hymnbook,  an  article,  we  grieve  to 
say,  that  he  did  not  possess ;  but 
tobacco  he  had,  and  his  heart  went 
out  to  a  fellow-creature  who  wanted 
to  smoke  and  had  not  the  where- 
withal to  fill  his  pipe.  The  curate 
was  immediately  ensconced  in  the 
rocking-chair,  a  tumbler  set  before 
him,  and  Winn  took  down  the  tobacco- 
jar  from  the  mantelpiece. 

"  It's  shockingly  ill-mannered  of 
me,  I  know,"  said  Garrett,  "and  at 
this  time  of  night,  too !  But  I  had 
to  go  to  supper  with  the  rector,  who 
doesn't  smoke,  and  when  I  came  home, 
I  found  that  I  hadn't  a  crumb  of 
tobacco  to  bless  myself  with.  Only 
a  very  little  whiskey  for  me,  please, — 
thanks,  that  will  be  plenty.  And  so, 
having  smelt  yours,  I  thought  that 


The  Chinamen. 


467 


perhaps — /  say !  Where  in  the 
world  did  you  get  that  lovely  jar  ? " 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it ; 
this  man  was  of  the  elect.  For  Mr. 
Staunton's  jar  was  the  pride  of  Winn's 
heart,  and  the  gem  of  his  collection, 
not  to  be  touched  by  profane  hands, 
such  as  those  of  Milverton  and  Crowe  ; 
but  Garrett  could  appreciate  it,  and 
Winn  handed  it  to  him  without  a 
fear  for  its  safety.  "Oh,  you  take 
an  interest  in  these  things  ? "  said  he. 
"Yes,  it's  a  bit  of  genuine  Old 
Crumbledon  Pink,  and  rather  rare  in 
its  way.  Pretty,  isn't  it  ? " 

"  Pretty  ?  Why,  it's  superb  !  "  ex- 
claimed Garrett.  "Who  was  the 
maker?  What  is  its  history,  and 
where  does  it  come  from  1 " 

"  It  bears  John  Harrow's  mark, 
and  he  worked  a  bed  of  clay  at 
Crumbledon, — a  little  place  some 
twenty  miles  away — early  in  the 
nineteenth  century.  This  pot  is  dated 
1803.  I  had  it  from  your  predecessor, 
old  James  Staunton.  But  fill  your 
pipe." 

Garrett  did  so,  and  restored  the 
jar  to  the  mantelpiece.  "You're  a 
bold  man  to  expose  such  a  treasure," 
said  he ;  "if  it  were  mine,  I  should 
keep  it  locked  up  behind  glass." 

Winn  smiled  the  smile  of  superiority. 
"  I'm  not  much  given  to  breaking  my 
china,  and  nobody  else  in  Theobald's 
dare  touch  it  for  his  life.  And  taking 
us  all  round,  we  are  indifferent  honest 
here,  so  I  don't  fear  thieves." 

"  May  I  have  a  look  at  the  rest 
of  your  pots?"  asked  the  curate. 
"  You  seem  to  have  something  like  a 
collection." 

"  A  poor  thing,  but  mine  own. 
But  I  have  one  or  two  pieces  besides 
the  jar  that  I  flatter  myself  you  won't 
match  very  easily."  And  Winn  un- 
locked his  heart  and  his  cabinets  to 
Garrett  there  and  then.  Subsequently 
a  move  was  made  to  the  first  floor, 
where  both  collectors  found  a  con- 


genial task  in  unpacking  the  crates 
containing  the  curate's  trophies, — 
those  very  crates  which  Winn  had 
supposed  to  be  filled  with  volumes  of 
ecclesiastic  lore.  It  was  broad  day- 
light before  the  senior  tenant  of 
No.  2  sought  his  couch,  vowing,  as 
he  did  so,  that  he  would  renounce  his 
evil  courses,  and  become  a  habitual 
church-goer.  A  parson  of  such  taste 
and  discernment  could  not  but  be  a 
bright  example. 

Thus  it  was  that  Garrett  made  a 
conquest  of  Winn.  But  Crowe  was 
not  to  be  won  over  so  easily,  and  it 
cost  the  genial  Gustos  some  pains  to 
bring  about  a  meeting  between  the 
senior  and  junior  privileged  tenants. 
At  last,  however,  by  the  exercise  of 
much  tact  and  some  small  deceit,  the 
schoolmaster  was  lured  into  meeting 
the  curate  at  a  little  dinner-party 
given  by  Milverton  in  his  quarters. 
It  was  a  solemn  feast  enough,  until 
it  was  fortunately  discovered  that 
Garrett,  among  other  accomplishments, 
could  sing  nigger  songs  to  the  banjo. 
Crowe  was  famed  for  his  mastery 
over  that  instrument,  and  the  curate's 
performance  on  it  went  as  far  with 
him  as  his  china-mania  had  gone  with 
Winn.  In  fact,  the  two  made  a 
musical  evening  of  it,  taking  turn 
about  with  the  banjo,  while  the 
Gustos  and  Winn  applauded  impar- 
tially ;  and  when  at  the  close  of  the 
entertainment  the  two  songsters,  who 
had  never  exchanged  a  word  before 
that  night,  insisted  upon  waking  the 
echoes  (and  it  is  to  be  feared  the 
Companions  as  well)  with  Auld  Lang 
Syne,  Milverton  was  so  much  elated 
with  the  success  of  his  scheme,  that 
he  permitted  this  outrage  upon  the 
propriety  of  Theobald's  Hospital  to 
go  unchecked. 

A  week  or  so  after  this  harmonious 
gathering  had  taken  place,  as  Winn 
was  strolling  homeward  from  his 
duties,  which  seldom  occupied  him 

H    H    2 


468 


The  Chinamen. 


later  than  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, he  met  the  younger  Miss  Rad- 
cot  in  High  Street,  and  naturally 
went  out  of  his  way  to  accompany 
her.  It  happened  that  they  had  not 
seen  one  another  since  the  eventful 
Sunday  of  which  mention  has  been 
made,  and  Peggy  turned  the  con- 
versation to  the  topic  which  had 
been  discussed  on  that  occasion. 

"  And  how  do  you  agree  with  your 
neighbour  ? "  she  inquired.  "  Does  he 
make  you  repeat  your  catechism  ? " 

"  No,  never.  We  agree  perfectly, 
for  all  his  tastes  are  those  of  an  old 
bachelor,  except  one,  popularly  con- 
sidered old-maidish,  and  that  I  share 
with  him.  So  we  are  admirably  suited 
to  one  another." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  he's  a  regular 
chinaman.  He  fell  in  love  with 
mamma's  Dresden  inkpot  the  very 
first  time  he  called  on  us,  and  I  think 
he  would  have  ,stolen  it,  if  she  had 
not  kept  her  eye  upon  him." 

"Then  he  has  been  to  call  on  you 
already  ? " 

"  Why  already  ?  Hasn't  he  been 
here  for  three  weeks  or  more?  He 
has  called  twice,  once  in  his  official 
capacity,  and  again  after  dining  with 
us.  Some  people  don't  neglect  the 
proprieties  so  much  as  others." 

"  Nobody  can  accuse  me  of  neglect- 
ing them  so  far  as  your  family  is 
concerned,  can  they  ?  I  had  hoped 
for  the  pleasure  of  introducing  Gar- 
rett  to  you  myself." 

"  He  had  no  need  of  an  introduc- 
tion. Clergymen  are  bound  to  visit 
their  parishioners  for  the  good  of 
their  souls.  Well,  I  like  Mr.  Gar- 
rett,  and  so  do  we  all."  So,  too, 
did  Winn,  but  for  some  reason  not 
so  cordially  as  he  had  done  before 
Peggy  spoke.  "  I  suppose  you  have 
just  left  the  town-hall  ? "  she  went 
on. 

"  Yes,  I  was  going  home  to  tea, — 
or  rather,  I  was  intending  to  get 


some  tea  at  Milverton's.  My  house- 
keeper is  out  for  the  day,  so  I  shall 
make  a  descent  upon  the  Gustos." 

"  Won't  you  descend  upon  us  in- 
stead, now  that  you  are  so  near  us? 
And  Mr.  Milverton  ought  not  to  be 
led  into  idling  his  time  away  with 
you." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  come  to 
tea,  but  I  don't  know  why  you  accuse 
me  of  idling.  Am  I  not  at  this  very 
moment  working  for  my  London 
M.A.,  and  at  your  instigation  too  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by 
my  instigation,  but  you  certainly  are 
not  working  at  this  very  moment. 
And  I  don't  believe  that  you  ever 
open  a  book  after  you  get  home, 
either." 

"  What  an  incredulous  person  you 
are  !  But  why  should  I  bother  about 
London  M.  A.s  ?  I  have  an  Oxford 
one  already,  and  much  study  is  a 
weariness^to  the  flesh." 

"You  ought  to  mortify  the  flesh. 
I  hate  to  see  people  growing  lazy. 
But  of  course  you  needn't  go  in  for 
the  examination  unless  you  like." 

"  I  assure  you  that  I  have  never 
liked  to  go  in  for  an  examination,  nor 
do  I  like  doing  so  now.  It  is  only 
because  other  people  desire  it,  that  I 
am  to  be  a  candidate  once  again." 

"  Oh,  /  don't  care  a  bit  about  it." 

"  Then  perhaps  I  had  better  with- 
draw my  name,  for  if  you  don't  care, 
I'm  sure  nobody  else  does." 

It  was  rather  unfair  of  Winn  to 
say  this,  for  by  so  doing  he  deprived 
Peggy  of  her  sex's  unquestioned  right 
to  the  last  word.  Did  she  encourage 
him  to  tread  the  paths  of  learning, 
she  would  contradict  her  own  asser- 
tion that  she  cared  nothing  for  his 
success ;  and  were  she  to  re-affirm 
her  indifference,  he  might  really 
believe  that  she  meant  what  she  said, 
which  would  be  unfortunate.  So  she 
maintained  a  rather  chilly  silence, 
until  they  arrived  at  her  home. 


The  Chinamen. 


469 


As  Winn  entered  the  hall,  he 
observed  a  clerical  wide-awake  upon 
the  hat-stand,  and  up-stairs  he  found 
the  owner  thereof.  The  Reverend 
Sydney  Garrett  was  taking  tea  with 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Radcot,  and  Winn 
considered  that  he  should  have 
brought  his  hat  into  the  room  with 
him.  Peggy  shook  hands  with  osten- 
tatious friendliness,  and  the  two 
gentlemen  greeted  each  other  with 
a  nod  that  did  not  imply  intense 
delight  at  the  meeting. 

"  Mr.  Garrett  has  been  singing  the 
praises  of  the  Hospital,  Mr.  Winn," 
said  the  lady  of  the  house,  as  she 
handed  him  his  teacup,  "  he  is  quite 
as  enthusiastic  as  you  were,  when 
you  came  to  Wexhampton." 

"Ah,"  said  Winn,  "and  perhaps 
when  he  has  lived  at  Theobald's  as 
long  as  I  have,  his  enthusiasm  will 
have  grown  as  cool  as  mine."  This 
was  not  a  very  pretty  speech,  nor  did 
it  truthfully  describe  Winn's  senti- 
ments ;  but  our  friend  was  in  a 
gloomy  vein  at  the  moment. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you 
are  tired  of  the  Hospital  1 "  exclaimed 
Caroline  in  genuine  surprise. 

"  I  think  we  have  known  Mr. 
Winn  long  enough  to  be  able  to  tell 
when  he  is  speaking  in  fun,  Carol." 

"  Well,  if  he  is,  I  don't  think  he's 
very  amusing,  mamma,"  said  Peggy. 
"  Why,  what  is  to  become  of  our  tea- 
party,  if  he  gives  up  his  privilege  ?  " 

"  What  tea-party,  Peggy  ? " 

"  Why  the  one  that  he  is  going  to 
give  in  No.  2.  Didn't  we  arrange 
it  all  1 "  said  she,  turning  to  Winn 
for  corroboration.  "  We  are  going  to 
play  tennis  on  the  green,  or  dance 
upon  it,  if  Mr.  Milverton  will  lend  us 
his  piano.  I  dare  say  he  will,  if  we 
ask  him  very  prettily." 

"What  a  delightful  plan,"  said 
Garrett,  "  only  I  hope  that  I  may  be 
allowed  to  place  my  rooms  at  your 
disposal." 


"  Oh,  of  course  that's  all  part  of 
the  scheme,"  she  replied,  not  a  little 
to  Winn's  disgust.  The  curate 
needed  snubbing  rather  than  encour- 
agement. 

"  But  you  will  have  to  get  the 
Governors'  permission  before  you  turn 
the  green  into  a  tennis-lawn,"  said 
Mrs.  Radcot. 

"  Oh,  Papa  will  talk  to  the  Chair- 
man, and  Mr.  Winn  will  settle  with 
Mr.  Milverton,"  said  Caroline,  who 
evidently  sympathised  with  her  sister  ; 
"we  shouldn't  do  the  grass  any  harm." 

"I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to 
arrange  it,"  said  Garrett  (as  though  it 
were  his  tea-party,  indeed  !).  "I  am 
sure  I  can  see  no  reasonable  objec- 
tion to  the  scheme." 

Winn,  meantime,  held  his  peace, 
and  suffered  Garrett  to  talk  as  he 
pleased.  He  was  well  aware  that  the 
Governors  would  as  soon  sanction  a 
game  of  Rugby  football  on  their 
green  as  permit  it  to  be  marked  out 
into  tennis-courts ;  and  even  in  her 
wildest  flights  of  fancy  Peggy  must 
have  known  that  dancing  was  wholly 
out  of  the  question  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  Theobald's  Hospital.  But 
there  was  nothing  impracticable  in 
the  idea  of  a  modest  tea-party,  which 
he  could  have  carried  out  to  his  entire 
satisfaction,  if  only  Garrett  had  re- 
frained from  meddling.  For  a  clergy- 
man the  fellow  was  singularly  wanting 
in  tact. 

Perhaps  Peggy  had  been  unjust 
when  she  affirmed  her  belief  that 
Winn  never  opened  a  book  in  pre- 
paration for  his  forthcoming  trial ; 
but  on  this  particular  evening  his 
conduct  might  have  given  her  some 
grounds  for  complaint.  Crowe  was  a 
classical  scholar,  of  the  first  rank,  it 
is  true,  but  a  classical  scholar  only, 
so  that  he  could  not  possibly  have 
assisted  Winn  to  unravel  any  problem 
of  psychology  or  ethics.  Yet  it  is  a 
fact  that  as  soon  as  he  had  dined, 


470 


The  Chinamen. 


Winn  betook  himself  to  Crowe's 
rooms,  where  Milverton  soon  joined 
him.  Possibly  the  rumour  that  the 
schoolmaster  was  newly  possessed  of 
a  box  of  peculiarly  excellent  cigars 
may  have  accounted  for  the  coinci- 
dence of  their  visits. 

Crowe  was  hard  at  work  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  correcting  Greek  verses, 
but  he  laid  aside  the  blue  pencil  and 
produced  the  cigar-box.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  its  contents  proved  to  be 
peculiarly  abominable  ;  Winn  dropped 
his  cabbage-stalk  out  of  the  window, 
lest  a  worse  thing  should  befall  him, 
and  the  Gustos,  after  a  more  prolonged 
trial,  sank  upon  the  sofa,  and  begged 
his  host  to  summon  Garrett  with  all 
speed,  that  he  might  receive  ghostly 
comfort  before  dissolution. 

"  You  must  go  unabsolved,"  said 
Winn,  "  for  Garrett  is  on  duty  to- 
night, paying  pastoral  visits." 

"  Ah  yes,"  said  Crowe,  "  he's  quite 
the  faithful  shepherd,  is  Garrett. 
More  especially  so,  when  the  ewe- 
lambs  need  his  care." 

"  Gossiping  again,  Crowe  1 "  said 
Milverton,  who,  like  many  another 
censor,  was  not  above  taking  an 
interest  in  the  very  weaknesses  that 
he  reproved.  "  What's  your  latest 
story  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing  worth  mentioning. 
Besides,  it's  no  sin  for  a  man  to 
labour  in  his  vocation,  and  Garrett 
is  paid  cash  for  paying  visits.  I  wish 
I  could  earn  my  daily  bread  on  such 
easy  terms.  However,  I  have  heard 
it  whispered  that  he  has  turned  his 
attention  rather  particularly  to  one 
household." 

"  Be  more  explicit,  you  confounded 
old  scandal-monger." 

"  I  never  mention  names.  Perhaps 
the  household  in  question  is  subject  to 
some  evil  influence, — such  as  Winn 
there  might  exert — and  the  padre  is 
bent  upon  counteracting  it.  That's 
possible,  you  know." 


"  I  don't  know  why  you  drag  me 
into  the  matter,"  said  Winn ;  "  and 
as  for  evil  influence,  my  character  is 
better  than  yours,  any  day  of  the 
week." 

"  Well,  of  course  Garrett  may  have 
some  worldly  motive  for  his  visits. 
And  on  the  whole,  I  venture  to 
prophesy  that  although  he  was  the 
last  of  us  to  come,  he  will  be  the 
first  to  go." 

"  You  have  said  the  same  of  Winn 
a  hundred  times,"  replied  Milverton, 
"and  if  I  were  to  set  up  as  a  prophet 
(which  God  forbid !)  I  should  say  that 
both  he  and  Garrett  will  be  privi- 
leged tenants  long  after  you  are 
married  and  done  for." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  disparage  Winn, 
who  is  a  man  of  great  and  undoubted 
attractions  ;  but  I  fear  that  his  popu- 
larity has  waned  since  the  curate  took 
the  field.  Arma  cedunt  togce, — which, 
being  interpreted,  means  that  a 
barrister's  wig  stands  a  poor  chance 
against  a  parson's  surplice." 

This  conversation  was  displeasing 
to  Winn,  and  he  spoke  the  words  of 
reproof.  "  There  is  no  more  con- 
temptible creature  in  the  world  than 
the  male  gossip,"  he  said.  "  With 
what  old  woman  did  you  have  tea 
to-day,  Crowe  1  " 

"Without  descending  to  a  tu 
quoque,  I  reply, — with  none.  I've 
been  playing  for  the  school  against 
the  town." 

"Yes,  and  you  ran  your  captain  out 
in  the  first  innings,  and  were  bowled 
first  ball  in  the  second,"  remarked  the 
Gustos. 

"  Moreover,  your  cigars  are  vil- 
lainous," said  Winn.  "I  wonder 
where  you  expect  to  go  to,  when 
you  die." 

As  he  was  unable  or  unwilling  to 
give  a  satisfactory  answer  to  Winn's 
question,  Crowe  pursued  the  subject 
no  further,  and  his  guests  departed 
without  learning  anything  more 


The  Chinamen. 


471 


definite  with  regard  to  Garrett's 
visits.  But  he  had  said  enough  for 
Winn,  whose  soul  was  disquieted 
within  him.  The  schoolmaster  had 
always  been  given  to  romancing  ;  and 
even  if  he  had  not  been  drawing 
upon  his  very  fertile  imagination,  he 
probably  had  only  retailed  some  of 
the  gossip  that  is  to  be  picked  up  for 
the  trouble  of  stooping  in  such  a  town 
as  Wexhampton.  Yet  it  could  not 
be  denied  that  Garrett  had  been  to 
the  Radcots'  three  times  in  as  many 
weeks,  and  had  further  expressed  him- 
self as  eager  to  entertain  the  ladies  of 
the  family  at  No.  2.  In  short,  Winn 
was  harbouring  jealousy  against  him, 
and  that  evil  passion  was  not  de- 
creased at  his  next  meeting  with  the 
curate,  who  called  on  him  a  few  days 
later,  to  show  him  a  little  Wedgwood 
pot  that  he  had  bought  of  the  pawn- 
broker in  Borough  Lane.  It  was 
really  a  very  superior  little  pot,  but 
Winn  showed  no  great  enthusiasm 
about  it. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Garrett,  "  have 
you  heard  that  Mrs.  Radcot  is  down 
with  the  flu  ?  We  shall  have  to 
postpone  our  little  party,  I'm  afraid." 

"Indeed?  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it. 
But  I  had  not  intended  to  have  the 
party  until  after  my  return  from 
London." 

"  Why,  are  you  going  up  to  town  ?'' 

"  Yes,  I'm  sitting  for  my  London 
M.A.  I'm  off  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  wish  you  luck, — even  though 
you  don't  appreciate  Wedgwood. 
We'll  celebrate  your  success  with  the 
tea-party.  I  say, — have  you  known 
the  Radcots  long  1 " 

"  I  knew  Mr.  Radcot  slightly 
before  I  came  here.  In  fact,  he 
helped  me  to  get  my  berth." 

"Ah,  if  I  had  known  him  before, 
perhaps  I  should  have  been  a  bishop 
by  this  time.  Well,  I  won't  interfere 
with  your  reading.  Good-night." 


"Good-night,"  grunted  Winn,  and 
resumed  his  studies,  though  it  is  to 
be  feared  that  he  did  not  acquire 
much  philosophy  of  a  practical  nature 
thereby. 

A  change  of  air  is  often  prescribed 
by  medical  men  for  patients  suffering 
under  mental,  as  well  as  bodily  com- 
plaints; and  it  was  perhaps  as  well 
that  Winn  had  to  betake  himself  to 
the  metropolis  at  this  juncture.  And 
as  the  results  of  his  efforts  after 
academic  fame  will  have  no  further 
bearing  on  the  present  history,  it  may 
here  be  briefly  recorded  that  he  was 
most  dismally  plucked ;  so  that  if 
the  prospect  of  distinction  had  been 
the  sole  object  of  his  journey,  he 
might  just  as  well  have  stayed  at 
home.  But  he  had  not  set  foot  on 
a  London  pavement  for  more  than 
a  year,  and  great  was  the  jubilation 
among  the  companions  of  his  youth 
at  his  reappearance.  There  was  Jack 
Amberley,  now  established  as  a 
doctor  in  Bloomsbury,  and  with  him 
was  Ray,  the  man  of  no  occupation, 
and  Wilbury  the  journalist,  none  of 
whom  ever  thought,  of  going  to  bed 
before  one  o'clock,  and  who  only 
required  Winn's  presence  as  an  excuse 
for  prolonging  their  revels  till  day- 
break ;  and  there  was  Hamilton  of 
the  British  Museum,  who  understood 
china  better  than  any  other  man  in 
Europe ;  and  little  Hunter,  who  had 
a  wonderful  acquaintance  with  all 
manner  of  queer  foreign  restaurants 
in  Soho  and  its  neighbourhood,  where 
a  man  may  dine  like  a  lord  for  one 
and  sixpence,  wine  and  waiter's  tip 
included.  In  short,  Winn  enjoyed 
himself  immensely,  when  once  his 
papers  had  been  disposed  of,  and  had 
the  further  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  he  was  fulfilling  the  behests  of 
his  lady  ;  or  so  at  least  he  per- 
suaded himself,  but  perhaps  she 
would  have  desired  his  earlier  return 
to  Wexhampton.  And  indeed,  after 


472 


The  Chinamen. 


three  weeks  of  merry-making,  our 
friend  began  to  tire  of  gaiety.  After 
all,  he  was  a  quiet  man  by  nature, 
and  there  was  no  place  like  Theo- 
bald's for  peace  and  quiet ;  dinners 
at  Roche's  and  the  Cafe  des 
Gourmets  were  luxurious,  no  doubt, 
but  he  was  one  who  at  all  times 
preferred  comfort  to  luxury ;  Hamil- 
ton's china  was  not  nearly  so  interest- 
ing as  his  own,  while,  to  sum  up  the 
whole,  Wexhampton  could  afford  one 
attraction  that  all  London  had  not 
to  offer.  It  was  a  perfect  age  since 
he  had  seen  Peggy,  and  he  took  the 
train  at  Paddington  in  higher  spirits 
than  gentlemen  returning  from  a 
holiday  are  wont  to  do. 

And  so  the  wanderer  returned  to 
his  home.  The  town  was  fast  asleep 
in  the  five  o'clock  sunshine  of  a 
summer  afternoon,  as  he  walked 
through  the  streets  of  Wexhampton, 
The  Hospital  Square  was  silent  as 
the  grave,  and  deserted  save  for  a 
couple  of  Companions  who  were 
dozing  in  the  shade  of  the  founder's 
statue.  Winn  entered  his  room,  shut 
the  door  behind  him,  and  dropped 
into  a  chair  with  a  sigh  of  satis- 
faction. 

0  dulce  domum !  How  good  it 
was  to  be  home  again  !  There  stood 
the  bookcase  with  its  ordered  ranks 
of  old  friends  ranged  lovingly  side 
by  side ;  there  was  the  dear  old 
wicker  chair,  and  the  desk  whereat 
he  had  written  the  brilliant  novel 
which  indiscrirninating  publishers  had 
one  and  all  declined ;  there  stood 
the  china  cabinets,  faithfully  guard- 
ing the  treasures  within ;  and  there 
on  the  mantelpiece,  most  cherished 
of  all  his  possessions,  was — 

No  !  It  was  not !  He  could  not 
believe  his  eyes,  and  rubbed  them 
desperately,  sending  his  glasses  flying 
across  the  room  as  a  consequence. 
But  had  they  remained  on  his  nose, 
and  had  they  been  of  the  highest 


power  ever  supplied  by  Messrs. 
Curry  and  Paxton,  they  could  not 
have  helped  their  wearer  to  see 
what  was  certainly  not  in  its  place. 
The  Old  Crumbledon  Pink— the  pot 
of  pots — the  priceless,  unique  tobacco- 
jar,  was  gone,  had  vanished  utterly 
and  completely !  Winn's  universe 
was  shattered  about  him,  and  he 
cursed  the  day  that  saw  him  leave 
Wexhampton.  Here  was  a  pretty 
home-coming ! 

Mrs.  Dick,  kindest  of  housekeepers, 
had  marked  the  return  of  her  charge, 
and  hastened  to  bring  him  the 
refreshment  of  a  cup  of  tea.  A 
habitual  respect  for  her  prevented 
Winn  from  making  the  direct  accu- 
sation that  rose  to  his  lips,  but  the 
purport  of  his  questions  was  not  to 
be  concealed,  and  Mrs.  Dick  refuted 
the  charge  of  having  broken  the  jar 
with  virtuous  indignation.  The  pink 
one  that  stood  on  the  mantelpiece  ? 
Well,  to  be  sure,  and  it  wasn't  there, 
neither,  but  she  hoped  that  she  knew 
Mr.  Winn  better  than  to  meddle  with 
any  of  his  chinaware  at  this  time  of 
day.  When  had  she  last  seen  it? 
On  Tuesday,  when  she  swept  the 
room,  but  she  wouldn't  say  for  cer- 
tain. Had  any  one  been  in  the  room 
during  his  absence  ?  Not  as  she  knew 
of.  The  Gustos  had  called  once,  to 
know  when  Mr.  Winn  would  return, 
but  he  never  so  much  as  opened  the 
door,  but  after  speaking  to  her,  went 
up-stairs  to  see  Mr.  Garrett.  Finally 
and  to  conclude,  Mr.  Winn  had 
better  drink  his  tea  before  it  grew 
cold. 

The  accused  was  dismissed,  without 
a  stain  on  her  character,  and  Winn 
sipped  his  tea,  pondering  deeply  the 
while.  At  last  he  arose,  and  with 
cautious  tread  went  up  to  Garrett's 
apartments.  Now  was  it  likely  that 
a  clerk  in  holy  orders  would  fall  so 
low  as  to  steal  a  tobacco-jar  1  A  fig 
for  clerks,  and  holy  orders  too  ! 


The  Chinamen. 


473 


Garrett  was  a  collector  first,  and  a 
curate  afterwards.  Winn  knew  the 
breed. 

The  room  was  empty,  and  Winn, 
with  a  shamelessness  that  surprised 
himself,  began  a  thorough  search 
among  Garrett's  properties.  Though 
his  investigations  were  fruitless  so  far 
as  they  concerned  the  Old  Crumble- 
don  Pink,  they  were  not  uninstructive 
in  themselves,  and  afforded  him  more 
knowledge  of  his  neighbour's  habits, 
both  professional  and  private,  than 
he  could  have  obtained  otherwise. 
Thus,  he  discovered  a  packet  of  old 
sermons,  labelled  Stale — to  be  given 
again  in  the  winter,  mutatis  mutandis 
— a  find  which  shook  his  faith  in 
Garrett's  industry  not  a  little.  Also, 
it  was  evident  that  the  curate  was 
a  man  of  untidy  habits,  for  articles 
of  wearing  apparel  were  scattered 
promiscuously  about  his  bedroom,  and 
the  contents  of  his  chest  of  drawers 
were  in  sad  disorder.  And  pray  what 
had  Winn  to  do  with  the  chest  of 
drawers  ?  He  was  looking  for  his 
tobacco- jar,  which  might  have  been 
concealed  among  Garrett's  shirts. 

He  did  not  find  it ;  but  he  found 
something  else  that  did  not  allay  his 
suspicions.  He  had  returned  to  the 
sitting-room,  and  as  he  groped  among 
the  papers  that  heaped  the  window- 
seat,  he  found  a  little  pile  of  tobacco 
beneath  a  religious  magazine.  There 
might  have  been  some  two  ounces  ; 
it  was  very  dry,  and  on  closer  exa- 
mination, Winn  perceived  that  if  it 
was  not  his  favourite  Laughing  Girl 
mixture,  it  was  most  uncommonly 
like  it.  There  was  about  that  quan- 
tity left  in  the  jar  when  he  had  gone 
up  to  London. 

Now  this  looked  bad ;  and  Winn 
was  rapidly  building  up  a  case  against 
the  curate  a  la  Sherlock  Holmes,  when 
he  heard  a  well-known  step  in  the 
passage  below.  Flight  was  out  of 
the  question,  so  he  instantly  feigned 


to  be  in  search  of  something, — not 
the  jar — which  might  serve  as  an 
excuse  for  his  uninvited  presence. 
Garrett  swung  the  door  open,  and 
then,  seeing  his  friend  in  the  room, 
came  to  a  dead  pause. 

"  Hullo  !  So  you're  back  again  1 " 
said  the  curate. 

"  Yes,  I  came  home  about  an  hour 
ago." 

"  Are  you  looking  for  anything  1  " 

That  was  precisely  the  case.  "  Only 
for  the  Wexhampton  paper,"  said 
Winn. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  take  it  in.  Sit 
down  ;  I'm  just  going  to  have  some 
tea." 

"  Thanks,  I've  just  had  mine.  I 
say,  Garrett,  it's  a  very  queer  thing, 
but  I  can't  find  my  tobacco-jar." 

"What,  the  Crumbledon  Pink? 
You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you've 
lost  it?" 

"  No,  I've  not  lost  it,  but  some- 
body else  has  lost  it  for  me.  You 
can't  throw  any  light  on  the  matter, 
I  suppose  ? " 

The  curate  screwed  up  his  mouth 
as  though  he  were  going  to  whistle, 
paused,  and  then  shook  his  head. 
"Let's  see,"  he  said,  "it's  Monday 
to-day, —  the  jar  was  all  right  on 
Wednesday,  for  Mrs.  Radcot  and  her 
daughters  came  to  tea  with  me,  and 
I  took  them  into  your  room  on  pur- 
pose to  show  it  to  them.  I  haven't 
seen  it  since." 

Once  more  the  boding  voice  of 
Crowe  rang  in  Winn's  ear,  and  his 
anger  was  stirred  against  Garrett  for 
that  he  had  taken  unfair  advantage 
of  his  absence.  The  curate  had  made 
the  tea-party  his  own  ;  surely  he  was 
capable  of  appropriating  the  jar  as 
well. 

"Smoke1?"  said  Garrett,  offering  his 
pouch. 

Winn  did  not  permit  the  chance  to 
escape  him.  "  Pioneer  ?  No  thanks  ; 
do  you  mind  me  trying  that  stuff  on 


474 


The  Chinamen. 


the  window-seat?     It  looks  more  to 
my  taste." 

"  But  my  dear  man,  it's  been  lying 
there  for  weeks,  and  isn't  fit  to 
smoke." 

Winn  didn't  care  about  that,  and 
filled  his  pipe.  There  was  no  mis- 
take. "  Why,  this  is  Laughing  Girl," 
he  said. 

"  Yes,  I've  been  giving  it  a  trial. 
I  don't  take  to  it  particularly." 

"  You  shouldn't  let  it  get  so  dry. 
Keep  it  in  a  pot,  as  I  do, — or  as  I 
did,  for  I  shall  not  have  the  heart  to 
use  a  jar  again." 

"Oh,  I  expect  the  Pink  will  turn 
up  in  time.  Things  will  disappear 
now  and  then,  you  know." 

With  this  poor  consolation  Winn 
had  to  content  himself,  for  he  dared 
pump  the  curate  no  further.  Garrett 
could  not  fail  to  have  grasped  the 
true  explanation  of  his  presence, 
as  soon  as  he  had  blurted  out  the 
news  of  his  loss.  And  so  he  changed 
the  subject,  inquiring,  not  without 
some  difficulty,  as  to  the  tea-party 
which  was  to  have  been  his.  He 
learned  that  Mrs.  Radcot  was  quite 
herself  again,  and  that  Caroline  had 
regretted  his  absence  from  the  scene 
of  the  festivity,  —  which  was  very 
kind  of  her,  no  doubt,  but  regret  from 
that  quarter  did  not  greatly  afiect  him. 

"  And  you  showed  them  my  rooms, 
too  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Your  rooms  1  No,  I  didn't.  Why 
should  I?" 

"  But  you  told  me  just  now  that 
you  took  the  girls  to  see  my  jar," 
Winn  insisted,  hot  upon  the  scent 
again.  For  why  did  Garrett  con- 
tradict himself  1  And  how  came  he 
by  that  tobacco, — he,  who  smoked 
Pioneer,  and  Pioneer  only?  Winn 
did  not  believe  that  his  friend  had 
ever  experimented  with  the  Laughing 
Girl  mixture,  since  that  first  occasion 
when  necessity  had  driven  him  to 
fill  his  pipe  with  it. 


However,  Garrett  looked  perfectly 
innocent.  "  Oh  yes,  I  remember. 
We  just  went  inside  for  a  couple  of 
minutes,  but  no  harm  came  to  the 
pot  then,  at  all  events.  And  by  the 
way,  Miss  Peggy  asked  after  you,  and 
said  that  she  hoped  you  would  pass 
this  time." 

Her  message  was  more  to  Winn's 
taste  than  that  of  her  sister  had 
been,  but  it  was  not  exactly  sooth- 
ing. There  was  surely  no  occasion 
for  Peggy  to  have  alluded  to  past 
failures.  A  painful  silence  ensued, 
and  Winn  was  just  about  to  with- 
draw, when  Milverton  appeared,  con- 
siderably to  the  relief  of  both  parties. 
"  Back  again  from  the  torture- 
chamber?"  quoth  the  Custos.  "Well, 
Winn,  how  did  it  go  ?  First-class  and 
gold  medal,  or  stupendous  plough  ]  " 

"  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care  a 
toss.  I've  lost  my  tobacco-jar." 

"  Queer  thing,  very,"  said  Garrett. 

"  Not  at  all,  with  a  rival  col- 
lector up-stairs,"  said  the  irreverent 
Milverton. 

"  Oh,  come,  Winn's  perfectly  wel- 
come to  search  my  rooms  if  he 
suspects  me,"  said  the  curate,  with 
just  the  faintest  note  of  sarcasm  in 
his  voice.  Winn  found  occasion  to 
use  his  handkerchief. 

"  Let's  see — wasn't  it  a  blue  one 
with  handles?"  said  Milverton,  kindly 
anxious  to  sympathise  with  the  be- 
reaved one.  But  the  question  was 
unfortunate. 

"  Good  heavens  !  And  you  must 
have  seen  it  twice  a  week  at  least  for 
the  last  month  !  It  was  pink,  man, 
pink  !  " 

"  Was  it,  though  ?  I  really  thought 
it  was  blue, — or  green.  Well,  it'll 
turn  up,  no  doubt.  I  want  you 
fellows  to  dine  with  me  to-night. 
Crowe's  coming." 

"  I'm  sorry.  I  dine  early  with  the 
rector,  and  I've  got  to  take  an  even- 
ing service  at  half -past  seven." 


The  Chinamen. 


475 


"  Well,  look  in  on  your  way  back. 
You'll  come,  Winn?" 

"  Thanks  ;  but  I  can't  promise  to 
be  very  good  company  in  my  present 
frame  of  mind." 

"  Oh,  we'll  cheer  you  up.  Crowe 
will  give  you  one  of  his  excellent 
cigars,  and  you'll  forget  all  your 
other  troubles  at  once.  You'd  better 
come  across  with  me  now,  or  Garrett 
will  be  late  for  the  rector's  feed." 

Perhaps  Milverton  had  never  pre- 
sided over  a  more  gloomy  entertain- 
ment than  that  to  which  he  had  in- 
vited Winn.  The  collector's  thoughts 
were  dwelling  on  his  loss,  and  when 
they  were  expressed  verbally,  were 
not  such  as  tended  to  enlivenment. 
Crowe,  too,  was  saturnine  beyond 
custom  ;  Harris  major  had  failed  to 
obtain  the  Exeter  Scholarship,  for 
which  the  schoolmaster  had  coached 
him  long  and  carefully,  and  the  dis- 
appointment which  he  had  gener- 
ously concealed  from  his  pupil  was 
fully  displayed  in  the  presence  of  his 
companions.  He  had  no  sympathy 
with  Winn's  misfortune,  for  he  met 
that  gentleman's  first  allusion  to  his 
tobacco-jar  with  the  curt  remark, 
"  Didn't  know  you  had  one,"  feigning 
an  ignorance  highly  exasperating ; 
and  even  the  Gustos  looked  a  trifle 
bored  when  the  subject  was  intro- 
duced for  the  third  time.  As  for 
Garrett,  he  never  appeared  at  all,  and 
the  party  must  be  set  down  as  one 
of  Milverton's  few  failures  in  the 
social  line. 

The  days  went  by,  and  nothing 
was  seen  or  heard  of  the  Old 
Crumbledon  Pink.  But  for  the  help 
and  sympathy  extended  to  him  by 
Garrett,  Winn  might  have  fretted 
himself  into  a  brain-fever,  so  entirely 
was  he  unmanned  by  its  disappear- 
ance. All  possible  places  of  conceal- 
ment were  ransacked,  and  between 
them,  the  two  chinamaniacs  turned 
the  whole  house  upside  down,  in- 


curring the  high  displeasure  of  Mrs. 
Dick  by  insisting  on  an  investigation 
of  her  pantry.  It  was  in  vain  ;  by 
Saturday  evening  Winn  .  had  lost  all 
hope  of  ever  recovering  his  treasure, 
and  it  behoved  those  who  valued 
their  safety  to  give  him  a  wide  berth. 

Sunday  came, — as  fine  a  Sunday  as 
ever  drew  a  loiterer  to  church — but 
at  ten  o'clock  Winn  was  sitting  over 
his  breakfast  with  a  frown  on  his  face 
and  black  misery  in  his  heart.  Not 
even  the  prospect  of  lunching  with 
the  Radcots  gave  him  any  consolation, 
whence  it  may  be  inferred  that  he 
was  in  a  truly  parlous  state.  There 
was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Garrett, 
in  full  Sabbath  trim,  made  his  appear- 
ance. 

"  Is  this  a  time  to  be  eating 
sausages  ?  "  said  he.  "  Aren't  you 
coming  to  church  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  snarled  Winn, 
"and  I  wonder  that  you  ask  me. 
How  dare  I,  when  I  have  not  for- 
given the  miscreant  who  has  robbed 
me!" 

"Oh,  nonsense,  nobody  has  robbed 
you,"  said  the  curate,  with  some 
asperity.  "  I  expect  that  you  mislaid 
the  pot  before  you  went  to  town." 

This  was  not  to  be  endured.  "  Do 
I  look  like  a  born  fool  ?  Where  the 
deuce  could  I  mislay  it  1  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  we  have  searched 
the  very  dust-bins.  Oh,  if  ever  I 
find  the  scoundrel,  I'll  do  him  to 
death  by  slow  tortures.  Last  night 
I  dreamed  that  I  impaled  him  on  the 
town-hall  railings.  I  wish  the  dream 
would  come  true." 

"  If  that's  your  state  of  mind,  you 
certainly  do  well  to  stay  at  home," 
said  the  pious  man,  and  went  his 
way.  The  bells  began  to  ring  ;  the 
Companions  gathered  in  the  hall,  and 
presently  filed  out  in  pairs  like  the 
animals  leaving  the  Ark,  Milverton, 
equipped  with  bible,  prayerbook, 
hymnbook  too,  heading  the  proces- 


476 


The  Chinamen. 


sion.  But  Winn  remained  behind, 
savage  of  sou],  and  unforgiving  of 
spirit. 

As  he  was  prowling  round  his 
room,  looking  through  his  cabinets 
for  the  hundredth  time,  he  was 
roused  by  a  voice  that  hailed  him 
through  the  open  window.  "  Hullo," 
it  said,  "  still  on  the  pot-hunt,  I  see? " 

He  turned,  and  beheld  Crowe,  a 
godless  figure  in  flannels  and  an  old 
straw  hat.  The  schoolmaster  entered, 
and  sat  down  on  the  table.  Having 
smoked  in  silence  for  a  short  time,  he 
thus  began :  "  It's  no  good  worrying, 
my  dear  fellow,  you'll  never  see  it 
again.  I  thought  the  padre  had 
.sneaked  it  at  first,  but  he  couldn't 
possibly  have  gone  on  living  with  you, 
if  he  had  not  had  a  clear  conscience. 
No,  it's  the  old  story ;  cherchez  la 
femme." 

11  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  Mrs.  Dick  has  pawned 
your  property  in  order  to  indulge  a 
craving  for  strong  waters.  There 
never  was  a  laundress  or  bedmaker 
yet  that  wouldn't  drink  a  pie-dish,  let 
alone  a  tobacco- jar." 

"  You  don't  know  Mrs.  Dick.  I'd 
as  soon  suspect — " 

"Well,  you  know,  you  needn't 
mention  names.  I  understand  whom 
you  mean  without  them." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Winn;  "  I'm  in 
a  very  bad  temper  to-day,  and  if  you 
are  going  to  behave  like  an  ass,  I 
wish  you'd  go  and  bray  on  the  green." 

"  Why,  now  I  come  to  look  at  you, 
you  are  a  trifle  off  colour.  Never 
mind,  I've  got  some  old  jam-pots  at 
home,  and  you  shall  have  one,  if 
you're  good.  Come  to  lunch  and 
take  your  pick."  And  the  tormentor 
withdrew,  having  performed  the  part 
of  Job's  comforter  to  admiration. 

But  it  was  now  twelve  o'clock,  and 
high  time  for  Winn  to  go  townward. 
As  he  laced  his  boots,  a  dim  percep- 
tion entered  his  head  that  the  truly 


wise  man  has  ever  two  strings  to  his 
bow,  and  on  approaching  the  Radcots' 
house  he  grew  comparatively  resigned 
to  his  fate.  Never  again  would  he 
see  the  Old  Crumbledon  Pink,  but  he 
was  young,  and  life  might  still  have 
something  in  store  for  him.  Peggy 
remained ;  and  as  he  waited  for  admis- 
sion on  the  doorstep  of  her  abode,  he 
actually  thought  more  of  her  than  of 
the  jar.  Was  Mrs.  Radcot  at  home  ? 
No,  the  family  were  all  at  church, 
except  Miss  Peggy,  and  she  was  up- 
stairs in  the  drawing-room.  So  up- 
stairs went  her  lover,  and  no  Peggy 
could  he  see. 

Momentarily  disappointed,  he 
glanced  round  the  room,  and  then, 
heedless  of  the  chair  and  the  Persian 
cat  that  he  upset  in  his  progress, 
dashed  across  to  a  little  table  that 
stood  in  the  bay-window.  For  there — 
there  in  the  Radcots'  drawing-room — 
filled  with  a  great  bunch  of  roses,  red, 
white  and  yellow — was  the  long  lost 
treasure  !  Yes,  there  it  was,  the  Old 
Crumbledon  Pink,  whole,  round  and 
sound,  quite  at  home  in  its  strange 
surroundings,  as  though  it  had  never 
served  a  higher  purpose  than  that  of 
a  flower-vase  since  it  was  first  moulded. 
He  caught  it  up  in  an  ecstacy  of  joy, 
and  was  literally  hugging  it  to  his 
heart,  when  Peggy  came  into  the 
room. 

Let  others  blame  him ;  but  you, 
sir,  who  recently  found  your  ancestral 
seal-ring  in  the  nursery  toy-box,  and 
I,  who  rescued  my  Pickering  Horace 
from  the  limbo  of  outcast  school- 
books  to  which  it  had  been  consigned 
by  irreverent  hands,  will  find  an 
excuse  for  Winn's  conduct  at  this 
juncture.  A  month  had  passed  since 
he  had  seen  the  lady  of  his  heartj  and 
she  had  occupied  his  thoughts  con- 
tinuously until  he  had  been  deprived 
of  his  tobacco- jar ;  and  yet,  now  that 
she  stood  before  him,  prettier  and 
sweeter  than  ever,  he  stood  stock 


The  Chinamen. 


477 


still,  embracing  his  trove,  and  his 
only  greeting  was  :  "  Wherever  did 
you  get  this  from  ?  " 

Peggy  became  very  stiff  and 
proud.  "You  are  really  too  polite. 
Mamma  is  quite  well,  thank  you,  and 
will  be  glad  to  hear  that  you  have 
inquired  after  her." 

"  I  am  utterly  ashamed  of  myself," 
said  Winn,  with  sincere  penitence; 
"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  of  Mrs. 
Radcot's  recovery.  But, — but  I  could 
not  have  foreseen  that  I  should  find 
this  jar  in  your  house." 

"  And  may  I  ask  why  you  hug  it 
in  that  ridiculous  way?  We  shall 
never  be  forgiven  if  you  break  it." 

"  I  should  never  forgive  myself. 
You  see,  I  have  been  hunting  high 
and  low  through  Theobald's  for  it, 
and  am  naturally  surprised  to  find  it 
in  your  possession." 

"Really?  And  is  Mr.  Garrett 
obliged  to  consult  you,  before  lending 
his  own  property  to  his  friends  ? " 

Oh,  Garrett,  Garrett !  Poena  pede 
claudo — this  was  showing  the  cloven 
hoof  with  a  vengeance  !  "  But  my 
dear  Peggy —  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ? "  said  she, 
with  such  hauteur  as  to  make  it  clear 
that  she  resented  the  form  of  address. 
Had  Winn  behaved  with  more  dis- 
cretion at  the  beginning,  perhaps  he 
might  have  called  her  what  he  pleased. 
"  But  my  dear  Miss  Peggy —  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"But,  Miss  Radcot  [she  liked  this 
even  less,  but  she  had  to  put  up  with 
it],  the  point  is  that  it  isn't  Mr. 
Garrett's  property  at  all,  but  mine  !  " 

"  What  nonsense  !  Why,  it  was 
in  his  room  when  we  went  to  tea 
with  him  the  other  day  ;  and  he  lent 
it  to  Carol,  because  she  said  it  would 
be  such  a  lovely  thing  to  paint. 
That's  how  it  comes  here,  since  you 
are  so  anxious  to  know." 

The  solution  of  the  mystery  should 
now  have  been  clear  to  him,  for  there 


is  only  one  thing  that  can  induce  an 
honest  and  truthful  cleric  to  steal  and 
fib  like  a  layman,  and  a  shady  one  it 
is.  But  misled  by  jealousy  and  by 
that  gossiping  Crowe,  Winn  was  still 
unable  to  find  an  excuse  for  Garrett's 
proceeding.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  of  all 
the — the  cool  cheek  !  Look  here,"  and 
he  was  going  to  turn  it  upside  down, 
when  Peggy  stopped  him.  "Take 
care,  silly,"  said  she,  in  her  turn 
verging  upon  the  familiar ;  "  you'll 
spoil  the  carpet !  It's  full  of  water." 

"Well,  then,  look  here,"  and  he 
held  the  jar  on  high,  so  that  she 
could  see  it  underneath,  where  his 
initials  were  inscribed,  "what's  that?" 

She  peered  up  at  it.  "  J.  B.  W.  ! 
Then  it  is  yours,  after  all  ? " 

"  Of  course  it's  mine.  But  what 
in  the  world  was  Garrett  about,  when 
he  took  it  from  my  room,  and  lent  it 
to  your  sister  ?  He's  been  telling  me 
the  most  awful  fibs  you  can  imagine, 
to  conceal  his  guilt." 

"Oh,  the  villain!"  said  Peggy, 
and  began  to  laugh. 

"  But,  Peggy,  it's  no  laughing 
matter.  Kleptomania  is  a  very 
serious  failing  in  a  clergyman.  Is 
the  man  mad  ? " 

"  More  or  less,  I  suppose.  Can't 
you  see  for  yourself,  or  do  you  want 
me  to  tell  you  why  he  lent  it  to 
Carol?" 

And  enlightenment  suddenly  de- 
scended upon  Winn.  He  hesitated  an 
instant,  and  then,  "I  think  that  I 
should  like  you  to  tell  me,  please,"  he 
said. 

She  looked  a  little  alarmed  at  this 
proposal,  for  indeed  it  was  intended 
to  lead  up  to  another.  "Whatever 
was  the  reason,  a  curate  should  be 
above  theft,"  said  she,  keeping  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  carpet. 

"  Even  curates  are  human,"  said 
Winn  very  sententiously,  "  and  being 
human  myself,  I  sympathise  with 
him" 


478 


The  Chinamen. 


"  What,  although  he  stole  your 
china?" 

"  Although  he  stole  my  china." 
He  set  the  Old  Pink  upon  the  table 
again,  and  mustered  up  his  courage. 
"  I  have  a  fellow  feeling  for  him, 
because  I  believe  that,  saving  my 
poor  honesty,  our  positions  are  very 
similar.  I  haven't  run  away  with 
any  of  his  properties,  but  if  I  got 
the  chance,  I  would  steal  the  whole 
world,  if  it  would  do  me  any  service 
with  you,  Peggy  dear." 

And  what  did  Peggy  say  to  that? 
Not  very  much,  but  her  answer  satis- 
fied Winn  completely,  and  if  an 
earthquake  had  shattered  the  Old 
Crumbledon  Pink  to  bits  there  and 
then,  he  would  not  have  cared  a  pin, 
nor  have  given  half  a  thought  to  its 
fragments.  Much  may  happen  in  the 
roasting  of  an  egg ;  for  a  week  had 
Winn  gone  in  quest  of  the  jar,  and 
for  two  years  in  pursuit  of  Peggy,  and 
now,  lo  and  behold,  he  had  found 
both  in  the  space  of  fifteen  minutes  ! 
All  that  was  necessary  had  been  said ; 
and  all  that  was  to  be  done  in  the 
circumstances  took  up  very  little 
time.  Perhaps  this  was  just  as  well, 
for  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall 
announced  the  return  of  the  church- 
goers. Peggy  snatched  her  hand 
away  from  Winn,  the  door  opened, 
and  in  they  came,  Mr.  Radcot,  Mrs. 
Radcot,  Caroline, — and  the  Reverend 
Sydney  Garrett. 

There  was  something  truly  magnifi- 
cent in  the  culprit's  bravado.  The 
stolen  jar  was  in  full  view  on  the 
table,  and  the  lawful  owner  stood 
beside  it ;  the  game  was  up,  yet  even 
at  this  last,  the  curate  showed  no 
sign  of  dismay  or  contrition.  Indeed 
Winn  looked  the  more  confused  of 
the  two,  for  had  the  party  come  upon 
the  scene  one  minute  earlier,  or  had 
they  ascended  the  stairs  in  silence, 
his  situation  would  have  been  ex- 
tremely embarrassing.  Even  as  it 


was,  he  fancied  that  papa  and 
mamma  were  not  without  their 
suspicions. 

However  that  may  have  been,  it 
was  now  time  for  luncheon,  when 
romance  is  out  of  place.  The  bell 
rang,  and  they  went  down-stairs  to 
the  dining-room,  where  Winn  took 
his  seat  beside  Peggy  and  Garrett  his 
beside  her  sister.  No  reference  had 
yet  been  made  to  the  Old  Pink,  but 
from  the  set  of  his  face  it  was  evident 
that  the  curate  was  preparing  for  the 
fray,  and  after  saying  grace  at  his 
host's  desire,  he  relapsed  into  silence. 
Winn,  too,  was  rather  chary  of  his 
words,  and  so  was  Peggy  ;  Caroline, 
the  innocent  receiver  of  stolen  goods, 
still  ignorant  of  the  morning's  events, 
was  the  conversationalist  of  the  party. 
But  this  state  of  things  could  not 
continue  for  long.  With  the  appear- 
ance of  gooseberry-tart  came  the 
inevitable  explosion,  and  it  was  Mrs. 
Radcot  who  fired  the  mine. 

"  I  hope  you  are  in  no  hurry  to 
recover  your  beautiful  jar,  Mr.  Gar- 
rett," said  she.  "  Carol  finished  her 
drawing  yesterday,  but  we  can  scarcely 
bring  ourselves  to  part  with  the  ori- 
ginal just  yet." 

Winn  scowled  across  the  table  at 
the  curate,  who  stared  back  at  him 
with  a  brazen  countenance.  "If  I 
might  have  the  shadow,  I  would 
gladly  leave  the  substance  with  you," 
he  replied.  "I  am  sure  it  could 
not  be  in  safer  keeping."  And  he 
favoured  Winn  with  another  stare ; 
but  for  manners,  he  would  have 
winked  at  him. 

"  It's  something  of  an  heirloom,  I 
suppose,  Garrett?"  said  Mr.  Radcot, 
who  imagined  that  he  had  a  taste  for 
china. 

"  Oh  yes,  it's  been  in  the  family  for 
years,"  was  the  answer. 

Our  friend  could  contain  himself 
no  longer.  "  There's  another  little 
jar  coming  your  way  soon,  isn't  there, 


The  Chinamen. 


479 


Garrett?"  he  asked,  with  ouly  seem- 
ing innocence.  But  he  was  sorry  that 
he  had  broken  silence,  for  he  received 
a  sharp  blow  on  the  shin,  as  it  were 
from  a  pointed  shoe,  that  hurt  him 
very  much,  and  warned  him  that  he 
would  do  well  to  hold  his  tongue. 
Could  it  really  have  been  Peggy 
who  treated  him  so  1  Happily  his 
utterance  was  taken  literally  by  those 
who  were  not  in  the  secret. 

"Then  Mr.  Garrett  must  not  lend 
it  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Radcot,  "or 
perhaps  you  would  never  see  it,  Mr. 
Winn." 

"  I  should  certainly  suspect  you  of 
having  it,  Mrs.  Radcot,  since  I  have 
found  this  bit  of  Old  Crumbledon 
in  your  possession.  I  was  a  little 
puzzled  as  to  what  had  become  of  it, 
when  I  could  not  see  it  in  his  room." 

"  Ah,  Winn,  I  suppose  you  wanted 
to  steal  it?  What  rogues  you  col- 
lectors are  ! "  said  Mr.  Radcot,  hitting 
the  right  nail  on  the  wrong  head. 
And  Garrett  winced  for  the  first 
time. 

These  alarums  and  excursions  went 
no  further  at  the  time,  for  lunch 
being  over,  the  curate  hastened  away 
to  his  duties,  probably  regretting  for 
once  the  promise  that  bound  him  to 
return  for  tea.  And  in  his  absence 
Winn  also  discharged  his  duty  like 
a  man,  and  Mr.  Radcot  had  to 
forego  his  customary  perusal  of  THE 
SPECTATOR  to  listen  to  the  confession 
of  his  would-be  son-in-law.  The  in- 
terview was  short,  and  eminently 
satisfactory  to  the  party  most  con- 
cerned. As  for  the  scenes  that 
ensued  between  Winn  and  the  other 
members  of  the  family,  they  may  be 
omitted  as  not  strictly  pertaining  to 
the  present  history. 

At  five  o'clock  Garrett  returned. 
Apparently  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  have  it  out  with  his  friend,  for  he 
steadily  pursued  him  all  the  evening 
with  intent  to  find  him  by  himself, 


which  he  failed  to  do,  as  Peggy  was 
somehow  always  in  the  way.  He 
made  his  last  attempt  at  ten  o'clock, 
when  he  rose  to  go  home.  "Am  I 
to  have  your  company  back  to  the 
Hospital  ? "  he  asked,  when  he  had 
taken  leave  of  the  family. 

Winn  smiled  upon  him  sweetly. 
"Well,  I  think  not,"  he  said.  "I 
shall  stay  a  little  longer, — to  post 
Mrs.  Radcot's  letters."  And  the 
curate  departed. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  Winn  followed 
him.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  and 
he  walked  along  with  his  head  some- 
where up  among  the  stars,  firmly 
convinced  that  they,  together  with 
the  rest  of  the  universe,  had  been 
made  and  created  for  the  especial 
behoof  of  John  Bindon  Winn.  So 
mightily  was  he  uplifted  that  on 
arriving  at  Theobald's  he  failed  to 
remark  that  a  light  was  burning  in 
his  parlour,  where  no  light  should 
have  been  before  he  kindled  it  him- 
self. He  marched  into  his  room  as 
though  he  were  a  king  opening  parlia- 
ment at  the  very  least,  and  found 
himself  in  the  presence  of  Garrett, 
who,  seated  in  his  favourite  chair, 
and  smoking  a  pipe  with  gloomy 
countenance,  was  patiently  awaiting 
his  arrival. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,  are  you  1 "  said 
Winn,  as  he  threw  his  hat  on  to  the 
window-seat. 

"  Here  I  am,  as  you  remark,"  re- 
plied the  curate.  Nothing  could  avert 
the  explanations  now,  and  they  must 
necessarily  come  from  both  parties. 
Winn  took  a  pipe  from  the  mantel- 
piece, and  from  sheer  habit  stretched 
out  his  hand  for  the  tobacco-jar. 
Garrett  noticed  the  action,  and  as 
Winn  turned  a  reproving  glance  upon 
him,  their  eyes  met.  The  brazen 
stare  that  had  decorated  Garrett's 
features  earlier  in  the  day  had  dis- 
appeared and  was  replaced  by  an 
expression,  half  shame-faced,  half 


480 


The  Chinamen. 


comic,  that  was  much  more  becoming. 
"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  ever 
so  long,"  he  began ;  "it  was  very 
decent  of  you  not  to  give  me  away 
before  those  people  this  afternoon." 

"Considering  that  you  offered  to 
give  my  pot  away  before  me,  I  am 
inclined  to  agree  with  you,"  said 
Winn,  as  he  lit  a  match. 

"  I  suppose  you  can  guess  how  I 
came  to  make  such  a  silly  ass  of 
myself  ?  " 

"  I  begin  to  have  an  idea." 

"  I  was  tidying  up  my  room  in  pre- 
paration for  my  party,  and  I  borrowed 
the  Old  Pink  to  heighten  the  effect. 
She  did  you  the  honour  to  admire  it, 
so  I  asked  her  to  take  it  away  with 
her,  if  she  cared  to  make  a  drawing 
of  it.  I  didn't  expect  you  home  so 
.soon.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  sorry ; 
but  I'm  afraid  I'm  not." 

"  H'm,"  said  Winn,  "  you  must  be 
pretty  far  gone." 

The  curate  looked  at  him  rather 
queerly.  "  Sure  you  wouldn't  have 
done  the  same  ? "  he  said. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ? " 

"  Well,  because  I've  got  eyes  in  my 
head,  and  for  some  time  past  I  have 
suspected  that  the  Radcots'  house  has 
an  attraction  for  you  as  well  as  for 
me." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  has,"  Winn  coyly 
admitted. 

"  I  thought  we  were  in  the  same 
boat,"  said  Garrett.  "  Crowe  put  me 
on  the  scent." 

"  Crowe  is  a  wicked  gossip,  and 
you  mustn't  believe  half  of  what  he 
tells  you."  But  in  spite  of  his  words 
Winn  could  not  conceal  his  triumph. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say —  ?  " 

''I    do    indeed.       We    settled    it 


between  us  just  before  lunch  to-day. 
Isn't  it  glorious  1 " 

The  thief  rose  up,  and  smote  Winn 
cordially  upon  the  back.  "  You  are 
probably  the  happiest  man  alive,"  he 
said,  "for  you  possess  the  most  beauti- 
ful jar,  and  the  most  charming  girl 
but  one,  in  the  whole  world." 

"  No  thanks  to  you  though.  There, 
never  mind  !  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
drink  our  healths  1  " 

"  Rather.  No,  you  needn't  make 
it  weak  to-night.  Prosit ! "  And  they 
clinked  glasses. 

"  Now  I  know  how  you  came  by 
that  tobacco  I  found  in  your  room," 
said  Winn. 

"  I  fear  you  didn't  confine  your 
researches  to  my  parlour  alone.  I 
noticed  your  tracks  in  the  bedroom, 
you  most  suspicious  of  men.  Don't 
be  in  such  a  hurry  to  think  ill  of 
your  neighbours  another  time." 

"  And  then  they  won't  be  found 
out  ? " 

"  Exactly  so.  I  leave  you  to  your 
glory.  Good -night." 

"  One  moment,"  said  Winn.  "  As 
you  said,  we  are  in  the  same  boat. 
Now  just  to  show  my  sympathy  with 
you,  I  shall  be  happy  to  lend  you 
anything  that  my  future  sister-in-law 
might  like  to  paint,  provided  that 
you  give  me  notice.  For  instance, 
I  have  a  remarkably  fine  old 
meerschaum  pipe —  " 

The  Reverend  Sydney  forgot  his 
sacred  character  again.  "  Damn  your 
old  meerschaum  pipe,"  he  called  out 
from  over  the  banisters. 

And  to-day  the  privilege  of  Theo- 
bald's Hospital  is  upheld  by  Crowe 
alone. 

ROBIN  ROSCOE. 


AP 
4 

M2 


Macmillan1 s  magazine 


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