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CORNIMfeL 

'   M  AGAZjfNE  ..419R5    I 


Edited    by    LEONAR 


CONTENTS,      APRIL     1922. 


Ovington's  Bank.    Chapters  XI— XIV.    By  Stanley  J.  Weyman     385 

Open   Paths  :    Pictures    of   Wild    Life    in    England — I.       By 

E.  L.  Grant  Watson        .  ...     415 

Demos  and  the  Classics.  By  F.  W.  H.  Basevi  .  .  .  427 
The  Fiddler  :  A  Story  from  Scotland.  By  Violet  Jacob  .  .  442 

Little  Cat :  A  Poem.     By  F.  S 464 

The  Three  Fights  of  Mr.  John  Gully.  By  Bernard  Darwin  .  467 
Jonah :  An  Old  Tale  Retold.  By  Sir  Alfred  Hopkinson,  K.C.  477 
The  Saleswoman  :  A  Story  for  Motorists.  By  Douglas  Walshe  487 
La  Paz  :  A  Sketch  from  the  Fortunate  Islands.  By  Lieut.-Col. 

C.  P.  Hawkes .497 

The  Gilbertian  Idea.     By  H.  Rowland-Brown          .         .         .503 


LOKDON  :  JOHN  MUEKAY,  60A  ALBHMABLI  STRUT,  W.  1. 


right*,  including  the  right  of  publishing  Translations  of  Articles  in  this  Magazine,    are  reserved.] 
REGISXEIUJD  IOB  TBANSMISSION  xo  CANADA  AND  NEWFOUNDLAND  BI  MAOAZINB  POST. 


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THE  CORNHILL  MAGAZINE  ADVERTISER,  APRIL  1922 

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BRYANT    &    MAY,    Ltd. 


DISCOVERY 

A    MONTHLY    POPULAR 
JOURNAL    OF    KNOWLEDGE. 

Edited  by  EDWARD    LIVEING,   B.A. 

Scientific  Adviser:    A.  S.  RUSSELL,  D.Sc.    Trustees:    Sir  J.  J.  Thomson,    O.M., 
P.R.S.  ;     Sir   F.  G.  Kenyon,  K.C.B.,  P.B.A. ;  Prof.  A.  C.  Seward,  Sc.D.,  F.R.S. ;   and 
Prof.  R.  S.  Conway,  Litt.D..  F.B.A. 

fl  Few  thinking  people  can  have  failed  to  notice  a 
remarkable  advance  during  the  last  few  years  in  our 
knowledge  about  ourselves,  individually,  socially,  and 
racially,  and  about  the  world  and  universe  in  which 
we  live. 

*I  In  the  realms  of  science  discoveries  are  being  made 
that  must  very  shortly  affect,  or  have  already 
affected,  the  daily  life  of  each  one  of  us.  In  the  older 
branches  of  knowledge  a  flood  of  new  light  is  being 
shed  on  the  early  experience  of  mankind. 

1$  DISCOVERY  is  the  only  journal  that  deals  compre- 
hensively, and  yet  in  simple,  untechnical  language 
with  new  work  in  the  fields  of  the  arts  and  sciences. 
Moreover,  its  articles  are  written  by  well-known 
experts,  in  many  cases  by  the  very  men  who  have 
made  the  actual  discoveries  about  which  they  write. 

CONTENTS    FOR    APRIL 
EDITORIAL    NOTES 
LOST  ISLANDS  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  OCEAN 

Dr.  R.  N.  Rudmose  Brown 

MEMORY  AND  ITS  IMPROVEMENT  R.  H.  Thouless 

THE  LIFE  OF  A  RADIO-ELEMENT  Dr.  A.  S.  Russell 

HORSE  RACING  AND  MAGIC  UNDER  THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE 

Prof.  W.  R.  Halliday 

THE  ECONOMIC  POSITION  IN  GERMANY  J.  Ellis  Barker 

THE  RENASCENCE  OF  THE  ENGLISH  SHORT  STORY.— II. 

T.  Moult 
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THE 

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A   New   Novel    by 
G.  E.  MITTON 

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where  civilisation  barely 
penetrates  the  fringe  of 
the  jungle. 


London  :  JOHN  MURRAY 


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THE 

WORKS  OF  LORD  BYRON 

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LETTERS.  6  Volumes.    Edited  by  the  Right  Hon.  ROWLAND 
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POETICAL  WORKS.  The  only  Complete  and  Copyright  Text  in 
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LIFE,  LETTERS  AND  JOURNALS.  By  THOMAS  MOORE. 
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BYRON:    THE    LAST    PHASE. 

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WORKS  BY 

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DEEDS  THAT  WON  THE  EMPIRE 

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EVOLUTION  Nd3of 


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THE  GIFT  OF  TONGUES. 


New  Method  of  Learning  French  or  Spanish. 


TT  has  sometimes  been  said  that  the 
British  people  do  not  possess  the 
"gift  of  tongues."  Indeed,  Disraeli 
once  said  something  to  the  effect  that 
we  were  a  race  of  "  noble  barbarians, 
speaking  no  language  but  our  own." 
This  evidently  is  neither  the  view  nor 
the  experience  of  the  well-known 
Pelman  Institute,  which  has  opened  a 
special  department  for  teaching 
Foreign  Languages  through  the 
post  by  a  new  and  most  effective 
method. 

The  new  Pelman  method  of  learn- 
ing languages  has  already  been 
applied  to  French  and  Spanish,  and 
has  been  adopted  with  marked  success 
by  many  hundreds  of  people.  It  is 
certainly  a  very  remarkable  educa- 
tional achievement  and,  in  the  opinion 
of  those  who  have  tested  it  in  every 
possible  way,  is  bound  to  exercise  a 
profound  influence  upon  the  teaching 
of  languages  in  this  and  other 
countries. 

Based  on  a  new  but  perfectly  sound 
principle,  the  method  is  simplicity 
itself,  and  one  of  the  most  striking 
features  of  the  two  Courses  is  that 
each  is  written  entirely  in  the  parti- 
cular language  (French  or  Spanish) 
concerned.  There  is  not  an  English 
word  in  either  of  them  from  first  to 
last.  And  yet — so  ingenious  is  the 
method  employed — even  those  who  do 
not  know  either  French  or  Spanish  at 
all  can  study  these  Courses  with  ease 
and  read  the  lessons  without  a  mis- 


take and  without  "  looking  up  "  any 
words  in  a  French-English  or 
Spanish-English  Dictionary. 

It  follows  from  this  that  when  you 
learn  French  or  Spanish  by  this 
method  you  are  not  required  to  burden 
your  memory  with  the  task  of  learning 
by  heart  long  vocabularies  of  foreign 
words.  You  learn  these  words  by 
using  them  and  in  such  a  way  that 
you  never  forget  them,  and  by  the 
time  you  have  completed  the  Course 
you  will  be  able  to  read,  write,  or 
speak  French  or  Spanish  accurately, 
grammatically,  and  fluently,  and 
without  that  hesitation  which  conies ' 
when  a  Foreign  Language  is 
acquired,  as  it  usually,  but  wrongly 
is,  through  the  medium  of  English. 

The  process  of  learning  French  or 
Spanish  by  the  Pelman  method  is  an 
extremely  fascinating  one.  Gram- 
matical complexities  are  overcome, 
and  the  difficulty  of  teaching  Pronun- 
ciation by  correspondence  has  been 
surmounted  in  an  ingenious  way. 
Indeed,  so  simple  and  effective  is  the 
whole  method  that  it  enables  you  to 
acquire  a  thorough  practical  mastery 
of  either  language  in  quite  a  short 
time.  Apply  to-day  for  a  free  copy 
of  the  book  explaining  the  method 
(stating  which  language — French  or 
Spanish — particularly  interests  you) 
to  the  Pelman  Institute  (Modern 
Languages  Dept.),  61  Bloomsbury 
Mansions,  Hart  Street,  London, 
W.C.  1.  Call  or  write  to-day. 

9 


The  Gospel  in  many  Tongues 

SPECIMENS  OF  543  LANGUAGES  IN  WHICH 
THE  BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  BIBLE  SOCIETY 
HAS  PUBLISHED  OR  CIRCULATED  SOME 
PORTION  OF  THE  WORD  OF  GOD. 

NEW    AND    ENLARGED    EDITION. 

The  TIMES  LITERARY  SUPPLEMENT  writes  : 

"  As  a  chapter  of  literary  history  it  provides  a 
record  unique  and  amazing.  The  British 
and  Foreign  Bible  Society  undertook  in 
1804  the  task  of  circulating  the  Word  of 
God  throughout  the  world.  The  multitu- 
dinous scripts  and  languages  in  use  among 
civilized  and  uncivilized  people  might  well 
have  dismayed  those  who  embarked  on 
this  great  enterprise.  The  present  little 
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10 


THE 

COENHILL    MAGAZINE. 

EDITED  BY  LEONAED  HUXLEY. 

Published  Monthly,  price  Is    6d.  net.     Annual  Subscription,  20s.  6d.  post  free 

to  any  address  in  the  Postal  Union.     The  Annual  Subscription  to  Canada  and 

Newfoundland  is  20s.,  post  free. 


APEIL    1922. 


CONTENTS. 


PA(JE 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.    CHAPTEES  XI— XIV.    By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN  385 

OPEN   PATHS  :   PICTURES   OF   WILD   LIFE   IN   ENGLAND — I.     By 

E.  L.  GRANT  WATSON    ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  415 

DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS.     By  F.  W.  H.  BASEVI  ...  427 

THE  FIDDLER:  A  STORY  FROM  SCOTLAND.     By  VIOLET  JACOB  ...  442 

LITTLE   CAT:    A  POEM.     By  F.  S.  ...  464 

THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY.     By  BERNARD  DARWIN  467 

JONAH  :  AN  OLD  TALE  EE-TOLD.    By  SIR  ALFRED  HOPKINSON,  K.C.  477 

THE    SALESWOMAN  :    A    STORY    FOR    MOTORISTS.     By   DOUGLAS 

WALSHE 487 

LA    PAZ  :     A    SKETCH    FROM    THE    FORTUNATE     ISLANDS.      By 

LIEUT.-COL.  C.  P.  HAWKES      497 

THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA.     By  H.  EOWLAND-BROWN  503 


NOTICE  TO  CORRESPONDENTS. 

Communications  to  the  Editor  should  be  addressed  to  the  care  of  JOHN  MURRAY, 
50A  Albemarle  Street,  W.  1. 

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LONDON : 
JOHN  MUKEAY,50AALBBMAELE  STKEET,  W.  1. 


11 


BRITISH 
NEV  ZEAUWD 


1.  LONDON  and  MARSEILLES  to  Bombay,  Karachi  and  Persian  Gulf. 

2.  LONDON  to  COLOMBO,  Madras  and  Calcutta. 

3.  LONDON  and  MARSEILLES  to  Ceylon,  China,  Japan  and  Australia. 
4   LONDON  and  MARSEILLES  to  Port  Sudan,  East  &  South  Africa. 

5.  LONDON  and  QUEENSLAND  via  Torres  Straits. 

6.  LONDON  (cargo)  and  SOUTHAMPTON  (passengers)  to  New  Zealand, 

and  (by  transhipment,  passengers  only)  Australia,  via  Panama  Canal. 

7.  UNITED   KINGDOM    (by    any  Atlantic    Line)  via 

Vancouver    or    San    Francisco,   to    New    Zealand, 
Australia  and  the  South  Sea  Islands. 

8.  LONDON  (one  class  only,  third-class  rates)  to'Australia 

via  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

And,  by  the  Companies'  local  or  direct  Services,  to  all  the,  chief  ports 
of  the  Eastern  Hemisphere. 

ADDRESS: 

Hot.  I,  2,  3,  4  and  5— For  Passage,  P.  &  0.  House,  14-16,  Cockspur  Street, 
S.W.  1  ;    Freight  or   General    Business,   P.  &  0.   and   B.I.    Offices, 
122,  LeadenhaU  Street,  London,  E.C.  3. 
B.I.  Agentt :  QRAY,  DAWES  &  Co.,  122,  LeadenhaU  Street,  London,  E.  C.  3 

No.  6-J.  B.  Westray  &  Co.,  138,  LeadenhaU  Street, 
London,  E.C.  3,  or  P.  &  0.  House,  as  above. 

No.  7— Union  S.S.  Co.  of  New  Zealand,  P.  &  0.  House 
(1st  Floor),  14,  Cockspur  Street,  London,  S.W.  1, 
and,  for  Vancouver  Service,  any  Office  of 
Canadian  Pacific  Railway. 

No.  8— P.  &  0.  Branch  Line,  32,  Lime  Street,  London, 
E.C.  3,  or  P.  &  0.  House,  as  above. 

PARIS  (All Routes)— Societe Francaise P.dO., 
41,  Boulevard  des  Capucines^ 

Bound  tfoe\\£>rld  BusinessTours 


THE 

CORNHILL  MAGAZINE. 


APRIL  1922. 

OVINGTON'S  BANK. 
BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 
CHAPTER  XI. 

JOSINA  had  put  a  brave  face  on  the  matter,  but  when  the 
time  came  to  go  down  to  breakfast  on  the  Monday,  the  girl  was 
almost  sick  with  apprehension.  Her  hands  were  cold,  and  as 
she  sat  at  table  she  could  not  raise  her  eyes  from  her  plate.  The 
habit  of  years  is  not  to  be  overcome  in  an  hour,  and  that  which 
the  girl  had  to  face  was  beyond  doubt  formidable.  She  had 
passed  out  of  childhood,  but  in  that  house  she  was  still  a  child. 
She  was  expected  to  be  silent,  to  efface  herself  before  her  elders, 
to  have  no  views  but  their  views,  and  no  wishes  that  went  beyond 
theirs.  Her  daily  life  was  laid  out  for  her,  and  she  must  conform 
or  she  would  be  called  sharply  to  heel.  On  love  and  marriage 
she  must  have  no  mind  of  her  own,  but  must  think  as  her  father 
permitted.  If  he  chose  she  would  be  her  cousin's  wife,  if  he  did 
not  choose  the  two  would  be  parted.  She  could  guess  how  he 
would  treat  her  if  she  resisted  his  will,  or  even  his  whim,  in  that 
matter. 

And  now  she  must  resist  his  will  with  a  far  worse  case. 
Arthur  was  her  cousin.  But  Clement  ?  To  the  Squire  he  was 
nobody ;  she  was  not  supposed  even  to  know  him.  Yet  she 
must  own  him,  she  must  avow  her  love  for  him,  she  must  confess 
to  secret  meetings  with  him  and  stolen  interviews.  She  must 
be  prepared  for  looks  of  horror,  for  uplifted  hands  and  scandalised 
faces,  and  to  hear  shameful  things  said  of  him ;  to  hear  him 
spoken  of  as  an  upstart,  belonging  to  a  class  beneath  her,  a  person 
with  wHom  she  ought  never  to  have  come  in  contact,  one  whom 
her  father  would  not  think  of  admitting  to  his  table ! 

And  through  all,  she  who  was  so  weak,  so  timid,  so  subject, 
must  be  firm.  She  must  not  flinch. 

As  she  sat  at  table  she  was  conscious  of  her  pale  cheeks,  and 
trembled  lest  the  others  should  notice  them.  She  fancied  that 

VOL.  LIL — NO.  310,  N.S.  25 


386  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

her  father's  face  already  wore  an  ominous  gloom.  '  If  you've 
orders  for  town,'  he  flung  at  Miss  Peacock  as  he  rose,  '  you'll 
need  be  quick  with  them.  I'm  going  in  at  ten.' 

Miss  Peacock  was  all  of  a  flutter.  '  But  I  thought,  sir,  that 
the  Bench  did  not  sit  until ' 

'  You'd  best  not  think,'  he  retorted.     '  Ten,  I  said.' 

That  seemed  to  promise  a  blessed  respite,  and  the  colour  re- 
turned to  Josina's  cheeks.  Clement  could  hardly  arrive  before 
eleven,  and  for  this  day  she  might  be  safe.  But  on  the  heels  of 
relief  followed  reflection.  The  respite  meant  another  sleepless 
night,  another  day  of  apprehension,  more  hours  of  fear ;  the  girl 
was  glad  and  she  was  sorry.  The  spirit,  gallant  enough,  warred 
with  the  flesh.  She  did  not  know  what  she  wished. 

And,  after  all,  Clement  might  appear  before  ten.  She  watched 
the  clock  and  watched  her  father  and  in  returning  suspense  hung 
upon  his  movements.  How  he  lingered,  now  hunting  for  a  lost 
paper,  now  grumbling  over  a  seed-bill,  now  drawing  on  his  boots 
with  the  old  horn-handled  hooks  which  had  been  his  father's ! 
And  the  clock — -how  slowly  it  moved  !  It  wanted  eight,  it  wanted 
five,  it  wanted  two  minutes  of  ten.  The  hour  struck.  And  still 
the  Squire  loitered  outside,  talking  to  old  Fewtrell — when  at  any 
moment  Clement  might  ride  up  ! 

The  fact  was  that  Thomas  was  late,  and  the  Squire  was  saying 
what  he  thought  of  him.  *  Confound  him,  he  thinks,  because  he's 
going,  he  can  do  what  he  likes  ! '  he  fumed.  '  But  I'll  learn  him  ! 
Let  me  catch  him  in  the  village  a  week  after  he  leaves,  and 
I'll  jail  him  for  a  vagrant !  Such  impudence  as  he  gave  me  the 
other  day  I  never  heard  in  my  life !  He'll  go  wide  of  here  for 
a  character ! ' 

'  I  dunno  as  I'd  say  too  much  to  him,'  the  old  bailiff  advised. 
*  He's  a  queer  customer,  Squire,  as  you'd  ought  to  have  seen 
before  now ! ' 

'  He'll  find  me  a  queer  customer  if  he  starts  spouting  again ! 
Why,  damme,'  irritably,  '  one  might  almost  think  you  agreed 
with  him ! ' 

Old  Fewtrell  screwed  up  his  face.  '  No,'  he  said  slowly,  *  I'm 
not  saying  as  I  agree  with  him.  But  there's  summat  in  what  he 
says,  begging  your  pardon,  Squire.' 

'  Summat  ?  Why,  man/  in  astonishment,  '  are  you  tarred 
with  the  same  brush  ? ' 

'  You  know  me,  master,  better'n  that/  the  old  man  replied. 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  387 

*  An  I  bin  with  you  fifty  years  and  more.  But,  certain  sure, 
times  is  changed  and  we're  no  better  for  the  change.5 

'  But  you  get  as  much  ? ' 

'Mebbe  in  malt,  but  not  in  meal.  In  money,  mebbe— -  I'm 
not  saying  a  little  more,  master.  But  here's  where  'tis.  We'd 
the  common  before  the  war,  and  run  for  a  cow  and  geese,  and 
wood  for  the  picking,  and  if  a  lad  fancied  to  put  up  a  hut  on  the 
waste  'twas  five  shillings  a  year ;  and  a  rood  o'  potato  ground — 
it  wasn't  missed.  'Twas  neither  here  nor  there.  But  'tisn't 
so  now.  Where  be  the  common  ?  Well,  you  know,  Squire, 
laid  down  in  wheat  these  twenty  years,  and  if  a  lad  squatted 
now,  he'd  not  be  long  of  hearing  of  it.  We've  the  money,  but 
we're  not  so  well  off.  There's  where  't  is.' 

The  Squire  scowled.  *  Well,  I'm  d— d  ! '  he  said.  '  You've 
been  with  me  fifty  years,  and '  and  then  fortunately  or  un- 
fortunately the  curricle  came  round  and  the  Squire,  despising 
Fewtrell's  hint,  turned  his  wrath  upon  the  groom,  called  him  a 
lazy  scoundrel,  and  cursed  him  up  hill  and  down  dale. 

The  man  took  it  in  silence,  to  the  bailiff's  surprise,  but  his 
sullen  face  did  not  augur  well  for  the  day,  and  when  he  had  climbed 
to  the  back-seat — with  a  scramble  and  a  grazed  knee,  for  the 
Squire  started  the  horses  with  no  thought  for  him — he  shook  his 
fist  at  the  old  man's  back.  Fewtrell  saw  the  gesture,  and  felt  a 
vague  uneasiness,  for  he  had  heard  Thomas  say  ugly  things.  But 
then  the  man  had  been  in  liquor,  and  probably  he  didn't  mean 
them. 

The  Squire  rattled  the  horses  down  the  steep  drive  with  the 
confidence  of  one  who  had  done  the  same  thing  a  thousand  times. 
Turning  to  the  left  a  furlong  beyond  the  gate,  he  made  for  Garth- 
myle  where,  at  the  bridge,  he  fell  into  the  highway.  He  had 
driven  a  mile  along  this  when  he  saw  a  horseman  coming  along 
the  road  to  meet  him,  and  he  fell  to  wondering  who  it  was.  His 
sight  was  good  at  a  distance,  and  he  fancied  that  he  had  seen 
the  young  spark  before,  though  he  could  not  put  a  name  to  him. 
But  he  saw  that  he  rode  a  good  nag,  and  he  was  not  surprised 
when  the  other  reined  up  and,  raising  his  hat,  showed  that  he 
wished  to  speak. 

It  was  Clement,  of  course,  and  with  a  little  more  wisdom  or  a 
little  less  courage  he  would  not  have  stopped  the  old  man.  He 
would  have  seen  that  the  moment  was  not  propitious,  and  that 
his  business  could  hardly  be  done  on  the  highway.  But  in  his 


388  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

intense  eagerness  to  set  himself  right,  and  his  anxiety  lest  chance 
should  forestall  him,  he  dared  not  let  the  opportunity  pass,  and  his 
hand  was  raised  before  he  had  well  considered  what  he  would  say. 

The  Squire  pulled  up  his  horses.  *  D'you  want  me  ?  '  he 
asked,  civilly  enough. 

'  If  I  may  trouble  you,  sir,'  Clement  answered  as  bravely  as 
he  could.  '  It's  on  important  business,  or — -or  I  wouldn't  detain 
you.'  Already,  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  he  saw  the  difficulty  in 
which  he  had  placed  himself.  How  could  he  speak  before  the 
man  ?  Or  on  the  road  ? 

The  Squire  considered  him.  '  Business,  eh  ?  '  he  said. 
'  With  me  ?  Well,  I  know  your  face,  young  gentleman,  but  I 
can't  put  a  name  to  you.' 

'  I  am  Mr.  Ovington's  son,  Clement  Ovington,  sir.' 

All  the  Squire's  civility  left  him.  '  The  devil  you  are ! '  he 
exclaimed.  *  Well,  I'm  going  to  the  bank.  I  like  to  do  my 
business  on  the  spot.  Across  the  counter,  young  sir,  to  be  plain, 
and  not  in  the  road.' 

*  But    this    is    business — of    a    different    sort,    sir,'    Clement 
stammered,  painfully  aware  of  the  change  in  the  other's  tone, 
as  well  as  of  the  servant,  who  was  all  a-grin  behind  his  master's 
shoulder.     '  If  I  could  have  a  word  with  you — apart,  sir  ?     Or 
perhaps — if  I  called  at  Garth  to-morrow  ?  ' 

'  Why  ? ' 

'  It  is  upon  private  business,  Mr.  Griffin,'  Clement  explained, 
his  face  burning. 

'  Did  your  father  send  you  ?  ' 
'No.' 

*  Then  I  don't  see,'  the  Squire  replied,  scowling  at  him  from 
under  his  bushy  eyebrows,  *  what  business  you  can  have  with 
me.     There  can  be  none,  young  man,  that  can't  be  done  across 
the  counter.     It  is  only  upon  business  that  I  know  your  father, 
and  I  don't  know  you  at  all.    I  don't  know  why  you  stopped  me.' 

Clement  was  scarlet  with  mortification.  '  If  I-  could  see 
you  for  a  few  minutes — alone,  sir,  I  think  I  could  explain  what 
it  is.' 

'  You  will  see  me  at  the  bank  in  an  hour,'  the  old  man  re- 
torted. '  Anything  you  have  to  say  you  can  say  there.  As  it 
is,  I  am  going  to  close  my  account  with  your  father,  and  after 
that  the  less  I  hear  your  name  the  better  I  shall  be  pleased. 
At  present  you're  wasting  my  time.  I  don't  know  why  you 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  389 

stopped  me.  Good  morning.'  And  in  a  lower  tone,  but  one  that 
was  perfectly  audible  to  Clement,  '  D — d  young  counterskipper,' 
he  muttered,  as  he  started  the  horses.  *  Business  with  me,  indeed  ! 
Confound  his  impudence  ! ' 

He  drove  off  at  speed,  leaving  Clement  seated  on  his  horse  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  a  prey  to  feelings  that  may  be  imagined. 
He  had  indeed  made  a  bad  beginning,  and  his  humiliation  was 
complete. 

*  Young  counterskipper ! '  That  rankled — yet  in  time  he 
might  smile  at  that.  But  the  tone,  and  the  manner,  the  con- 
viction that  under  no  circumstances  could  there  be  anything 
between  them,  any  relations,  any  equality- — this  bit  deeper  and 
wounded  more  permanently.  The  Squire's  view,  that  he  ad- 
dressed one  of  another  class  and  another  grade,  one  with  whom 
he  could  have  no  more  in  common  than  with  the  servant  behind 
him,  could  not  have  been  made  more  plain  if  he  had  known  the 
object  of  the  lad's  application. 

If  he  had  known  it !  Good  heavens,  if  he  said  so  much  now, 
what  would  he  have  said  in  that  case  ?  Certainly,  the  task  which 
love  had  set  this  young  man  was  not  an  easy  one.  No  wonder 
Josina  had  been  frightened. 

He  had — he  had  certainly  made  a  mess  of  it.  His  ears  burned, 
as  he  sat  on  his  horse  and  recalled  the  other's  words. 

Meanwhile  the  Squire  drove  on,  and  with  the  air  and  move- 
ment he  recovered  his  temper.  As  he  drew  near  to  the  town  the 
market-traffic  increased,  and  sitting  high  on  his  seat  he  swept 
by  many  a  humble  gig  and  plodding  farm-cart,  and  acknowledged 
with  a  flicker  of  his  whip-hand  many  a  bared  head  and  hasty 
obeisance.  He  was  not  loved ;  men  who  are  bent  on  getting  a 
pennyworth  for  their  penny  are  not  loved.  But  he  was  respected 
and  feared,  and  known  to  be  just,  and  if  a  despot,  to  be  a  despot 
for  good  ends.  He  was  regardful  of  his  own  people  and  owned 
a  duty  to  them,  and  in  all  companies  he  was  fearless  and  could 
hold  his  own.  Men  did  not  love  him,  but  they  trusted  him, 
knowing  exactly  what  they  might  expect  from  him.  And  he 
was  Griffin  of  Garth,  one  of  the  few  in  whose  hands  were  all 
county  power  and  all  county  influence.  As  he  drove  down  the 
hill  toward  the  West  Bridge,  seeing  with  the  eye  of  memory  the 
airy  towers  and  lofty  gateways  of  the  older  bridge  that  had  once 
stood  there  and  for  centuries  had  bridled  the  wild  Welsh,  his 
bodily  eyes  noted  the  team  of  the  out-going  coach  which  he  had 


390  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

a  share  in  horsing.    And  the  coachman,  proudly  and  with  respect, 
named  him  to  the  box-seat. 

From  the  bridge  the  town,  girdled  by  the  shining  river,  climbs 
pyramid- wise  up  the  sides  of  a  cleft  hill,  an  ancient  castle  guard- 
ing the  one  narrow  pass  by  which  a  man  may  enter  it  on  foot. 
The  smiling  plain,  in  the  midst  of  which  it  rises,  is  itself  embraced 
at  a  distance  by  a  ring  of  hills,  broken  at  one  point  only,  which 
happens  to  correspond  with  the  guarded  isthmus;  on  which  side, 
and  some  four  miles  away,  was  fought  many  centuries  ago  a 
famous  battle.  It  is  a  proud  town,  looking  out  over  a  proud 
county,  a  county  still  based  on  ancient  tradition,  on  old  names 
and  great  estates,  standing  solid  and  four-square  against  the 
invasion  that  even  in  the  Squire's  day  threatened  it — the  invasion 
of  new  men  and  new  money,  of  Birmingham  and  Liverpool  and 
Manchester.  The  airy  streets  and  crowded  shuts — so  they  call 
their  alleys  in  Aldersbury — run  down  on  all  sides  from  the  Market 
Place  to  the  green  meadows  and  leafy  gardens  that  the  river  laps  : 
green  meadows  on  which  the  chapels  and  quiet  cloisters  of  religious 
houses  once  nestled  under  the  shelter  of  the  walls. 

The  Squire  could  remember  the  place  when  his  father  and 
his  like  had  had  their  town  houses  in  it,  and  in  winter  had  re- 
moved their  families  to  it ;  when  the  weekly  Assemblies  at  the 
Lion  had  been  gay  with  cards  and  dancing,  and  in  the  cockpit 
behind  the  inn  mains  of  cocks  had  been  fought  with  the  Gentle- 
men of  Cheshire  or  Staffordshire  ;  when  fine  ladies  with  long  canes 
and  red- heeled  shoes  had  promenaded  the  fields  beside  the  river, 
and  the  town  in  its  season  had  been  a  little  Bath.  Those  days, 
and  the  lumbering  coaches-and-six  which  had  brought  in  the 
families,  were  gone,  and  the  staple  of  the  town,  its  trade  in  woollens 
and  Welsh  flannels,  was  also  on  the  decline.  But  it  was  still  a 
thriving  place,  and  if  the  county  people  no  longer  filled  it  in 
winter,  their  stately  old  houses  survived,  and  older  houses  than 
theirs,  of  brick  and  timber,  quaint  and  gabled,  that  made  the 
street  a  joy  to  antiquaries. 

The  Squire  passed  by  many  a  one,  with  beetling  roof  and 
two-storied  porch,  as  he  drove  up  Maerdol.  His  first  and  most 
pressing  business  was  at  the  bank,  and  he  would  not  be  himself 
until  he  had  got  it  off  his  mind.  He  would  show  that  d — d  Oving- 
ton  what  he  thought  of  him  !  He  would  teach  him  a  lesson- 
luring  away  that  young  man  and  pouching  his  money.  Ay, 
begad  he  would ! 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  391 


CHAPTER  XII. 

BUT  as  the  Squire  turned  to  the  left  by  the  Stalls  he  saw  his 
lawyer,  Frederick  Welsh — rather  above  most   lawyers  were   the 
Welsh  brothers,  by-blows  it  was  said  of  a  great  house — and  Welsh 
stopped  him.     '  You're  wanted  at  the  Bench,  Squire,  if'you  please/ 
he  said.     *  His  lordship  is  there,  and  they  are  waiting  for  you.' 
'  But  it's  not  time — by  an  hour,  man  ! ' 
'  No,    but    it's    a  special    case,   and  will  take  all   day,  I'm 
afraid.    His  lordship  says  that  he  won't  begin  until  you  come. 

It's  that  case  of •'  the  lawyer  whispered  a  few  words.     '  And 

the  Chief  Constable  does  not  quite  trust — you  understand  ?     He's 
anxious  that  you  should  be  there.' 

The  Squire  resigned  himself,  '  Very  well,  I'll  come,'  he  said. 
He  could  go  to  the  bank  afterwards,  but  he  might  not  have 
complied  so  readily — lordship  or  no  lordship — if  his  vanity  had 
not  been  tickled.  The  Justices  of  that  day  bore  a  heavier  burden 
than  their  successors  —hodie  nominis  umbrae.  With  no  police 
force  they  had  themselves  to  take  the  initiative  in  the  detection 
as  well  as  in  the  punishment  of  crime.  Marked  men,  belonging 
to  a  privileged  class,  they  had  to  do  invidious  things  and  to  en- 
force obnoxious  laws.  They  represented  the  executive,  and  they 
shared  alike  its  odium  and  its  fearlessness.  For  hardly  anything 
is  more  remarkable  in  the  history  of  that  time  than  the  courage 
of  the  men  who  held  the  reins.  Unpopular,  assailed  by  sedition, 
undermined  by  conspiracy,  not  seldom  threatened  with  assassin- 
ation, and  pressed  upon  by  an  ever-growing  public  feeling,  the 
few  held  on  unblenching,  firm  in  the  belief  that  repression  was 
the  only  policy,  and  doubting  nothing  less  than  their  right  to  rule. 
They  dined  and  drank,  and  presented  a  smiling  face  to  the  world, 
but  great  and  small  they  ran  their  risks,  and  that  they  did  not 
go  unscathed,  the  fate  of  Perceval  and  of  Castlereagh,  the  collapse  of 
Liverpool,  and  the  shortened  lives  of  many  a  lesser  man  gave  proof. 
But  even  among  the  firm  there  are  degrees,  and  in  all  bodies 
it  is  on  the  shoulders  of  one  or  two  that  the  onus  falls.  Of  the 
one  or  two  in  Aldshire,  the  Squire  was  one.  My  lord  might  fill 
the  chair,  Sir  Charles  might  assent,  but  it  was  to  Griffin  that 
their  eyes  wandered  when  an  unpleasant  decision  had  to  be  taken 
or  the  public  showed  its  teeth.  And  the  old  man  knew  that  this 
was  so,  and  was  proud  of  it. 


392  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

To-day,  however,  as  he  watched  the  long  hand  move  round  the 
clock,  he  had  less  patience  than  usual.  Because  he  must  be  at 
the  bank  before  it  closed,  everything  seemed  to  work  against 
him.  The  witnesses  were  sullen,  the  evidence  dragged,  Acherley 
went  off  on  a  false  scent,  and  being  whipped  back,  turned  crusty. 
The  Squire  fidgeted  and  scowled,  and  then,  twenty  minutes  before 
the  bank  closed,  and  when  with  his  eyes  on  the  clock  he  was 
growing  desperate,  the  chairman  suggested  that  they  should 
break  off  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  '  Confound  me,  if  I  can  sit 
any  longer,'  he  said.  '  I  must  have  a  mouthful  of  something, 
Griffin.' 

The  Squire  seldom  took  more  than  a  hunch  of  bread  at  mid- 
day and  could  do  without  that,  but  he  was  glad  to  agree,  and 
a  minute  later  he  was  crossing  the  Market  Place  towards  the  bank. 
It  happened  that  business  was  brisk  there  at  the  moment.  Rodd, 
at  a  side  desk,  was  showing  a  customer  how  to  draw  a  cheque. 
At  the  main  counter  a  knot  of  burly  farmers  were  producing,  with 
protruding  tongues  and  hunched  shoulders,  something  which 
might  pass  for  a  signature.  Two  clerks  were  aiding  them,  and 
for  a  moment  the  Squire  stood  unseen  and  unregarded.  Im- 
patiently he  tapped  the  counter  with  his  stick,  on  which  Rodd 
saw  him,  and,  deserting  his  task,  came  hurriedly  to  him. 

The  Squire  thrust  his  cheque  across  the  counter.  '  In  gold,' 
he  said. 

The  cashier  scanned  the  cheque,  his  hand  in  the  till.  '  Four, 
seven,  six-ten/  he  murmured.  Then  his  face  grew  serious,  and 
without  glancing  at  the  Squire  he  consulted  a  book  which  lay 
beside  him.  '  Four,  seven,  six-ten,'  he  repeated.  '  I  am  afraid — 
one  moment,  if  you  please,  sir ! '  and  breaking  off  he  made  two 
steps  to  a  door  behind  him  and  disappeared  through  it. 

He  returned  a  moment  later,  followed  by  Ovington  himself. 
The  banker's  face  was  grave,  but  his  tone  retained  its  usual  bland- 
ness.  '  Good  day,  Mr.  Griffin,'  he  said.  '  You  are  drawing 
the  whole  of  your  balance,  I  see.  I  trust  that  that  does  not  mean 
that  you  are — making  any  change  ?  ' 

'  That  is  what  it  does  mean,  sir,'  the  Squire  answered. 

'  Of  course,  it  is  entirely  your  affair ' 

'  Entirely.' 

'  But  we  are  most  anxious  to  accommodate  you.  If  there  is 
anything  that  we  can  put  right,  any  cause  of  dissatisfaction ' 

'  No,'  said  the  Squire  grimly.     *  There  is  nothing  that  you 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  393 

can  put  right.  It  is  only  that  I  don't  choose  to  do  business  with 
my  family.' 

The  banker  bowed  with  dignity.  The  incident  was  not  alto- 
gether unexpected.  *  With  most  people,  a  connection  of  the  kind 
would  be  in  our  favour.' 

'  Not  with  me.    And  as  my  tune  is  short ' 

The  banker  bowed.  '  In  gold,  I  think  ?  May  we  not  send  it 
for  you  ?  It  will  be  no  trouble.' 

1  No,  I  thank  you,'  the  Squire  grunted,  hating  the  other  for 
his  courtesy.  *  I  will  take  it,  if  you  please.' 

'  Put  it  in  a  strong  bag,  Mr.  Rodd,'  Ovington  said.  '  I  shall 
still  "hope,  Mr.  Griffin,  that  you  will  think  better  of  it.'  And, 
bowing,  he  wished  the  Squire  '  Good  day,'  and  retired. 

Rodd  was  a  first-class  cashier,  but  he  felt  the  Squire's  eyes 
boring  into  him,  and  he  was  twice  as  long  in  counting  out  the 
gold  as  he  should  have  been.  The  consequence  was  that  when 
the  Squire  left  the  bank,  the  hour  had  struck,  Dean's  was  closed, 
and  the  Bench  was  waiting  for  him.  He  paused  on  the  steps 
considering  what  he  should  do.  He  could  not  leave  so  large  a 
sum  unguarded  in  the  Justices'  room,  nor  could  he  conveniently 
take  it  with  him  into  the  Court. 

At  that  moment  his  eyes  fell  on  Purslow,  the  draper,  who 
was  standing  at  the  door  of  his  shop,  and  he  crossed  over  to  him. 

*  Here,  man,  put  this  in  your  safe  and  turn  the  key  on  it,'  he  said. 

*  I  shall  call  for  it  in  an  hour  or  two.' 

'  Honoured,  I  am  sure,'  said  the  gratified  tradesman,  as  he 
took  the  bag.  But  when  he  felt  its  weight  and  guessed  what 
was  in  it,  '  Excuse  me,  sir.  Hadn't  you  better  seal  it,  sir  ?  ' 
he  said.  '  It  seems  to  be  a  large  sum.' 

'  No  need.  I  shall  call  for  it  in  an  hour.  Lock  it  up  yourself, 
Purslow.  That's  all.' 

'  You  may  consider  it  done,  sir,'  Purslow  assured  him,  as 
pleased  as  if  the  Squire  had  given  him  a  large  order.  The 
terms  in  which  he  would  tell  the  story  at  the  Gullet  that  evening 
already  rose  to  his  mind. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  man  stalked  across  to  the  court,  where 
business  kept  him,  fidgeting  and  impatient,  until  hard  on  seven. 
Nor  did  he  get  away  then  without  unpleasantness. 

For  unluckily  Acherley,  who  had  been  charged  to  approach 
him  about  the  Railroad,  had  been  snubbed  in  the  course  of  the 
day.  Always  an  ill-humoured  man,  he  saw  his  way  to  pay  the 


394  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

Squire  out,  and  chose  this  moment  to  broach  the  subject.      He 
did  so  with  as  little  tact  as  temper. 

'  Ton  my  honour,  Griffin,  you  know — about  this  Railroad/ 
he  said,  tackling  the  old  man  abruptly,  as  they  were  putting  on 
their  coats.  'You  really  must  open  your  eyes,  man,  and  move 
with  the  times.  The  devil's  in  it  if  we  can  stand  still  always. 
You  might  as  well  go  back  to  your  old  tie-wig,  you  know.  You 
are  blocking  the  way,  and  if  you  won't  think  of  your  own 
interests,  you  ought  to  think  of  the  town.  I  can  tell  you/ 
bluntly,  '  you  are  making  yourself  d — d  unpopular  there.' 

Very  seldom  of  late  had  anyone  spoken  to  the  Squire  in  that 
tone,  and  his  temper  was  up  in  a  minute.  '  Unpopular  ?  I 
don't  understand  you/  he  snapped. 

'  Well,  you  ought  to  ! ' 

'  Unpopular  ?  What's  that  ?  Unpopular,  sir !  What  the 
devil  have  we  in  this  room  to  do  with  popularity  ?  I  make  my 
horse  go  my  way,  I  don't  go  his,  nor  ask  if  he  likes  it.  Damn 
your  popularity ! ' 

Acherley  had  his  answer  on  his  tongue,  but  Woosenham  inter- 
posed. '  But,  after  all,  Griffin/  he  said  mildly,  '  we  must  move 
with  the  times — even  if  we  don't  give  way  to  the  crowd.  There's 
no  man  whose  opinion  I  value  more  than  yours,  as  you  know, 
but ' 

'  Think  less  of  the  opinions  of  others — and  stand  by  your  own, 
man ! ' 

'  Oh,  come,  my  friend !     You  do  me  an  injustice/ 

c  An  injustice  ? '  the  Squire  sneered.  '  Not  I !  The  fact  is, 
Woosenham,  you  are  letting  others  use  you  for  a  stalking  horse. 
Some  are  fools,  and  some — I  leave  you  to  put  a  name  to  them  ! 
If  you'd  give  two  thoughts  to  this  Railroad  yourself,  you'd  see 
that  you  have  nothing  to  gain  by  it,  except  money  that  you  can 
do  without !  While  you  stand  to  lose  more  than  money,  and 
that's — your  good  name  ! ' 

Sir  Charles  changed  colour.  '  My  good  name  ? '  he  said, 
bristling  feebly.  '  I  don't  understand  you,  Griffin/ 

One  of  the  others,  seeing  a  quarrel  in  prospect,  intervened. 
'  There,  there/  he  said,  hoping  to  pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters. 
'  Griffin  doesn't  mean  it,  Woosenham.  He  doesn't  mean ' 

*  But  I  do  mean  it/  the  old  man  insisted.  *  I  mean  every 
word  of  it.'  He  felt  that  the  general  sense  was  against  him, 
but  that  was  nothing  to  him.  Wasn't  he  the  oldest  present,  and 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  395 

wasn't  it  his  duty  to  stop  this  folly  if  he  could  ?  *  I  tell  you 
plainly,  Woosenham,'  he  continued,  '  it  isn't  only  your  affair, 
if  you  lend  your  name  to  this  business.  You  take  it  up,  and  a 
lot  of  fools  who  know  nothing  about  it,  who  know  less,  by  G — d, 
than  you  do,  will  take  it  up  too !  And  will  put  their  money  in 
it  and  go  daundering  up  and  down  quoting  you  as  if  you  were 
Solomon  !  And  that  tickles  you !  But  what  will  they  say  of 
you  if  the  affair  turns  out  to  be  a  swindle — another  South  Sea 
Bubble,  by  G — d !  And  half  the  town  and  half  the  country  are 
ruined  by  it !  Eh,'  bending  his  angry  brow  on  the  offender. 
*  What'll  they  say  of  you  then— and  of  us  ? ' 

Acherley  could  be  silent  no  longer.  *  Nobody's"*going  to  be 
ruined  by  it ! '  he  cried  angrily — he  saw  that  Sir  Charles  looked 
much  disturbed.  *  Nobody !  If  you  ask  me,  I  think  what 
you're  saying  is  d — d  nonsense/ 

'  It  may  be,'  the  Squire  said  sternly.  *  But  just  another 
word,  please.  I  want  you  to  understand,  Woosenham,  that 
this  is  not  your  affair  only.  It  touches  every  one  of  us. 
What  are  we  in  this  room  ?  If  we  are  those  to  whom  the 
administration  of  this  county  is  entrusted,  let  us  act  as  such — 
and  keep  our  hands  clean.  But  if  we  are  a  set  of  money-changers 
and  bill-mongers,'  with  contempt,  '  stalking  horses  for  such  men 
as  Ovington  the  banker,  dirtying  our  hands  with  all  the 
tricks  of  the  money  market — that's  another  matter.  But  I 
warn  you — you  can't  be  both.  And  for  my  part— we  don't 
any  longer  wear  swords  to  show  we  are  gentlemen,  as  I  did 
when  I  was  young — but  I'm  hanged  if  I'll  wear  an  apron  or 
have  anything  to  do  with  this  business.  A  railroad  ?  Faugh ! 
As  if  horses'  legs  and  Telford's  roads  aren't  good  enough  for  us, 
or  as  if  tea-kettles  will  ever  beat  the  Wonder  coach  to  London.' 

Acherley  had  been  restrained  with  difficulty,  and  he  now 
broke  loose.  *  Griffin,'  he  cried,  '  you're  damned  offensive ! 
Yes,  sir,  you  are  !  If  you  wore  a  sword  as  you  used  to ' 

'  Pooh !  Pooh ! '  said  the  Squire  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
contemptuously,  while  Sir  Charles,  terribly  put  out  both  by  the 
violence  of  the  scene  and  by  the  picture  which  the  Squire  had 
drawn,  put  in  a  feeble  protest.  '  I  must  say,'  he  said,  *  I  think 
this  uncalled  for,  Griffin,  I  do  indeed.  I  think  you  might  have 
spared  us  this.  You  may  not  agree  with  us ' 

'  But  damme  if  he  shall  insult  us ! '  Acherley  cried,  trembling 
with  passion. 


396  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

'  Pooh,  pooh  !  '  said  the  Squire  again.  c  I'm  an  old  man, 
and  it  is  useless  to  talk  to  me  in  that  strain.  I've  spoken  my 
mind  and  the  plain  truth,  and — - — ' 

*  Ay,  and  you  horse  two  of  the  coaches  ! '  Acherley  retorted. 
'  And  make  a  profit  by  that,  dirty  or  no  !     But  where'd  your 
profit  be,  dirty  or  clean,  if  your  father  who  rode  post  to  London 
had  stood  pat  where  he  was  ?     And  set  himself  against  coaches 
as  you  set  yourself  against  the  railroad  ?  ' 

That  was  a  shrewd  hit  and  the  Squire  did  not  meet  it.  Instead, 
1  Well,  right  or  wrong/  he  said,  '  that's  my  opinion.  And  right 
or  wrong,  no  railroad  crosses  my  land,  and  that's  my  last 
word ! ' 

*  We'll  see  about  that,'  Acherley  answered,  bubbling  with  rage. 
'  There  are  more  ways  than  one  of  cooking  a  goose.' 

'  Just  so.  But ,'  with  a  steady  look  at  him,  '  which  is  the 

cook  and  which  is  the  goose,  Acherley  ?  Perhaps  you'll  find  that 
out  some  day.'  And  the  Squire  clapped  on  his  hat — he  had 
already  put  on  his  shabby  old  driving  coat.  But  he  had  still  a 
word  to  say.  '  I'm  the  oldest  man  here,'  he  said,  looking  round 
upon  them,  '  and  I  may  take  a  liberty  and  ask  no  man's  pleasure. 
You,  Woosenham,  and  you  gentlemen,  let  this  railroad  alone. 
If  you  are  going  to  move,  as  you  say,  at  twenty-five  miles  an 
hour,  then,  depend  upon  it,  more  things  will  move  than  you  wot 
of,  and  more  than  you'll  like.  Ay,  you'll  have  movement- 
movement  enough  and  changes  enough  if  you  go  on !  So  I  say, 
leave  it  alone,  gentlemen.  That's  my  advice.' 

He  went  out  with  that  and  stamped  down  the  stairs.  He 
had  not  sought  the  encounter,  and,  now  that  he  was  alone,  his 
knees  shook  a  little  under  him.  But  he  had  held  his  own  and 
spoken  his  mind — d — n  that  puppy,  Acherley !  He  shouldn't 
dictate  to  him  ! — and  on  the  whole  he  was  content  with  himself. 

The  same  could  not  be  said  of  those  whom  he  had  warned. 
Acherley,  indeed,  abused  him  freely,  and  one  or  two  joined  in,  but 
the  majority  were  impressed,  and  Sir  Charles,  who  respected  his 
opinion,  was  much  shaken.  He  put  no  trust  in  Acherley,  whose 
debts  and  difficulties  were  known,  and  Ovington  was  not  there 
to  reassure  him.  He  valued  the  good  opinion  of  his  world,  and 
what,  he  reflected,  if  the  Squire  were  right  ?  What  if  in  going 
into  this  scheme  he  had  made  a  mistake  ?  The  picture  that 
Griffin  had  drawn  of  town  and  country  pointing  the  finger  at  him 
rose  like  a  nightmare  before  him,  and  would,  he  knew,  accompany 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  397 

him  home  and  darken  his  dinner- table.  And  Ovington  ?  Ovington 
was  doubtless  a  clever  man  and,  as  a  banker,  well  versed  in  these 
enterprises.  But  Fauntleroy — Fauntleroy,  with  whose  name 
the  world  had  rung  these  twelve  months  past,  had  been  all  these, 
clever  and  enterprising  and  plausible.  Yet  what  a  fate  had  been 
his,  and  what  losses  had  befallen  all  who  had  trusted  him,  all  who 
had  been  involved  with  him ! 

Sir  Charles  went  home  an  unhappy  man.  He  wished  that 
Griffin  had  not  warned  him,  or  that  he  had  warned  him  earlier. 
Of  what  use  was  a  warning  when  his  lot  was  cast  and  he  was  the 
head  and  front  of  the  matter,  President  of  the  Company,  Chair- 
man of  the  Board  ? 

Meanwhile  the  Squire  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  Court  House, 
cursing  his  man.  The  curricle  was  not  there,  Thomas  was  not 
there,  it  was  growing  dark,  and  a  huge  pile  of  clouds,  looming 
above  the  roofs  to  westward,  threatened  tempest.  The  shop- 
keepers were  putting  up  their  shutters,  the  packmen  binding  up 
their  bundles,  stall-keepers  hurrying  away  their  trestles,  and  the 
Market  Place,  strewn  with  the  rubbish  and  debris  of  the  day, 
showed  dreary  by  the  failing  light.  In  the  High  Street  there 
was  still  some  traffic,  and  in  the  lanes  and  alleys  around  candles 
began  to  shine  out.  A  one-legged  sailor,  caterwauling  on  a  crazy 
fiddle,  had  gathered  a  small  crowd  before  one  of  the  taverns. 

*  Hang  the  man !  Where  is  he  ? '  the  Squire  muttered,  look- 
ing about  him  with  a  disgusted  eye,  and  wishing  himself  at  home. 
'  Where  is  the  rogue  ? ' 

Then  Thomas,  driving  slowly  and  orating  to  a  couple  of  men 
who  walked  beside  the  carriage,  came  into  view.  The  Squire 
roared  at  him,  and  Thomas,  taken  by  surprise,  whipped  up  his 
horses  so  sharply  that  he  knocked  over  a  hawker's  basket.  Still 
storming  at  him  the  old  man  climbed  to  his  seat  and  took  the 
reins.  He  drove  round  the  corner  into  Bride  Hill,  and  stopped 
at  Purslow's  door. 

The  draper  was  at  the  carriage  wheel  before  it  stopped.  He 
had  the  bag  in  his  hand,  but  he  did  not  at  once  hand  it  up. 
'  Excuse  me,  excuse  the  liberty,  sir,'  he  said,  lowering  his  voice 
and  glancing  at  Thomas,  '  but  it's  a  large  sum,  sir,  and  it's  late. 
Hadn't  I  better  keep  it  till  morning  ? ' 

The  Squire  snapped  at  him.  '  Morning  ?  Rubbish,  man ! 
Put  it  in.'  He  made  room  for  the  bag  at  his  feet. 

But  the  draper  still  hesitated.     '  It  will  be  dark  in  ten  minutes, 


398  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

sir,  and  the  road — it's  true,  no  one  has  been  stopped  of  late, 
but ' 

*  I've  never  been  stopped  in  my  life,'  the  Squire  rejoined. 
'  Put  it  in,  man  and  don't  be  a  fool.  Who's  to  stop  me  between 
here  and  Garth  ? ' 

Purslow  muttered  something  about  the  safe  side,  but  he  com- 
plied. He  handed  in  the  bag,  which  gave  out  a  clinking  sound 
as  it  settled  itself  beside  the  Squire's  feet.  The  old  man  nodded 
his  thanks  and  started  his  horses. 

He  drove  down  Bride  Hill,  and  by  the  Stalls,  where  the  taps 
were  humming,  and  the  inns  were  doing  a  great  business,  their 
lights  twinkling  through  the  leaded  panes  of  the  low  windows. 
Passing  one  or  two  belated  carts,  he  turned  to  the  right  and  de- 
scended to  the  bridge,  the  old  houses  with  their  galleries  and 
gables  looming  above  him  as  for  three  centuries  they  had  loomed 
above  the  traveller  by  the  Welsh  road.  He  rumbled  over  the 
bridge,  the  wide  river  flowing  dark  and  silent  below  him.  Then 
he  trotted  sharply  up  Westwell,  passing  by  the  inns  that  in  old 
days  had  served  those  who  arrived  after  the  gates  were  closed. 

Now  he  faced  the  open  country  and  the  wet  west  wind,  and 
he  settled  himself  down  in  his  seat  and  shook  up  his  horses.  As 
he  did  so  his  foot  touched  the  bag,  and  again  the  gold  gave  out 
a  clinking  sound. 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 

THE  Squire  in  his  inmost  heart  had  not  derived  much  satis- 
faction from  his  visit  to  the  bank.  He  had  left  the  place  with 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  the  step  he  had  taken  had  not  produced 
the  intended  effect.  Ovington  had  accepted  the  loss  of  his  custom, 
not  indeed  with  indifference,  but  with  dignity,  and  in  a  manner 
which  left  the  old  man  little  upon  which  to  plume  himself.  The 
withdrawal  of  his  custom  wore  in  the  retrospect  too  much  of  the 
look  of  spite,  and  he  came  very  near  to  regretting  it,  as  he  drove 
along. 

Had  he  been  present  at  an  interview  which  took  place  after 
he  had  retired,  he  might  have  been  better  pleased.  The  banker 
had  not  been  many  minutes  in  the  parlour,  chewing  the  cud  of 
the  affair,  before  he  was  interrupted  by  his  cashier.  In  itself 
there  was  nothing  unusual  in  this ;  routine  required  Rodd's 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  399 

presence  in  the  parlour  several  times  in  the  day.  But  his  manner 
on  the  present  occasion,  his  look,  and  the  way  in  which  he  closed 
the  door,  prepared  Ovington  for  something  unusual,  and  '  What 
is  it,  Rodd  ?  '  he  asked,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  disposing 
himself  to  listen. 

*  Can  I  have  a  word  with  you,  sir  ?  ' 

'  Certainly.'  The  banker's  face  told  nothing.  Rodd's  was 
that  of  a  man  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  a  plunge.  *  What 
is  it  ? ' 

'  I  have  been  wishing  to  speak  for  some  time,  sir,'  Rodd 
faltered.  *  This '  Ovington  understood  at  once  that  he  re- 
ferred to  the  Squire's  matter — '  I  must  say  I  don't  like  it,  sir. 
I  have  been  with  you  ten  years,  and  I  feel — I  ought  to  speak.' 
Ovington  shrugged  his  shoulders.  '  I  don't  like  it  either,' 
he  said.  '  But  it  is  of  less  importance  than  you  think,  Rodd. 
I  know  why  Mr.  Griffin  did  it.  And  we  are  not  now  where  we 
were.  The  withdrawal  of  a  few  hundreds  and  the  loss  of  a  cus- 
tomer  '  again  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'  No,'  Rodd  said  gravely.     '  If  nothing  more  follows,  sir.' 
'  Why  should  anything  follow  ?     I  know  his  reasons.' 
'  But  the  town  doesn't.    And  if  it  gets  about,  sir  ? ' 
'  It  won't  do  us  much  damage.    We've  lost  customers  before, 
yet  always  gained  more  than  we  lost.    But  there,  Rodd,  that  is 
not  what  you  came  in  to  say.      What  is  it  ?  '    He  spoke  lightly, 
but  he  felt  more  surprise  than  he  showed.    Rodd  was  a  model 
cashier,  performing  his  duties  in  a  precise,  plodding  fashion  that 
had  often  excited  Arthur's  ridicule ;    but  hitherto  he  had  never 
ventured  an  opinion  on  the  policy  of  the  bank,  nor  betrayed  the 
least  curiosity  respecting  its  secrets.     '  What  is  it  ? '  Ovington 
repeated.     '  What  has  frightened  you,  man  ? ' 

*  We've  a  lot  of  notes  out,  sir ! ' 

The  banker  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  glasses  he  held  in  his 
hand.  '  True,'  he  said.  *  Quite  true.  But  trade  is  brisk,  and 
the  demand  for  credit  is  large.  We  must  meet  the  demand, 
Rodd,  as  far  as  we  can— with  safety.  That's  our  business.' 

'  And  we've  a  lot  of  money  out — that  could  not  be  got  in  in 
a  hurry,  sir.' 

'  Yes,'  the  banker  admitted,  '  but  that  is  our  business,  too. 
If  we  did  not  put  our  money  out  we  might  close  the  bank  to- 
morrow. That  much  of  the  money  cannot  be  got  in  at  a  minute's 
.notice  is  a  thing  we  cannot  avoid.' 


400  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

The  perspiration  stood  on  Rodd's  forehead,  but  he  persisted. 
*  If  it  were  all  on  bills,  sir,  I  would  not  say  a  word.  But  there  is 
a  lot  on  overdraft/ 

'Well  secured.' 

'  While  things  are  up.  But  if  things  went  down,  sir  ?  There's 
Wolley's  account.  I  suspect  that  the  last  bills  we  discounted 
for  him  were  accommodation.  Indeed,  I  am  pretty  sure  of  it. 
And  his  overdraft  is  heavy.5 

'  We  hold  the  lease  of  his  mill.' 

'  But  you  don't  want  to  run  the  mill !  '  Rodd  replied,  putting 
his  finger  on  the  weak  point. 

The  banker  reflected.  '  That's  the  worst  account  we  have. 
The  worst,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

*  Mr.  Acherley's,  sir.' 

'Well,  yes.  There  might  be  a  sounder  account  than  that. 
But  what  is  it  ? '  He  looked  directly  at  the  other.  '  I  want  to 
know  what  has  opened  your  mouth  ?  Have  you  heard  anything  ? 
What  makes  you  think  that  things  may  be  going  down  ?  ' 

'Mr.  Griffin ' 

'  No/  The  banker  shook  his  head.  '  That  won't  do,  Rodd. 
You  had  this  in  your  mind  before  he  came  in.  You  are  pat  with 
Wolley  and  Mr.  Acherley ;  bad  accounts  both,  as  all  banks  have 
bad  accounts  here  and  there.  But  it's  true — we've  been  giving 
our  customers  rope,  and  they  have  bought  things  that  may  fall. 
Still,  they've  made  money,  a  good  deal  of  money ;  and  we've 
kept  a  fair  margin  and  obliged  them  at  the  same  time.  All 
legitimate  business.  There  must  be  something  in  your  mind 
besides  this,  I'm  sure.  What  is  it,  lad  ?  ' 

The  cashier  turned  a  dull  red,  but  before  he  could  answer 
the  door  behind  him  opened,  and  Arthur  came  in.  He  looked  at 
the  banker,  and  from  him  to  Rodd,  and  his  suspicions  were 
aroused.  '  It's  four  o'clock,  sir/  he  said,  and  looked  again  at 
Rodd  as  if  to  ask  what  he  was  doing  there. 

But  Rodd  held  his  ground,  and  the  banker  explained. 

*  Rodd  is  a  little  alarmed  for  us,'  he  said — -it  was  difficult  to 
be  sure  whether  he  spoke  in  jest  or  in  earnest.     '  He  thinks  we're 
going  too  fast.    Putting  our  hand  out  too  far.     He  mentions 
Wolley's  account,  and  Acherley's.' 

'  I  was  speaking  generally,'  Rodd  muttered.     He  looked  sullen. 
Arthur  shrugged  his  shoulders.     '  I  stand  corrected,'  he  said. 
I    didn't  know  that  Rodd  ever  went  beyond  his  ledgers.' 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  401 

'  Oh.  lie's  quite  right  to  speak  his  mind.  We  are  all  in  the 
same  boat — though  we  do  not  all  steer.' 

*  Well,  I'm  glad  of  that,  sir,'  contemptuously. 

*  Still — it  is  a  good  thing  to  have  an  opinion/ 
'  If  it  be  worth  anything.' 

'  If  opinions  are  going •'  Betty  had  opened  the  door  behind 

the  banker's  chair,  and  was  standing  on  the  threshold — '  wouldn't 
you  like  to  have  mine,  father  ?  ' 

'To  be  sure,'  Arthur  said.  'Why  not,  indeed?  Let  us  have 
it.  Why  not  have  everybody's  ?  And  send  for  the  cook,  sir, 
and  the  two  clerks — to  advise  us  ?  ' 

Betty  dropped  a  curtsy.     '  Thank  you,  I  am  flattered.' 

'  Betty,  you've  no  business  here,'  her  father  said.  *  You 
mustn't  stop  unless  you  can  keep  your  opinions  to  yourself.' 

'  But  what  has  happened  ?  '  she  asked,  looking  round. 

'  Mr.  Griffin  has  withdrawn  his  account.' 

'  And  Rodd  thinks  that  we  had  better  put  up  the  shutters  !  ' 
Arthur  added,  with  more  heat  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  demand. 

*  No,  no,'  the  banker  said.     '  We  must  do  him  justice.    He 
thinks  that  we  are  going  a  little  too  far,  that's  all.    And  that 
the  loss  of  Mr.  Griffin's  account  is  a  danger  signal.    That's  what 
you  mean,  man,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

Rodd  nodded,  his  face  stubborn.  He  stood  alone,  divided 
from  the  other  three  by  the  table,  for  Arthur  had  passed  round  it 
and  placed  himself  at  Ovington's  elbow. 

'  His  view,'  the  banker  continued,  polishing  his  glasses  with 
his  handkerchief  and  looking  thoughtfully  at  them,  '  is  that  if 
there  came  a  check  in  trade  and  a  fall  in  values,  the  bank  might 
find  its  resources  strained — I'll  put  it  that  way.' 

Arthur  sneered.  '  Singular  wisdom  !  But  a  fall — a  serious 
fall  at  any  rate — what  sign  is  there  of  it  ?  '  He  was  provoked  by 
the  banker's  way  of  taking  it.  Ovington  seemed  to  be  attaching 
absurd  weight  to  Rodd's  suggestion.  *  None  ! '  contemptuously. 
'  Not  a  jot.' 

'  There's  been  a  universal  rise,'  Rodd  muttered. 

'  In  a  moment  ?     Without  warning  ?  ' 

'No,  but—' 

*  But  fiddlesticks ! '  Arthur  retorted.     Of  late  it  seemed  as 
if  his  good  humour  had  deserted  him,  and  this  was  not  the  first 
sign  he  had  given  of  an  uncertain  temper.    Still,  the  phase  was 
so  new  that  two  of  those  present  looked  curiously  at  him,  and 

VOL.  LH. — NO.  310,  N.S.  26 


402  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

his  consciousness  of  this  added  to  his  irritation.  '  Rodd's  no 
better  than  an  old  woman,'  he  continued.  '  Five  per  cent,  and  a 
mortgage  in  a  strong  box  is  about  his  measure.  If  you  are  going 
to  listen  to  every  croaker  who  is  frightened  by  a  shadow,  you 
might  as  well  close  the  bank,  sir,  and  put  the  money  out  on  Rodd's 
terms  ! ' 

'  Still  Rodd  means  us  well,'  the  banker  said  thoughtfully, 
'and  a  little  caution  is  never  out  of  place  in  a  bank.  What  I 
want  to  get  from  him  is — has  he  anything  definite  to  tell  us  ? 
Wolley  ?  Have  you  heard  anything  about  Wolley,  Rodd  ?  ' 

'No,  sir.' 

'  Then  what  is  it  ?     What  is  it,  man  ? ' 

But  Rodd,  brought  to  bay,  only  looked  more  stubborn.  '  It's 
no  more  than  I've  told  you,  sir,'  he  muttered,  '  it's  just  a  feeling. 
Things  must  come  down  some  day.' 

'  Oh,  damn !  '  Arthur  exclaimed,  out  of  patience,  and  think- 
ing that  the  banker  was  making  altogether  too  much  of  it — and 
of  Rodd.  '  If  he  were  a  weather-glass — — ' 

'  Or  a  woman  ! '  interjected  Betty,  who  was  observing  all  with 
bright  inscrutable  eyes. 

'  But  as  he  isn't  either,'  Arthur  continued  impatiently,  '  I 
fail  to  see  why  you  make  so  much  of  it !  Of  course,  things  will 
come  down  some  day,  but  if  he  thinks  that  with  your  experience 
you  are  blind  to  anything  he  is  likely  to  see,  he's  no  better  than 
a  fool !  Because  my  uncle,  for  reasons  which  you  understand, 
sir,  has  drawn  out  four  hundred  pounds,  he  thinks  every  customer 
is  going  to  leave  us,  and  Ovington's  must  put  up  the  shutters  ! 
The  truth  is,  he  knows  nothing  about  it,  and  if  he  wishes  to  damage 
the  bank  he  is  going  the  right  way  to  do  it ! ' 

'  Would  you  like  my  opinion,  father  ? '  Betty  asked. 

'  No,  certainly  not,  child.    Where's  Clement  ? ' 

'  Well,  I'm  afraid  he's  away.' 

'  Again  ?     Then  he  is  behaving  very  badly  ! ' 

'  That  was  the  opinion  I  was  going  to  give,'  the  girl 
answered.  '  That  some  were  behaving  better  than  others.' 

'  If,'  Arthur  cried,  '  you  mean  me ' 

'  There,  enough,'  said  her  father.  '  Be  silent,  Betty.  You've 
no  business  to  be  here.' 

'  Still,  people  should  behave  themselves,'  she  replied,  her  eyes 
sparkling. 

Arthur  had  his  answer  ready,  but  Ovington  forestalled  him. 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  403 

'  Very  good,  Rodd,'  he  said.  '  A  word  on  the  side  of  caution  is 
never  out  of  place  in  a  bank.  But  I  am  not  blind,  and  all  that 
you  have  told  me  is  in  my  mind.  Thank  you.  You  can  go 
now.' 

It  was  a  dismissal,  and  Rodd  took  it  as  such,  and  felt,  as  he 
had  never  felt  before,  his  subordinate  position.  Why  he  did  so, 
and  why,  as  he  withdrew  under  Arthur's  eye,  he  resented  the 
situation,  he  best  knew.  But  it  is  possible  that  two  of  the 
others  had  some  inkling  of  the  cause. 

When  he  had  gone,  '  There's  an  old  woman  for  you ! '  Arthur 
exclaimed  with  heat.  '  I  wonder  that  you  had  the  patience  to 
listen  to  him,  sir.' 

But  Ovington  shook  his  head.  '  I  listened  because  there 
are  times  when  a  straw  shows  which  way  the  wind  blows.'  He 
looked  grave. 

'  But  you  don't  think  that  there  is  anything  in  what  he  said  ? J 

'  I  shall  remember  what  he  said.  The  time  may  be  coming 
to  take  in  sail— to  keep  a  good  look-out,  lad,  and  be  careful. 
You  have  been  with  us—  how  long  ?  Two  years.  Ay,  but  years 
of  expansion,  of  rising  prices,  of  growing  trade.  But  I  have  seen 
other  times — other  times.'  He  shook  his  head. 

*  Still,  there  is  no  sign  of  a  change,  sir  ? ' 

'You've  seen  one  to-day.  What  is  in  Rodd's  head  may  be 
in  others,  and  what  is  in  men's  heads  soon  reflects  itself  in  their 
conduct.' 

It  was  the  first  word,  the  first  hint,  the  first  presage  of  evil ; 
of  a  fall,  of  bad  weather,  of  a  storm,  distant  as  yet,  and  seen  even 
by  the  clearest  eyes  only  as  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand. 
But  the  word  had  been  spoken.  The  hint  had  been  given,  and 
to  Arthur,  who  had  paid  a  high  price  for  prosperity — how  high 
only  he  could  say — the  presage  seemed  an  outrage.  The  idea 
that  the  prosperity  he  had  bought  was  not  a  certainty,  that  the 
craft  on  which  he  had  embarked  his  fortune  was,  like  other  ships, 
at  the  mercy  of  storm  and  tempest,  that  like  other  ships  it  might 
founder  with  all  its  freight,  was  entirely  new  to  him.  So  new 
that  for  a  moment  his  face  betrayed  the  impression  it  made.  He 
looked  disturbed.  Then  he  told  himself  that  the  thing  was 
incredible,  that  he  started  at  shadows,  and  his  natural  confidence 
rebounded.  *  Oh,  damn  Rodd  ! '  he  cried — and  he  said  it  with 
all  his  heart.  '  He's  a  croaker  by  nature  ! ' 

'  Still,   we   won't  damn  him,'   the   banker  answered  mildly. 


404  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

'  On  the  contrary,  we  will  profit  by  his  warning.  But  go  now. 
I  have  a  letter  to  write.  And  do  you  go,  too,  Betty,  and  make 
tea  for  us/ 

He  turned  to  his  papers,  and  Arthur,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, followed  Betty  into  the  house.  Overtaking  her  in  the 
hall,  '  Betty,  what  is  the  matter  ?  '  he  said.  And  when  the  girl 
took  no  notice,  but  went  on  with  her  chin  in  the  air  as  if  he  had 
not  spoken,  he  seized  her  arm.  *  Come,'  he  said,  *  I  am  not  going 
to  have  this.  What  is  it  ?  ' 

'  What  should  it  be !  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,'  she  re- 
torted. 

'  Oh  yes,  you  do.  What  took  you — to  back  up  that  ass  in 
the  bank  just  now  !  ' 

Then  Betty  astonished  him.  '  I  didn't  think  he  wanted  any 
backing,'  she  said,  her  eyes  bright.  *  He  seemed  to  me  to  talk 
sense,  and  some  one  else  nonsense.' 

'  But  you're  not ' 

*  A  partner  in  Ovington's  ?     No,  Mr.  Bourdillon,  I  am  not — 
thank  heaven !    And  so  my  head  is  not  turned,  and  I  can  keep 
my  temper  and  mind  my  manners.' 

'  Oh,  it's  Mr.  Bourdillon  now,  is  it  ?  ' 

'  Yes— if  you  are  going  to  behave  to  my  friends  as  you  did 
this  afternoon.* 

'  Your  friends  ! '  scornfully.  *  You  include  Kodd,  do  you  ? 
Rodd,  Betty  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  I  do,  and  I  am  not  too  proud  to  do  so.    Nor  too  proud 
to  be  angry  when  I  see  a  man  ten  years  younger  than  he  is 
slap  him  in  the  face !     I  am  not  so  spoiled  that  I  think  everyone 
beneath  me ! ' 

'  So  it's  Rodd  now  ?  ' 

'  It's  as  much  Rodd  now,'  her  cheeks  hot,  her  eyes  sparkling, 
'  as  it  was  anyone  else  before  !  Just  as  much  and  just  as  little. 
You  flatter  yourself,  sir  !  ' 

'  But,  Betty,'  in  a  lower  tone,  '  little  spitfire  that  you  are, 
can't  you  guess  why  I  was  short  with  Rodd  !  Can't  you  guess 
why  I  don't  particularly  love  him  ?  But  you  do  guess.  Rodd 
is  what  he  is — nothing  !  But  when  he  lifts  his  eyes  above  him — 
when  he  dares  to  make  eyes  at  you — I  am  not  going  to  be  silent.' 

1  Now  you  are  impertinent ! '  she  said  coldly.  '  As  impertinent 
as  you  were  mean  before.  Yes,  mean,  mean !  When  you  knew 
he  could  not  answer  you  !  Mean  ! ' 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  405 

And  without  waiting  for  a  reply  she  ran  up  the  stairs. 

He  went  to  one  of  the  windows  of  the  dining-room  and  looked 
across  Bride  Hill  and  along  the  High  Street,  full  at  that  hour  of 
market  people.  But  he  did  not  see  them,  his  thoughts  were 
busy  with  what  had  happened.  He  could  not  believe  that  Betty 
had  any  feeling  for  Rodd.  The  man  was  dull,  commonplace,  a 
plodder,  and  not  young ;  he  was  well  over  thirty.  No,  the  idea 
was  preposterous.  And  it  was  still  more  absurd  to  suppose  that 
if  he,  Arthur,  threw  the  handkerchief — or  even  fluttered  it  in  her 
direction,  for  dear  little  thing  as  she  was,  he  had  not  quite  made 
up  his  mind — she  would  hesitate  to  accept  him,  or  would  let  any 
thought  of  Rodd  weigh  with  her. 

True,  he  believed  Rodd  to  be  caught  by  her.  He  had  noticed 
the  cashier's  eyes  following  her  on  the  rare  occasions  when  she 
had  shown  herself  in  the  bank ;  and  the  man's  impertinence 
had  roused  his  ire.  But  that  was  another  matter.  Except  as  a 
thing  to  laugh  at,  he  could  not  believe  that  the  clerk's  feeling  was 
returned,  or  that  Betty  thought  of  him.  It  would  be  too  ridicu- 
lous, even  if  he  had  never  paid  her  attentions  himself. 

Still,  he  would  let  her  temper  cool,  he  would  not  stay  to  tea. 
Instead,  he  would  by  and  by  ride  his  new  horse  out  to  the  Cottage. 
He  had  not  been  home  for  the  week-end ;  he  had  left  Mrs.  Bour- 
dillon  to  come  to  herself  and  recover  her  good  humour  in  solitude. 
Now  he  would  make  it  up  with  her,  and  while  he  was  there  he 
might  as  well  get  a  peep  at  Josina — it  was  a  long  time  since  he 
had  seen  her.  If  Betty  chose  to  adopt  this  unpleasant  line, 
why,  she  could  not  blame  him  if  he  amused  himself. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THERE  was  another  who  had  desired  to  see  Josina  that  day, 
and  had  spent  some  hours  in  the  attempt  to  speak  with  her.  For 
a  time  after  the  Squire  had  driven  away,  Clement  had  sat  staring 
after  him,  and  in  his  rage  had  wished  him  dead.  He  had  pre- 
pared himself  for  opposition,  he  had  looked  to  be  repulsed — he 
had  expected  nothing  else.  But  in  the  scene  which  his  fancy 
had  pictured,  his  part  had  been  one  of  dignity ;  he  had  owned 
his  aspirations  like  a  man,  he  had  admitted  his  insufficiency  with 
modesty,  he  had  pleaded  the  power  of  love  with  eloquence,  he  had 
won  even  from  the  Squire  a  meed  of  unwilling  approbation. 


4:06  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

But  the  scene,  as  played,  had  run  on  other  lines.  The  old 
man  had  crushed  him.  He  had  sworn  at  him,  refused  to  listen 
to  him,  had  insulted  him,  had  treated  him  as  no  better  than  a 
shop-boy.  All  of  which  had  cut  to  the  quick.  For  Clement, 
born  after  Ovington  had  risen  from  the  ranks,  was  college-bred ; 
he  was  not  a  poor  man,  he  had  his  pride  and  his  self-respect, 
and  humiliated,  he  cursed  with  all  his  soul  the  prejudice  and 
hide-bound  narrowness  of  the  Squire  and  all  his  caste.  For  the 
time  he  was  more  than  a  radical,  he  was  a  republican.  If  by  a 
gesture  he  could  have  swept  away  King  and  Commons,  lords  and 
justices,  he  would  not  have  held  his  hand. 

It  took  him  some  time  to  recover,  and  it  was  only  when  he 
found  himself,  he  hardly  knew  how,  upon  the  bridge  at  Garth- 
myle  that  he  collected  himself.  Even  then  he  was  not  quite 
himself.  He  had  vowed  that  he  would  not  see  Josina  again  until 
he  had  claimed  her  from  her  father ;  but  the  Squire's  treatment, 
he  now  felt,  had  absolved  him  from  this,  and  the  temptation  to 
see  her  was  great.  He  longed  to  pour  out  his  mind  to  her,  and 
to  tell  her  how  he  had  been  insulted,  how  he  had  been  treated. 
Perhaps,  even,  he  must  say  farewell  to  her — he  must  give 
her  up. 

For  he  was  not  all  hero,  and  the  task  before  him  seemed  for 
the  time  too  prodigious,  the  labour  too  little  hopeful.  The  Hydra 
had  so  many  heads,  and  roared  so  fearfully  that  for  a  moment 
his  courage  sank  before  it — and  his  love.  He  felt  that  he  must 
yield,  that  he  must  see  Josina  and  tell  her  so.  In  any  event 
she  ought  to  know  what  had  happened,  and  accordingly  he  put 
up  his  horse  at  the  inn  and  made  by  a  roundabout  road  for 
their  meeting-place  by  the  brook. 

There  was  but  a  chance  that  she  would  visit  it,  and  in  the 
meantime  he  had  to  exercise  what  patience  he  might.  His  castles 
in  the  air  had  fallen  and  he  had  not  the  spirit  to  rebuild  them. 
He  sat  gazing  moodily  on  the  rippling  face  of  the  water,,  or  watched 
the  ousel  curtsying  on  its  stone ;  and  he  almost  despaired.  He 
had  known  the  Squire  to  be  formidable,  he  now  knew  him  to 
be  impossible.  He  looked  down  the  stream  to  where  Garth, 
lofty  and  fortress-like,  raised  its  twisted  chimneys  above  the  trees, 
and  he  shook  his  fist  at  it.  Kemote  and  islanded  on  its  knoll, 
rising  amid  ancestral  trees,  it  stood  for  all  that  the  Squire  stood 
for — governance,  privilege,  tradition,  the  past ;  all  the  things  he 
had  not,  all  the  things  that  mocked  him. 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  407 

The  time  passed  wretchedly  and  Josina  did  not  come,  and 
by  and  by  he  left  the  water-side.  He  crossed  the  high  road, 
and  scrambling  up  through  the  skirt  of  trees  that  clothed  the 
ascent  to  the  limestone  wall,  he  gained  the  glacis  of  smooth  turf 
strewn  with  boulders,  from  which  it  lifted  its  precipitous  face. 
Here,  seated  above  the  tree-tops,  he  could  look  down  on  Garth 
and  command  its  approaches,  he  could  see  who  came  out  and 
who  came  in.  But  he  had  no  better  luck.  No  flutter  of  petti- 
coats, no  sun-bonnet  issuing  from  the  door  cheered  his  eyes, 
and  the  house,  keeping  its  secrets,  seemed  still  to  defy  him. 
Nevertheless  he  grew  cooler.  By  degrees  composure  returned, 
until  he  began  to  be  thankful  that  he  had  not  seen  Josina,  and 
augmented  the  anxiety  which  she  must  be  suffering. 

He  lingered  there,  savouring  his  melancholy,  until  the  sun 
went  down  behind  the  hills,  and  then,  attacked  by  the  pangs  of 
hunger,  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  village  inn.  Here  he  satis- 
fied his  appetite  on  such  home-baked  bread  and  yellow  butter 
and  nut-brown  ale  as  are  not  in  these  degenerate  times ;  and  for 
wellnigh  an  hour. he  sat  brooding  in  the  sanded  parlour  surrounded 
by  china  cats  and  dogs,  such  as,  they  too,  would  be  of  value 
nowadays.  At  length  with  a  heavy  heart — for  what  was  he 
to  do  next  ? — he  rode  out  of  the  yard,  and  crossing  the  bridge 
under  the  shadowy  bulk  of  the  squat  church  tower,  he  set  his 
horse's  head  for  home.  It  was  nearly  dark. 

What  was  he  to  do  next  ?  He  did  not  know,  but  as  he  rode 
through  the  gloom,  the  solemn  hills  falling  back  on  either  side  and 
the  darkening  plain  widening  before  him,  he  took  courage;  he 
began  to  consider,  with  some  return  of  hope,  what  lay  before  him, 
and  how  he  must  proceed — if  he  were  not  to  give  up.  Clearly 
he  must  face  the  Squire,  but  it  must  be  in  the  Squire's  own  house, 
where  the  Squire  must  hear  him.  The  old  man  might  insult  him, 
rave  at  him,  order  him  out,  but  before  he  was  put  out  he  would 
speak  and  ask  for  Josina,  though  the  roof  fell.  There  should  be  no 
further  mistake.  And  he  would  let  the  Squire  know,  if  it  came 
to  that,  that  he  was  a  man,  as  good  as  other  men.  By  heaven  he 
would ! 

He  was  not  all  hero.  But  there  were  some  heroic  parts  about 
him,  and  he  determined  that  the  very  next  morning  he  would 
ride  out  and  would  beard  the  Hydra  in  its  den,  be  its  heads  ever 
so  many.  He  would  win  his  lady-love  or  perish ! 

By  the  time  he  had  come  to  this  decision  he  was  half-way 


408  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

home.  The  market  traffic  on  the  road  had  ceased,  the  moon  had 
not  yet  risen,  the  night  lay  quiet  and  dark  about  him.  Presently 
as  he  crossed  a  wet,  rushy  flat,  one  of  the  loneliest  parts  of  the 
way,  he  saw  the  lights  of  a  vehicle  coming  towards  him.  The 
road  at  this  point  had  not  been  long  enclosed,  and  a  broad  strip 
of  common  still  survived  on  either  hand,  so  that  moving  on  this 
his  horse's  hoofs  made  no  sound  save  a  soft  plop-plop  where 
the  ground  was  wettest.  He  could  hear,  therefore,  while  still 
afar  off,  the  tramp  of  a  pair  of  horses  driven  at  a  trot, 
and  it  occurred  to  him  that  this  might  be  the  Squire  return- 
ing late.  If  he  could  have  avoided  the  meeting  he  would 
have  done  so,  though  it  was  unlikely  that  the  Squire  would  recog- 
nise him  in  the  dark.  But  to  turn  aside  would  be  foolish.  '  Hang 
me  if  I  am  going  to  be  afraid  of  him  ! '  he  thought.  And  he 
touched  up  his  horse  with  his  heel. 

Then  an  odd  thing  happened.  While  the  carriage  was  still 
fifty  yards  from  him,  one  of  the  lights  went  out.  His  eyes 
missed  it,  but  his  brain  had  barely  taken  in  the  fact  when  the 
second  vanished  also,  as  if  the  vehicle  had  sunk  into  the  ground. 
At  the  same  moment  a  hoarse  cry  reached  his  ears,  followed 
by  a  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  hard  road  as  if  the  horses  were 
being  sharply  pulled  up. 

Clement  took  his  horse  by  the  head  and  bent  forward,  striving 
to  make  out  what  was  passing.  A  dull  sound,  as  of  a  heavy 
body  striking  the  road  reached  him,  followed  by  a  silence 
that  seemed  ominous.  Even  the  wind  appeared  to  have  hushed 
its  whisper  through  the  rushes. 

'  Hallo !  What  is  it  ? '  he  shouted.  '  Is  anything  the  matter  ? ' 
He  urged  his  horse  forward. 

His  cry  was  lost  in  the  loud  crack  of  a  whip,  he  heard  the 
horses  break  away,  and  without  farther  warning  they  came 
down  upon  him  at  a  gallop,  the  carriage  bounding  wildly 
behind  them.  He  had  just  time  to  thrust  his  nag  to  the  side, 
and  they  were  on  him  and  past  him,  and  whirling  down  the 
road — a  mere  shadow,  but  as  perilous  and  almost  as  noisy  as  a 
thunderbolt.  There  was  no  doubt  now  that  an  accident  had 
happened,  but  before  he  could  give  help  he  had  to  master  his 
horse,  which  had  wheeled  about  scared  by  the  runaways ;  and  so  a 
few  seconds  elapsed  before  he  reached  the  scene — reached  it  with 
his  heart  in  his  mouth — for  who  could  say  with  what  emergency 
he  might  not  have  to  deal  ? 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  409 

Certainly  with  a  tragedy,  for  the  first  thing  he  made 
out  was  the  form  of  a  man  stooping  over  another  who  lay  in  the 
road.  Clement  drew  a  breath  of  relief  as  he  slipped  from  his 
saddle — he  would  not  have  to  deal  with  the  crisis  alone.  But 
as  his  foot  touched  the  ground,  he  saw  the  stooping  man  raise 
his  hand  with  something  hi  it,  and  he  knew  instinctively  that  it 
was  raised  not  to  help  but  to  strike. 

He  shouted,  and  the  blow  hung  in  the  air.  The  man,  taken 
by  surprise,  straightened  himself,  turned,  and  saw  Clement  at 
his  elbow.  He  hesitated ;  then,  with  an  oath,  he  aimed  his  blow  at 
the  new-comer. 

Clement  parried  it,  rather  by  instinct  than  with  intention, 
and  so  weakly,  that  the  other's  weapon  beat  down  his  guard 
and  cut  his  cheek-bone.  He  staggered  back  and  the  villain  raised 
his  cudgel  again.  Had  the  second  blow  fallen  where  it  was 
meant  to  fall,  it  would  have  finished  the  business.  But  Clement, 
aware  now  that  he  fought  for  his  life,  sprang  within  the  other's 
guard,  and  before  the  cudgel  alighted,  gripped  him  by  the 
neckcloth.  The  man  gave  ground,  tripped  backwards  over  the 
body  that  lay  behind  him,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  two  were  rolling 
together  on  the  road,  Clement  striving  to  beat  in  the  ruffian's  face 
with  the  butt-end  of  his  whip,  while  the  man  tried  vainly  to 
shorten  his  weapon  and  use  it  to  purpose. 

It  was  a  desperate  struggle,  in  the  mire,  in  the  darkness — 
a  struggle  for  life  carried  on  in  a  silence  that  was  broken  only  by 
the  combatants'  breathing  and  a  rare  oath.  Twice  the  two 
rolled  over  one  another,  and  once  Clement,  having  the  upper  hand 
became  aware  that  the  fight  had  its  spectator.  He  had  a  glimpse 
of  a  ghastly  face,  one  side  of  which  had  been  mangled  by  a  mur- 
derous blow,  glaring  at  them  with  its  remaining  eye.  He  guessed 
rather  than  saw  that  the  man  lying  in  the  road  had  raised  him- 
self on  an  elbow ;  he  heard  a  gasping  '  At  him,  lad  !  Well  done, 
lad  ! '  then  in  a  turn  of  the  struggle  he  lost  the  vision.  His  op- 
ponent had  him  by  the  throat,  he  was  undermost  again — and 
desperate.  His  one  thought  now  was  to  kill — to  kill  the  brute- 
beast  whose  teeth  threatened  his  cheek,  whose  hot  breath  burned 
his  face,  whose  hands  gripped  his  throat.  He  struck  again  and 
again,  and  eventually,  supple  and  young,  and  perhaps  the  stroDger, 
he  freed  himself  and  staggered  to  his  feet,  raising  his  whip  to  strike. 
But  the  same  thing  happened  to  him  which  had  happened  to 
his  assailant.  As  he  stepped  back  to  give  power  to  the  blow,  he 


410  OVINGTON'S  BANK. 

fell  over  the  third  man.  He  came  down  heavily,  and  for  a  moment 
he  was  at  the  other's  mercy.  Fortunately  the  rascal's  courage 
was  at  an  end.  The  man  got  to  his  feet,  but  instead  of  pursuing 
his  advantage,  he  snatched  up  something  that  lay  on  the  ground, 
and  sped  away  down  the  road,  as  quickly  as  his  legs  could 
carry  him. 

Clement  recovered  his  feet,  but  more  slowly,  for  the  fall  had 
shaken  him.  Still,  his  desire  for  vengeance  was  unslaked,  his 
blood  hot,  and  he  set  off  in  pursuit.  The  man  had  a  good  start, 
however,  and  presently,  leaving  the  road  and  leaping  the  ditch, 
made  off  across  the  open  common.  To  follow  farther  promised 
little,  for  in  a  few  seconds  his  figure,  dim  and  shadowy,  melted 
into  the  darkness  of  the  fields.  Clement  gave  up  the  chase,  and 
turned  back,  panting  and  out  of  breath. 

He  did  not  feel  his  wound,  much  less  did  he  feel  the  misgivings 
which  had  beset  him  when  he  came  upon  the  scene.  Instead, 
he  experienced  a  new  and  thrilling  elation.  He  had  measured 
his  strength  against  an  enemy,  he  had  faced  death  in  fight,  he  felt 
himself  equal  to  any  and  every  event.  Even  when  he  stooped  over 
the  prostrate  figure  and  saw  the  mangled  and  bleeding  face  turned 
up  to  the  sky  it  did  not  daunt  him,  nor  the  darkness,  nor  the 
loneliness.  The  injured  man  seemed  to  be  aware  of  his  presence 
for  he  made  an  attempt  to  rise  ;  but  he  failed,  and  groaning  would 
have  fallen  back  on  the  road  if  Clement,  dropping  on  one  knee, 
had  not  sustained  his  head  and  shoulders  on  the  other.  It  was 
the  Squire.  So  much  he  saw  ;  but  it  was  a  Squire  past  not  only 
scolding  but  speech,  whom  he  held  in  his  arms  and  whose  head 
he  supported.  To  all  Clement's  questions  he  made  no  answer. 
It  was  much  if  he  still  breathed  ;  even  now  it  might  be  a  corpse 
that  the  young  man  held  in  his  arms. 

Clement  glanced  about  him,  and  his  confidence  began  to  leave 
him.  What  was  he  to  do  ?  He  could  not  go  for  help — he  might 
have  to  go  far — leaving  the  old  man  lying  in  the  road ;  yet  it  was 
equally  impossible  to  do  anything  in  the  dark,  either  to  ascer- 
tain the  extent  of  the  Squire's  hurt,  or  to  use  means  to  stanch 
it.  The  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  the  plain  stretched  dark  and 
black  about  them,  no  sound  except  the  melancholy  whisper  of 
the  wind  in  the  rushes  reached  him.  There  was  no  house  near 
and  it  was  growing  late.  No  one  might  pass  for  hours. 

Fortunately  when  he  had  reached  this  stage  he  remembered 
that  he  had  his  tinder  box  and  matches  in  his  pocket,  and  he 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  411 

fumbled  for  them  with  his  disengaged  hand.  With  an  effort, 
still  supporting  the  old  man's  head,  he  got  them  out.  But  to 
strike  a  light  and  catch  it  in  the  huddled  posture  in  which  he  knelt 
was  not  easy,  and  it  was  only  after  a  score  of  attempts  that  the 
match  caught  the  flame.  Even  so,  the  light  it  gave  was  faint, 
but  it  revealed  the  Squire's  face,  and  Clement  saw,  with  a  shudder, 
that  the  left  eye  and  temple  were  terribly  battered.  But  he  saw, 
too,  that  the  old  man  breathed  and  was  conscious,  for  he  uttered 
a  groan,  and  peered  with  the  uninjured  eye  at  the  face  that  bent 
over  him.  '  Good  lad  ! '  he  muttered,  '  good  lad  ! '  and  he  added 
broken  words  which  conveyed  to  Clement's  mind  that  it  was  his 
man  who  had  attacked  him.  Then — his  face  was  so  turned  that 
it  was  within  a  few  inches  of  Clement's  shoulder — *  You're 
bloody,  lad/  he  muttered.  'He's  spoiled  your  coat,  the  d — d 
rascal ! ' 

With  that  he  seemed  to  slip  back  into  unconsciousness,  as 
the  light  went  out.  It  left  Clement  in  a  strait  to  know  what 
he  ought  to  do,  or  rather  what  he  could  do.  Help  he  must  get, 
and  speedily,  if  he  would  save  the  Squire's  life,  but  his  horse 
was  gone,  and  to  walk  away  for  help,  leaving  the  old  man  lying 
in  the  mud  of  the  way  seemed  inhuman.  He  must  at  least  carry 
him  to  the  side  of  the  road. 

The  task  was  no  light  one,  for  the  Squire  was  tall,  though  not 
stout ;  and  before  Clement  stooped  to  it  he  cast  a  last  look  round. 
But  darkness  and  silence  still  wrapped  all,  and  he  was  gathering 
his  strength  to  lift  the  dead  weight,  when  a  sound  caught  his  ear, 
and  he  raised  himself.  A  moment,  and  joy  ! — he  caught  the  far- 
off  beat  of  hoofs  on  the  turf.  Someone  was  coming,  approaching 
him  from  the  direction  of  Aldersbury.  He  shouted,  shouted  his 
loudest  and  waited.  Yes,  he  was  not  mistaken.  The  soft  plop- 
plop  of  hoofs  grew  louder,  two  forms  loomed  out  of  the  darkness, 
a  horse  shied,  a  man  swore. 

'  Here  ! '  Clement  cried.  '  Here  !  Take  care  !  There's  a  man 
in  the  road.' 

'  Where  ? '  Then,  '  Confound  you,  you  nearly  had  me  down  ! 
Are  you  hurt  ?  ' 

•  No,  but ' 

*  I've  got  your  horse.    I  met  him  a  couple  of  miles  this  side 
of  the  town.    What  has ' 

Clement  broke  in.  '  There's  bad  work  here ! '  he  cried,  his 
voice  shaky.  Now  that  help  was  at  hand  and  the  peril  was  over, 


4:12  OVTNGTON'S  BANK. 

he  began  to  feel  what  he  had  gone  through.     'For  God's  sake 
get  down  and  help  me.     Your  uncle's  man  has  robbed  him  and, 
I  fear,  murdered  him.' 
*  '  The  Squire  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes.  He's  lying  here,  half  dead.  We  must  get  him  to 
the  side  of  the  road  at  once.' 

Arthur  slipped  from  his  saddle,  and  holding  the  reins  of  the 
two  horses,  approached  the  group  as  nearly  as  the  frightened 
beasts  would  let  him7  '  Quiet,  fools ! '  he  cried  angrily.  And 
then,  '  Good  heavens  ! '  in  a  whisper,  as  he  peered  awe-stricken 
at  the  injured  man.  '  Is  he  dead  ?  ' 

'  No,  but  he's  terribly  mauled.  And  we  must  get  help.  Help, 
man,  and  quickly,  too — if  it  is  to  be  of  any  use.  Shall  I  go  ?  ' 

'  No,  no,  I'll  go/  Arthur  answered,  recoiling.  What  he  had 
seen  had  given  him  no  desire  to  take  Clement's  place.  *  Garth- 
myle  is  the  nearer,  and  I  shall  not  be  long.  I'll  tie  up  your  horse — 
that'll  be  best/ 

There  was  an  old  thorn-tree  standing  solitary  in  the  waste 
not  many  yards  away :  a  tree  destined  to  be  pointed  out  for 
years  to  come  as  marking  the  spot  where  the  old  Squire  was  robbed. 
Arthur  tied  Clement's  horse  to  this,  then  together  they  lifted 
the  old  man  and  carried  him  to  the  side  of  the  road.  The  moment 
that  this  was  done,  Arthur  sprang  on  his  horse  and  started  off. 
*  Back  soon,'  he  shouted. 

Clement  had  not  seen  his  way  to  object,  but  it  was  with  a 
heavy  heart  he  resigned  himself  to  another  period  of  painful 
waiting.  He  was  cold,  his  face  smarted,  and  at  any  moment 
the  old  man  might  die  on  his  hands.  Meantime  he  could  do 
nothing  but  wait.  Or  yes,  he  could  do  something  ;  chilled  as 
he  was,  he  took  off  his  coat,  and  rolling  it  up,  he  slipped  it  under 
the  insensible  head. 

Little  had  he  thought  that  morning  that  he  would  ever  pity 
the  Squire.  But  he  did.  The  man  who  had  driven  away  from 
him,  hard,  aggressive,  indomitable,  asking  no  man's  help  and 
meeting  all  men's  eyes  with  the  gaze  of  a  master,  now  lay  at  his 
feet,  crushed  and  broken ;  lay  with  his  head  on  the  coat  of  the 
man  he  had  despised,  dependent  on  him  for  the  poor  service  that 
still  might  avail  him.  Clement  felt  the  pathos  of  it,  and  the  pity. 
And  above  all,  his  heart  was  sore  for  Josina.  How  would  she 
meet,  how  bear  the  shock  that  a  short  hour  must  inflict  on  her  ? 
He  was  thinking  of  her,  when,  long  before  he  had  dared  to 


OVINGTON'S  BANK.  413 

expect  relief,  he  heard  a  sound  that  resolved  itself  into  the  rattle 
of  wheels.     Yes,  there  was  a  carriage  coming  along  the  road. 

No  one  could  deny  that  Arthur  was  capable.  He  had  come 
upon  the  Squire's  horses,  which  had  been  brought  to  a  stand 
with  the  near  wheel  of  the  curricle  wedged  in  the  ditch.  He 
had  found  them  greedily  feeding,  and  he  had  let  his  own  nag  go, 
and  had  captured  the  runaways.  He  had  drawn  the  carriage 
out  of  the  ditch,  and  here  he  was. 

'  Thank  God ! '  Clement  cried,  going  a  few  steps  to  meet  him. 
'  I  think  that  he  is  still  alive.' 

'  And  we've  got  to  lift  him  in,'  said  Arthur,  more  practical. 
'He's  a  big  weight.' 

It  was  not  an  easy  task.  But  they  tied  up  the  horses 
to  the  thorn-tree — they  were  pretty  quiet  by  this  time — and 
lifting  the  old  man  between  them,  they  carried  him  with 
what  care  they  might  to  the  carriage,  raised  him,  heavy  and 
helpless  as  he  was,  to  the  step,  and  then,  while  one  maintained 
him  there,  the  other  climbed  in  and  lifted  him  to  the  front  seat. 
Clement  got  up  behind  and  supported  his  shoulders  and  head, 
while  Arthur,  first  tying  the  saddle-horse  behind  the  carriage, 
released  the  pair,  and  with  the  reins  in  his  hands  scrambled  to 
his  place. 

The  thing  was  done  and  cleverly  done,  and  they  set  off.  But 
they  dared  not  travel  at  more  than  a  walk,  and  never  had  the 
three  miles  to  Garthmyle  seemed  so  long  or  so  tedious. 

They  were  both  anxious  and  both  excited.  But  while  in 
Clement's  mind  pity,  a  sense  of  the  tragedy  before  him,  and 
thought  for  Josina  contended  with  an  honest  pride  in  what  he 
had  done,  the  other,  as  they  drove  along,  was  already  calculating 
chances  and  busy  with  contingencies.  The  Squire's  death — if 
the  Squire  died — would  work  a  great  change,  an  immense  change. 
Things  which  had  yesterday  been  too  doubtful  and  too  distant 
to  deserve  much  thought  would  be  brought  within  reach,  would 
be  his  for  the  asking.  And  he  was  the  more  inclined  to  consider 
this  because  Betty — dear  little  creature  as  she  was — had  shown  a 
spirit  that  day  that  was  not  to  his  liking.  Whereas  Josina,  mild 
and  docile — it  might  be  that  after  all  she  would  suit  him  better. 
And  Garth — Garth  with  its  wide  acres  and  its  rich  rent-roll  would 
be  hers ;  Garth  that  would  give  any  man  a  position  to  be  envied. 
Its  charms,  while  uncertain  and  dependent  on  the  whim  and  caprice 
of  an  arbitrary  old  man,  had  not  fixed  him,  for  to  attain  to  them  he 


4H  OVINGTON'S  BANK 

must  give  up  other  things,  equally  to  his  mind.  But  now  the  case 
was  or  might  be  altered.  He  must  wait  and  watch  events,  and 
keep  an  open  mind.  If  the  Squire  died 

A  word  or  two  passed  between  the  couple,  but  for  the  most 
part  they  were  silent.  Once  and  again  the  Squire  moaned,  and 
so  proved  that  he  still  lived.  At  last,  where  the  road  to  Garth 
branched  off,  at  the  entrance  to  the  village,  they  saw  a  light 
before  them,  and  old  Fewtrell  earring  a  lanthorn  met  them. 
The  Squire's  absence  had  alarmed  the  house,  and  he  had  come 
thus  far  in  quest  of  news. 

'  Oh,  Lord,  ha'  mercy !  Lord,  ha*  mercy ! '  the  old  fellow 
quavered  as  he  lifted  his  lanthorn  and  the  light  disclosed  the 
group  in  the  carriage,  and  his  master's  huddled  form  and  ghastly 
visage.  '  Miss  Jos  said  'twas  so  !  Said  as  summat  had  happened 
him !  Beside  herself,  she  be !  She've  been  down  at  the  gate 
this  half -hour  waiting  on  him  ! ' 

*  Don't  let  her  see  him,'  Clement  cried.  '  Go,  man,  and  send 
her  back.' 

But,  *  That's  no  good,'  Arthur  objected,  with  more  sense  but 
less  feeling.  '  She  must  see  him.  This  is  women's  work,  we  can 
do  nothing.  Let  Fewtrell  take  your  place  and  do  you  go  for  the 
doctor.  You  know  where  he  lives,  and  you'll  go  twice  as  quick 
as  he  will,  and  there's  no  more  that  you  can  do.  Take  your  horse.' 

Clement  was  unwilling  to  go,  unwilling  to  have  no  farther 
part  in  the  matter.  But  he  could  not  refuse.  Things  were  as 
they  were  ;  in  spite  of  all  that  he  had  done  and  suffered,  he  had 
no  place  there,  no  standing  in  the  house,  no  right  beside  his 
mistress  or  call  to  think  for  her.  He  was  a  stranger,  an  outsider, 
and  when  he  had  fetched  the  doctor,  there  would,  as  Arthur  had 
said,  be  nothing  more  that  he  could  do. 

Nothing  more,  though  as  he  rode  over  the  bridge  and  trotted 
through  the  village  his  heart  was  bursting  with  pity  for  her  whom 
he  could  not  comfort,  could  not  see  ;  from  whose  side  in  her 
troubles  and  her  self-arraignment — for  he  knew  that  she  would 
reproach  herself — h©  must  be  banished.  It  was  hard. 


(To  be  continued.) 


415 


OPEN  PATHS. 

PICTURES  OF  WILD  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 
BY  E.  L.  GRANT  WATSON. 

I. 

March  17. — These  churches  of  The  Marsh  are  evidence  of  the  har- 
mony which,  in  past  years,  man  has  attained  with  Nature.  They 
mark  a  phase,  and  are  the  accomplished  sign  of  his  humility.  If 
they  fail,  as  indeed  they  do,  to  express,  or  in  any  way  symbolise, 
the  aspiring  of  his  adventurous  spirit,  they  speak  eloquently  of  a 
clear  steadfastness.  It  is  the  humility  and  steadfastness  of  the 
peasant,  honest  and  open-hearted.  The  little  church  of  St.  Mary's, 
near  Dymchurch,  is  one  of  many  entirely  satisfactory  examples. 
It  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  sun-bathed,  wind-swept  land. 
Here  is  no  gaudy  glass  pretending  to  attain  to  what  it  is  not.  The 
unadorned,  pale-green  windows  are  pure  and  translucent.  The 
edifice  is  filled  with  light.  An  austere,  yet  gentle,  spirit  is  reflected 
from  the  white-washed  walls  and  from  the  simple  fresco  which 
decorates  them.  There  are  no  signs  of  affluence,  of  super-decora- 
tion, or  vulgarity.  It  is  evident  that  the  spirit  of  commercialism 
has  not  yet  entered.  Here  it  is  still  possible  to  pray.  Within  the 
simplicity  of  this  structure  there  are  no  mind-created  mysteries, 
no  subtilties  of  perception.  This  is  a  house  of  refuge  ;  it  is  rilled 
with  the  presence  of  a  beguiling  and  indulgent  hope. 

March  20. — The  country  is  reminiscent  of  Cambridgeshire, 
though  in  place  of  meandering  rivers  and  fifteen-foot  hawthorn 
hedges,  there  are  straight  dykes  with  skimpy  sallow-willows,  irregu- 
larly ranked.  Here  is  the  same  flatness  of  earth,  and  with  it  a 
feeling  of  emancipation ;  the  same  wide  sky.  A  narrow  road 
bends  from  the  hills  down  to  the  borders  of  Romney  Marsh.  It 
leads  between  pale  green  fields,  and,  on  each  side,  is  edged  by  dykes 
in  which  the  sky  is  reflected,  blue  and  white.  Plovers  make  com- 
motion in  the  air,  the  beat  of  their  quills  is  audible  as  they  swoop 
and  fall,  crying  their  plaintive  cry.  In  the  willow  bushes  by  the 
roadside  are  long-tailed  tits. 

How  irresistible  is  water  in  any  of  its  forms  !     I  can  seldom  pass 


416  OPEN  PATHS. 

over  a  bridge  that  spans  either  stagnant  or  running  water  without 
wanting  to  pause  and  look  down  into  the  life  that  moves  on  or  under 
the  surface  ;  and  now  I  am  attracted  by  the  wide  dyke  that 
stretches  along  the  roadside.  I  can  cross  by  a  plank  bridge,  and 
so  have  the  sun  behind  me  and  be  better  able  to  see  into  the  depths. 
A  marvellous  scene  is  revealed  in  the  clear  water.  The  dyke  is 
about  four  feet  deep,  and,  from  the  bottom  upwards  to  the  surface, 
and  for  a  distance  of  twelve  to  fifteen  feet,  there  rise  terraces, 
battlements,  bastions,  cities  piled  upon  cities,  domed  temples, 
masses  of  architectural  forms  all  agglomerated  into  one  pale,  semi- 
opaque  mass  of  frog-spawn.  The  surfaces  bulge  towards  the 
centre  of  the  dyke  in  folds  of  trembling  jelly.  Upon  every  surface 
there  are  tadpoles  which  are  even  now  emerging.  Where  the 
spawn  touches  the  surface,  they  form  a  black,  wriggling  paste, 
half  an  inch  thick.  I  sit  down  to  watch  this  marvel  of  fecundity. 
I  have  seen  masses  of  frog-spawn  before,  but  never  in  such  abund- 
ance. Here  the  forces  of  life  have  run  to  their  farthermost  limit ; 
one  of  the  poles  between  which  all  being  fluctuates  has  been  reached. 
The  urgings  of  maternity  have  here  attained  their  fullest  signifi- 
cance. I  am  reminded  of  the  Indian  temple  at  Madura,  of  all 
architectural  forms  the  most  sexual  and  the  most  female.  I  re- 
member the  terraces,  the  symbolic  figures,  and  the  all-pervading 
suggestion  of  fecundity.  A  fecundity  which  will  turn  to  its  own 
ends  all  forces  of  idealism,  of  differentiation,  of  mentality. 

In  the  midst,  the  mass  stirs.  In  from  among  the  spawn  and 
the  seething  tadpoles  a  head  is  thrust  up.  Its  bronze  eyes  stare 
vacantly  skyward,  and  the  small,  round  nostrils  open  and  close. 
Here  is  one  of  the  mothers,  the  manufacturers  of  the  astonishing 
abundance.  She  is  encompassed,  wholly  enveloped  by  her  infinite 
progeny.  As  she  gazes  with  that  inscrutable  stare  skyward  and 
gives  a  low  croak  of  praise,  it  is  not  difficult  to  believe  that  she  is 
filled  with  satisfaction. 

The  frogs  and  their  spawn  are  not  the  only  inhabitants  of  this 
watery  microcosm.  Upon  the  edges  of  the  sagging"  paunches  of 
jelly  there  are  perched  several  well-fed  specimens  of  the  great  water 
beetle.  These  fierce-looking  insects,  lenticular  in  shape,  and  from 
an  inch  to  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  sit  complacently  to  a  feast  piled 
mountains  high.  Now  and  then,  one  of  them  seizes,  with  a  languid 
movement,  upon  a  newly-emerged  tadpole,  takes  a  few  bites,  and 
allows  the  black  fragments  of  yet  living  flesh  to  float  away.  From 
time  to  time  they  swim  with  easy  powerful  strokes  to  the  surface, 


OPEN  PATHS.  417 

and  there,  suspended  tail  uppermost,  inhale  the  air.  Then  back  to 
the  feast  slowly,  with  profound  assurance. 

The  water  is  seething  with  life.  Newts  swim  languidly  from 
among  cress  leaves,  and  swallow  large  mouthfuls  of  water-fleas. 
The  water-fleas  dance  in  spring  ecstasy  in  the  warm  sunlit  water. 
Measurers  skim  the  surface,  and  whirligig  beetles  entangle,  one  with 
another,  their  intricate  involutions.  For  the  first  time  I  see  diving 
spiders,  not  the  small  red  mite,  which  is  common  enough,  but  a 
spider,  a  size  larger  than  the  common  house-fly,  who  carries  down 
with  him  a  bell-shaped  globule  of  air. 

But  my  glance  is  attracted  back  with  fascination  to  the  masses 
of  spawn,  to  the  seething  tadpoles  and  to  the  bronze  eyes  of  the 
mother  frog,  that  look  so  steadily  into  the  sky.  The  new-born 
tadpoles  lie  in  thousands  upon  the  outer  edges  of  the  great  edifice 
built  of  their  brother  and  sister  eggs.  Their  black  tails  wriggle 
helplessly,  and  the  water-beetles  continue  their  feast.  For  a 
moment  one  is  tempted  to  see  something  ghoulish  in  these  prodigious 
eaters  that  wait  to  devour  the  new-born  innocence.  But  this 
human  weakness  is  no  true  valuation.  These  beetles  are  as 
necessary  to  the  healthy  survival  of  frogs  and  tadpoles  as  are  the 
infusoria  upon  which  the  tadpoles  feed.  They  are  as  necessary, 
and  not  only  in  a  materialistic  and  utilitarian  sense,  but  they  have 
also  a  certain  spiritual  significance.  I  am  not  using  the  word  in 
its  usual  anthropomorphic  association,  but  rather  to  designate  the 
mystical  polar  relationship  between  complementary  forms  of  life  : 
the  balance  not  always,  at  first  sight,  obvious.  The  beetles  exist 
because  of  the  tadpoles,  and  the  tadpoles  exist,  every  bit  as  much, 
because  of  the  devouring  beetles.  I  cannot  imagine  the  one 
without  the  other.  The  opposite  poles  are  held  in  equilibrium,  and 
the  lazy  gormandisers  are  an  outward  symbol,  a  triumphant  ex- 
pression of  the  frog's  prodigious  fertility.  They  hold  the  weighted 
balance  even.  For  her  part  the  mother  frog  is  unconcerned  ;  she 
continues  to  look  at  the  sky  ;  she  is  confident  in  the  instinctive 
assurance  that  she  has  produced  enough  .  .  .  enough. 

March  27,  Easter  Day. — Blue-bells  are  not  yet  broken  into 
flower,  though  their  green  shoots,  together  with  a  forest  of  dog's 
mercury,  carpet  the  woodland,  and  in  part  hide  the  sere  leaves  of 
last  year.  For  a  long  while  I  have  sat  listening  to  the  robin's  song. 
In  this  quarter  of  the  wood  robins  are  the  only  birds  that  are 
singing ;  there  are  three  of  them  that,  from  not  distant  perches, 
from  time  to  time,  with  short  outbursts,  break  the  comparative 
VOL.  LIT.— NO.  310£K.S.  27 


418  OPEN  PATHS. 

silence.    A  cole-tit  now  comes  to  join  them,  but  only  for  a  short 
while  does  he  call  his  sharp,  insistent  tche-ee,  tche-ee,  tche-ee. 

I  notice  that  there  is  movement  among  the  blue-bell  leaves  at  a 
few  yards  distant :  little  quick,  consecutive  jerks.  It  is  not  a  mouse 
that  is  moving — something  larger  and  something  that  moves 
nearer  to  the  ground.  For  a  time  I  suspect  it  is  a  mole,  close  under 
the  surface,  and  I  wait  thinking  that  he  will  soon  show  himself. 

I  see  another  disturbance  of  the  same  nature,  and  another, 
and  another.  I  can  hear  now  a  faint  scraping  on  dead  leaves. 
Then,  lifting  itself  from  among  the  green  stems,  there  looks  out  a 
narrow,  swaying  head,  and  I  catch  the  characteristic,  pale-yellow 
ear-marks  of  a  grass-snake.  He  slides  rapidly  nearer.  I  can  see 
two  distinct  loops  moving  over  fallen  branches ;  the  interval  be- 
tween is  lost  in  a  dip  of  the  ground.  It  is  a  curious  stream  of  move- 
ment, like  running  water,  but  harder,  firmer,  but  yet  like  water 
seeming  to  pass  into  itself.  I  hear  now  the  never-to-be-mistaken  rasp 
of  a  snake's  scales.  As  he  passes  close  within  a  foot  of  my  boot,  his 
forked  black  tongue  shoots  out  as  if  feeling  the  air  for  safety.  His 
movements  are  deliberate  and  rapid,  and  in  a  few  seconds  he  dis- 
appears amongst  a  clump  of  chestnut  saplings.  And  now  the  ground 
seems  alive  with  snakes.  They  are  moving  in  all  directions,  winding 
their  long  lengths  amongst  the  green  shoots.  They  are  all  about 
the  same  size,  two  foot  to  two  foot  six  long.  They  are,  I  think, 
last  year's  young  snakes,  and  not  yet  mature.  Some  move  fear- 
lessly close  to  me.  They  radiate  out  as  if  from  a  centre,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  have  lost  themselves  in  the  undergrowth.  I  notice  that 
none  of  them  have  yet  shed  their  winter  skins,  and  it  seems  probable 
that  they  have  but  just  emerged  from  their  place  of  hibernation. 

It  is  a  fitting  day  of  sunshine  and  warmth  for  such  an  emergence, 
and  little  wonder,  that  coiled  together  in  some  hole,  they  should 
have  felt  upon  their  scaly  skins  a  spell  so  deliberate  and  powerful. 
In  the  silences  between  the  robin's  song,  the  magic  holds  its  tense, 
concentrated  and  yet  expanding  sway.  Is  it  a  wonder  that,  in 
times  when  men  lived  closer  to  the  earth  than  they  do  now,  they 
should  have  imagined  gods  and  goddesses,  nymphs  and  fauns  ? 
The  spirit  of  the  spring  becomes  for  me  like  the  presence  of  an 
unseen  personality.  A  slumberous  figure  is  risen  out  of  the  earth. 
It  is  heavy  and  full  of  peace,  invisible  yet  to  be  perceived,  pale  yet 
untroubled.  Suddenly  the  eyelids  are  raised.  Imagination  stabs 
at  the  heart,  and  in  that  eye-wink  there  is  revealed  life's  awakening 
vigour,  also  an  intolerable  weight  of  languor.  A  glimpse  is  given 


OPEN  PATHS.  419 

of  the  massiveness  of  earth,  complete,  self-contained,  substantial, 
and,  potent  as  the  forces  which  bind  and  mould  the  soil,  there  is 
the  assurance  of  earth's  eternal  resurrection.  The  eyes  close,  the 
vision  vanishes  ;  the  imagination  fails,  slack  under  the  spell,  the 
senses  tremble.  Of  such  quality  have  been  all  visions  of  resur- 
rection. The  graves  are  now  opened,  and  the  substance  of  the 
gods  retransmutes  itself. 

April  4. — At  Chapel  Bank  there  is  a  beautiful  and  inspiring 
burial-ground.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  still  used  ;  it  has  the 
appearance  of  being  deserted,  and  one  doubts  the  probability  of 
men  coming  so  far  from  the  beaten  highways  to  bury  their  dead. 
On  the  edge  of  Romney  Marsh  the  bank  rises  with  a  gentle 
gradient  to  more  than  seventy  feet.  It  stands  an  island  outlier 
from  the  inland  hills,  and  its  green  banks  overlook  the  surrounding 
marsh.  Wind-swept  ash  trees  grow  upon  the  flat  crown,  but  I 
did  not  suspect  till  I  had  climbed  almost  to  the  summit  that  they 
were  the  guardians  of  a  human  burial-ground.  Many  of  the  graves 
are  very  old ;  some  are  of  the  last  century,  the  head-stones  dating 
back  a  score  of  years,  others  are  but  sloping  mounds  almost  sunk 
into  the  earth.  ...  A  rough  dilapidated  fence  still  encloses  them. 
A  wind  blows  freshly  from  the  east,  bending  the  brown,  coarse  tufts 
of  grass,  and  making  a  cold  music  in  the  boughs. 

In  solitude  this  island-population  remains  separated  from  the 
world  of  its  kind.  Yet  if  these  souls  still  survive  and  have  cog- 
nisance, they  are  surely  not  dissatisfied  with  their  bodies'  resting- 
place.  Years  pass  with  the  slow  rhythm  of  the  seasons  ;  the  days 
and  nights  follow  each  other  like  drops  of  falling  water.  I  imagine 
the  sun  rising  eastward  over  the  marsh,  and  lighting  the  head-stones 
and  the  rounded  graves  with  the  first  slanting  rays.  These  sleepers 
are  unvisited  save  by  the  sheep  and  the  hares.  The  days  pass.  The 
clouds  of  sunset  cast  their  tinted  reflections,  and,  as  the  twilight  falls, 
the  wind  stirs  the  grass.  At  night  the  stars,  in  remote  splendour, 
light  the  black  dome  of  infinity.  Nature's  harmony  in  space  and 
time  is  complete.  The  bones  of  these  men  lie  confidently  and  at 
rest.  All  adornments  and  superfluous  relics  of  life  have  fallen 
away  ;  only  a  few  letters  and  names  on  the  head-stones  remain. 

The  wind  blows  coldly,  and  I,  who  still  have  flesh  on  my 
bones  and  restless  thoughts  in  my  brain,  move  further  till  I  can 
lie  sheltered,  under  the  brow  of  the  hill,  in  the  long  grass. 

Two  hares  are  chasing  across  the  opposite  flats.  They  run  in 
and  out  between  the  tussocks  of  rush.  As  I  watch  through  my 


420  OPEN  PATHS. 

binoculars,  they  come  rapidly  nearer.  The  male  follows  the  female. 
She  moves  just  ahead  of  him  at  a  quick  run,  and  doubles  with  quick 
turns.  He  almost  touches  her,  but  she  keeps  a  bare  length  ahead. 
They  are  now  within  sixty  yards  of  where  I  lie,  and  are  running 
along  the  edge  of  a  dyke.  The  female  pauses  suddenly,  crouches 
low  with  ears  back,  the  male  leaps  upon  her,  and,  in  a  scurry  of 
passion,  holds  her  embraced.  Again  she  runs  a  little  distance,  but 
not  far,  and  again  they  mate  together  ;  she  runs  off,  doubling  and 
twisting.  She  half  leaps,  half  scrambles  through  a  dyke,  the  male 
following  within  a  few  inches.  Their  game  carries  them  away  out 
of  sight,  but  they  return  to  cover  the  same  ground.  Sometimes 
they  pause,  nibbling  a  few  leaves,  watchful  of  each  other ;  then  on  a 
quick  impulse,  the  female  darts  away,  the  male  following  as  before. 
For  more  than  an  hour  the  game  continues.  They  mate  more 
times  than  I  can  remember.  At  last  they  seem  tired.  They  sit 
close  together,  the  male  has  his  forefeet  placed  upon  the  shoulders 
of  his  mate.  It  is  a  gentle  posture. 

In  the  distance  I  sight  another  hare.  He  sits  alert  with  ears 
up.  Now  he  comes  galloping  along.  He  checks  for  a  moment, 
then,  with  tremendous  speed,  rushes  upon  the  two  lovers.  Two 
bodies  leap  into  the  air  ;  I  can  hear  a  single  sharp  click  of  hind  legs 
brought  together,  then  all  three  dash  away  at  full  gallop. 

Other  hares  make  their  appearance.  There  are  races  in  which 
I  lose  my  original  couple.  The  spring  weather  is  in  their  blood  ; 
they  gallop  lengthening  and  hunching  their  bodies  in  a  wild  harmony 
of  speed.  Often  they  go  far  out  of  sight,  but  they  return  to  the 
shelter  of  the  hill,  sometimes  separately,  sometimes  in  pairs.  From 
time  to  time  they  sit  high  on  their  haunches,  their  long  ears  erect. 
They  think  nothing  of  dashing  through  the  wide  dykes  ;  their  hair 
hangs  wet  and  sleek.  Unconscious  of  past  and  future,  they  are 
filled  with  the  genius  of  irreflective  joy.  The  delight  of  cold  air 
and  bright  sunshine  suffices. 

Watching  these  wild  creatures  in  their  wild  delight,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  the  pain  of  life  is  hidden  from  them.  Death  and  suf- 
fering are  but  an  unconscious  dissolution.  They  live  without 
volition,  and  how  well  they  manifest  their  vitality,  how  beautifully 
they  maintain  harmony.  I  envy  their  absence  of  conscious  will. 
And  as  I  watch,  my  thoughts  go  back  to  the  graves  on  the  hilltop. 
Do  men  really  believe  in  eternal  life,  and  do  they  mean  by  that 
eternal  consciousness  ?  The  thought  follows  :  is  not  consciousness 
but  one  of  the  stages  in  the  process,  and  is  it  beyond  the  power  of 


OPEN  PATHS. 


421 


men  to  live  without  volition,  a  life  transmuted,  transcending  the 
illusion  of  time  ?  Is  such  a  possibility  close  at  hand,  though  veiled, 
or  is  it  only  to  be  approached  through  the  doors  of  death  ?  And 
what  significance  can  there  be  in  an  eternal  life,  if  it  is  not  a  life 
without  volition  and  without  self-consciousness  ? 

April  10. — As  I  look  at  the  pageant  of  nature,  opposing  views 
present  themselves.  First  comes  the  desire  to  find  universal  law. 
This  element  of  will  can  be  traced  in  the  history  of  all  religions  ; 
it  is  the  foundation  of  dogma,  and,  in  a  wider  interpretation,  the 
impulse  towards  science.  Man  looks  at  the  world  about  him  and 
finds  a  pattern.  He  can  see  but  little,  but  that  little  he  stamps 
with  the  print  of  his  own  perception.  In  this  manner  he  works 
toward  the  discovery  of  himself.  The  world  of  natural  phenomenon 
takes  significance  from  man,  the  beholder.  He  cannot  get  beyond 
his  senses  ;  they  are  the  origin  and  only  source  of  his  knowledge. 
The  more  he  looks  into  life  the  more  he  discovers  his  own  proportion  ; 
the  universe  takes  its  significance  from  man.  All  the  seemingly 
external  world  is  man's  intimate  heritage,  and  is  contained  within 
his  nature.  The  individual  who  seeks  the  woods,  the  hill-sides  or 
the  open  sea,  and  there  would  find  rest,  probes  deeper  into  the 
universal  nature  of  mankind.  There  is  no  evolution  ;  the  pattern 
is  already  complete,  nothing  can  alter  its  eternal  form.  It  waits 
to  be  discovered.  All  that  is,  is  contained  in  the  nature  of  man. 

There  exists,  with  equal  significance,  the  opposing  view.  Men 
are  but  atoms,  passing  and  dying,  blown  upon  by  a  senseless  wind. 
All  things  are  fortuitous,  without  end  and  without  beginning.  *  A 
little  reasonableness,  a  seed  of  wisdom  scattered  from  star  to 
star.  .  .  .  For  the  sake  of  folly,  wisdom  is  mixed  with  all  things  !  ' 

April  22. — I  was  walking  beside  a  stream  whose  bed  was  cut 
some  four  feet  below  the  level  of  its  banks.  Robins,  wrens,  willow- 
warblers  and  chaffinches  were  singing  in  the  little  copse  that  bordered 
the  stream.  A  cuckoo,  some  distance  off,  was  calling  occasional 
notes.  A  sudden  plunge  and  splash  in  the  water  made  me  pause. 
It  was  only  a  water-vole,  but  from  the  disturbance  and  noise  I 
suspected  more  than  one.  I  sat  down  to  watch,  and  remained 
perfectly  still.  For  some  time  there  was  no  sound  but  the  song  of 
birds  and  the  rustling  of  mice  among  dead  leaves.  An  unusual 
rippling  down  stream  caught  my  attention.  The  ripples  issued 
from  behind  a  snag  sticking  up  in  mid-water.  Then,  from  behind 
the  snag  came  a  small,  dark  body  swimming  rapidly  against  the 
current,  which  ran  swift  and  shallow.  My  first  thought  was  that  it 


422  OPEN  PATHS. 

was  a  young  vole,  but  I  saw  at  the  next  glance  that  it  was  a  shrew 
mouse.  I  lost  it  from  view  under  a  bank,  but  the  next  moment 
the  little  creature  landed  opposite  on  a  low  shelf  of  alluvium.  I 
had  never  before  seen  so  fat  and  well-looking  a  shrew.  Its  black 
fur,  like  the  finest  sealskin,  was  fluffed  out  so  that  it  looked  almost 
round.  The  little  tapir-like  nose  turned  this  way  and  that,  snuffing 
the  air,  and  the  white,  silver  fur  under  the  chin  positively  shone. 
The  little  fellow  had  a  good  look  at  me,  he  was  not  more  than  three 
yards  distance,  but,  seeing  that  I  was  motionless,  concluded  that  I 
was  not  to  be  feared.  Then,  to  my  surprise,  he  made  a  long-searching 
dive.  He  dived  not  only  under  the  water,  but  under  all  the  debris 
of  leaves  and  twigs  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  small  pool.  I  could 
follow  his  course  by  the  movement  and  air  bubbles,  though  I  could 
not  see  him.  After  traversing  a  zig-zag  of  several  yards,  he  came 
up  sleek  and  dry.  He  rustled  about  amongst  the  leaves  for  a  few 
seconds,  then  dived  again.  He  dived  several  times,  and  I  con- 
cluded that  he  was  searching  for  insects,  caddis-fly  larvae  and  such 
like,  on  the  bottom  of  the  pool. 

By  this  time  the  water-vole  had  come  from  under  the  bank. 
He  was  sitting  on  the  steep,  opposite  slope  about  a  foot  above  the 
water.  I  watched  his  manner  of  feeding.  He  nibbled  some  bark 
from  a  blackthorn  twig,  then  ate  a  celandine  flower,  then  a  bit  of 
dry  leaf.  He  moved  cautiously  along  the  bank  and  ate  some  grass, 
had  just  a  taste  of  wild  garlic,  then  methodically  and  without 
hurry  consumed  the  whole  of  a  large  leaf  of  meadow-sweet.  He 
then,  as  if  satisfied  for  the  time,  began  to  clean  himself.  My 
attention  was  now  attracted  back  to  the  shrew  mouse,  who  had 
climbed  the  bank  and  was  scratching  a  space  for  himself  amongst 
some  dry  leaves. 

At  what  next  happened  I  was  indeed  surprised.  This  smallest 
and  most  insignificant  of  our  British  mammals  lifted  up  its  little 
voice  in  what  I  can  only  describe  as  a  song.  This  could  not  be 
called  mere  squeaking.  It  was  well  sustained,  with  a  cadence  of 
its  own  repeated  several  times.  The  song,  for  I  insist  on  calling  it 
a  song,  was  of  about  the  same  length  as  the  simple  roundelay  of  a 
chaffinch,  but  subtler  and  very  faint  and  shrill.  I  watched  and 
listened,  doubting,  at  first,  my  impressions.  Unmistakably  the 
sounds  came  from  the  mouse,  and,  as  unmistakable  as  any  bird's 
song,  this  was  a  song  of  happiness  and  thanksgiving  for  the  return- 
ing life  of  spring.  Sometimes  the  notes  were  so  faint  that  I  could 
hardly  hear  them,  at  others  there  was  the  peculiar  squeak  of  a 


OPEN  PATHS.  423 

mouse,  and  at  others  a  sound  like  the  gentle  sliding  of  silver  coins 
one  over  another. 

The  water-vole,  after  tidying  his  already  perfectly  tidy  fur, 
continued  his  simple  vegetarian  repast.  When  I  moved  to  go 
further  on  my  way,  he  was  terribly  alarmed  and  fell  with  a  splash 
into  the  stream.  It  seemed  to  me  then,  as  it  has  often  seemed 
before,  a  sad  thing  that  men  should  carry  this  curse  of  inspiring 
fear  whenever  they  move  into  the  woods.  All  mammals  and  birds 
look  with  suspicion  upon  us.  We  are  the  only  creature  thus  uni- 
versally feared  irrespective  of  our  natural  prey.  Indeed,  those 
animals  upon  which  we  live  are  now  all  domesticated,  and  with 
unlimited  confidence,  and  all  too  limited  reason,  do  not  fear  the 
hand  that  feeds  them.  It  is  the  wild  creatures  upon  which  we  do 
not  prey  which  fear  us.  Is  this  because  of  our  ape-like  arms  and 
our  prehensile  hands  which  can  grasp  and  throw  stones,  or  is  it  our 
restless,  wanton  brains  that  make  us  the  enemy  of  all  wild  things  ? 
Have  we  not  with  justice  been  called  the  fiercest  animal  under  the 
sun,  and  do  not  wars,  industrial  and  military,  remind  us  of  the  fact ; 
or  do  we  need  to  read  in  histories  of  how  Tartars  blinded  all  slaves, 
or  in  the  newspapers  how  modern  governments  confine  in  solitary 
prisons  their  fellow  men  ?  If  there  is  any  truth  that  a  man  carries 
an  aura  about  with  him,  and  that  each  man  shares  in  the  aura  of 
his  race,  is  it  to  be  wondered  that  we  are  feared  by  species  less 
powerful  and  fierce  ?  It  is  a  curse,  and  a  heavy  curse,  whose  weight 
is  not  widely  enough  appreciated,  that  we  should  be  held  so  univer- 
sally in  dread. 

Sometimes  one  or  other  of  us  will  attempt  to  pierce  this  covering, 
woven  of  apprehension  and  distrust,  under  which  we  move  ;  a  St. 
Francis  or  a  Jesus  will  stand  free,  recognising  with  fearless  logic  the 
sanctity  of  life,  but  for  the  most  part  we  are  entangled  in  a  web  of 
criminality  of  which  we  are  hardly  conscious,  and  from  which  we 
cannnot  escape. 

April  23. — I  was  woken  last  night  by  a  nightingale.  It  was  the 
first  I  had  heard  for  some  years.  In  South  Dorset,  where  I  had  lived 
last  summer,  nightingales  do  not  sing.  The  previous  summer  I  had 
spent  in  London — ill-spent,  no  doubt.  The  notes  came  with  the  sur- 
prise of  a  new  delight,  and  with  remembered  happiness  of  childhood. 
They  opened  a  wide  road  leading  back  into  a  world  of  quick  sensa- 
tion, of  joys,  appreciated  unconsciously,  of  boyhood's  rapt  pauses  of 
reverie  and  contemplation.  As  I  listened  to  those  notes  so  surpris- 
ing in  their  mingling  of  pain  and  joy,  yet  so  familiar,  I  knew  then, 


424  OPEN  PATHS. 

and  was  grateful  for  the  good  fortune  of  having  lived  most  of  my  life 
far  from  towns  or  cities.  My  earliest  remembrances  are  of  birds, 
moths,  beetles,  caterpillars,  of  hay-fields,  of  hedge-rows,  of  streams 
and  of  bathing-pools.  As  I  listened  I  felt  again  the  quality  of  my 
boyhood.  I  remembered  the  prayer-time  at  school  on  summer 
evenings  :  the  big  hall,  the  green  wooden  benches  and  the  boys 
hitting  each  other  with  psalm-books — myself  one  of  the  most 
aggressive — the  shuffling  into  seats  .  .  .  the  silence,  .  .  .  the  long 
piece  of  music,  Beethoven,  Chopin,  or  Brahms,  that  preceded  the 
service,  the  great  yellow  walls  of  the  hall,  the  deep  blue  evening 
sky,  more  blue  for  the  contrast ;  then,  mingling  with  the  music, 
and,  in  the  intervals,  loud,  beseeching  and  aspiring,  the  notes  of  a 
nightingale.  I  remembered  a  night  expedition,  strictly  against 
rules,  the  wood,  dark  and  mysterious,  the  branches  against  my  face, 
my  pyjama  legs  wet  with  the  dew,  my  black  sand-shoes  soaked 
with  it,  and  the  water  squelching  cold  between  my  toes  ;  unex- 
pectedly close  at  hand,  alarming  in  its  nearness,  that  terrible, 
beautiful  voice.  I  remembered  the  awe,  the  sudden  fear,  and  the 
sudden  adoration. 

Pictures  half  separate,  half  merged  came  to  me,  and  I  knew  that 
I  had  enjoyed  the  purity  of  youth.  Of  the  years  between,  the 
ardours,  enthusiasms,  conflicts,  victories,  and  defeats  .  .  .  defeat 
and  the  unexpected  recompense  of  defeat — they  have  their  places  ; 
but  this  I  know  for  certainty,  that  for  me,  however  it  may  be  for 
others,  the  food  of  life,  the  food  which  generates  spiritual  power, 
comes  from  what  I  can  describe  in  no  other  words  but  the  inspired 
in  nature  :  the  vivid  expression  of  vitality  in  beetle  or  plant  or 
bird  ;  the  living  of  life  for  life's  sake,  the  acceptance  of  the  mingling 
of  joy  and  pain  .  .  .  the  irreflective  praise. 

April  26. — In  a  winding  valley  beside  a  stream  lie  hop-gardens. 
The  poles  have  been  planted  within  the  last  few  days,  and  men  are 
fastening  the  coarse  twine  which  binds  them  into  ranks.  There  are 
women  here  also  whose  work  it  is  to  tie  shorter  strands,  which  hang 
down  from  the  poles,  to  iron  hooks  planted  in  the  earth.  The  young 
hops  are  beginning  to  stretch  upward  their  slim,  snake-like  heads. 

These  gardens  are  planted  on  the  old-fashioned  plan,  but  across 
the  stream,  the  other  side  of  the  thick  fence,  there  is  a  field  supplied 
with  overhead  wires,  quite  up  to  date  ;  '  a  beautiful  sight,'  one  of 
the  women  assures  me.  I  follow  her  directions,  across  the  plank 
bridge,  and  find  indeed  a  strange  and  unexpected  quality  in  the 
dense,  regular,  and  mechanical  weaving  of  chestnut-brown  string. 


OPEN  PATHS.  425 

The  web-work  stretches  in  long  lines,  rising  to  the  hilltop  ;  and 
through  it,  the  distant  trees  upon  the  sky-line  have  a  fantastic 
appearance.  From  the  octagonal  pattern  of  the  overhead  wires, 
the  threads  descend  in  taut,  criss-cross  interweavings.  The  young 
hops  are  here  sturdy  and  well  advanced  ;  some  of  the  leading  shoots 
have  already  found  support  and  are  climbing  the  cone-shaped 
funnels  made  by  the  twine. 

The  sight  of  such  orderliness,  so  much  controlled  growth,  is 
striking  enough,  but  too  mechanical  to  be  wholly  satisfying.  Some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  man  rebels  (or  is  certainly  bound  ultimately 
to  rebel)  against  orderliness  or  regularity.  The  '  laws  '  of  growth  in 
nature,  though  approximating  toward  mathematical  formula,  are 
never  mathematical.  Life  remains  uncertain,  not  to  be  measured. 
It  is  only  a  small  part  of  the  character  of  man,  a  peculiar  serious- 
ness of  spirit,  blunted  always  to  finer  issues,  that  can  tolerate  for 
long  any  exact  form  of  symmetry  or  order.  When  this  seriousness 
shows  itself,  whether  in  the  rendering  of  material,  in  philosophy  or 
art,  inspiration  is  always  lacking  ;  and  these  straight,  well-dressed 
fields,  with  their  complexity  of  wire  and  string,  have  the  air  of 
serious  purpose.  There  is  no  natural  gaiety  here,  no  wistful  quality 
of  sadness. 

Beyond  the  hop-gardens  where  the  valley  opens  out,  a  hill  rises 
steeply.  Woods  cover  the  flank  and  crest ;  towards  these,  across 
fields  scattered  over  with  rabbits,  I  make  my  way  and  penetrate 
into  the  woods. 

Among  the  firs,  oaks,  and  chestnuts,  the  undergrowth  is  not 
very  thick.  The  sunlight  easily  finds  a  way  through  the  budding 
branches.  The  ground  beneath  is  carpeted  with  a  luxuriant 
growth  of  blue-bells.  They  shine  a  living  azure  ;  they  are  like  the 
sky,  only  more  vivid,  more  intense.  Over  the  rounded  sides  of 
knolls,  into  hollows  and  along  level  places,  they  press  in  their 
legions.  They  are  all  moving,  swaying  close  to  one  another,  as  if 
in  conclave.  And  far  up  the  hillside,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  them  reflect  and  transform  the  light. 
So  wide  an  extent  of  colour  catches  at  the  heart,  making  it  beat 
faster.  In  the  distance,  the  misty  azure  has  a  half-transparent 
quality,  as  if  the  earth  had  indeed  been  turned  into  air  and  sky. 
Near  at  hand  the  separate  flowers  bend  humbly  yet  joyfully  amongst 
the  luxuriant  greenness  of  their  straight  leaves.  On  each  stalk 
the  bells  hang  suspended  ;  the  intervals  are  perfect  in  irregularity, 
and  on  each  flower  the  petals  curl  back  in  short,  crisp  spirals. 


426  OPEN  PATHS. 

The  spaces  between  the  boughs,  different,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
wood,  from  the  outer  air,  are  filled  with  a  sweet,  heavy  scent,  and 
with  the  hum  of  insects.  As  I  gaze  at  the  carpet  of  blue  flowers, 
I  feel  a  heart-stirring  expectation,  a  surprise  and  a  wonder.  Here 
gaiety  and  sadness  blend  harmoniously.  This  unconscious  vegetable 
growth  fills  me  with  a  kind  of  envy  ;  I  would  fain  forget  that  I  live 
a  separate,  individual  life.  To  stand  still,  rooted  in  the  earth,  yet 
to  move  imperceptibly  from  seed  to  flower,  from  flower  to  seed, 
seems  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished.  The  mood  lasts 
but  a  moment ;  life,  diversified  and  never  at  rest,  finds  in  the 
beauty  of  these  flowers,  in  the  gay  assemblage  of  their  buds,  in  the 
wistful  sadness  of  their  distant  numbers,  but  one  amongst  her 
infinity  of  symbols.  She  does  not  speak  frankly,  she  whispers  and 
beckons  only.  For  these  the  earth  is  divided  ;  the  dead  leaves  of 
last  year  are  pushed  aside ;  the  green  shoots  appear  ;  the  bud 
looks  upward  ;  the  flower  bends  its  head  ;  the  petals  wither  as  the 
seeds  form  and  swell.  The  hillside,  brown  with  last  year's  sheddings, 
is  suffused  with  delicate  green  ;  it  catches  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
making  it  more  intense  by  the  immediate  contact  of  earth  ;  blue 
turns  to  green  again,  green  fades  to  brown,  and  the  harmony  is 
complete. 


(To  be  continued.) 


427 


DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS. 
BY  F.  W.  H.  BASEVI. 

DURING  the  past  few  years  there  has  appeared  in  the  literary  and 
educational  press  occasional  mention  of  incidents  which  suggest 
an  approaching  change  among  manual  workers  in  their  attitude 
towards  education.  University  lecturers,  it  appears,  when 
addressing  audiences  of  working  men  have  sometimes  been  sur- 
prised to  find,  not  only  that  they  take  a  lively  and  intelligent 
interest  and  display  a  capacity  to  criticise  Greek  and  Latin  books 
with  evident  appreciation,  but  also,  though  more  rarely,  that 
some  among  them  can  read  their  favourite  authors  in  the  original 
tongue.  Correspondence  resulting  from  these  accounts  has  indicated 
that  this  accomplishment  is  not  so  rare  as  might  be  supposed, 
and  that  among  working  men  there  is  a  demand,  small  as  yet  but 
growing,  for  increased  facilities  to  study  the  dead  languages.  In 
Scotland,  as  is  well  known,  educational  attainments  of  this  nature 
have  long  existed  even  among  the  poorest  of  the  people.  But 
whereas  among  the  Scots  it  may  be  suspected  that  the  original 
inducement  to  take  up  these  studies  was  an  ambition,  perhaps 
unfulfilled,  to  enter  the  Ministry,  or  in  some  other  way  to  better 
their  position,  in  England  there  appears,  as  yet,  to  be  no  motive 
ulterior  to  personal  gratification. 

This  phenomenon  has  been  ignored  by  the  champions  in  the 
educational  war  which  science  wages  on  the  classics.  At  the  very 
moment  when  the  older  universities,  clearing  decks  for  action,  have 
discarded  Greek  fire  in  favour  of  modern  weapons  of  precision, 
and  when  Latin  may  at  any  moment  go  by  the  board,  a  section 
of  the  working  classes  is  demanding  a  share  of  what  has  always 
been  regarded  as  a  monopoly  of  the  well-to-do.  It  is  a  phenomenon 
worthy  of  study ;  for  it  cannot  be  explained  as  the  assertion,  in  a 
new  guise,  of  social  as  well  as  political  equality  :  nor  is  it  merely 
a  matter  of  vain  display  like  the  unused  parlour,  the  unread  library, 
and  the  untouched  piano.  The  parlour  was  furnished,  and  the  piano 
bought,  in  times  of  prosperity  with  surplus  cash  involving  little 
self-denial ;  while  the  gaudily  bound  collection  of  books,  like  a 
row  of  guardsmen  in  full  dress,  is  a  standing  proof  of  pertinacity 
on  the  part  of  some  glib  commercial  traveller.  But  a  knowledge 


428  DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS. 

of  Greek  or  Latin  can  only  be  acquired  by  prolonged  study  carried 
on  after  a  hard  day's  work.  It  involves  effort,  and  self-denial,  and 
continuous  exertion  :  it  implies  sincerity  of  purpose. 

But  although  among  those  who  demand  facilities  to  study 
Greek  and  Latin  there  may  be  no  conscious  political  motive,  the 
political  result  may  prove  to  be  in  the  highest  degree  important 
and  beneficial.  Though  yet  so  slight  as  scarcely  to  have  aroused 
attention,  the  movement  is  interesting  because  it  implies  a  break 
with  the  immediate  past,  and  a  reversion  to  older  ideas.  In  other 
branches  of  knowledge  labour,  though  hostile  to  the  dominant 
middle-class,  has  meekly  followed  its  intellectual  lead.  Notably 
is  this  so  in  economics,  and  in  political  theory  based  on  economic 
doctrine.  But  this  new  interest  in  the  classics  indicates  distrust, 
as  yet  perhaps  unconscious,  of  middle-class  ideals  and  a  tendency 
to  adopt  those  of  the  old  landed  aristocracy.  For  it  is  the  middle- 
classes  who  have  cast  down  the  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  set 
up  in  their  place  a  golden  calf  ;  who  have  discarded  the  philosophy 
of  the  ancient  teachers  and  adopted  a  materialistic  philosophy  of 
gain  ;  who  have  imported  the  methods  of  the  market-place  into 
the  council  chamber,  and  substituted  instruction  for  education. 
This,  then,  is  the  problem  :  why  is  Labour,  the  humble  follower 
of  the  middle-classes  in  all  other  branches  of  knowledge,  turning 
against  its  masters  on  the  question  of  the  classics  ? 

Before  this  question  can  be  answered  it  is  necessary  to  under- 
stand clearly  why  a  classical  education  has  never  been  held  in 
great  esteem  by  financiers,  merchants,  manufacturers  and  members 
of  the  scientific  professions,  who  combine  to  form  the  intellectual 
and  social  leaders  of  the  middle-class,  and  give  the  tone  to  all  the 
rest.  The  attitude  of  these  leaders  has  always  been  a  little  con- 
temptuous. A  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin,  in  their  eyes,  is 
not  a  training  for  life,  but  an  accomplishment,  differing  in  degree 
rather  than  in  nature  from  '  dancing,  deportment  and  the  use  of 
the  globes.'  It  is  moreover  an  accomplishment  which  is  rarely 
accomplished  ;  so  the  years  devoted  to  it  are  years  wasted.  Bagehot 
the  banker  sums  up  the  opinion  of  his  associates  when  he  speaks 
of  Eton  boys  who  derive  from  the  pain  and  suffering  of  several 
years,  not  exactly  an  acquaintance  with  Greek  and  Latin,  but  a 
firm  conviction  that  there  are  such  languages.  The  gibe  is  not 
without  foundation  :  with  the  vast  majority  of  public  school  boys 
the  charge  is  substantially  if  not  literally  true.  But,  as  will  appear 
later,  it  has  no  bearing  whatever  on  the  question. 


DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS.  429 

Reasoning  a  priori,  a  very  dangerous  thing  to  do,  we  might 
say  that  there  must  be  something  good  in  a  system  of  education 
which  has  sufficed  for  the  governing  caste  during  a  considerable 
and  not  inglorious  part  of  the  history  of  our  land  ;  and  not  of  our 
land  only,  but  practically  the  whole  of  Western  Europe.  The 
obvious  reply  to  this  would  be  that  what  was  enough  for  the 
simpler  needs  of  past  centuries  will  not  serve  to-day.  Wherever 
scientific  method  has  been  substituted  for  the  slip-shod  systems 
of  our  forefathers  progress  has  resulted.  It  is  therefore  desirable 
in  the  interest  of  the  individual  and  of  the  community  that 
everyone  should  receive  a  training  which  tends  to  encourage  an 
attitude  of  mind  habitually  scientific. 

Speaking  impartially,  the  scientific  school  appears  to  be  getting 
the  best  of  the  argument,  though  this  may  be  due  not  so  much  to 
the  strength  of  their  position  as  to  the  weakness  of  their  opponents. 
For  unfortunately  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  cause  of  the  classics 
has  suffered  as  much  from  the  arguments  of  friends  as  from  those 
of  opponents.  Indeed,  the  worst  enemies  of  a  classical  education 
are  numbered  among  its  most  enthusiastic  supporters.  Enthusiasm 
distorts  their  vision  :  the  picture  they  display  before  our  eyes  is 
a  bad  picture  :  the  composition  is  wrong  and  the  drawing  is  weak  : 
it  is  sentimental,  picturesque,  often  merely  pretty,  like  a  coloured 
illustration  in  a  Christmas  number.  Their  arguments  run  mainly 
on  four  lines  :  three  of  which  are  false,  and  one,  though  true, 
misleading.  First,  and  worst,  come  those  who  claim  that  only 
by  teaching  Greek  and  Latin  can  we  teach  English  pure  and 
undefiled.  This  miserable  argument  is  repeated  by  every  ponderous 
pedagogue  who  rushes  into  print.  If  it  leads  anywhere  it  leads  us 
to  condone  the  incompetence  of  Shakespeare  and  to  understand 
why  his  verses  are  so  pitiful  and  paltry.  Poor  fellow  !  With  small 
Latin  and  less  Greek  no  wonder  that  he  failed  !  And  as  for  Keats, 
we  are  tempted  to  exclaim,  like  the  lady  in  the  story — but  substi- 
tuting for  her  query  a  note  of  exclamation — '  What  are  Keats  !  ' 
What,  indeed  !  Because  a  man  may  acquire  a  mastery  of  English 
through  the  study  of  Greek  and  Latin,  therefore  he  cannot  acquire  a 
mastery  of  English  except  through  the  study  of  Greek  and  Latin. 
This  in  all  its  shameful  nakedness  is  the  argument  of  pedagogy. 

Next  in  unimportance  come  those  who  claim  that  the  study 
of  the  dead  languages  is  a  valuable  mental  training.  Let  this  be 
admitted;  and  it  may  yet  be  said,  almost  with  equal  truth,  that 
anything  which  involves  more  than  a  mere  effort  of  muscle  or 


430  DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS. 

memory  serves  also  as  training  for  the  mind.  Madame  Montessori, 
indeed,  asserts  that  the  most  powerful  spur  to  mental  development 
comes  through  the  sense  of  touch,  while  Winckelmann  and  his 
admirer  Lessing  insist  on  the  necessity  of  manual  work — the 
actual  fingering  of  concrete  objects — at  least  as  a  corrective  if  not 
as  a  stimulus.  So  without  denying  the  usefulness  of  dead  lan- 
guages, it  may  be  claimed  that  many  other  subjects  might  be 
substituted  without  disadvantage,  and  perhaps  with  gain.  Among 
others  may  be  numbered  mathematics  and  any  of  the  experimental 
sciences  whose  use  in  after  life  must  turn  the  balance  in  their 
favour,  unless  other  and  weightier  reasons  can  be  found  to  support 
a  classical  education. 

Yet  another  band  of  enthusiasts,  who  may  be  called  the  fine- 
art  school,  find  reason  for  the  faith  that  is  in  them  in  the  softening 
and  refining  influence  of  literature.  This  is  an  argument  far  more 
respectable  ;  and  assuming  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  English 
language  which  can  be  compared  with  the  masterpieces  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  or  that  the  best  which  England  has  produced  is  too 
limited  in  quantity,  the  argument  would  appear,  at  first  sight, 
unanswerable.  Few  if  any  will  be  found  to  deny  that  great  prose 
and  great  poetry 'are  peers  of  all  the  arts  in  their  ennobling  influence 
on  human  life.  Their  appeal  is  not  restricted  to  our  under- 
standing :  they  permeate  the  deepest  recesses  of  our  moral  and 
emotional  nature  ;  and  by  nourishing  our  instincts,  which  govern 
our  actions,  they  influence  our  feelings,  our  deeds,  and  even  our 
very  thoughts.  But  in  order  to  enter  into  the  minds  of  those  who 
wrote  two  thousand  years  ago,  what  power  of  historic  sympathy 
is  required ;  while  to  appreciate  the  beauties  of  an  alien  tongue 
needs  far  more  than  the  smattering  which  is  all  that  the  average 
young  man  obtains.  Jewelled  and  pellucid  Latin  and  the  vowelled 
harmonies  of  Greek  may  afford  an  abiding  joy  to  the  scholar  who 
seeks  for  hidden  beauties  as  an  artist  explores  the  luminous  shadows 
of  Velasquez  ;  but  for  the  ordinary  man  who  can  scarcely  read 
Caesar's  Commentaries  without  a  crib,  they  are  but  an  object  of 
display  or  a  subject  of  regret. 

But  is  English  literature  so  poor  that  we  must  go  elsewhere 
in  search  of  nutriment  ?  Macaulay,  whose  admiration  for  the 
ancients  bordered  almost  on  idolatry,  has  recorded  his  opinion  : — 

1  The  claims  of  our  language,'  he  writes,  '  it  is  hardly  necessary 
to  recapitulate.  It  stands  pre-eminent  even  among  the  languages 


DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS.  431 

of  the  West.  It  abounds  with  works  of  imagination  not  inferior 
to  the  noblest  which  Greece  has  bequeathed  to  us  ;  with  models 
of  every  species  of  eloquence  ;  with  historical  compositions,  which, 
considered  merely  as  narratives,  have  seldom  been  surpassed,  and 
which,  considered  as  vehicles  of  ethical  and  political  instruction, 
have  never  been  equalled ;  with  just  and  lively  representations 
of  human  life  and  human  nature  ;  with  the  most  profound  specula- 
tions on  metaphysics,  morals,  government,  jurisprudence,  and 
trade  ;  with  full  and  correct  information  respecting  every  experi- 
mental science  which  tends  to  preserve  the  health,  to  increase  the 
comfort,  or  to  expand  the  intellect  of  man.  Whoever  knows  that 
language  has  already  access  to  all  the  vast  intellectual  wealth  which 
all  the  wisest  nations  of  the  earth  have  created,  and  hoarded,  in 
the  course  of  ninety  generations.  It  may  be  safely  said  that  the 
literature  now  extant  in  that  language  is  of  far  greater  value  than 
all  the  literature  which  three  hundred  years  ago  was  extant  in  all 
the  languages  of  the  world  together.  .  .  .  The  literature  of 
England  is  now  more  valuable  than  that  of  classical  antiquity.' 

This  is  the  opinion  of  a  man  who  during  his  residence  in  India 
resumed  the  classical  studies  suspended  during  parliamentary  life, 
and  in  that  short  period  of  three  and  a  half  years  read  Plautus 
four  times,  Xenophon's  Anabasis  thrice,  Thucydides,  Lucretius, 
Velleius  Paterculus,  Sallust,  Ovid  and  Livy  each  twice ;  besides 
Sophocles,  Plato,  Aristotle,  Euripides,  Caesar,  Catullus,  the  letters 
of  the  younger  Pliny,  the  Odes  of  Horace  and  the  '  Thebais '  of 
Statius. 

The  arguments  of  the  fine-art  school  are  little  weightier  than 
those  of  the  schoolmasters  ;  but  the  third  line  of  defence  is  manned 
by  sturdier  troops — the  Old  Guard,  the  Humanists.  These  have 
always  been  the  mainstay  of  the  classicists ;  but,  unfortunately, 
among  those  who  use  their  arguments,  many  fail  to  understand 
their  meaning.  It  happens,  only  too  often,  that  the  word  humanities 
is  used  in  a  sense  implying  little  more  than  sympathy.  Perhaps 
the  assonance — humanity,  humane — confuses  the  ear  and  the 
understanding,  and  like  a  dominant  chord  in  music,  blending  two 
keys,  facilitates  the  transition.  Too  often  it  is  used  to  mean  no 
more  than  a  pleasurable  recognition  of  human  qualities  in  other 
men  past  or  present ;  and  as  such  it  has  its  value.  But  for  this 
we  do  not  need  to  go  to  Greek  or  Latin.  It  abounds  in  English 
literature  ;  or  if  our  palates  crave  for  foreign  spices,  we  can  find 
it  almost  everywhere — in  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,  for  example,  or 
in  the  translation  of  a  Norse  saga.  In  these,  as  elsewhere,  we  shall 


432  DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS. 

often  stumble  on  some  unexpected  flash  of  human  nature  which 
bursts  on  us  suddenly  like  a  kindling  flame,  and  rouses  momentarily 
a  warm  glow  of  recognition  of  our  kinship  with  the  past  and  a 
deeper  flash  of  insight  into  the  souls  of  our  neighbours. 

Pleasant  as  this  sensation  is,  it  is  not  all,  nor  even  the  most 
valuable  part,  of  the  service  rendered  by  the  humanities.  Nor 
does  it  explain  the  predominance  which  Latin  held  in  the  educational 
system  of  a  class  born  to  rule.  As  astrology  preceded  astronomy, 
and  as  alchemy  was  chemistry  in  embryo,  so  the  humanities  were, 
and  still  are,  the  precursor  of  psychology.  But  whereas  alchemy 
and  astrology,  after  serving  their  purpose  in  the  progress  of  human 
thought,  have  vanished  into  the  limbo  of  discarded  errors,  the 
humanities  have  not  yet  been  displaced.  The  time  will  come, 
but  it  is  not  yet,  when  scientific  method  will  replace  the  unsys- 
tematised  and  empiric  knowledge  which  is  all  we  have  to  guide 
us  in  dealing  with  our  fellow  men.  But  psychology  is  in  its  infancy  : 
it  has  no  laws  :  its  definitions  are  disputed :  its  theories  working 
hypotheses  :  and  its  wisest  exponents  are  those  who  hold  their 
judgment  in  suspense.  Some  day  psychology  will  replace  the 
humanities,  as  chemistry  has  ousted  alchemy  ;  but  meanwhile 
we  must  be  content  with  what  we  have,  and  make  use  of  it  as  our 
fathers  did  before  us.  And  what  we  have  is  found  in  its  best,  most 
useful,  form  in  Latin,  which  constituted  all  that  for  many  genera- 
tions was  considered  worthy  of  the  name  of  education.  If  we 
bear  hi  mind  the  fact  that  the  humanities  are  unsystematised, 
unscientific  psychology,  we  shall  understand  why  they  were  so  long 
regarded  as  the  most  valuable  preparation  for  life  by  the  members 
of  an  hereditary  aristocracy. 

The  history  of  England  has  been  written  in  two  characters — 
one  hieratic,  the  other  demotic.  The  former  is  the  monopoly  of 
specialists  who  restrict  themselves  to  the  intensive  study  of  one 
period  or  movement.  But  though  their  work  is  of  the  highest 
value  it  has  little  immediate  influence.  General  or  narrative 
history,  on  the  other  hand,  supplies  all  the  knowledge  which  the 
ordinary  man  possesses.  It  is  the  product  of  partisans  and  school- 
masters :  it  is  written  with  a  political  bias  by  partisans,  and  by 
schoolmasters  with  a  utilitarian  eye  fixed  subserviently  on 
examiners.  It  begins  with  the  reign  of  William  the  Conqueror. 
Between  England  in  1065  and  England  in  1066,  according  to 
popular  belief,  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed.  Green  endeavoured  to 


DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS.  433 

bridge  this  gulf,  only  to  fall  a  victim  to  the  German  myth,  and  dig 
a  gulf  yet  deeper  some  few  centuries  farther  back.  Popular 
imagination  pictures  a  conquest  as  the  advance  of  a  mighty  army, 
marching  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  one  unbroken  line  which  stretches 
from  end  to  end  of  the  invaded  country.  This  picture  is  wholly 
false.  All  conquests,  in  a  greater  or  a  less  degree,  are  sporadic. 
Although  the  organised  resistance  of  the  aborigines  is  overcome, 
only  small  areas,  at  first,  are  actually  occupied,  and  it  is  from 
these  spores  that  the  power  of  the  conqueror  spreads,  slowly, 
gradually,  and  attended  almost  invariably  by  some  degree  of  union 
with  the  conquered  race. 

The  popular  illusion  that  there  are  breaks  in  history  is  due, 
in  part,  to  the  hypnotic  influence  which  outstanding  characters, 
events  and  dynasties  exercise  over  the  imagination,  and  partly 
to  the  deplorable  custom  of  dividing  books  into  chapters.  Biology 
and  anthropology  acknowledge  no  break,  and  Sir  Arthur  Quiller- 
Couch  has  done  great  service  in  helping  to  secularise  the  idea  of 
continuity  in  history  by  insisting  on  the  importance  of  nearly  four 
centuries  of  Roman  occupation,  with  all  that  this  long  period 
implies  in  the  mixture  of  blood,  and  the  diffusion  of  Roman  civilisa- 
tion. Wars  and  conquests,  revolutions  and  social  upheavals 
alter  the  distribution  of  wealth  and  cause  much  suffering  and 
misery.  But  so  do  famine  and  epidemics.  Indeed  the  failure  of 
the  monsoon  in  the  Punjab  and  the  ravages  of  the  tsetse-fly  in 
Central  Africa  cause  ruin  and  devastation  incomparably  more 
severe  than  the  most  terrible  iniquities  of  man.  Yet  there  is  no 
break.  Nor  was  there  at  the  battle  of  Hastings  ;  and  still  less 
during  the  Saxon  invasion.  New  rulers  governed,  and  a  new 
aristocracy  partially  replaced,  and  subsequently  mingled  with  the 
old.  Among  the  lower  ranks  of  society  a  similar  movement  occurred. 
But  life  went  on  much  as  it  did  before,  with  little  more  change 
than  is  incurred  to-day  when  a  family  moves  from  one  street  to 
another.  They  have  new  neighbours,  but  still  meet  many  of  their 
old  acquaintances  :  they  continue  to  pay  rates  and  taxes  though 
to  a  different  collector ;  but  their  breakfast  hour  is  not  changed, 
nor  generally  is  the  work  whereby  they  earn  a  li ving  :  they  continue 
to  eat  and  drink,  to  marry  and  to  give  in  marriage,  as  though 
nothing  of  importance  had  disturbed  their  lives.  There  is  much 
truth  in  Doctor  Johnson's  dictum  that  public  affairs  vex  no  man. 

To  avoid  misunderstanding  it  may  be  well,  before  proceeding 
further,  to  define  the  word  '  aristocracy ' ;  for  anthropology  has  not 
VOL.  LII. — NO.  310,  N.S.  28 


434  DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS. 

yet  evolved  a  language  of  its  own,  and  is  still  compelled  to  use 
words  whose  outlines  are  obscured  by  a  nimbus  of  associations. 
As  used  here,  the  term  implies  the  members  of  a  ruling  class  which 
rules  by  right  of  conquest.  This  right,  throughout  the  agricultural 
era,  involved  the  ownership  of  land,  or  at  least  a  claim  to 
occupation,  and  the  duty  of  performing  certain  social  functions. 

After  conquest  comes  rule ;  and  the  first  care  of  a  successful 
invader  is  to  maintain  the  peace.  In  countries  deficient  in  means 
of  communication  this  can  only  be  achieved  by  setting  up  throughout 
the  land  local  authorities  with  large,  almost  autocratic,  powers. 
This  the  Normans  did  in  a  rough-and-ready  but  sufficiently  effective 
way  known  as  the  feudal  system.  It  was  not  perfect,  but  the 
rapid  growth  of  prosperity  which  followed  its  introduction  shows 
that  it  was  not  unsuited  to  the  conditions  of  the  age.  Both 
conquerors  and  conquered  were  subject  to  its  rules  ;  and  as  there 
was  little  difference  in  race  or  civilisation  between  them  they  soon 
intermarried — but  class  with  class.  The  ruled  continued  to  till 
the  soil,  and  the  rulers  kept  the  peace  so  that  the  soil  might  be 
tilled.  Neither  performed  their  functions  with  any  great  skill 
if  judged  by  modern  standards  ;  but  they  did  something,  and  some 
of  them  at  least  did  their  best. 

The  spheres  of  action  open  to  the  ruling  classes  were  government, 
both  central  and  local,  diplomacy,  the  army,  and  the  Church. 
Of  these,  for  a  long  period,  the  first  and  the  last  were  intimately 
connected.  The  Church  of  Rome,  grasping  in  one  hand  the  keys 
of  St.  Peter  and  in  the  other  the  sceptre  of  the  Caesars,  exercised 
many  of  the  functions,  and  occupied  in  Western  Europe  the 
position  which  had  pertained  to  the  patrician  families  of  Rome. 
Its  highest  posts,  though  always  open  to  men  of  outstanding  ability 
in  any  rank  of  life,  were  most  rapidly  and  easily  attained  by  men 
of  high  social  standing ;  and  the  authority  which  its  prelates 
acquired  in  the  State  was  maintained,  not  so  much  by  their  piety, 
which  was  often  inconspicuous,  as  by  their  power  of  ruling  men. 
The  lingua  franca,  which  permitted  intercourse  between  the 
governing  classes  of  all  Western  Europe,  was  Latin,  which  placed 
at  their  disposal  all  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  the  patrician  rulers 
of  the  Roman  Empire.  Thus  the  Church  of  Rome — whose  highest 
dignitaries  belonged  mainly  to  the  governing  classes,  and  were 
connected  by  the  closest  intimacy  and  blood  relationship  with 
other  members  of  that  class  who  ruled  the  armies  and  shared  the 
high  offices  of  State — was  the  inheritor  not  only  of  the  Christian 


DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS.  435 

doctrine,  but  of  the  wisdom  and  philosophy  of  a  patrician  caste 
which  had  governed  a  vast  empire  with  conspicuous  success. 
Though  religion  lent  them  a  mysterious  and  terrible  support, 
it  was  the  wisdom  acquired  from  Latin  literature  which  guided 
them  in  their  dealings  with  men. 

Latin  provides  what  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  literature  of  any 
other  tongue.  It  contains  everything  which  served  for  centuries  to 
educate  successive  generations  of  a  caste  born  to  rule  :  a  class  con- 
sciously superior  to  the  mercantile  and  labouring  population,strongly 
practical,  intensely  patriotic,  and  so  convinced  of  its  superiority 
that  it  could  regard  without  irritation  the  crude  beliefs,  the 
ignorance,  stupidity,  and  weakness,  and  even  the  cupidity  and  dis- 
honesty of  those  whom  it  was  born  to  govern.  In  matters  of 
government  in  peace  and  war  they  were  experts,  imbibing  from 
infancy,  not  only  the  special  knowledge,  but  more  important  still, 
the  attitude  of  mind  which  was  to  serve  them  when  they  grew 
to  man's  estate.  Their  whole  education  was  directed  to  one  end, 
and  all  their  relations  and  associates  were  engaged  in  one  task — 
government. 

Concurrently  with  the  spread  of  education,  an  education  almost 
restricted  to  an  acquaintance  with  Latin  literature,  came  the 
decline  of  the  power  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  But  by  that  time 
the  position  of  Latin  was  established.  Some  knowledge  of  it  was 
considered  an  essential  part  of  the  mental  equipment  of  a  gentleman. 
Greek  never  attained  to  that  position.  What  was  valuable  to  a 
ruler  in  Greek  literature  had  already  been  absorbed  into  Latin  : 
the  rest  was  a  matter  of  taste,  of  connoisseurship.  But  a  man 
who  could  not  quote  a  line  or  two  of  Latin  to  illustrate  his  meaning 
showed  that  he  had  not  acquired  the  rudiments  of  education 
needed  by  those  whose  business  it  was  to  rule.  Above  all,  it  was 
wisdom,  not  knowledge,  which  a  ruler  needed.  Knowledge  could 
be  furnished  by  subordinates :  indeed,  that  was  the  function  of 
subordinates,  one  which  became  in  course  of  time  more  and  more 
important.  But,  at  least  in  England,  there  has  always  existed 
a  strong  aversion  to  putting  the  specialist  into  positions  of 
authority.  The  business  of  the  expert  is  to  advise,  not  to  decide  ; 
and  decisions,  we  believe,  are  best  made  by  those  whose  minds  are 
unbiased  by  specialism,  but  whose  training  has  taught  them  to 
balance  pros  and  cons. 

We  see,  then,  how  wide  of  the  mark  was  Bagehot's  gibe.  It 
was  not  the  aim  of  the  great  public  schools  to  turn  out  scholars, 


436  DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS. 

except  indeed  a  few  to  be  the  schoolmasters  of  the  next  generation  ; 
but  they  did  provide  an  education.  The  sons  of  the  ruling 
classes  passed  their  most  impressionable  years  in  an  atmosphere 
of  the  classics,  translating,  and  hearing  others  translate,  the  books 
which  had  formed  the  minds  of  rulers.  This  saturation  in  the  very 
spirit  of  a  governing  caste  tended  to  give  them  an  attitude  of  mind 
free  from  cant,  free  from  the  hot  passion  of  the  fanatic  ;  and  in 
order  to  achieve  a  wise  tolerance,  encouraged  that  superficial  pose 
of  superiority,  even  of  cynicism,  which  was  so  unintelligible  and  so 
hateful  to  the  earnest  middle  class. 

If  the  man  in  the  street  were  asked  to  explain  the  origin  of  the 
Conservative  and  Liberal  parties,  he  would  describe  the  former  as 
descended  from  the  Tories  and  the  latter  from  the  Whigs.  As  a 
statement  of  what  occurred  within  the  Houses  of  Parliament  this 
definition  is  not  without  an  element  of  truth.  But  it  is  utterly 
misleading.  Whigs  and  Tories,  though  holding  different  views  on 
Church  and  State,  and  on  many  other  matters  of  policy  which  are 
now  of  little  interest  to  any  but  historians,  were  both  composed 
of  the  landowning  classes,  their  dependants,  and  their  hangers-on. 
In  their  internecine  feud  the  Whigs  accepted  the  alliance  of  a  new 
and  powerful  interest  whose  rise  began  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  These  allies  were  the  manufacturing  and 
trading  classes  in  whose  hands  the  wealth  of  the  country  was 
rapidly  accumulating.  For  a  while  they  hung  together  ;  but  the 
union  was  never  a  happy  one,  for  their  personal  interests  were 
divergent.  The  middle  class  belonged  to  the  towns  ;  while  the 
Whigs,  like  the  Tories,  belonged  to  the  country.  Both  Whigs  and 
Tories  suffered  by  the  abolition  of  the  corn  laws  :  both  had  an 
hereditary  understanding  of  the  working  classes  in  the  country 
and  were  instinctively  more  democratic  than  the  middle  class. 
Finally  the  alliance  was  broken  :  the  middle  class  gained  control 
of  the  party,  and  most  of  the  Whigs  went  over  to  the  Tories.  The 
incidents  which  gave  them  the  opportunity  were  the  Eastern 
Question  and  Home  Rule ;  but  the  tendency  to  split  had  been 
evident  long  before. 

Cobden  defined  what  he  calls  '  the  middling  classes '  as  those 
engaged  in  trade  and  manufacture  :  he  admitted  that  their  aim 
was  social  and  political  advancement,  and  he  owned  that  they 
were  not  democratic  in  their  views.  In  the  early  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century  they  were  fighting  for  their  own  hand,  and  were 


DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS.  437 

not  concerned  with,  indeed  they  were  opposed  to,  any  extension  of 
political  power  to  the  working  classes.  The  concurrent  agitation 
of  the  Chartists  was  repugnant  to  them.  They  opposed  all  com- 
bination among  workers.  They  consistently  opposed — even  Bright 
opposed — all  legislation  tending  to  improve  the  condition  of  the 
workers,  such  as  the  limitation  of  hours,  and  control  of  child- 
labour.  Their  vision  was  restricted  to  the  walls  of  the  factory 
and  the  counting-house,  and  they  never  looked  through  the  windows 
at  the  world  outside.  Their  ledgers  and  their  balance-sheets 
afforded  them  all  the  inspiration  they  needed,  and  as  long  as  the 
balance  was  on  the  right  side  all  was  well  in  the  best  of  all  possible 
worlds.  To  support  and  confirm  them  in  their  convictions  a  vast 
body  of  theory  was  built  up. 

'  All  social  historians,'  says  Mr.  Graham  Wallas,  '  who  treat 
of  the  nineteenth  century  are  agreed  as  to  the  practical  evils  which 
resulted  from  the  intellectualist  bias  of  utilitarian  politics  and 
economics.  The  horrors  of  the  early  factory  system  were  prolonged 
by  the  authoritative  doctrine  that  both  parties  in  any  industrial 
contract  might  be  trusted  to  secure  their  own  interest ;  while  those 
who  "  believed  in  Political  Economy  "  tended  to  inhibit  their  own 
disposition  towards  pity  for  the  victims  of  industrial  processes, 
because  of  a  confused  theory  that  disinterested  pity  either  did  not 
exist  or  existed  without  any  scientific  right  to  do  so.' 

It  was  this  class  which  established  its  powers  in  the  course  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  It  organised,  it  administered ;  but  it 
had  never  governed.  It  gave  us  the  shibboleth  '  a  business  govern- 
ment,' but  did  not  realise  that  there  could  be  any  inherent  difference 
between  the  management  of  a  great  firm  and  the  ruling  of  a  country. 
Not  only  was  it  without  the  tradition  or  the  inherited  aptitude  to 
govern,  but  it  dealt  with  men  solely  in  their  capacity  as  workmen, 
or,  to  use  their  own  expression,  '  hands.'  The  term  is  highly 
significant.  Within  the  factory  and  the  shop  efficiency  demanded 
the  minutest  regulation  of  actions  and  movements  ;  and  the  workers 
were  regarded,  not  as  men,  but  as  highly  complicated  and  not  very 
efficient  machines.  They  were  not  human  beings  who  love  and 
hate,  desire  and  loathe,  with  ambitions,  hopes,  and  fears ;  but 
tenders  of  machines  who  come  to  perform  special  operations,  and 
then  to  vanish  till  the  engine  starts  again  next  day.  Their  ideal 
workman  had  no  personality  :  he  was  either  capable  or  incapable. 
That  he  had  rent  to  pay,  a  family  to  feed,  and  a  soul  to  be  saved 
was  no  affair  of  theirs. 


438  DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS. 

It  was  not  that  their  policy  was  deliberately  callous  or  cruel, 
but  a  man  cannot  help  regarding  with  favour  conditions  in  which 
he  prospers.  And  they  consoled  themselves  for  the  suffering, 
which  they  could  not  avoid  seeing,  by  the  belief  that  it  was  not 
merely  inevitable,  but  only  temporary.  Increasing  markets  would 
encourage  manufacture,  which  in  turn  would  abolish  unemployment. 
England  was  then  the  only  manufacturing  country  in  the  world, 
and  if  she  could  keep  her  start  other  countries  would  not  be  able 
to  compete,  and  would  remain  agricultural.  They  looked  with 
complete  faith  to  trade,  especially  free-trade,  as  the  means  by 
which  an  era  of  perpetual  peace  and  prosperity  would  be  introduced 
into  a  troubled  world. 

Efficiency,  smooth-working,  being  the  essential  of  success  in 
business,  remained  their  ideal  in  public  affairs.  The  tendency 
to  minute  regulation  which  they  carried  into  the  art  of  government 
is  essentially  opposed  to  the  older  method  of  the  aristocracy,  which 
is  well  denned  in  the  Chinese  proverb,  '  Rule  a  country  as  you 
cook  a  small  fish ;  that  is,  don't  overdo  it.'  Thus,  when  they 
acquired  political  power  they  were  handicapped  as  much  by  what 
they  had  as  by  what  they  lacked.  Not  only  were  they  without 
the  instincts  and  traditions  which  the  older  governing  class  had 
acquired :  not  only  did  they  not  breathe  within  the  family  circle 
the  atmosphere  which  rulers  need  to  breathe,  but  a  bias  towards 
the  methods  which  had  served  so  well  in  the  accumulation  of  wealth 
made  them  apply  the  same  standards  to  public  affairs.  Their 
touchstone  was  *  Does  it  pay  ? '  and  by  extending  the  significance 
of  the  word  '  pay  '  they  developed  the  utilitarian  doctrine.  This 
touchstone  was  the  test  of  everything,  including  education. 

Education,  according  to  the  middle-classes,  was  preparation 
for  the  great  struggle  for  success  in  business,  a  necessary  preliminary 
for  a  career,  and  they  looked  to  the  school  and  the  university  to 
provide  their  sons  with  a  training  directly  aimed  at  improving 
their  chances.  The  need  of  the  man  who  had  to  earn  a  living, 
who  would  have  to  organise  and  administer  a  factory  or  a  commercial 
house,  or  who,  taking  to  law  or  medicine,  must  be  more  expert 
than  his  competitors,  was  knowledge,  practical  and  useful  know- 
ledge highly  specialised.  Except  for  those  who  were  going  to  be 
schoolmasters  or  clergymen — respectable  but  quite  unprofitable 
occupations — the  dead  languages  were  of  no  practical  use,  and  to 
acquire  a  mere  smattering  of  them  was  mere  waste  of  time.  Some 
acquaintance  with  Greek  and  Latin  might  reflect  credit  on  the  young 


DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS.  439 

man's  relations,  and  be  a  subject  of  legitimate  family  pride  ;  but 
it  must  not  be  taken  so  seriously  as  to  interfere  with  instruction  ; 
and  it  must  be  left  in  the  hall  with  the  hat  and  umbrella  before 
entering  the  counting-house. 

Labour  to-day  is  following  the  track  which  the  middle-classes 
blazed  one  hundred  years  ago — the  path  which  leads  to  political 
power  ;  and  it  finds  itself  opposed,  as  the  middle-classes  were,  by 
the  man  in  possession.  Will  Labour,  in  its  struggle,  display  the 
same  patience,  the  same  restraint,  and,  above  all,  the  same 
determination  to  prepare  itself  for  the  great  position  at  which  it 
aims  ?  Or  will  it  allow  itself  to  be  swept  off  its  feet  by  hot- 
heads? *  Beware/  says  Lord  Beaconsfield  in  'Vivian  Grey,' 
*  beware  of  endeavouring  to  become  a  great  man  in  a  hurry ' ; 
and  the  warning  applies  with  equal  force  to  whole  classes  as  to 
individuals. 

But  though  the  immediate  aim  of  Labour  is  the  same  as  that 
of  the  middle-classes  a  century  ago,  their  habitual  outlook  on  life 
is  so  very  different  that  it  may  lead  to  different  ends.  Indeed  the 
working-classes  in  many  of  their  instincts  approximate  far  more 
closely  to  the  landed  aristocracy  of  old  than  to  the  merchant  and 
the  manufacturer.  This  unison  of  tone  between  what  are  usually 
regarded  as  the  two  extremes  of  the  social  scale  is  not  so  surprising 
as  it  may  first  appear.  The  causes  are  many,  but  only  one  or  two 
can  be  considered  here.  In  the  first  place  the  daily  occupation 
of  the  working  man  is  less  interesting  than  that  of  the  man  in 
business,  especially  since  the  craftsman  gave  place  to  the  skilled 
workman,  and  home  industries  were  displaced  by  organised  special- 
isation in  great  factories.  An  American  '  efficiency  expert '  relates 
how,  when  visiting  a  factory,  he  came  upon  a  man  engaged  in 
tending  a  machine  which  stamped  out  bits  of  metal. 

'  What  are  you  making  1  '  he  inquired. 

*  H.  14  '  was  the  succinct  reply. 
'  What  is  H.  14  ? ' 

*  This  is.' 

'  What  is  it  used  for  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know.' 

*  How  long  have  you  been  at  the  job  ?  ' 
'  Seven  years.' 

But  not  only  is  the  work  less  interesting,  it  is  also  less 
absorbing.  The  energetic  and  pushing  man  of  business  must 


440  DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS. 

always  be  alert  in  and  out  of  working  hours.  He  can  never  tell 
what  chance  remark  dropped  in  private  conversation  or  what  para- 
graph in  a  newspaper  may  show  him  an  opportunity  to  extend 
his  business.  But  when  the  workman  downs  tools  he  is  finished 
for  the  day.  His  life  is  then  his  own  to  do  what  he  likes  with. 
No  thought  of  H.  14  disturbs  his  relaxation.  His  life  is  not  so 
bounded  by  economic  formula.  Life  is  something  to  be  lived  ; 
and  his  only  economic  trouble  is  the  painful  necessity  of  being 
economical. 

Yet  another  characteristic  of  his  life  inclines  the  working  man 
to  adopt  the  outlook  of  the  old  aristocracy.  These  were  not 
troubled  about  how  to  earn  a  living ;  their  future  was  assured. 
The  eldest  son  inherited  the  estate ;  the  younger  sons,  to  supple- 
ment their  patrimony,  had  the  certainty  of  employment  in  the  great 
services  of  the  State.  What  certainty  was  to  them,  uncertainty 
is  to  the  workman  ;  and  the  extreme  difference  produces  like  effects, 
as  great  cold  gives  the  sensation  of  burning.  For  the  average 
workman,  provided  he  is  reasonably  skilled  and  reliable,  employ- 
ment and  unemployment  are  matters  over  which  he  has  little  or 
no  control.  They  depend  on  the  great  cyclical  movements  of  trade  ; 
on  booms  and  slumps  and  world-wide  influences  ;  and  this  inability 
to  control  his  destiny  makes  the  workman  disregard  the  future 
and  live  more  wholly  in  the  present  than  is  possible  for  the  provident 
middle-class.  *  Take  no  thought  for  the  morrow  '  was  never  a 
popular  maxim  in  business. 

Finally — and  here  we  come  in  direct  contact  with  education- 
it  takes  less  time  to  train  a  youth  for  the  highest  class  of  skilled 
labour  than  to  prepare  him  for  a  business  career,  or  for  one  of  the 
scientific  professions.  Except,  then,  for  the  fact  that  poverty 
requires  the  workman's  son  to  begin  at  an  early  age  to  earn  his 
living,  there  would  be  time  for  him  to  receive  real  education  as 
well  as  practical  and  useful  instruction.  Hitherto  Labour  has 
produced  few  men  of  outstanding  merit  in  public  -life.  Great 
talent  has  been  more  conspicuous  in  business,  in  art,  and  more 
rarely  in  science ;  and  those  who  have  risen  in  these  branches 
have  usually  been  absorbed  into  the  middle  class.  The  dearth  of 
original  thinkers  in  politics  is  probably  a  passing  phase  due  to  the 
restricted  numbers  engaged  in  this  pursuit.  Outstanding  ability 
is  always  a  '  sport/  a  variation  from  the  normal  type,  and  much 
seed  must  be  sown  to  produce  one  specimen. 

But  two  movements  of  recent  date  may  be  expected  to  extend 


DEMOS  AND  THE  CLASSICS.  441 

the  area  from  which  political  thinkers  and  leaders  can  be  drawn — 
namely,  the  reduction  in  the  hours  of  labour,  and  the  spread  of 
higher  education.  What  the  boy  must  perforce  neglect,  the  grown 
man  has  leisure  and  opportunity  to  acquire.  So  far,  Labour  has 
been  obliged  to  accept,  in  the  way  of  education,  what  it  finds  to 
hand ;  and  this  has  been  written  by,  and  for,  the  middle  classes. 
But  it  has  accepted  with  misgivings.  Orthodox  middle-class 
doctrines  have  not  resulted  in  the  economic  and  social  millennium 
which  was  promised.  In  despair  many  have  turned  to  unorthodox 
middle-class  doctrines :  socialism,  communism,  syndicalism,  and 
anarchy — to  anything,  indeed,  which  holds  out  promises  of  better 
things.  Provided  they  are  reasonably  logical  they  are  accepted 
at  their  maker's  valuation,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  a  logical 
deduction  can  be  drawn  from  false  premises. 

There  is,  however,  in  the  British  race  an  inherent  tincture  of 
conservatism  which  makes  it  look  back  before  going  forward.  If 
the  middle-class  doctrines  of  the  past  century  and  a  half  have 
failed,  what  about  the  earlier  system  which  they  replaced  ?  It 
was  founded  on  the  rock  of  human  nature ;  it  embraced  a  wider 
outlook ;  it  was  not  purely  industrial ;  it  did  not  confine  its 
reasoning  to  economics ;  it  had  regard  to  all  that  makes  up  life, 
and  not  only  life  within  the  factory  walls.  This  system  was 
developed  in  the  literature  of  Greece  and  Rome ;  it  contains  the 
wisdom  of  generations  of  specialists  in  the  art  of  government. 
Cannot  this  wisdom  be  applied  to  the  problems  of  the  present  day, 
and  serve  to  guide  us  until  psychology  becomes  a  science  ?  If 
the  demand  for  a  classical  education  continues  to  spread  among  the 
working  classes,  it  may  happen  that  the  stone  which  the  middle- 
class  builders  rejected  will  once  again  become  the  head  of  the 
corner. 


442 


THE  FIDDLER. 

DALMAIN  village  lies  a  few  miles  from  Forfar  town  in  that  part 
of  western  Angus  where  the  land  runs  up  in  great  undulations 
from  Strathmore  towards  the  Grampians  ;  and  it  is  tucked  away, 
deep  down  in  a  trough  between  a  couple  of  these  solid  waves.  A 
narrow  burn  slips  westward  to  the  Isla  through  this  particular 
trough  with  the  roughest  of  rough  country  roads  alongside  it. 
The  two  together  pass  in  front  of  the  small  collection  of  low  white 
cottages  which  forms  the  village.  There  is  just  room,  and  no 
more,  for  the  little  hamlet,  and  from  their  southern  windows  the 
dwellers  in  the  kirkton  of  Dalmain  can  see  their  kirk  perched  on 
the  bank  above  them  where  the  shoulder  of  the  next  wave  rises 
in  their  faces.  In  the  dusky  evenings  of  late  autumn  it  looks  like 
a  resident  ghost  with  its  dead  white  sides  glimmering  through 
the  yellowing  trees  that  surround  it.  It  is  the  quietest  place 
imaginable,  and  no  doubt  it  was  quieter  still  in  the  days  of  which 
I  am  writing  ;  for  the  *  'forty-five/  with  its  agonies  and  anxieties, 
had  passed  by  nearly  forty  years  back,  and  though  the  beadle  was 
still  lame  from  a  sword-cut,  the  old  man's  limp  was  all  that  was 
left  to  show  any  trace  of  that  convulsion  of  Scotland  to  the 
outward  eye. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  October  afternoons  of  1784  that  two 
men  sat  talking  in  Dalmain  manse ;  one  was  the  minister,  Mr. 
Laidlaw,  and  the  other  was  an  Englishman  who  had  arrived  a 
few  hours  earlier.  The  latter  had  never  seen  his  host  before,  and 
had  crossed  the  Tweed  a  few  days  since  for  the  first  time.  He 
had  just  started  upon  the  business  which  had  brought  him  from 
Northumberland  and  the  stir  of  Newcastle  into  this — to  him — 
remotest  of  all  possible  places. 

The  minister  was  a  plain,  elderly  man  with  pursed  lips  which 
gave  him  the  look  of  being  a  duller  person  than  he  actually  was, 
and  his  companion,  a  good  many  years  the  younger  of  the  two, 
alarmed  him  by  his  unfamiliar  accent.  The  Englishman  had  a 
pleasant,  alert  expression.  He  was  leaning  over  the  table  at  which 
both  were  sitting,  one  on  either  side. 

1 1  know  that  his  name  was  Moir,J  he  was  saying.  '  That  is 
all  I  know,  except  that  they  were  seen  together  in  Glen  Aird  soon 


THE  FIDDLER.  443 

after  Culloden,  and  that  my  cousin  Musgrave  was  badly  wounded 
in  the  side.  I  have  discovered  from  the  records  of  his  regiment 
that  there  was  a  Moir  in  it,  a  native  of  Dalmain.  I  can  only  guess 
that  this  man  is  the  same.  No  doubt  I  have  set  out  on  a  wild- 
goose  chase,  sir,  but  I  thought  it  might  be  worth  while  to  make  the 
experiment  of  coming  here.' 

*  It  is  a  matter  of  an  inheritance,  you  say/  said  Mr.  Laidlaw, 
pursing  his  lips  more  than  ever  and  raising  his  eyebrows.     '  I  got 
that  from  your  letter,  I  think  ? ' 

'  It  is.  We  are  a  Jacobite  family,  though  we  are  not  Scots — 
there  are  many  such  in  the  north  of  England — and  this  officer  in 
the  Prince's  army,  whom,  of  course,  I  never  saw,  made  my  father 
his  heir.  He  had  nothing  to  leave,  as  a  matter  of  fact,'  he  added, 
smiling. 

'  Then,  sir,  I  would  remark  that  it  is  no  very  easy  to  see  your 
difficulty,'  observed  Laidlaw  drily. 

'  There  is  an  answer  to  that.  It  has  only  lately  been  discovered 
that  he  had  an  interest  in  a  foreign  business  which  has  never  paid 
until  now.  His  share  of  the  profits  should  come  to  me,  as  my 
father  is  dead  and  I  am  his  only  son.  But  it  appears  that  I 
cannot  claim  the  money  until  my  cousin  Musgrave's  death  is 
legally  proven.  It  is  barely  possible  that  he  is  still  alive,  for  it 
is  about  forty  years  since  he  disappeared,  and  he  has  made  no  sign, 
though  his  wife  was  living  until  six  months  ago.' 

'  He  would  be  an  old  man  too,  no  doubt  ? ' 

*  He  would  be  nearing  eighty  by  this  time.' 
There  was  a  pause. 

*  You  tell  me  that  there  are  still  some  of  the  Moir  family  left 
in  this  parish,'  continued  the  Englishman. 

Laidlaw  cleared  his  throat.  '  I  doubt  you  may  not  find  much 
to  help  you,'  he  said.  *  It  is  curious  that  you  should  choose  this 
time  for  your  search.  It  is  not  just  a  fortunate  one ;  for  though, 
as  I  have  said,  I  shall  be  happy  to  serve  your  interests,  I  fear  it  is 
little  I  can  do.  There  are  two  persons  of  the  name  of  Moir  in  this 
parish,  two  elderly  bodies.  One  is  at  this  moment  dying — indeed, 
she  may  be  dead  by  now.  She  has  been  unconscious  these  few  days, 
and  it  is  for  that  reason  that  I  am  not  beside  her  :  my  ministrations 
are  useless.' 

*  I  see,'  said  the  Englishman,  his  face  falling ;  '  of  course  I  could 
not  trouble  her  in  the  circumstances.' 

'  It  is  not  that,  sir,  for  I  should  be  glad  to  give  you  what 


444  THE  FIDDLER. 

hospitality  I  can  till  she  was  able  to  see  you ;  but  she  is  a  strange 
creature — both  are  strange.  The  dying  one  has  been  slightly 
deranged  in  her  mind  since  she  was  a  young  lass — for  the  last 
twelvemonth  she  has  been  completely  so — and  the  younger  sister, 
Phemie,  is  a  very  extraordinary  character.  The  bairns  are  feared 
of  her,  and  some  of  the  more  foolish  of  my  congregation  take  her 
for  a  witch,  though  I  tell  them  such  things  are  just  havers.  She 
seems  to  have  no  ill-will  at  anybody.' 
'  But  what  is  wrong  with  her,  then  ? ' 

'  She  will  speak  to  nobody.  Months  at  a  time  she  will  keep 
the  house.  I  have  only  been  a  short  while  in  this  place,  just  three 
years  past,  and  in  that  time  she  has  been  twice  at  the  kirk  on  the 
Lord's  Day,  no  more.' 

*  There  must  be  madness  in  the  family,  sir,  I  should  think.' 
'  I  believe  not,'  replied  the  minister.     '  She  is  thrawn,  that's  all 
-twisted,  as  I  suppose  you  might  say  in  England.' 
'  And  are  there  no  male  relations  ?  ' 

'  I  understand  there  was  an  older  brother,  but  he  left  Dalmain 
long  ago.  I  have  heard  no  more  than  that.' 

'  If  my  cousin  and  the  man  Moir  fled  together  after  the  battle  of 
Culloden,  the  same  fate  may  have  overtaken  them  both.  I  admit 
that  my  chances  of  discovering  the  truth  are  not  promising.' 

'  That  is  true  enough,'  said  Laidlaw,  *  but  we  should  wait  awhile 
before  we  despair.' 

'  But  I  cannot  trespass  indefinitely  upon  you,  Mr.  Laidlaw ' 

(  You'll  need  to  bide  a  day  or  two,  sir  ;  I  shall  be  happy  if  you 
will.  I  am  not  much  company  for  you,  I  know,'  he  added 
diffidently. 

'  You  are  only  too  kind ! '  exclaimed  the  other.  '  I  have  heard 
many  a  time  that  Scotland  is  a  hospitable  country,  and  now  I  see 
it.  I  am  very  fortunate  to  be  here  with  you  instead  of  hunting  a 
dead  man  by  myself.' 

Laidlaw  coloured  a  little.  He  was  a  shy  man  and  a  humble 
one. 

'  And  now,'  said  his  companion,  rising,  '  I  will  not  waste  your 
time  with  my  affairs.  You  are  probably  busy  at  this  hour.  I 
will  go  for  a  stroll  and  see  something  of  this  place  before  dark 
sets  in.' 

He  walked  to  the  window,  which  was  open  to  the  still  October 
air. 

*  Surely  that  is  someone  tuning  a  violin,'  he  said,  turning  round 


THE  FIDDLER.  445 

to  the  minister.    His  face  was  bright.     '  I  am  something  of  a 
musician  myself,'  he  added. 

'  Oh ! '  exclaimed  Laidlaw,  jumping  up,  '  I  had  forgotten  ! 
You  have  come  at  a  good  time,  sir — the  great  Neil  Gow  is  here  ! ' 

1  And  who  is  he  ? ' 

'  Presairv's ! '  exclaimed  Laidlaw,  growing,  as  he  always  did, 
more  Scottish  under  astonishment,  'did  ye  niver  hear  o'  Neil  Gow  ? ' 

'  I  have  not  had  that  advantage,'  replied  his  guest,  becoming 
correspondingly  English. 

'  He  is  the  greatest  fiddler  in  Scotland  ! ' 

'  Indeed  !  ' 

The  minister  was  oblivious  of  any  humour  but  his  own.  '  This 
is  a  chance  an  Eoglish  body  might  not  get  in  a  lifetime !  It's 
many  a  long  day  since  he  was  here.  It  was  the  year  of  Culloden, 
they  tell  me,  before  they  had  put  the  plough  on  thae  fields  west  o' 
the  kirkton.  There  was  a  green  yonder  below  the  braes  o'  broom 
that  was  a  fine  place  for  dancing.  The  English  soldiers  were  about 
these  parts  then,  at  the  foot  of  the  glens,  waiting  for  the  poor  lads 
that  were  seeking  their  homes  after  the  battle,  but  they  danced, 
for  all  that.  Neil  was  a  young  lad  then.  There's  nobody  here  but 
the  beadle  minds  of  it.  But  he'll  never  forget  yon  days  till  they 
take  him  to  the  kirkyard.' 

'  Indeed/  said  the  Englishman  again. 

'  Ay,  he  was  lying  in  his  bed  in  a  house  that  looked  on  the  green 
with  a  wound  in  his  leg,  though  his  wife  tell't  everybody  it  was 
typhus,  to  keep  folk  from  going  in.  It  was  June  month,  and  the 
broom  was  out  on  the  brae.  They  said  Neil  was  daft ;  the  beadle 
could  hear  him  from  where  he  lay,  skirling  and  laying  on  the  bow. 
He  kept  them  dancing  till  it  was  too  late  for  a  man  to  see  the  lass 
he  danced  with,  and  his  arm  was  that  stiff  he  had  it  tied  up  next 
day  when  he  left  Dalmain ;  and  a  callant  had  to  go  with  him  to 
carry  the  fiddle.  But  time  flies,  sir.  Likely  there'll  no  be  a  lad 
dancing  to  it  the  night  that  ever  heard  him  play  before.  I  am  a 
Dunkeld  man  myself,  so  I  am  well  acquaint  with  him.  He's  playing 
at  a  dance  at  the  Knowes  farm.  Knowes'  wife  is  a  niece  of  Neil's.' 

The  Englishman  unstifiened.  There  was  something  he  liked 
in  the  contrast  between  Laidlaw's  black  clothes  and  sober  face 
and  the  enthusiasm  in  his  voice. 

'  Then  you  do  not  disapprove  of  dancing  ?  '  he  said. 

'  Toots,  no !  And  suppose  I  did,  what  would  it  avail  me  in 
Perth  or  Angus  ? ' 


4:46  THE  FIDDLER. 

'  Are  they  great  dancers  here  ?  ' 

Laidlaw  gave  an  impatient  snort.  There  seemed  to  be  many 
things  his  travelled-looking  guest  had  not  heard  of. 

'  I  will  certainly  go  and  hear  your  fiddler,'  said  the  Englishman. 
'  But,  sir,  you  must  come  with  me.' 

Laidlaw  sighed.  (  My  sermon  is  heavy  on  my  mind/  said  he ; 
'  I  must  follow  you  later — but  it's  a  pity.' 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  in  the  manse  a  little 
group  was  assembled  in  the  kitchen  of  Phemie  Moir's  cottage, 
where  the  beadle  of  Dalmain  kirk  stood  with  open  psalm-book  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  He  was  a  lean,  lame  old  man  with  aquiline 
features  set  in  a  fringe  of  white  whisker,  and  he  was  sending  his 
stentorian  voice  into  the  faces  of  the  men  before  him.  The  place 
was  full  of  rough  figures,  roughly  clothed.  Two  women  were  in 
the  kitchen,  but  only  one  was  visible,  and  she  sat  by  the  hearth. 
The  other  lay  behind  the  drawn  curtain  of  the  box-bed  let  into  the 
wall ;  for  she  was  dying,  and  had  nearly  got  to  the  end  of  what 
was  proving  to  be  a  very  easy  business.  The  elders  had  gathered 
together  this  evening  to  give  point  to  Margaret  Moir's  passage  into 
the  next  world,  and  were  well  embarked  on  the  psalm  following 
the  prayer  they  had  offered.  A  shadow  of  officialdom  impelled 
the  singers  to  hold  their  books  breast-high  and  to  keep  their  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  page,  though  the  dimness  of  the  crusie  at  the  wall 
turned  their  action  into  a  pure  piece  of  romance.  It  was  romance 
and  officialdom  mixed  that  made  those  who  had  no  books  look 
over  the  shoulders  of  those  who  had ;  for  none  could  see  and  all 
had  the  metrical  psalms  by  heart.  They  went  about  their  work 
with  a  disinterested  unanimity  that  levelled  them  all  into  a  mere 
setting  for  the  beadle,  Phemie,  and  the  unseen  figure  behind  the 
curtain. 

No  stir  nor  sign  came  from  the  drawn  hangings  of  the  box-bed, 
and  though  the  most  tremendous  event  of  human  life  was  enacting 
itself  in  that  hidden  space  sunk  in  the  wall,  the  assembly  seemed  to 
be  entirely  concerned  with  keeping  up  the  gale  of  psalmody.  Even 
Phemie,  who  neither  sang  nor  prayed,  and  to  whom  the  approaching 
loss  must  convey  some  personal  significance,  remained  detached 
and  impassive,  with  the  tortoiseshell  cat  at  her  feet.  The  animal 
alone  appeared  to  be  conscious  that  anything  unusual  was  going 
forward,  for  it  sat  bolt  upright,  looking  with  uneasy,  unblinking 
eyes  to  the  bed. 

In  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  verse,  the  last  but  one  of  the 


THE  FIDDLER.  447 

dragging  psalm,  the  cat  rose  and  walked  with  slow,  tentative  feet 
towards  the  wall.  It  sprang  up  on  the  seat  of  a  chair  at  the  bedside 
and  disappeared  behind  the  short  curtain ;  whilst  the  singers, 
aroused  from  their  preoccupation  by  the  movement  of  the  stealthy 
creature  across  the  flags,  wavered  a  moment  in  their  tune. 

Before  a  man  had  time  to  do  more  than  nudge  his  neighbour 
the  cat  had  leaped  back  into  view  and  made  frantically  for  the  door, 
where  it  crouched,  miaowing  and  scraping  at  the  threshold. 

The  verse  faltered  and  fell,  and  a  faint  breath  of  disquiet  went 
over  the  singers  ;  they  were  dumb  as  the  beadle  limped  across  the 
kitchen  and,  drawing  back  the  wisp  of  hanging  stuff,  peered  into 
the  dark,  square  space  that  opened  behind  it  like  a  mouth.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence  ;  then  he  turned  to  them  again. 
'  Sing  on,  lads,'  he  said,  '  anither  verse'll  land  her  ! ' 
The  elders  struck  up  once  more.  They  sang  steadily  to  the  end 
and  then  stood  back  with  closed  books  and  shuffling  feet.  The 
beadle  released  the  terrified  cat.  The  company  filed  solemnly  out, 
leaving  him  and  Phemie  in  the  kitchen — only  two  now  ;  that  hidden 
third  presence  was  gone. 

The  woman  stood  by  the  bed. 
'  Aye,  she's  awa','  she  said. 

Her  sister  had  been  practically  dead  for  the  last  twelve  months, 
a  mere  mindless  puppet  to  be  fed  a  little  less  regularly  than  the  cat, 
a  little  more  regularly  than  the  hens. 

The  beadle  looked  on,  silent,  as  his  companion  drew  the  sheet 
over  the  dead  woman's  face.  His  legitimate  part  in  the  event  was 
to  come  later.  Then  he  also  went  out,  crossing  the  small  rapid 
burn  which  divided  Phemie's  cottage  from  the  road.  Under  the 
overhanging  weeds  it  was  gurgling  loud,  for  it  had  rained  in  the  hills 
and  the  streams  were  swelling. 

He  stood  looking  up  and  down  the  way.  Voices  were  floating 
towards  him  from  the  Knowes  farm.  He  had  done  what  he  con- 
sidered was  required  of  him  as  an  official,  and  relaxation  was  his 
due.  Also  it  was  unthinkable  that  anything,  from  a  kirk  meeting 
to  a  pig-killing,  should  go  on  without  him  at  Dalmain.  He  clapped 
his  psalm-book  into  his  pocket  and  turned  towards  the  Knowes,  for, 
like  the  Englishman,  he  heard  the  fiddle  tuning.  He  had  worn  a 
completely  suitable  expression  at  the  scene  he  had  just  left,  and  as 
he  drew  nearer  to  the  steading  it  changed  with  every  step  ;  by  the 
time  he  had  kicked  the  mud  from  his  feet  at  the  threshold  of  the  big 
barn,  which  was  filling  with  people  from  all  corners  of  this  and 


448  THE  FIDDLER. 

neighbouring  parishes,  he  wore  a  look  of  consistent  joviality.  His 
long  mouth  was  drawn  across  his  hatchet  face,  and  he  held  it  a  little 
open  like  that  of  a  sly  old  collie  dog. 

The  barn  was  roughly  decorated  with  branches  of  rowan  nailed 
here  and  there  against  the  walls,  and  the  scarlet  berries  of  the 
autumn-stricken  leaves  were  like  outbreaks  of  flame.  The  floor 
was  swept  clean  and  a  few  stable  lanterns  were  hung  from  rafters, 
or  set  upon  boxes  in  the  angles  of  the  building ;  the  light  from 
these  being  so  much  dispersed  that  it  only  served  to  illuminate 
such  groups  as  came  into  the  individual  radius  of  each.  The 
greater  part  of  those  who  stood  about  waiting  for  the  dancing  to 
begin  were  dark  figures  with  undistinguishable  faces.  There  was 
a  hum  of  talk  and  an  occasional  burst  of  laughter  and  horseplay. 
At  the  further  end  of  the  place  a  heavy  wooden  chair  was  set  upon 
a  stout  table.  '  Knowes,'  the  giver  of  the  entertainment,  loitered 
rather  sheepishly  in  the  background  ;  he  was  of  no  account  though 
he  was  a  recent  bridegroom ;  for  it  was  his  wife's  relationship  to 
the  great  fiddler  who  was  to  preside  this  evening  which  shed  a  glory 
on  his  household  and  turned  their  housewarming  into  an  event. 
He  was  an  honest  fellow  and  popular,  but  the  merrymakers  had  no 
thought  for  anyone  but  Neil. 

The  position  that  Neil  Gow  had  made  for  himself  was  a 
remarkable  one.  There  was  no  community  in  Perthshire,  Angus 
or  the  Mearns  that  did  not  look  on  him  with  possessive  affection. 
He  played  alike  at  farmhouse  dances,  at  public  balls,  in  villages 
and  bothies,  at  the  houses  of  lairds  and  dukes  ;  he  met  every  class 
and  was  on  terms  of  friendship  with  the  members  of  each.  He 
had  humour  and  spirit,  and  though  he  was  entirely  outspoken 
and  used  a  merry  tongue  on  every  rank  and  denomination  among 
his  friends,  his  wit  and  good  sense  and  the  glamour  of  a  fine  per- 
sonality allowed  him  to  do  so  without  offence.  He  was  accustomed 
to  speak  his  mind  to  his  great  friend  and  patron,  the  Duke  of  Atholl, 
as  well  as  to  his  guests.  '  Gang  doon  to  yer  suppers,  ye  daft 
limmers,'  he  had  once  cried  to  the  dancers  at  Atholl  House,  '  an' 
dinna  haud  me  here  reelin'  as  if  hunger  an'  drouth  were  unkent 
i'  the  land  ! '  Many  a  poor  man  knew  Neil's  generosity,  and  many 
a  richer  one  in  difficulties ;  out  of  his  own  good  fortune  he  liked 
to  help  those  less  happy  than  himself.  He  had  an  answer  for 
everybody,  a  hand  for  all.  He  was  a  self-made  king  whose  sceptre 
was  his  bow  and  whose  crown  was  his  upright  soul  and  overflowing 
humanity. 


THE  FIDDLER.  449 

At  last  the  group  inside  the  barn  door  dispersed,  and  Neil,  who 
had  been  the  centre  of  it,  shook  himself  free  and  went  over,  his 
fiddle  under  his  arm,  to  the  table  beside  which  a  long  bench  was  set 
that  he  might  step  up  to  his  place.  He  would  begin  to  play  alone 
to-night,  for  his  brother  Donald,  who  was  his  violoncello,  had  been 
detained  upon  their  way. 

'  Aye,  sit  doon,  twa-three  o'  ye,  on  the  tither  end  o't,J  he 
exclaimed  to  a  knot  of  girls  who  were  watching  him  with  expectant 
eyes ;  '  ye'd  nane  o'  ye  get  yer  fling  wi'  yer  lads  the  nicht  gin  I  was 
to  turn  tapsalterie  ! ' 

They  threw  themselves  simultaneously  upon  the  bench,  tittering, 
and  he  stepped  up  on  the  table,  a  tall,  broad  figure  in  tartan  breeches 
and  hose.  His  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle  and  hung,  straight 
and  iron-grey,  almost  to  his  great  shoulders,  and  his  cheekbones 
looked  even  higher  than  they  already  were  from  the  shadows  cast 
under  them  by  the  lantern  swinging  above.  There  was  no  need 
for  the  light,  for  he  carried  no  music  and  would  have  scorned  to 
depend  on  it.  His  marked  eyebrows  rose  from  his  nose  to  the  line 
that  drew  them  level  along  the  temples  above  his  bright  and 
fearless  eyes.  His  large,  finely-cut  mouth  was  shut,  his  shoulders 
back,  as  he  surveyed  the  crowd  below  him.  A  subdued  murmur 
rose  from  it.  The  company  began  to  arrange  itself  in  pairs.  He 
smiled  and  stood  with  his  bow  hand  raised ;  he  was  just  going  to 
drop  it  to  the  strings  when  Donald  Gow  came  in. 

When  the  Englishman  had  left  the  minister  to  his  sermon  he 
made  his  way  slowly  to  the  village.  He  was  in  no  hurry,  for  though 
his  host  had  stirred  a  slight  curiosity  in  him  about  the  fiddler,  he 
was  principally  interested  in  seeing  what  it  was  that  this  unsophisti- 
cated little  world,  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  had  magnified  into 
a  marvel.  The  thought  of  it  amused  him.  It  was  a  kindly  amuse- 
ment, for  he  was  a  good-hearted  man  who  liked  his  fellow  creatures 
as  a  whole.  The  rotting  leaves  were  half  fallen  and  their  moist 
scent  rose  from  under  foot,  a  little  acrid,  but  so  much  mixed  with 
earth's  composite  breath  that  it  was  not  disagreeable.  A  robin 
hopped  alongside  at  a  few  yards'  distance  with  the  trustful 
inquisitiveness  of  its  kind.  The  fiddle  had  begun,  but  he  was  too 
far  from  it  to  hear  plainly,  and  it  sounded  mufiled,  as  though 
from  the  interior  of  some  enclosed  place.  One  or  two  faint  lights 
were  showing  in  cottage  windows  across  the  burn.  The  gurgling 
voice  of^the  water  made  him  feel  drowsy.  He  was  in  the  humour 
which  makes  people  lean  their  folded  arms  on  gates,  but  he  could 
VOL.  LII. — NO.  310,  N.S.  29 


450  THE  FIDDLER. 

not  do  that,  for  there  were  no  gates  here ;  rough  bars  thrust  in 
across  the  gaps  in  unpointed  walls  a  couple  of  feet  from  the  ground 
were  the  nearest  approach  to  gates  that  he  could  see.  How  much 
poorer  it  all  looked  than  England,  and  how  different !  He  knew 
that  it  was  a  wilder  place  over  which  his  cousin  had  fought,  and  he 
thought  of  the  wounded  fugitive  tramping  this  comfortless  country 
with  the  vanished  and  problematical  Moir.  He  feared,  as  he  had 
said  to  Laidlaw,  that  he  was  on  a  wild  goose  chase.  He  felt  a 
stirring  of  pity  in  him  for  the  dwellers  in  this  lost,  strange  backwater, 
and  it  seemed  no  wonder  to  him  that  a  common  fiddler  should 
arouse  so  much  delight,  even  in  a  moderately  educated  man,  such 
as  he  took  Laidlaw  to  be.  As  the  dusk  fell  it  grew  chilly,  so  he  went 
to  the  Knowes  farm  and  found  his  way  among  the  stacks  to  the  barn 
door.  The  dancing  was  now  in  full  swing,  so  he  stood  unnoticed 
by  the  threshold,  looking  in. 

The  lights  were  flickering  in  the  draught  created  by  the  whirl  of 
the  reel  which  was  in  progress,  and  men  and  women  of  all  ages 
between  sixteen  and  sixty  seemed  lost  to  everything  but  the  ecstasy 
of  recurrent  rhythm  that  swayed  them.  The  extraordinary  elabora- 
tion of  steps  amazed  the  Englishman,  and  the  dexterity  of  feet 
shod  in  heavy  brogues.  He  could  not  follow  any  single  pair  long 
enough  to  disentangle  their  intricacies  of  movement,  for  no  sooner 
did  he  think  he  was  on  the  way  to  it  than  the  whole  body  of  dancers 
were  swallowed  up  in  collective  loops  of  motion,  and  then  were 
spinning  anew  in  couples  till  the  fiddle  put  them  back  in  their 
places  and  the  maze  of  steps  began  again.  The  rhythmic  stamping 
went  on  like  the  smothered  footfall  of  a  gigantic  approaching  host ; 
not  so  much  a  host  of  humanity  as  of  some  elemental  force  gathering 
power  behind  it.  It  gripped  him  as  he  listened  and  felt  the  rocking 
of  the  floor.  His  eyes  were  drawn  across  the  swinging  crowd,  the 
confused  shadows  and  the  dust  of  the  thickening  atmosphere  to 
what  was  the  live  heart  of  it  all. 

The  largest  lantern,  high  above,  hung  direct  from  its  rafter 
over  the  head  of  Donald  Gow  as  he  sat  on  his  wooden  chair  with 
the  dark,  dim-looking  violoncello  between  his  knees.  Before  him 
on  the  broad  table  stood  Neil,  the  light  at  his  back  magnifying  his 
size.  His  cheek  was  laid  against  his  violin,  his  right  foot,  a  little 
advanced,  tapped  the  solid  boards,  as,  pivoted  on  his  left  one,  he 
turned  to  and  fro  with  the  fluctuations  of  the  tune,  swaying  now 
this  way,  now  that,  his  eye  roving  over  the  mass  that  responded, 
as  though  hypnotised,  to  the  spur  of  his  moving  bow.  It  was  as 


THE  FIDDLER.  451 

if  he  saw  each  individual  dancer  and  was  playing  to  him  or  her 
alone  ;  as  if  his  very  being  was  urging  each  one  to  answer  to  his 
own  abounding  force  and  compelling  the  whole  gathering  to  reflect 
every  impulse  of  his  mind.  The  stream  of  the  reel  poured  on, 
throbbing  and  racing,  leaping  above  the  sonorous  undertone  of 
the  violoncello,  but  never,  for  all  the  ardent  crying  of  the  string, 
leaving  the  measured  beat  of  the  matchless  time.  Now  and  again, 
at  some  point  of  tension,  he  would  throw  a  short,  exultant  yell 
across  the  barn  and  the  tumult  of  ordered  movement  would  quicken 
to  the  sharp  inspiration  of  the  sound. 

The  Englishman  stood  with  beating  pulses  and  every  nerve  and 
muscle  taut,  gazing  at  Neil.  He  loved  music,  and  had  toiled 
patiently  and  with  a  measure  of  success  at  the  violin.  He  knew 
enough  to  recognise  his  technical  skill,  yet  the  pleasure  of  recognition, 
so  great  even  to  one  with  less  knowledge  than  he  possessed,  was 
forgotten  in  the  pure  rush  of  feeling,  the  ilhunination  cast  upon 
his  mind  by  which  intangible  things  became  clear.  He  seemed 
to  understand — perhaps  only  for  a  moment — the  spirit  of  the  land 
he  was  in,  and  the  heart  of  the  kinsman  whose  track  he  was 
trying  to  follow,  whose  body  lay,  perchance,  somewhere  among 
those  hills  he  had  seen  before  him,  guarding  the  northern  horizon, 
as  he  neared  Dalmain.  For  a  moment  he  could  have  envied  him 
his  participation  in  the  forlorn  cause  he  had  espoused.  The  love 
of  country,  which  was  a  passion  in  the  race  around  him,  which, 
unexpressed  in  mere  words,  poured  out  of  the  violin  in  this  master- 
hand,  was  revealed  to  him,  though  he  could  only  grasp  it  vicariously. 
As  he  stood,  thrilled,  on  the  brink  of  the  whirlpool,  its  outer  circles 
were  rising  about  his  feet.  The  music  stopped  suddenly  and  Neil 
threw  down  his  bow. 

He  awoke  as  from  a  dream  and  drew  back.  One  or  two  people, 
aware  for  the  first  time  of  a  stranger's  presence,  looked  at  him 
curiously,  but  most  of  the  dancers  were  crowding  round  the  table 
where  Neil  was  now  sitting  in  his  brother's  place. 

*  Na,  na,'  he  was  saying,  *  I'll  no  win  doon  till  I  hae  a  drink. 
Man,  Donal',  awa'  wi'  ye  an'  get  a  dram  to  us  baith.' 

The  Englishman  went  back  to  the  stackyard ;  he  wished  Mr. 
Laidlaw  had  not  stayed  behind,  for  he  did  not  mean  to  return  to 
the  manse  till  he  had  heard  Neil  play  again.  He  was  an  intruder, 
which  was  a  little  embarrassing  to  him,  and  he  felt  his  position 
would  be  bettered  if  he  had  someone  to  speak  to.  But  the  scraps 
of  talk  he  heard  did  not  encourage  him  to  address  anyone  because 


452  THE  FIDDLER. 

he  was  not  sure  of  understanding  any  reply  he  might  get.  Soon 
a  small  boy  came  .out  of  the  barn  and  paused  in  surprise  to  look 
at  him ;  he  was  apparently  of  an  inquisitive  turn  of  mind,  for  he 
hung  about  examining  every  detail  of  the  stranger's  appearance. 
He  bore  the  scrutiny  for  a  few  minutes. 

*  What  is  your  name,  my  lad  ? '  he  inquired  at  last,  reflecting 
that  it  would  not  matter  if  he  did  look  like  a  fool  before  this  child. 

The  boy  made  no  answer,  but  backed  a  step,  open-mouthed. 
The  question  was  repeated,  and  this  time  produced  an  effect,  for  he 
turned  and  ran,  as  though  accosted  by  an  ogre. 

He  did  not  stop  till  he  was  clear  of  the  stackyard,  but  when  he 
reached  the  road  he  stood  still.  He  had  been  told  by  his  mother 
to  come  home  before  dark,  and  when  he  had  first  caught  sight  of 
the  Englishman  he  was  debating  whether  or  no  he  should  obey 
her.  He  was  now  put  out  at  rinding  himself  on  his  way  there,  and 
stood  irresolute,  pouting  and  kicking  his  heels  in  the  mud.  Looking 
back,  he  saw  a  figure  moving  among  the  stacks,  and  the  sight 
decided  him.  He  set  off  resentfully,  cheated  into  virtue  :  a  situation 
that  was  hateful. 

He  had  no  mind  to  hurry.  If  he  was  diddled  by  an  unfair 
chance  into  respecting  his  mother's  orders  he  was  not  going  to 
interpret  them  literally.  Everything  was  close  together  in  the 
kirkton  of  Dalmain,  and  though  he  was  just  out  of  the  farm  gate 
he  was  not  a  dozen  yards  from  the  first  cottage  in  the  row.  The 
fiddle  had  begun  again,  and  he  could  hear  it  very  plainly,  and  the 
shouts  and  thudding  of  feet ;  it  was  almost  as  good  as  being  in 
the  barn,  if  only  there  were  something  to  look  at.  He  began  to 
amuse  himself  by  building  a  little  promontory  out  into  the  burn 
with  the  biggest  stones  he  could  collect.  He  had  often  been  for- 
bidden to  do  this,  and  he  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  being 
even  with  Fate.  When  he  had  been  at  it  for  some  time,  and  even 
disobedience  began  to  pall,  he  looked  up  and  noticed  that  a  bar  of  light 
was  lying  upon  the  water,  falling  on  it  from  the  window- of  a  cottage 
down  stream.  Bands  of  shadow  were  crossing  and  re-crossing  this 
in  a  strange  way,  as  if  some  movement  were  going  on  behind  the 
window-panes.  He  jumped  over  the  burn,  crept  along  byjthe 
harled  wall  and,  crouching  by  the  sill,  peered  in. 

When  the  elders  had  left  the  Moirs'  house  and  the  beadle  had 
betaken  himself  to  the  Knowes,  Phemie  sat  on  by  the  fire,  like 
some  commonplace  image  of  endurance,  seemingly  stupefied. 
Another  woman  might  have  been  arouied  by  the  entrance  of 


THE  FIDDLER. 


453 


neighbours  drawn  by  the  news  of  what  had  happened  and  ready 
to  help  in  those  duties  necessitated  by  a  death  that  the  poor  share 
so  faithfully  with  one  another.  But  she  had  no  neighbours  in  the 
fuller  sense  of  the  word,  and  the  few  with  whom  she  had  even  the 
slightest  communication  were  enjoying  themselves  not  a  furlong 
from  her  door.  Her  thoughts  had  gone  back — far  back;  years 
and  years  back — -to  the  turning  point  of  her  obscure  life.  She  saw 
it  dimly,  across  the  everlasting  monotony  that  had  closed  down 
on  her  and  hers  at  that  last  time  upon  which  she  had  taken  her 
place  among  her  kind.  Secrecy  and  servitude  to  the  stricken 
creature  who  now  lay  rigid  upon  the  box  bed  :  these  had  been  her 
lot.  Servitude  was  over,  but  her  tardy  freedom  conveyed  little 
to  her,  and  secrecy — long  since  unnecessary,  though  she  had  never 
grasped  the  fact  that  it  was  so — clung  to  her  as  a  threadbare, 
useless  garment.  Her  solitariness  would  be  no  greater.  The  doors 
of  her  prison  had  opened,  but  she  could  not  go  free  because  of  the 
fetters  she  wore. 

She  got  up  at  last  and  threw  some  fuel  into  the  grate.  The 
flame  rose  and  she  tried  to  collect  herself.  There  were  things  she 
must  do.  She  went  to  the  outhouse  that  opened  from  the  back 
of  the  kitchen  and  got  a  bucket  to  fill  at  the  burn.  This  she  carried 
out  to  the  water,  but  as  she  stooped  with  it,  it  dropped  from  her 
hands.  The  sound  of  leaping,  compelling  reel-music  cut  its  way 
from  the  Knowes  farm  to  her  ears.  A  blind  fiddler  had  once  said 
that  he  could  tell  the  stroke  of  Neil  Gow's  bow  among  a  hundred 
others,  and  Phemie  Moir  knew  who  was  playing.  She  clasped  her 
hands  over  her  face  and  fled  indoors. 

The  lethargy  that  had  enveloped  her  was  gone,  snatched  away 
as  a  wayfarer's  cloak  is  snatched  from  him  by  the  wind.  She 
began  to  run  to  and  fro,  crying  out,  now  lifting  her  arms  over  her 
head,  now  thrusting  them  forward ;  her  sobs  filled  the  kitchen 
though  her  eyes  were  tearless.  She  had  slammed  the  door  behind 
her  that  she  might  not  hear  the  fiddle.  Once  she  paused  by  it, 
not  daring  to  open  it,  but  laying  her  ear  to  the  edge  of  the  jamb, 
in  the  hope  of  finding  that  it  had  ceased.  It  was  going  on  steadily, 
and  she  turned  the  little  shawl  she  wore  up  over  her  head  and  ran 
back  into  the  outhouse  to  get  further  from  the  sound.  But  a 
broken  plank  in  the  thin  wooden  walls  brought  it  to  her  afresh, 
and  she  rushed  back  again  and  sank  upon  the  chair  she  had  left 
by  the  hearth. 

When  she  was  a  little  quieter  she  returned  to  the  door  to  listen, 


454  THE  FIDDLER. 

the  tension  of  fear  upon  her.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  the 
urchin,  creeping  along  outside,  stumbled  over  the  fallen  pail.  The 
sudden  noise  shattered  the  temporary  quiet  of  her  strained  nerves 
and  let  loose  the  unreasoning  demon  of  her  terror  again.  She  ran 
up  and  down  between  the  walls  like  a  frenzied  thing. 

The  boy  crept  nearer.  It  was  now  dark  enough  to  conceal 
him  from  the  inmate  of  the  house  so  long  as  he  did  not  approach 
his  face  to  the  deep-set  panes  ;  he  was  having  his  fill  of  wonders 
to-night,  and  he  watched  her,  fascinated.  He  had  heard  no  word 
of  Margaret  Moir's  death.  Phemie  was  a  person  he  had  seldom 
seen  at  close  quarters,  because  his  home  was  at  a  short  distance 
from  the  kirkton,  and  the  garden  of  her  cottage,  beyond  which  she 
rarely  ventured,  lay  behind  it,  out  of  the  sight  of  passers  along 
the  road.  But  he  knew  from  the  children  he  played  with  that 
there  was  something  disquieting  about  her,  and  that  the  minister 
had  rebuked  a  friend  of  his  mother's  for  saying  that  she  was  a 
witch.  What  he  now  saw  woke  the  horrid  suspicion  that  it  was 
the  minister  who  was  in  the  wrong.  His  sense  of  adventure  in 
gazing  at  her  thus  was  great ;  only  the  wall  between  them  gave 
him  the  courage  to  indulge  it.  The  cat,  which,  since  the  beadle 
had  let  it  out,  had  been  skulking  restlessly  about  the  roadside, 
came,  a  particoloured  shadow,  out  of  the  darkness  and  thrust  itself 
between  his  feet.  He  was  not  sorry  to  have  a  homely  living  creature 
so  near  him.  He  was  about  to  touch  its  warm  head  with  his  fingers 
when  his  eye  fell  upon  the  bed.  There  was  no  more  to  see  on  it 
than  the  square  space  revealed,  but  that  was  enough.  There  is 
something  about  the  lines  of  a  dead  figure  not  to  be  mistaken,  even 
by  a  child,  particularly  by  a  child  bred  up  among  the  plain-spoken 
inhabitants  of  a  countryside.  Panic-struck,  he  plunged  through 
the  burn,  and  made  as  hard  as  he  could  for  the  cheerful  commotion 
of  the  Knowes.  The  cat  stood  looking  after  him,  its  back  arched, 
recoiling  a  little,  like  a  gently-bred  dame  from  some  unforeseen 
vulgarity. 

The  fiddle  had  stopped  and  Neil  had  gone  out  to  get  a 
breath  of  fresh  air  and  to  gossip  with  his  niece,  whom  he  had  not 
seen  since  her  marriage.  Several  of  the  guests  were  in  the  stack- 
yard cooling  themselves,  but  the  hostess  and  the  fiddler  sauntered 
out  to  the  roadside  where  it  sloped  to  the  village.  The  boy  almost 
ran  into  them,  weeping  loudly,  blaring,  after  the  manner  of 
unsophisticated  childhood. 

1  Maircy,  laddie  !    What  ails  ye  ? '  exclaimed  the  young  woman. 


THE   FIDDLER.  455 

'  Phemie's  daft !    Ragin'  daft— the  wifie's  deid  ! ' 

His  words  came  out  in  an  incoherent  burst  of  blubbering,  and 
to  Knowes'  bride,  who  had  been  a  bare  ten  days  in  the  place,  the 
name  conveyed  nothing. . 

'  Lord-sakes  ! '  she  cried,  '  what  is' t  ?     Wha  is' t  ? ' 

He  pointed  down  the  road. 

'  Ragin' — roarin'  daft  doon  yonder — whaur  the  licht  is — gang 
doon  the  brae  an*  ye'll  see  it  yonder  ! ' 

*  But  wha's  deid  ? '  cried  the  woman,  *  is't  a  murder  1  ' 

*  Aye,  aye — she's  deid  !    Phemie's  ragin'  mad  ! '    bawled  the 
boy,  gathering  excitement  from  his  companion's  trembling  voice, 
and  only  concerned  for  someone  to  share  his  emotions. 

She  poured  out  a  string  ?of  questions,  and  as  she  grew  more 
insistent,  his  tale  grew  more  difficult  to^follow.  She  looked  round 
for  her  uncle,  but  by  this  time  he  had  started  for  the  village  to 
investigate  for  himself. 

1  Oh,  Uncle  Neil !  dinna  gang ! '  she  wailed ;  '  like  as  no,  ye'll  be 
murder't  yerself  ! — Come  awa  back,  Uncle  Neil ! ' 

Hearing  his  steps  die  away  in  the  darkness,  she  rushed  through 
the  stackyard  with  the  headlong  run  of  a  startled  fowl.  '  There's 
a  puir  body  murder't  i'  the  kirkton  !'  she  shouted  as  she  went. 

The  words  ran  from  mouth  to  mouth.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
main  part  of  the  company  was  on  its  way  down  the  brae,  leaving 
behind  it  a  handful  of  nervous  women,  some  men  who  had  discovered 
the  fountain-head  of  the  whisky,  and  Donald  Gow,  whose  instinct, 
probably  from  years  of  attendance  on  a  bigger  man  than  himself, 
was  always  for  the  background. 

Neil  strode  into  the  kirkton,  making  for  the  light  pointed  out 
by  the  boy.  Most  of  the  cottages  were  darkened,  but  Phemie's 
uncurtained  window  shone  like  a  beacon  ;  he  did  not  stop  to  look 
through  it,  fearing  that  he  might  be  seen  and  the  house  barred 
against  him.  He  pushed  open  the  door  and  stood  still,  completely 
taken  aback.  There  was  no  sign  of  disorder,  nothing  to  suggest  a 
struggle.  Phemie,  exhausted  by  her  own  violence,  was  sitting  at 
the  hearth,  her  body  turned  from  the  fire  ;  her  elbows  were  on  the 
chair-back,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  bowed  head.  At  the  click 
of  the  latch  she  looked  up  and  saw  him  in  the  doorway.  She  gave 
a  terrible  cry  and  ran  towards  him. 

'  Neil  Gow  !  Neil  Gow  !  Div  ye  no  mind  o'  me  ? ' 

His  amazement  deepened.  Death,  whose  presence  he  realised 
as  he  looked  about  him,  had  come  quietly  here,  as  he  comes  to  most 


456  THE  FIDDLER. 

houses  ;   but  he  supposed  that  bereavement  must  have  turned  the 
brain  of  the  desperate  creature  who  clung  to  him. 

'  Whisht,  wumman,  whisht ! '  he  exclaimed,  *  whisht  noo,  puir 
thing.' 

*  Hae  maircy  on  me,  Neil  Gow  ! ' 

'  Whisht,  whisht — I'll  awa  an'  get  the  minister  to  ye.' 

But  she  only  held  him  tighter  ;  he  had  not  believed  a  woman's 
hands  could  be  so  strong.  He  did  not  like  to  force  them  open. 

'  Ye  manna  seek  to  tell  him — ye  winna !  ye  winna  hae  me 
ta'en  awa ! ' 

6  Na,  na,  na.  Wumman,  what  ill  wad  I  dae  ye  ? '  he  cried, 
bewildered.  '  I  dinna  ken  ye.  I'm  no  seekin'  to  hurt  ye.' 

'  Oh,  Neil  Gow,  div  ye  no  mind  o'  playin'  on  the  auld  green  o' 
Dalmain  ?  It's  me — it's  Phemie  Moir  ! ' 

The  name  '  Moir '  arrested  him.  He  turned  her  round  to  the 
firelight,  gazing  into  her  face. 

'  Moir  ? '  he  said.  '  Is  it  yersel'  ? '  He  could  hardly  trace  in 
it  the  features  of  the  young  woman  he  remembered. 

'  Moir,'  she  said.  *  Jimmy  Moir  was  the  lad  ye  saved  frae  the 
sodgers — him  an'  the  tither  ane — my  bonnie  brither.  Neil  Gow, 
ye'll  save  me — ye  winna  speak  o't — ye  winna  let  them  tak'  me 
noo  ! ' 

'  Hoots ! '  he  exclaimed.  Then,  looking  into  her  anguished 
eyes,  he  realised  the  depths  of  her  simplicity ;  the  cruelty  of  that 
ignorance  whose  burden  she  had  borne  these  two  score  of  years. 
He  was  silent,  seeking  for  words  with  which  to  bring  conviction 
to  her  warped  understanding,  to  overthrow  the  tyranny  of  a  fixed 
idea.  There  was  a  sound  of  feet  outside,  and  both  he  and  she 
looked  towards  the  window.  Beyond  the  narrow  panes  a  crowd 
of  faces  were  gathered,  pressing  against  them.  She  tore  herself 
from  him  and  ran  to  the  door.  She  turned  the  key  just  as  a  hand 
outside  was  about  to  lift  the  latch. 

Neil  drew  the  curtain  across  the  casement,  and  taking  her  by 
the  arm,  led  her  to  the  hearth. 

*  See  noo,'  said  he,  '  sit  ye  doon.     There's  naebody'll  touch 
ye.    They're  a'  freends.    Will  ye  no  believe  me  ?  ' 

*  I  hae  nae  freends,  Neil  Gow — man,  ye  dinna  understand.' 
The  tears  came  at  last,  and  she  rocked  herself  to  and  fro. 

'  Ye  fule  ! '  he  exclaimed, '  is  there  no  me  ?  Was  I  no  a  freend 
to  ye,  yon  time  ye  mind  ?  ' 

'  Ye  was  that — ye  was  that,'  she  murmured. 


THE  FIDDLER.  457 

'  An'  wad  I  teU  ye  a  lee  ? ' 

The  latch  rattled  again. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  Someone  pressed  up  against 
him  and  would  have  entered.  He  was  flung  back. 

1  Awa  ! '  he  cried,  *  awa  wi'  ye  a' !  There's  nane  murder't 
here.  There's  jist  a  dune  body  that's  dee'd  in  her  bed.  There's 
nane  o'  ye'll  hear  the  soon'  o'  my  fiddle  the  nicht  gin  ye  dinna  leave 
the  puir  crater  that's  greetin'  in-by  in  peace.  There's  jist  the 
minister  that'll  win  in,  an'  nae  mair  ! ' 

There  was  an  irresolute  collective  movement,  but  the  beadle 
pushed  himself  forward. 

'  Na,  na,'  said  Neil,  simply,  filling  the  doorway  with  his  bulk. 
The  beadle  was  pulled  back  by  several  hands.  The  sensation  was 
dying  down,  and  a  dance  without  music  was  a  chill  prospect. 

'  We'll  see  an'  get  Donal'  to  play,'  said  the  beadle,  angrily. 

'  No  you,'  replied  Neil. 

*  Here's  the  minister,'  said  a  voice. 

Phemie's  dread  seemed  to  have  left  her.  She  sat  quietly 
listening  to  what  was  going  on  round  the  doorstep  ;  an  unf  ormulated 
hope  was  glimmering  in  her  mind  like  dawn  on  a  stretch  of 
devastated  country.  She  could  hear  the  people  dispersing  and 
returning  to  the  Knowes  and  the  minister's  subdued  murmur  of 
talk  with  the  fiddler  outside.  It  went  on  till  the  two  men  came  in 
together.  She  was  dumb  and  still. 

'  Ye've  naething  to  fear  i'  this  warld,'  said  Laidlaw,  dropping 
into  the  vernacular ;  *  I'd  tell  ye  the  same,  if  I  was  to  tell't  ye  frae 
the  pulpit.' 

And  he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  laid  her  head  against 
his  arm,  like  a  child. 

It  was  a  full  hour  later  that  Laidlaw  returned  to  the  manse. 
He  had  stayed  some  little  time  at  the  cottage  after  Gow  went  back 
to  the  Knowes  to  finish  his  evening's  work.  One  half  of  his  mind 
was  full  of  the  story  he  had  heard  pieced  together  by  Phemie  and 
the  fiddler.  He  was  a  thoughtful  man,  with  sympathies  stronger 
than  many  who  knew  him  were  inclined  to  suspect,  and  he  was  deeply 
stirred  by  the  obscure  tragedy  which  had  dragged  on,  unrealised 
by  himself,  ever  since  he  had  been  called  to  Dalmain.  He  blamed 
himself.  His  sense  of  his  own  limitations,  a  healthy  quality  in 
most  people,  had  been  a  stumbling-block  to  him  ;  for  he  had  taken 
the  discouragements  received  in  his  timid  efforts  to  know  more  of 


458  THE  FIDDLER. 

Phemie  as  proofs  of  how  little  he  was  fitted  to  deal  with  her.  He 
envied  people  like  Neil  Gow  :  people  whose  masterful  humanity 
carried  them  full  sail  into  those  waters  where  their  fellow  men  were 
drowning  for  want  of  a  rope.  The  other  half  of  his  mind  was 
amazed  by  the  prank  of  a  coincidence  that  had  brought  the 
Englishman  here  to  meet  the  one  man  necessary  to  him  in  his 
quest. 

He  hurried  home,  hoping  that  his  guest  would  soon  return  ;  in 
the  crowd  at  the  farm  he  had  noticed  his  presence,  but  lost  him 
in  the  sudden  scare  which  dispersed  the  party.  He  entered  the 
little  living-room  to  find  him. 

'  You  look  perturbed/  said  the  Englishman.  '  Certainly  you 
have  no  lack  of  incident  in  Dalmain.  I'm  truly  glad  it  was  a 
false  alarm.' 

'  I  have  much  to  say  to  you/  began  Laidlaw,  sitting  down. 

'Well,  before  you  begin,  let  me  have  my  turn.  Perhaps  you 
thought  me  sceptical  when  you  spoke  of  Neil  Gow,  and  I  will  not 
deny  that  I  was.  I  was  a  fool — since  I  have  heard  him  I  know  how 
great  a  fool.  And  now,  sir,  go  on  and  I  will  listen.  My  mind 
has  been  lightened  of  a  little  of  its  conceit/ 

His  frankness  struck  some  sensitive  chord  in  Laidlaw.  Perhaps 
the  minister's  reserve  was  shaken  by  the  sharp  contact  with 
realities  to-night,  perhaps  stirred  by  sympathies  he  saw  in  others. 

*  I  am  glad  you  came  here/  he  stammered.     '  I  should  be  glad 
to  think — to  hope — I  have  got  some  information  for  you,  sir.    Your 
cousin  was  lost  sight  of  here  ;  he  reached  Dalmain/ 

'  You  have  got  news  of  him  ? ' 

'  Something.  Little  enough  ;  but  I  have  heard  a  strange  tale 
from  Neil  Gow/ 

'  From  Neil  Gow  ! ' 

Laidlaw  nodded. 

'  Margaret  Moir  died,  this  evening,  and  a  little  laddie  saw  her 
through  the  window  and  came  crying  some  havers  to  the  Knowes. 
Her  sister  was  nearly  wild,  poor  soul,  and  the  bairn  got  a  fright — 
but  you  were  there,  no  doubt  ? ' 

*  I  saw  there  was  a  disturbance,  but  I  stayed  where  I  was.' 
'  The  door  was  locked  when  I  arrived/  went  on  Laidlaw, '  and  Gow 

was  with  her.  But  he  got  her  quiet  and  I  went  in-by.  You'll 
mind  that  I  told  you  he  was  here  the  year  of  Culloden,  playing  on 
the  old  green  ?  It  was  three  nights  before  that  dance  that  Jimmy 
Moir,  who  was  the  brother  of  these  two  lassies — as  they  were  then — 


THE  FIDDLER.  459 

Margaret  and  Phemie,  came  to  Dalmain  with  a  wounded  officer — 
likely  the  man  you  are  seeking — and  they  hid  themselves  on  the 
brae  in  a  cave  that  is  there,  in  amongst  the  broom.  You  can  see 
it  still ;  the  bairns  play  at  the  mouth  of  it  often  enough,  though  I 
do  not  think  they  go  far  in.  I  have  never  been  to  it  myself,  but  they 
say  it  runs  a  long  way  into  the  hillside.  Moir  got  into  the  kirkton, 
without  being  seen,  to  tell  his  sisters,  and  Phemie  and  Margaret 
went  out  in  the  dark  to  bring  them  food  and  water ;  but  there 
was  no  one  in  the  place  knew  they  were  there,  not  even  the  beadle, 
that  had  been  fighting  himself,  for  he  was  lying  ill  in  his  house. 
The  English  soldiers  were  all  about  the  country.  The  officer  was 
so  bad  with  his  wound  they  could  not  get  forward  to  the  coast,  and 
the  day  Neil  came  he  was  shouting  and  raving  in  a  fever.  You 
could  hear  him  at  the  foot  of  the  brae,  Phemie  says,  just  where  the 
dancing  was  to  be,  and  the  lassies  made  sure  the  poor  fellows  would 
be  discovered.  They  got  short  shrift  in  those  times,  you  see,  sir.' 
1  But  would  anyone  have  given  them  up  ?  '  asked  the  other. 

*  Aye,  well/  said  the  minister,  '  whiles  a  man's  foes  are  they  of  his 
own  household,  and  they  said  there  were  some  in  the  kirkton  that 
favoured  King  George.    But  Phemie  was  bold  and  went  to  seek 
Neil  Gow.    He  was  a  young  lad  then,  but  she  told  him  the  truth  and 
he  said  he  would  play  till  he  had  no  arms  left  before  anyone  should 
hear  aucht  but  his  fiddle.    When  I  spoke  of  that  dance  to  you  not 
a  couple  of  hours  syne,  little  I  thought  how  much  it  concerned  you.' 

'  Nor  I,  indeed.' 

'  Margaret  was  a  puir,  timid  thing  and  Jimmy  was  all  the  world 
to  her.  She  stopped  at  home  her  lane,  but  Phemie  went  out  and 
danced  till  the  most  o'  them  were  fou  with  whisky  and  Neil  had 
played  them  off  their  legs.  She  waited  till  the  last  were  gone. 
There  was  no  crying  from  the  broom  when  she  went  home.  It  was 
an  awesome  night  for  her,  but  it  was  the  ruin  of  Margaret.  She 
lay  ill  a  long  while,  and  when  she  rose  frae  her  bed  her  mind  was 
never  the  same  again.' 

*  But  the  men — what  became  of  them  ?  '  asked  the  Englishman, 
getting  impatient  to  reach  what  was,  for  him,  the  main  point. 

'  The  days  were  long  in  June-month  and  Phemie  had  to  wait 
for  dark  to  go  back.  She  found  the  place  empty.' 

'  And  did  no  news  ever  come  ?     Was  nothing  more  heard  ?  * 

*  Nothing,  sir.    Nothing.' 

The  other  made  a  sharp  exclamation  of  disappointment. 

*  It  has  been  a  wild  goose  chase  after  all,'  he  said  at  last. 


460  THE  FIDDLER. 

The  progress  of  Laidlaw's  detailed  history  had  raised  his  expect- 
ations and  he  was  half  resentful  at  finding  it  end,  for  all  the 
difference  it  would  make  to  him,  where  it  had  begun.  But  he  was 
too  just  a  man  to  let  the  other  see  it. 

'  I  am  greatly  to  blame ! '  cried  the  minister,  with  sudden 
vehemence.  '  Here  am  I,  a  servant  of  men's  souls,  and  it  was  left 
for  Neil  Grow  to  loose  Phemie  Moir  from  her  martyrdom  while  I  went 
by  on  the  other  side  !  Aye  !  but  I  am  an  unprofitable  servant ! ' 
he  exclaimed,  seeing  the  other  man's  astonished  face ;  '  that  poor 
creature  shut  herself  up  with  her  sister  and  would  thole  nobody  near 
them  for  fear  some  word  should  slip  from  the  daft  body  and  Moir  be 
traced.  Then,  as  time  went  by,  her  heart  failed  her  and  conceal- 
ment grew  in  her  mind  like  a  poisonous  weed,  and  she  took  the 
notion  that,  if  word  got  out,  the  two  of  them  would  have  to  suffer 
for  what  they  had  done.  Fear  sat  down  with  her  to  her  meat  and 
fear  lay  down  with  her  in  her  bed.  The  years  passed  on,  but  she 
was  too  ignorant  to  ken  that  the  world  changes  with  them  and  old 
things  go  out  of  mind.  People  wonder  that  she's  not  like  other 
folk — they  wouldna  wonder  if  they  knew !  She  was  feared  that 
Gow,  who  had  stood  friend  to  her,  would  let  out  what  he  kent,  and 
fail  her.  Poor  foolish  wife,  the  man  had  forgotten  her  till  he  saw 
her,  and  then  she  had  to  tell  him  before  he  remembered !  But 
when  she  heard  his  playing  again  she  was  fairly  demented.' 

His  face  changed  and  he  turned  away.  *  M ea  culpa,'  he  faltered. 
He  had  not  much  Latin,  but  he  understood  that. 

*  I  fear  the  burden  has  shifted  to  you,  my  poor  friend,'  said  the 
Englishman  gently. 

It  was  on  the  forenoon  of  the  morrow  that  Laidlaw,  the  beadle 
and  the  Englishman  stood  up  to  their  middles  in  the  broom.  The 
pods  were  black  in  the  green  mist  of  stems.  About  their  feet  rabbits 
had  riddled  the  earth.  The  outcrop  of  rock  had  broken  open  in  the 
hillside  to  be  roofed  with  the  turf  of  the  overhanging  brae  and 
swallowed  by  the  sea  of  broom  and  whin  and  the  ash-coloured 
blur  of  seeding  thistles.  Interlacing  whin-roots  lurked  about  the 
burrows,  traps  for  human  steps.  When  they  had  climbed  to  their 
goal  the  three  men  stopped  to  get  breath,  and  turned  to  look  at 
the  kirkton  below  them.  Westward,  through  the  creek  cut  by  the 
burn  to  the  Isla,  they  could  see  the  indigo  blue  Sidlaws  with  such 
lights  as  seem  only  to  fall  upon  Angus  bathing  their  undulating 
shoulders. 


THE    FIDDLER.  461 

Each  man  carried  a  lantern,  and  when  all  were  lighted  they 
went  crouching,  one  after  another,  into  the  cave.  In  a  few  paces 
they  were  able  to  stand  up  and  look  about  them. 

Both  Laidlaw  and  the  Englishman  had  gone  late  to  sleep  on 
the  preceding  night,  and  the  latter,  lying  thinking  in  the  dark 
hours,  turning  over  in  his  mind  all  he  had  heard,  had  come  to  a 
definite  conclusion.  He  told  himself  that  no  man  with  a  serious 
body-wound,  exhausted  by  days  of  wandering  and  ill  enough  to 
be  shouting  in  delirium,  could  escape  on  foot  from  a  place  in  which 
he  had  once  laid  down.  A  man  may  go  till  he  drops,  but  when  he 
falls  he  will  not  rise  again  in  circumstances  like  these,  far  less  escape 
unseen.  But  Moir  could  accomplish  what  was  impossible  to  his 
companion. 

1 1  believe  Musgrave  to  be  lying  up  there  in  the  hillside,'  he 
had  said  to  Laidlaw  that  morning. 

'  But '  began  the  minister. 

'  Yes,  sir,  I  know  what  you  would  say ;  I  know  that  village 
children  play  there,  in  the  cave,  at  times.  For  all  that,  Moir  left 
him  there.  But  he  left  a  dead  man.' 

The  minister  stared  at  him,  incredulous. 

'  But  Phemie  went  next  night.  She  would  have  lit  a  light 
there,'  said  he. 

'  She  saw  no  one  above  ground.  You  said  that  when  Neil  Gow 
had  stopped  playing  and  she  went  home  to  her  sister,  all  was  quiet. 
Depend  upon  it,  Musgrave  died  in  the  small  hours,  as  sick  men  will ; 
Moir  buried  him  next  day  and  escaped  at  dusk.' 

'  But  he  had  no  tools/  objected  Laidlaw,  unconvinced. 

'  If  the  rock  is  hollowed  deep  and  there  is  sand  and  loose  earth 
choking  much  of  it,  he  did  it.  A  man  in  his  case  makes  shift  to 
use  anything.' 

'  He  maybe  had  his  dirk,'  suggested  the  minister,  his  doubts 
a  little  shaken. 

'  He  is  there,  six,'  said  the  Englishman ;  '  believe  me,  he  is 
there.' 

And  now  Laidlaw  was  sitting  at  a  little  distance  from  the  cave 
on  a  bare  patch  in  the  tangle.  He  had  come  out  of  its  heavy 
atmosphere  to  leave  room  for  the  Englishman  and  the  beadle,  who 
were  working  inside  with  the  pick  and  shovel  the  latter  had  brought 
up  from  the  kirkyard.  The  opening  tunnelled  some  way  into  the 
hill,  narrowing  as  it  went,  but  in  one  place  at  which  the  rock  fell 
back  in  an  irregular  recess,  they  had  resolved  to  make  their  experi- 


462  THE  FIDDLER. 

ment.  The  shine  from  the  lanterns  had  cast  up  the  faint  outline 
of  a  mound.  This  decided  them,  this  and  the  belief  that  a  man 
engaged  in  a  work  like  Moir's  would  get  as  far  from  the  entrance 
as  he  might. 

The  minister  looked  a  little  less  harassed.  His  shyness  of  the 
Englishman's  accent  had  gone.  Like  many  people  whose  days  are 
spent  in  remote  places,  he  was  intensely  surprised  at  seeing  the 
human  side  of  a  stranger,  and  he  still  doubted  that  the  outer  world 
contained  others  of  a  similar  sort.  His  face  grew  a  little  wistful 
as  he  remembered  that  they  would  go  down  the  hill  to  part  at  its 
foot.  The  Englishman  would  ride  to  Stirling  to  meet  the  Edin- 
burgh coach.  He  fell  to  musing.  The  early  autumn  sunshine, 
warm  and  very  clear,  and  the  healing  quiet  of  the  braes  were 
pleasant  to  him.  He  could  see  his  small  world  lying  below  like  a 
plaything  on  the  floor.  In  his  vigil  last  night  he  had  burnt  his 
tallow  till  within  a  short  time  of  daylight,  for  his  sermon  had  been 
interrupted  by  the  clamour  that  had  arisen  and  he  was  fain  to  finish 
it.  He  was  not  much  of  a  preacher  and  the  task  of  writing  it  was  a 
weekly  load  upon  him.  He  had  got  up  early  too,  and  gone  to 
Phemie's  cottage ;  for  there  was  something  he  wanted  to  say  to 
her,  and  his  self-distrust  made  him  eager  to  put  this  also  behind 
him,  lest  he  should  lose  courage.  But  his  visit  was  accomplished 
and  he  was  now  more  at  ease.  His  eyes  closed  wearily  ;  they  ached 
this  morning  from  his  midnight  labours  as  his  heart  had  ached  last 
night  from  his  own  shortcomings.  But  now  he  forgot  all  these 
as  he  dozed  among  the  broom  and  the  fluffy  thistledown.  .  .  . 

He  awoke  to  a  touch  on  his  shoulder.  The  Englishman  was 
beside  him.  For  a  moment,  bewildered,  he  could  not  recollect 
where  he  was  nor  how  he  had  come  to  such  a  place. 

*  Look,'  said  the  other,  who  was  holding  out  a  little  discoloured 
silver  snuff-box,  '  his  name  is  on  it.  We  have  found  him.' 


In  the  kirkton  of  Dalmain  the  two  men  bade  each  other  good- 
bye, but  said  it  as  those  do  who  are  to  meet  again.  The  English- 
man wished  Musgrave  to  lie  under  the  wall  of  its  spectral  kirk ; 
and  when  the  necessary  steps  should  be  taken  to  establish  the  dead 
man's  identity,  his  skeleton,  clothed  in  the  rags  of  his  tattered 
uniform,  would  be  carried  from  the  bosom  of  the  hill  that  had 
sheltered  it  for  so  long  and  committed  by  Laidlaw  to  the  earth. 


THE  FIDDLER.  463 

'  I  believe  you  are  legs  troubled  than  you  were  last  night,' 
said  the  Englishman,  leaning  from  his  horse  as  they  parted. 
'  I  should  be  happy  to  know  it.' 

The  minister's  plain  face  brightened. 

'  I  have  seen  Phemie  already,'  he  replied ;  '  she  is  to  come 
to  me  to  take  care  of  the  manse— my  serving-lass  is  just  a  silly 
tawpie 


The  rider  pulled  up  a  little  later  upon  the  southern  brae  and 
turned  to  look  back.  On  the  northern  one,  two  dark  figures  were 
doing  the  like.  The  taller  of  these,  seeing  him,  took  off  his  bonnet 
and  stood  holding  it  high  in  the  air.  It  was  Neil  Gow. 

VIOLET  JACOB. 


46, 


LITTLE  CAT. 

Little  cat,  little  cat, 
Black  and  silky  as  the  hat 
That  I  left  behind  in  town 
When  I  thought  of  running  down 
And  indulging  in  bucolics 

With  the  bumpkin  and  the  clown — 
While  you  emulate  the  frolics 
Of  a  boneless  acrobat, 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  this, 
Or  do  you  ever  think  of  that  ? 

WHEN  of  yore  Primeval  Cat 
On  the  crest  of  Ararat 
Gave  a  leap  of  satisfaction 

At  the  moment  of  escaping 
From  some  weeks  of  forced  inaction, 

Filled  with  histrionic  gaping — 
Pseudo-meditative  blinking  at  the  First  Arkaic  Rat- 
(And  another  speculation 
That  demands  examination 
Ii  the  nature  of  their  diet 
In  that  period  of  quiet) — 
From  the  fact  that  Early  Cat 

Fell  immediately  chasing 
Prehistoric  Mouse  or  Rat, 

Do  you  think  I'm  right  in  tracing 
The  Origin  of  Instinct  in  a  Species,  little  cat  ? 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  that, 
Little  cat  ? 

I  can  trace  upon  your  face 

An  objection,  little  cat ; 
It  is  fit  that  I  admit 

Your  correction,  little  cat : 
Your  ancestor,  you  say, 
Was  built  another  way, 


LITTLE  CAT.  465 

And  ran  no  risk  of  getting 
An  unnecessary  wetting ; 
But  undoubtedly  preferring 
To  sit  comfortably  purring 
In  a  brown  (or  tabby)  study 
All  aloof  in  the  dark  on  the  roof  of  the  Ark, 

(For  the  ground  was  very  muddy, 
Being  sodden  and  much  trodden 
By  the  hooves  of  the  beeves 

And  the  feet  of  the  neat) — 

So  he  sat,  little  cat, 
In  the  grooves  of  the  eaves, 
Looking  down  upon  the  struggles  of  the  proletariat. — 

You  were  right  to  mention  that, 
Little  cat. 

But  his  nerves  received  a  jog 
When  he  met  Primordial  Dog ; 
He  was  hardly  apprehensive, 
But,  assuming  the  defensive, 
Tried  a  novice  hand  at  bluffing 
By  instinctive  caudal  fluffing, 
So  that  each  particular 

Hair 
Stood  up  perpendicular 

There, 

Incommoding  in  each  crevice 
Primal  Streptococcus  brevis  : — 
Or,  to  be  more  scientific, 
An  emotion  non-pacific 
Freed  a  primitive  hormone 
From  a  gland  to  him  unknown. 
Which  the  prospect  diabolical 
Of  rough-and-tumble  tussles, 
With  guttural  effervescence  ^ 

And  a  semilunar  spine, 
Caused  to  actuate  each  follicle 
By  circumjacent  muscles — 
Hence  capillary  horrescence, 

Like  the  fretful  porpentine. — 
(Do  you  know  your  Shakespeare  pat, 

Little  cat  ?) 
VOL.  LIL— NO.  310,  N.S.  30 


466  LITTLE  CAT 

I  see  you're  not  attending, 
So  I'd  better  make  an  ending. 
But  for  your  volatility 

We  might  have  had  a  chat 
About  Adaptability 

To  Food  and  Habitat; 
Dethroned  the  theoretics 
In  the  matter  of  Genetics, 

Dismissed  the  laws  of  Galton,  and  had  Mendel  on  the  mat ; 
I  should  like  to  have  restated 

(With  the  usual  caveat) 
The  problem  long-debated 

Of  the  Common  or  Hearth  Cat — 
Noctambulant  beneath  the  moon, 
Or  cataleptic  at  high  noon, 
Yet  still  remote,  unfriended, 
Independent  unattended, 

Just  sponging  on  the  Family  for  commissariat  : 
Cat  errant,  cat  siestic, 
But  how  and  why  DOMESTIC  ? 

No,  neither  Muse  nor  Mouser  can  completely  answer  that. 
Verbum  sat., 
Little  cat ! 

F.  S. 


467 


THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY. 

ON  Tuesday,  October  8,  1805,  a  great  crowd  of  people  on  foot  and 
on  horseback,  including  H.K.H.  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  afterwards 
King  William  IV,  poured  across  the  Sussex  Downs  towards 
Hailsham  from  London  on  one  side  and  Brighton  on  the  other. 
They  had  come  to  see  a  fight  between  two  young  men  from  Bristol, 
Henry  Pearce  and  John  Gully. 

Everybody  knew  Pearce,  '  scientifically  denominated  the  Game 
Chicken.'  The  peerless  Jem  Belcher,  having  lost  an  eye  in  playing 
rackets,  had  retired.  Joe  Berks,  on  the  strength  of  his  three  fights 
with  Belcher,  had  then  arrogated  to  himself  the  title  of  Champion, 
but  had  been  beaten  by  Pearce  *  in  two  dreadful  combats/  first 
in  an  impromptu  set-to  at  night,  for  which  the  Chicken  had  been 
pulled  out  of  his  bed  hi  Soho  ;  secondly,  in  a  pitched  battle  on 
Wimbledon  Common.  Cart  and  Elias  Spray,  the  coppersmith, 
had  also  fallen  before  the  science,  strength,  and  *  unimpeachable 
bottom  '  of  the  Chicken,  who  was  now  the  undisputed  Champion 
of  England. 

Of  Gully,  on  the  other  hand,  few  knew  anything  definite.  He 
was  destined  to  win  three  Derbies,  to  be  a  colliery  owner  and  a 
member  of  Parliament  long  after  the  poor  Chicken — no  one's  enemy 
but  his  own — had  taken  to  dissolute  courses  and  been  *  respectably 
interred.'  All  that  was  known  at  present  was  that  Mr.  Fletcher 
Reid,  a  pugilistic  Maecenas,  thought  so  well  of  him  that  he  had 
paid  his  debts,  acquired  as  a  *  respectable  master  butcher,'  taken 
him  out  of  the  King's  Bench  Prison,  and  matched  him  straightway 
against  the  Chicken.  Other  candidates  for  the  championship 
had  climbed  the  ladder  more  gradually.  They  had  been  heard 
of  as  milling  some  indiscreet  gentleman  who  had  made  a  few 
remarks  to  them  in  a  public  house,  and  their  first  set  battles  had 
been  for  no  more  than  a  guinea  or  two.  Gully  had  none  of  these 
credentials.  Somebody  did  say,  indeed,  that  he  had  thrashed  a 
big  bully  for  unfairly  setting  a  dog  at  a  bull,  but  the  most  interesting 
rumour  related  to  his  time  in  the  King's  Bench.  Pearce,  who 
was  a  friend  of  his,  had  come  to  see  him,  and  to  cheer  him  up 
suggested  a  set-to.  It  was  Gully's  bearing  in  this  friendly  match 
that  had  inspired  Mr.  Keid  to  risk  his  money,  and  Gully  himself  to 


468       THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY. 

'  the  temerity  of  raising  himself  to  the  dignity  of  a  hero  at  one 
stride,  by  attacking  the  justly  renowned  and  mighty  Chief  of 
England.' 

The  fight  was  originally  to  have  taken  place  in  July,  but  the 
affair  was  enveloped  in  mystery.  Virginia  Water  was  appointed ; 
then  came  a  rumour  that  the  fight  would  be  at  Chobham.  The 
crowd  made  its  way  there  to  find  a  ring,  but  no  men  in  it.  The 
magistrates  had  got  wind  of  it,  so  it  was  said,  and  Blackwater  was 
the  place.  Once  again  the  cavalcade  set  out  across  country,  but 
there  was  no  fight — nothing  but  stories  of  a  *  cross/  and  bets  were 
off.  Whatever  had  happened,  the  Chicken's  friends  were  still 
ready  to  back  him  for  six  hundred  guineas  to  five.  The  Sussex 
magistrates  were  complaisant :  a  twenty-four  foot  ring  was 
made  close  to  the  village  of  Hailsham,  and  into  it  at  one  o'clock 
Gully  threw  his  hat  and  stepped  after  it.  Everyone  looked 
eagerly  to  see  what  manner  of  man  was  this  dark  horse  from  the 
west  country,  and  the  Duke  of  Clarence  stood  up  in  his  stirrups 
and  craned  his  illustrious  neck  over  the  big  ring  of  spectators. 
The  fact  that  he  had  seen  the  fight  was  one  that  *  this  bursting, 
bubbling  old  gentleman  with  quarter-deck  gestures '  was  often 
wont  to  refer  to  afterwards  with  pride  and  enthusiasm.  '  God 
damn  it,  sir,'  he  probably  began,  and  related  the  story  at  con- 
siderable length.  The  names  of  all  the  other  onlookers  history 
does  not  record,  but  we  may  guess  at  some  of  them.  There  were 
the  amateurs  and  noble  patrons  of  the  ring,  the  Barrymores, 
Apreeces,  Mellishes,  and  Berkeley  Cravens.  Perhaps  there  was 
the  famous  Captain  Barclay  of  Ury,  declaring  that  he  could  have 
trained  the  men  far  better  than  anyone  else  on  his  own  system, 
and,  if  so,  he  was  probably  right,  as  he  showed  when  he  trained  Tom 
Crib  for  his  second  fight  with  the  negro  Molineaux.  Jem  Belcher 
was  almost  certainly  there,  with  his  famous  yellow  handkerchief 
round  his  neck,  for  both  men  came  from  his  own  Bristol,  and  it 
was  he  who  had  introduced  Pearce  to  the  Fancy.  There  was,  as 
we  shall  see,  John  Jackson,  the  friend  and  '  corporeal  pastor  and 
master '  of  Byron,  who  had  now  retired  some  years  from  the  ring. 
He  '  practically  realised  the  position  of  a  gentleman,'  and  was 
granted  by  Pierce  Egan  in  Boxiana  the  courtesy  title  of  '  Mr.  ' 
There  may  have  been  Dan  Mendoza,  and,  if  he  was  there,  we  may 
be  sure  he  scowled  at  Mr.  Jackson,  who  had  caught  him  by  his 
long  black  hair  in  their  fight  at  Hornchurch,  unhandsome  treat- 
ment which  the  great  Jew  fighter  always  bitterly  resented.  There 


THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY.       469 

were  many  other  lesser  celebrities  of  the  ring,  fighting  paviours 
and  coachmen  and  weavers,  their  names  now  long  since  forgotten, 
who  then  walked  about  and  were  worshipped  in  such  minor  degree 
as  their  fame  warranted. 

Into  the  ring  then  stepped  John  Gully.  He  was  now  twenty- 
two  years  old,  a  fine  athletic  figure  of  a  man,  with  an  air  '  calm 
but  defiant/  6  feet  high  and  13  stone.  The  Chicken,  who  followed, 
was  probably  some  five  years  older  :  he  was  about  5  ft.  9  in. 
in  height,  12  st.  10  Ib.  in  weight,  with  a  big  chest  and  powerful 
rounded  limbs.  And  now  the  fight  began.  It  lasted  one  hour 
and  ten  minutes,  during  which  fifty-nine  rounds  were  fought,  and 
Gully,  though  beaten  in  the  end,  gave  the  Chicken  some  anxious 
moments,  and  showed  himself  a  brave  man  and  a  boxer  already 
skilful,  though  with  something  of  his  art  yet  to  learn.  After 
some  preliminary  manoeuvring  Gully  aimed  a  tremendous  blow 
at  Pearce  and  missed.  The  Chicken  in  return  knocked  him  down, 
and  the  two  went  to  their  corners,  with  the  betting  three  to  one  on 
the  Chicken.  By  the  sixth  round  it  had  risen  to  five  to  one,  for 
Gully  had  gone  down  several  times.  He  was  still  c  full  of  gaiety/ 
but  nearly  every  round  had  ended  in  the  same  way.  With  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  rounds,  however,  the  tide  seemed  to  be 
turning ;  Gully  got  home  with  some  good  hits,  notably  one  on 
Pearce's  mouth,  though  in  the  end  he  overbalanced  and  fell.  In 
an  old  copy  of  *  Boxiana '  there  is  an  asterisk  opposite  the  account 
of  the  twelfth  round,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  in  faded  hand- 
writing this  note  :  *  Pearce's  lip  was  split  by  this  blow.  "  What 
do  you  think  of  it  now,  Pearce  ? "  said  Jackson  to  him.  "  The 
thing  will  never  hurt  nobody,  if  he  can't  hit  harder  than  that/' 
replied  Pearce.'  The  note  is  signed  '  J.  J.'  Who  he  was  I  do  not 
know— not  John  Jackson,  I  am  afraid.  I  like  to  think  he  over- 
heard the  words  at  the  ringside,  and  that  they  heartened  him  when 
he  was  feeling  anxious  about  the  five  to  one  he  had  laid  on  the 
Chicken.  Doubtless  some  of  Pearce's  supporters  were  very 
uneasy,  for  by  the  seventeenth  round  the  odds  had  shortened  to 
six  to  four.  Gully,  full  of  fight,  twice  got  home  on  the  Chicken's 
left  eye,  and  in  the  eighteenth  '  torrents  of  blood  were  flowing 
from  Pearce.'  The  Chicken's  eye  was  so  swelled  that  he  could 
see  but  little  out  of  it,  and  realizing  that  he  could  not  win  the  fight 
out  of  hand,  he  was  now  cautious  and  on  the  defensive,  while  Gully 
followed  him  round  the  ring. 

Till  the  twenty-fifth  round  the  fate  of  the  Chicken  and  the 


470       THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY. 

championship  hung  in  the  balance.  Thenceforward  he  improved 
and  steadily  took  the  upper  hand.  He  was  not  yet  out  of  the 
wood,  for  in  the  thirty-third  round  Gully  got  past  his  guard  and 
nearly  closed  his  right  eye,  so  that  he  had  now  no  sound  eye  left 
him.  But  two  rounds  later  came  what  was  probably  the  decisive 
blow.  Gully  was  once  more  pursuing  Pearce  round  the  ring  when 
he  was  driven  back  by  '  a  terrible  blow  in  the  throat.'  There  still 
remained  no  less  than  twenty-six  rounds  to  be  fought,  but  the 
issue  was  not  much  longer  in  doubt.  Gully  became  covered  with 
blood  flowing  from  one  of  his  ears  ;  his  head  was  horribly  swelled 
and  distorted,  his  eyes  invisible.  There  was  not  much  hit  in 
either  man  now,  but  all  there  was  was  in  the  Chicken.  Gully  had 
nothing  left  but  his  undaunted  courage.  It  carried  him  through 
to  the  fifty-ninth  round,  when  his  friends  insisted  on  his  giving  in, 
much  against  his  will. 

Gully  had  covered  himself  with  glory.  Pearce  always  declared 
he  was  the  best  man  he  ever  met,  a  compliment  which  Gully 
returned  later  by  saying  that  Jem  Belcher  could  never  have 
beaten  Pearce  if  he  had  had  four  eyes  instead  of  one.  No  one 
was  likely  to  challenge  the  man  who  had  almost  fought  the  re- 
doubtable Chicken  to  a  standstill,  and  in  fact  Gully  did  not  fight 
again  for  two  years.  Meanwhile  the  Chicken  was  challenged  by 
his  old  friend  Jem  Belcher,  who  insisted,  in  a  foolish  fit  of  jealousy, 
on  coming  out  of  retirement.  Once  again  Mr.  Fletcher  Reid 
betted  against  Pearce  and  lost  his  money.  Belcher  was  not  the 
man  he  had  been ;  the  Chicken  won  in  eighteen  rounds,  and  was 
so  little  distressed  that  at  the  end  he  leaped  in  and  out  of  the 
ring  and  turned  head  over  heels.  Poor  Jem  Belcher !  The  pitcher 
had  gone  once  too  often  to  the  well.  The  Chicken  made  no  such 
mistake.  He  never  fought  again,  and  retired  with  record 
untarnished.  The  temptations  of  fame,  however,  were  too  much 
for  him  and  his  health  gave  way.  Crib,  another  west  country- 
man, had  not  yet  come  to  the  maturity  of  his  skill — it  was  not  till 
1809  that  he  beat  Jem  Belcher — and  Gully  was  now  in  effect, 
though  not  as  it  appears  in  name,  the  Champion,  a  curious 
situation  for  one  who  had  fought  but  a  single  fight  and  lost  it.  He 
was  prudent,  sober,  and  well  mannered,  and  laid  the  foundation 
of  his  fortunes  by  '  commencing  innkeeper.' 

At  length,  in  1807,  his  peace  was  disturbed  by  a  big  Lancashire 
man,  Bob  Gregson  by  name.  Gregson  afterwards  followed  the 
universal  custom  and  kept  a  prosperous  inn,  Bob's  Chop-house 


THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY.       471 

in  Holborn.  More  unusual,  he  wrote  verse,  and  very  bad  verse 
too,  being  in  some  sort  a  pugilistic  poet-laureate,  and  breaking 
out  into  a  long  poem  about  Crib  and  Molineaux,  called  '  British 
Lads  and  Black  Millers.'  He  was  a  few  years  older  than  Gully, 
and  in  the  intervals  of  being  captain  of  the  Liverpool  Wigan 
Packet,  had  successfully  mowed  down  the  fighting  colliers  of 
Lancashire.  According  to  Pierce  Egan  he  had  been  offered  a 
Commission  in  the  Army,  but  found  the  life  too  expensive.  At 
any  rate,  he  came  in  search  of  fame  to  London,  and  there  he  and 
Gully  met  in  a  public-house,  and  seem  to  have  snarled  and  growled 
at  one  another  like  two  strange  dogs.  Finally  Gregson,  to  show 
how  strong  he  was,  picked  up  Gully  under  his  arm  and  threw 
him  on  the  ground.  Thereupon  a  match  was  made.  Gregson 
was  6  ft.  2  in.,  prodigiously  strong  and  heavy,  but  his  skill  was 
clearly  not  so  well  thought  of,  for  the  betting  was  strongly  on 
Gully. 

The  fight  was  fixed  for  October  14,  near  Newmarket.  On  the 
day  before,  Captain  Barclay,  who  was  one  of  Gully's  backers, 
performed  one  of  his  famous  athletic  feats.  He  ran  a  foot  race 
against  Abraham  Wood,  the  best  professional  runner  of  the  day. 
The  two  were  set  to  try  who  could  run  farthest  in  twenty-four 
hours,  Wood  allowing  twenty  miles  start.  The  Captain  stuck 
methodically  to  his  six  miles  an  hour,  and  Wood,  after  gaining 
some  miles  on  him,  suddenly  and  mysteriously  gave  up,  to  the 
fury  of  his  backers.  Whatever  his  motive  it  was  not  the  Captain's 
fault,  who  drove  to  Six  Mile  Bottom  early  next  morning  quite 
fresh  and  in  the  best  of  humours  to  see  the  fight.  So  did  a  great 
many  other  people,  and  a  desperate  fight  it  was. 

To  begin  with,  Gully  had  all  the  best  of  it,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  second  round  the  odds  were  twenty  to  one  on  him.  By  the 
end  of  the  eighth  the  odds  were  actually  on  Gregson,  who  had 
closed  one  of  Gully's  eyes  with  a  blow  so  fierce  that  he  had  been 
within  measurable  distance  of  being  counted  out.  After  twenty- 
five  rounds  both  men  were  so  beaten  and  bloody  and  weak,  their 
hands  were  so  knocked  to  pieces,  and  Gully's  left  arm  was  so 
completely  useless  to  him,  that  the  two  could  scarcely  do  more 
than  fall  on  one  another,  and  he  might  ultimately  win  who  chanced 
to  fall  on  top.  At  last  Gully,  staggering  and  exhausted,  pulled 
himself  together  for  a  blow  feeble  in  itself  but  strong  enough  for 
its  purpose.  Gregson  fell,  and  could  not  come  up  to  time.  Gully 
tried  with  a  pitiful  jauntiness  to  jump  out  of  the  ring,  then  fell 


472       THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY. 

and  lay  prone  and  speechless.  He  was  carried  to  where  Gregson 
lay  in  a  coach  to  shake  hands  with  him,  after  which  he  was  so 
utterly  prostrate  that  for  several  hours  it  was  feared  he  would 
die.  He  did  not,  however,  and  next  day  he  was  well  enough  to 
make  a  triumphal  progress  along  the  race  course  at  Newmarket 
in  Captain  Barclay's  carriage. 

Gregson  was  burning  for  revenge.  '  Mr.  Gully/  he  wrote,  '  It 
is  the  wish  of  myself  and  friends  that  I  should  try  my  fortune 
with  you  in  another  battle.'  Gully  was  equally  eager  and  equally 
terse.  '  Mr.  Gregson/  he  answered,  '  I  shall  not  delay  a  moment 
in  returning  to  town  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  as  to 
time  and  place.'  The  match  was  made  accordingly  for  the  10th  of 
May,  1808,  and  it  became  generally  known  that  the  fight  was  to 
take  place  near  Woburn,  by  the  Bedfordshire  and  Buckingham- 
shire border.  Unfortunately,  however,  Lord  Buckingham,  Gustos 
Rotulorum  of  his  county,  did  not  approve  of  prize  fighting,  and 
displayed  all  the  energy  of  Mr.  Nupkins  in  the  classical  instance 
of  the  Middlesex  Dumpling  and  the  Suffolk  Bantam.  He 
published  a  notice  that  all  steps  had  been  taken  to  prevent  the 
riotous  assembly  by  high  constables,  petty  constables,  and  other 
peace  officers,  and  he  caused  the  Dunstable  volunteers  to  be  called 
out.  That  gallant  corps  stood  to  arms  early  on  Tuesday  morning 
the  7th  of  May.  Their  drums  were  beating,  their  flags  flying,  and 
the  burgesses  of  Dunstable  rushed  to  their  windows  in  their  night- 
caps in  the  belief  that  the  French  had  landed. 

Despite  the  magistrates  and  the  volunteers,  hundreds  had  come 
and  were  still  coming  down  from  London.  Beds  were  two  guineas 
a  night — many  slept  on  inn  floors  or  in  carriages — horses  were 
obliged  to  stand  uncovered,  and  this  endured  for  two  days  and 
nights,  during  which  the  intended  battlefield  remained  a  secret. 
By  five  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  10th,  a  ring  had  been  formed 
on  Ashley  Common,  and  Richmond  the  black  fighter  was  placed 
in  a  strategic  position  to  act  as  a  finger-post.  The  carriages 
rolled  up,  the  crowd  grew  and  grew,  and  then  came  the  inevitable 
rumour  that  the  magistrates  were  on  the  track.  While  still  the 
people  murmured  and  wondered,  up  galloped  Dan  Mendoza  in  a 
smart  green  coat  on  a  blood  horse.  There  would  be  no  fight,  he 
said,  at  Ashley. 

However,  if  Bedfordshire  and  Buckinghamshire  were  closed, 
there  remained  a  third  county  of  Hertfordshire  not  far  away,  for 
it  was  the  custom  to  fix  on  a  site  near  the  borders  of  as  many 


THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY.       473 

counties  as  possible,  in  case  of  interference  by  someone  with  too 
nice  a  conscience.  Gregson  and  Gully  were  wrapped  up  in  great 
coats  and  bundled  into  carriages  and,  escorted  by  a  guard  of  honour 
of  over  a  hundred  noblemen  and  gentlemen,  were  driven  over  the 
Herts  border  to  Sir  John  Sebright's  park  near  Market  Street. 
The  rain  poured  down  and  the  huge  and  motley  crowd  in  every 
conceivable  form  of  vehicle  was  drenched.  It  was  a  seven-mile 
journey  too,  and  many  a  smart  gentleman  was  grateful  to  make 
it  jolting  in  a  brick  cart.  By  the  time  the  park  was  reached  and 
the  ring  formed,  the  rain  stopped,  and  after  a  curtain-raiser  in  the 
shape  of  Tom  Crib  and  Horton,  Gregson  and  Gully  took  the  field 
in  white  breeches  and  silk  stockings.  They  fought  in  their  stocking 
feet  because,  it  seems,  Gregson  had  spikes  in  his  shoes. 

The  beginning  was  dramatic.  For  nearly  five  minutes, 
according  to  Egan,  the  men  circled  round  one  another,  sparring 
for  an  opening.  Gully  retreated  round  the  ring  till  he  reached 
the  point  where  he  had  entered  it,  and  his  seconds  anxiously  put 
their  hands  over  the  stakes,  fearing  that  he  might  be  driven  on  to 
one  of  them  by  his  opponent's  fearful  blows,  and  break  his  ribs. 
But  it  was  not  Gregson  who  at  length  went  in  to  hit,  but  Gully. 
Down  went  the  hero  of  Lancashire,  and  up  went  the  odds  on 
Bristol.  For  seven  rounds  there  was  little  in  it,  but  after  that 
Gully's  superiority  was  unquestioned.  Some  of  the  amateurs 
had  believed  that  the  greater  skill  which  Gregson  was  supposed 
to  have  acquired  during  the  whiter  would  turn  the  scale ;  but  it 
was  Gully,  not  Gregson,  that  had  improved.  By  the  fourteenth 
round  Gregson  was  almost  blind.  In  the  seventeenth  he  made 
a  vain  and  furious  rush  at  his  adversary ;  then  turned  his  back, 
as  if  dazed,  and  made  for  the  ropes,  only  to  be  mercilessly  pursued. 
He  struggled  on  for  seven  more  rounds,  when  Gully  gave  the  coup 
de  grace,  a  smashing  blow  under  the  ear.  The  winner  there  and 
then  left  the  ring  for  ever,  and  was  borne  home  in  triumph  in  Lord 
Barrymore's  barouche. 

The  next  day,  assiduous,  civil,  and  modest,  he  was  serving  in 
his  own  bar  parlour  at  the  Plough,  in  Carey  Street,  the  many 
patrons  who  came  to  drink  the  health  of  the  Conquering  Hero. 
At  about  the  same  moment '  a  reputable  man,  recently  a  toy  man 
in  Holborn,'  was  found  not  far  from  the  scene  of  the  fight,  in  a 
lane  leading  from  Dunstable  to  Hempstead,  with  his  throat  cut. 
He  had  backed  Gregson  for  £600. 

Never  again  did  John  Gully  fight  in  or  out  of  a  ring,  but  for 


474      THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY. 

another  dozen  years  or  so  we  hear  of  him  as  assisting  at  great 
fights.  Shrewd,  cool,  and  level-headed,  never  like  Jack  Randall, 
'  fuller  of  blue  ruin  than  good  manners/  he  knew  on  which  side 
his  bread  was  buttered,  and  made  few  mistakes.  No  doubt  he 
lost  money  when  Jem  Belcher  was  beaten  by  Tom  Crib,  for  he  was 
Jem's  second,  and  backed  him.  Even  so,  he  would  have  won  if 
he  had  not  been  too  eager  and  found  for  once  someone  to  over- 
reach him.  In  the  eighteenth  round  Crib  fell  exhausted.  It 
seemed  impossible  that  he  should  come  to  time.  Gully  offered 
Bill  Warr  five  to  one  that  Belcher  had  won.  '  Done/  said  the 
crafty  Warr,  and  insisted  that  the  money  be  staked  there  and  then. 
This  took  but  a  minute,  but  it  gave  Crib  time  to  recover  and  he 
won  in  the  forty-first  round.  Gully  took  that  lesson  to  heart, 
and  was  not  caught  betting  against  Crib  again.  He  was  in  Tom's 
corner  in  his  second  fight  with  Molineaux  at  Thistleton  Gap,  and 
when  the  black  went  down  for  the  last  time  Crib  and  Gully  danced 
together  '  a  kind  of  Scotch  reel '  of  victory. 

In  1820,  twelve  years  after  he  had  beaten  Gregson,  we  hear  of 
Gully  at  the  famous  fight  at  Newbury  between  Bill  Neat  and  the 
Gas  Light  Man.  The  betting  had  been  all  on  the  Gas,  who  by  the 
sheer  ferocity  of  his  onslaught  and  the  right  hand  that  he  called 
*  the  grave-digger '  had  carried  all  before  him.  Nothing,  said 
the  Fancy,  could  withstand  one  so  terrible.  Not  so  Gully,  who 
sagely  remarked  that '  if  a  fine,  young,  strong  man  of  fourteen  stone 
could  not  defeat  a  twelve-stone  boxer,  then  there  was  no  calculation 
on  prize  milling/  And  he  was  right,  for  Big  Bill  Neat  *  made 
a  red  ruin '  of  the  Gas  Light  Man  in  a  fight  which  Hazlitt  has 
described  for  us.  '  Mr.  Gully/  Hazlitt  wrote,  '  is  almost  the  only 
cool,  sensible  man  amongst  them,  who  exercises  an  unbiassed 
discretion,  and  is  not  a  slave  to  his  passions  in  these  matters.' 

He  had,  as  you  see,  become '  Mr.  Gully '  by  this  time  and  was 
steadily  working  his  way  up.  Soon  after  he  had  quitted  one  ring 
he  entered  another  and  became  a  betting  man.  His"  old  patrons 
befriended  him,  and  he  received  '  the  best  commissions  '  from  the 
Duke  of  Queensberry,  Colonel  Mellish,  Lord  Foley,  from  Mr.  Fox 
himself.  He  possessed  every  quality  for  success  :  an  iron  nerve,  a 
cool  head  free  from  prejudice  and,  so  says  Baily's  Magazine,  ( high 
mathematical  powers  of  calculation/  By  1812  he  owned  horses 
of  his  own,  though  none  of  any  great  account  till  a  good  many 
years  later.  In  1827  he  bought  Mameluke,  the  Derby  winner,  from 
Lord  Jersey  for  £4000.  It  was  not  a  lucky  purchase.  In  one  race 


THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY.       475 

there  was  alleged  to  be  a  conspiracy  against  him  and  his  horse,  in 
which  the  starter  was  involved,  and  when  Matilda  won  the  St. 
Leger  he  is  said  to  have  lost  £40,000.  On  the  other  hand  he  had 
many  great  coups.  Three  times  he  won  the  Derby :  with  St. 
Giles  in  partnership  with  Kidsdale  in  1832,  with  Pyrrhus  the 
Second  in  1846,  with  Andover  in  1854,  this  time  in  partner- 
ship with  Mr.  Padwick  the  famous  money-lender.  In  Pyrrhus's 
year  he  also  won  the  Oaks  with  Mendicant,  an  almost  unique 
achievement. 

The  other  horses  that  he  owned  and  the  races  that  he  won,  the 
collieries  he  bought,  the  twenty-four  children  that  he  begat,  the 
duel  that  he  fought,  or  more  probably  did  not  fight,  with  Mr. 
Osbaldeston — all  these  things  may  be  found  by  those  who  like 
them,  in  out-of-the-way  little  nooks  of  sporting  literature.  In 
1832  he  became  a  member  of  Parliament  for  the  town  of  Pontefract, 
near  his  home  at  Ackworth,  and  remained  in  the  House  some 
years,  though  he  said  but  little  when  he  got  there.  A  pleasant  if 
malicious  story,  probably  quite  untrue,  relates  that  when  he  was 
on  the  hustings  some  one  asked  his  ,opinion^of  the  decalogue. 
Hastily  enquiring  what  this  meant,  he  was  told  that  it  was 
*  Another  name  for  flogging  in  the  Army,'  whereupon  he  declared 
that  he  would  vote  for  its  entire  abolition. 

Such  a  man  as  John  Gully  must  have  made  enemies,  but  they 
have,  with  one  negligible  exception,  kept  silence,  whereas  his 
admirers  became  at  intervals  almost  lyrical  in  his  praise.  *  Here 
is  John  Gully,'  cries  the  Sporting  Magazine  in  1834,  two  years 
after  he  had  won  the  Derby  and  the  Oaks  and  become  an  M.P. 
'  Here  is  John  Gully,  an  admirable  specimen,  physical  as  well  as 
mental,  of  one  of  the  finest  objects  in  the  creation,  an  honest  man.' 
And  there  sure  enough  he  stands,  an  upright,  handsome  figure, 
clean-shaven,  with  just  a  dignified  suspicion  of  whisker,  a  high 
white  stock,  a  coat  with  a  velvet  collar,  and  one  hand  extended  as 
if  to  shake  those  of  the  free  and  independent  electors  of  Pontefract. 
Elsewhere  we  come  across  him  as  a  fine  rider  and  supporter  of  the 
Badsworth  Hunt,  dining  with  Lord  Fitzwilliam  and  coming  up 
the  staircase  '  a  beautiful  girl  in  green  velvet  on  either  arm/ 
dispensing  an  elegant  hospitality  at  his  rooms  in  Newmarket, 
brooding  in  calculating  silence  over  a  big  cigar,  and,  far  pleasanter 
than  all  of  these,  talking  of  his  fighting  days  with  candour  and 
simplicity. 

The  latest  picture  of  him  shows  him  as  an  old  man  of  seventy- 


476      THE  THREE  FIGHTS  OF  MR.  JOHN  GULLY. 

eight,  two  years  before  he  died.  He  is  a  little  less  upright  than 
before,  and  a  black  bow  has  supplanted  the  stiff  white  stock.  His 
hair  is  snow-white,  but  the  eyes  are  dark  and  full  of  fire,  and  the 
mouth  beneath  the  rather  long  upper  lip  seems  to  shut  with  a 
snap.  It  is  a  cold,  unromantic,  rather  ruthless  face,  full  of  strength 
and  character.  He  frightens  me  a  little  as  he  looks  straight  at  me 
from  under  those  fierce  eyebrows.  I  wonder  if  he  ever  thought 
gratefully  of  the  Chicken,  who  had  helped  to  take  him  out  of 
prison,  battered  him  up  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder  and  then  died, 
sick,  poor,  and  miserable,  fifty-two  years  before. 

BERNARD  DARWIN. 


477 


JONAH. 
I. 

Tota  haec  de  pisce  Jonae  disquisitio  vana  videtur  atque  inutilis. 
Prisca  fides  facto  sedfama  perennis. 

(Old-fashioned  people  believe  it  as  literal  fact,  but  the  story 
will  be  famous  for  ever.) 

THERE  are  few  more  interesting  places  in  London  than  the  corner 
of  Hyde  Park,  near  the  Marble  Arch,  on  Sunday  noon.  Within 
a  few  yards  one  may  hear  an  impassioned  tirade  against  capitalism, 
an  exposition  of  the  errors  of  Romanism,  a  defence  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  an  appeal  for  the  rights  of  women,  the  singing  of  the  old 
familiar  hymns,  the  earnest  repetition  of  the  time-honoured  evan- 
gelical phrases,  eager  discussion  on  social,  political,  religious  ques- 
tions of  every  kind ;  but  the  largest  crowd  is  usually  gathered  round 
the  Secularist  lecturer  who  hopes  to  destroy  the  Christian  religion, 
making  great  sport  with  his  sarcastic  references  to  the  inordinate 
salaries  and  big  palaces  of  pampered  bishops  and  to  the  antiquated 
professions  of  belief  in  Balaam's  ass  and  Jonah's  whale.  It  is  a 
curious  irony  of  fate  that  the  most  humorous  yet  most  earnest 
and  effective  attack  on  a  cruel  and  narrow-minded  theology,  and 
the  most  beautiful  adumbration  of  a  broader  and  happier  faith 
to  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  literature,  with  but  one  excep- 
tion, has  been  made  a  butt  for  the  ribaldry  of  those  who  in  modern 
times  profess  to  be  exponents  of  liberal  thought.  Hearing  the 
dismal  old  jeers  about  the  size  of  the  fish's  gullet  and  noting  the 
lecturer's  utter  inability  to  understand  in  the  least  what  the  prophet 
who  wrote  the  book  of  Jonah  really  meant — an  inability  apparently 
shared  by  some  modern  Churchmen :  even  so  able  a  scholar  as 
Dean  Inge  appears  to  regard  it  as  a  useless  fairy  tale — I  was  re- 
minded of  a  scene  several  years  ago  in  the  library  of  the  house  of 
an  old  friend,  which,  in  view  of  certain  recent  utterances,  seems 
worth  recalling.  He  was  then  over  sixty-five  years  of  age, 
and  had  just  retired  from  an  important  position  in  the  public 
service.  In  what  follows  I  have  deliberately  altered  names  and 
one  or  two  statements  about  family  matters,  as  I  am  anxious 


478  JONAH. 

that  no  one  should  recognise  a  person  about  whose  intimate  life 
at  home  I  could  not  otherwise  venture  to  write.  The  three  or 
four  people  who  may  recognise  to  whom  I  am  referring  were  such 
intimate  friends  that  no  question  of  improper  disclosure  can  arise. 
His  wife  had  died  many  years  before,  leaving  only  one  child,  who 
was  married  to  an  official  occupying  a  high  position  in  the  Indian 
Civil  Service.  They  had  two  children,  who  had  been  sent  home  to 
be  educated — a  boy,  always  called  Dick,  who  was  then  nearly 
eight  years  old  and  attended  a  day  school,  and  Kuth,  a  child  still 
under  six.  Their  father  and  mother  had  only  recently  returned 
to  India  and  left  the  children  in  England.  They  always  spent  a 
part  of  the  year  at  their  grandfather's  house.  Although  their 
father  never  entered  into  argument  of  any  kind  on  theological 
subjects,  and  rarely  even  spoke  of  them,  he  held  very  strong  views, 
and  had  given  definite  instructions  that  the  children  were  never 
to  be  taken  to  any  place  of  worship  or  to  receive  any  religious 
instruction.  The  care  of  the  children  had  been  entrusted  to  an 
experienced  and  well-educated  nurse.  She  was  attached  to  the 
Primitive  Methodists  and  regularly  attended  their  chapel,  but  at 
their  father's  request  she  had  promised  that  she  would  not  take 
the  children  to  any  place  of  worship,  nor  talk  to  them  on  religious 
subjects.  She  had,  however,  insisted  that  she  could  not  take 
charge  of  them  unless  she  were  allowed  to  teach  them  to  say  a 
prayer  morning  and  evening,  and  to  this  the  parents  had  assented. 
She  was  devoted  to  the  children,  but  did  not  spoil  them. 

On  the  evening  to  which  I  refer,  I  was  writing  u\my  friend's 
library.  He  had  been  rather  unwell,  and  was  sitting  in  an  easy 
chair  by  the  fire,  reading,  I  believe,  a  translation  of  the  Book  of 
Jonah  by  Professor  Duhm  of  Basle.  He  certainly  belonged  to 
no  religious  body.  I  do  not  think  that  even  his  most  intimate 
friends  knew  what  his  religious  beliefs  were,  if,  indeed,  he  had  any. 
Some  called  him  a  l  confirmed  sceptic,'  and  owing  to  this  and  to 
a  singular  likeness  in  personal  appearance  to  the  great  Frenchman 
as  we  see  him  in  prints  or  busts  of  the  time,  some  of  us  nicknamed 
him  Voltaire,  although  I  believe  he  did  not  altogether  enjoy  the 
comparison.  It  is  curious  that  amongst  his  acquaintances  were 
three  or  four  distinguished  Churchmen  and  also  an  eminent  Non- 
conformist minister,  who  often  discussed  theological  matters,  and 
especially  questions  of  Biblical  criticism  with  him,  and  I  found 
that,  although  he  was  not  a  professed  scholar,  they  were  astonished 
at  the  extraordinarily  full  and  accurate  acquaintance  he  had  with 


JONAH.  479 

the  Bible  and  at  his  insight  as  a  critic.  Curiously,  he  generally 
seemed  to  lean  to  what  may  be  called  the  conservative  or  traditional 
view.  His  legal  training  in  his  early  life — as  he  had  practised  at 
the  Bar  for  a  few  years,  and  at  one  time  seemed  likely  to  succeed 
in  that  profession — made  him  somewhat  contemptuous  of  the  mode 
of  handling  evidence  adopted  by  many  of  the  higher  critics.  He 
would  certainly  have  dismissed  Strauss's  theories  *  with  costs/ 
because  of  his  manner  of  manipulating  the  evidence  and  ignoring 
anything  which  did  not  square  with  pre-conceived  theories. 

I  vividly  remember  the  Sunday  night,  about  six  o'clock — how 
the  children  came  running  into  the  room :  *  Grandfather,  tell  us 
a  story ! '  and  I  can  give  a  fairly  accurate  account  of  the  con- 
versation that  passed.  Ruth  jumped  upon  his  knee  and  laid  her 
curly  head  against  his  velvet  jacket ;  Dick  sat  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair. 

F.  What  sort  of  story  ? 

D.  Oh  !  something  like  that  about  the  wooden  horse  you 
told  us  last  week. 

R.  Or  about  the  drefful  giant  with  one  eye  that  lived  in  the 
cave.  I  think  it's  lovely  hearing  about  very  drefful  creatures. 
Grandfaver,  are  you  reading  a  story  out  of  that  book  ? 

F.  Yes.    Shall  I  tell  it  you  ? 

D.  and  R.  Do,  please. 

F.  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  prophet 

R.  What's  a  poffet  ? 

D.  Think  I  know.  Saw  a  picture  when  I  went  to  tea  at  Jim 
Reid's  :  a  man  lying  dead  at  the  roadside,  and  they  called  him  a 
prophet,  and  there  was  a  lion  sitting  by  that  had  killed  him  because 
he  didn't  do  what  he  was  told. 

F.  Then  we'll  say  a  prophet  is  somebody  who  is  told  to  do 
something,  or  has  a  message  to  give.  The  name  of  the  prophet  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  about  was  Jonah,  and  he  lived  in  a  country  a  long 
way  off  among  the  hills.  He  was  told  to  go  across  a  desert,  a  tire- 
some journey,  to  where  there  was  a  broad  river  and  a  big  town, 
perhaps  as  big  as  London,  with  lots  of  great  buildings,  temples, 
and  palaces.  It  was  called  Nineveh,  and  it  is  all  covered  up  now 
with  sand ;  but  people  have  been  digging  there  and  have  found 
all  sorts  of  wonderful  things.  I'll  take  you  to  see  some  of  them 
at  the  British  Museum  one  day  next  week  if  you  like.  They  were 
very  wicked  people  in  that  city,  so  Jonah  was  told  to  go  and  tell 
them  that  they  must  change  their  ways  and  behave  better,  and 


480  JONAH. 

if  they  didn't,  that  big  city  would  all  be  destroyed  in  a  very  few 
days. 

D.  Who  told  Jonah  to  go  ? 

7.  My  book  says  Jahweh. 

D.  Was  Jahweh  a  great  king  on  a  throne — with  lots  of 
soldiers  ? 

R.  Did  he  know  Jonah  quite  well  ?  Had  he  a  grand  crown 
on  his  head  ? 

D.  Was  he  king  of  that  great  city  and  other  countries  too  ? 

7.  The  people  who  lived  where  Jonah  was  said  that  Jahweh 
had  brought  them  to  that  beautiful  country,  after  they  had  been 
slaves  in  another  country,  all  through  a  dry  and  dreadful  desert, 
and  given  them  food  to  eat  and  water  to  drink,  and  had  led  them 
for  a  long  time  and  taken  care  of  them  and  helped  them  against 
all  their  enemies  till  they  came  to  a  lovely  country  where  there 
were  lots  of  grapes  and  fig  trees  and  fruit,  and  flowers,  and  thick 
honey,  and  high  hills  and  deep  valleys. 

D.  He  wasn't  exactly  like  a  king  then,  was  he  ? 

R.  Could  Jahweh  do  just  what  he  wanted  ?  Was  he  very 
strong  ?  Do  tell  us  what  he  was  like  to  look  at. 

7.  It  seems  very  strange,  but  they  said  that  nobody  had  ever 
seen  Jahweh. 

D.  Then  did  they  have  pictures  of  him,  or  beautiful  statues  ? 

7.  No.  Nobody  had  ever  seen  Jahweh.  They  said  that  they 
mustn't  have  any  picture  or  statue — partly,  perhaps,  because  nobody 
knew  a  bit  what  he  was  like  ;  only  they  said  he  had  always  taken 
care  of  them,  and  was  angry  when  they  were  wicked  and  pleased 
when  they  were  good. 

D.  Perhaps  he  lived  on  top  of  a  high  mountain  out  of  sight, 
or  up  in  the  sky  like  what  you  told  us  about  Zeus.  Did  he  send 
a  messenger  to  Jonah,  like  you  told  us  Zeus  sent  Hermes  ? 

7.  The  book  doesn't  say  exactly,  so  I'll  go  on  with  the  story. 
Well,  when  Jonah  was  told  to  go  to  Nineveh,  I  think  he  was  perhaps 
frightened  what  those  people  would  do  to  him  if  he  told  them 
they  were  wicked  and  must  repent ;  or  perhaps  he  thought  that 
if  he  went  Jahweh  might  change  his  mind  after  all  and  not  destroy 
the  town,  and  that  he  might  be  made  a  fool  of :  so,  instead  of  going 
across  the  desert  to  that  big  city,  he  went  the  other  way  down  to 
the  sea  and  got  into  a  ship  going  in  just  the  opposite  direction. 

D.  Did  Jahweh  punish  him  theo  ? 

7.  Well,  the  story  says  he  made  a  great  storm  in  the  sea. 


JONAH.  481 

(Here  followed  a  thrilling  description  of  the  storm  and  the  action 
of  the  sailors.) 

So  they  took  Jonah  up  and  threw  him  into  the  sea,  and  thought 
then  that  as  they  had  got  rid  of  the  wicked  man  the  storm  would 
stop  :  and  so  it  did,  and  it  was  quite  calm  again.  The  sailors  were 
rather  sorry  for  Jonah,  but  they  were  very  glad  to  think  that  now 
they'd  get  safe  home. 

R.  Was  poor  Jonah  drownded  quite  dead  ?  I'm  very  sorry  for 
him,  though  he  was  naughty  and  didn't  do  what  he  was  told. 

D.  Perhaps  he  could  swim,  and  got  to  a  desert  island  like 
Robinson  Crusoe. 

F.  No,  I  don't  think  he  could  swim,  because  he  didn't  live  near 
the  sea,  and  they  had  no  swimming  baths  then,  and  there  was  no 
island  near.  But  the  story  says  something  wonderful  happened, 
because  Jahweh  sent  a  big  fish  or  whale  or  something  like  that, 
so  that  when  Jonah  fell  into  the  water,  the  big  fish  came  and  opened 
its  mouth  and  swallowed  Jonah  just  as  he  was,  and  swam  about 
with  him  inside  it. 

R.  Was  it  a  drefful  fish,  Grandfaver,  with  big  eyes  and  teeth  ? 
Did  it  frighten  Jonah  very  much  ? 

D.  It  can't  be  a  true  story,  can  it,  Grandfather  ?  What  you 
told  us  about  the  wooden  horse  was  different.  People  might  make 
a  wooden  horse  too  big  to  go  through  a  gate,  but  there  isn't  any 
fishes  that  would  be  just  there  when  they  threw  him  into  the  water 
and  that  could  swallow  him  down  whole  without  hurting  him. 

R.  That's  silly,  Dick.  Jahweh  could  feed  those  people  and 
find  them  water.  Jahweh  could  do  anything.  Just  as  easy  make 
a  big  fish  if  he  wanted  to  take  care  of  Jonah. 

F.  Well,  Dick.  What  would  you  have  done  if  you'd  been 
Jahweh  and  really  wanted  Jonah  to  do  what  he  was  told  and  go 
to  that  big  city  ?  Those  people  said  Jahweh  made  the  stars  and 
the  moon,  so  they  would  think  he  could  make  a  big  fish  just  as 
well.  Well,  anyhow,  the  story  says  that  the  fish  swam  about 
with  him  inside  it  three  whole  days,  and  he  was  very  unhappy 
because  it  was  all  dark  and  he  had  nothing  to  eat,  and  he  didn't 
know  what  would  happen  to  him.  But  after  three  days  the  fish 
swam  up  to  the  shore  and  threw  him  right  out  of  its  mouth  on  to 
the  shore  where  the  water  was  shallow,  and  he  struggled  up  through 
the  waves  across  the  sands,  and  up  the  hills.  I  suppose  some  one 
must  have  given  him  something  to  eat.  But  he  went  up  to  his 
VOL.  LIL— NO.  310,  N.S.  31 


482  JONAH. 

home  and  lie  said,  '  It's  no  use  trying  to  get  away  from  Jahweh/ 
and  decided  that  he  would  go  straight  away  to  that  big  city  and  tell 
them  they  mustn't  be  wicked  any  more,  and  if  they  were,  the  town 
would  all  be  destroyed  in  a  very  few  days.  So  away  he  went  across 
the  desert  and  came  to  Nineveh,  and  walked  about  and  stood 
up  at  the  street  corners  and  preached  and  made  speeches  to  the 
people,  telling  them  about  the  wicked  things  they  had  been  doing, 
and  that  the  town  would  all  be  destroyed  if  they  did  not  do  better. 
And  when  the  king  of  the  city  heard  about  it,  he  sent  word  to  tell 
them  that  they  mustn't  do  wicked  things  any  more,  and  that 
they  must  be  very  sorry  for  all  they  had  done,  and  that  all  of  them 
must  be  quite  different,  and  that  then,  perhaps,  the  city  would  not 
be  destroyed.  Then  Jahweh  decided  not  to  destroy  it,  and  Jonah 
was  very  angry,  quite  furious,  and  told  Jahweh  he  had  made  a  fool 
of  him.  (Here  he  read  Duhm's  humorous  translation,  and  then 
followed  the  story  of  the  plant  that  grew  up  in  a  night  and  withered 
next  day.) 

...  So  when  that  castor-oil  plant  all  withered  there  was  no 
more  shade,  and  the  sun  was  very  hot ;  and  Jonah  was  very  angry 
indeed,  and  said  :  *  Much  better  be  dead  than  sitting  here  by  the 
roadside  when  it's  so  hot,  and  I've  been  made  a  fool  of.  Nothing 
is  going  to  happen  to  those  people.'  So  Jahweh  said  to  him: 
'  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  much  more  dreadful  if  this  big  city 
had  all  been  destroyed  and  the  people  had  all  been  killed;  and 
there  are  hundreds  of  little  children  there  who  never  did  anything 
wicked,  besides  lots  of  cattle  ? '  And  that  is  the  end  of  the  story. 

D.  I  don't  think  much  of  Jonah ;  he  might  just  as  well  have 
been  drowned  when  they  threw  him  into  the  sea. 

V.  Well,  you  see,  Jahweh  thought  differently. 

D.  Anyhow,  Jahweh  was  a  real  good  sort. 

R.  Don't  say  that,  Dick  ;  it's  not  proper.  Jahweh  was  very 
wonderful  and  very  great ;  mustn't  talk  that  way  about  Jahweh. 
I  do  wish  I  could  have  seen  him,  because  he  could*  do  all  those 
wonderful  things  and  make  big  fishes  just  when  he  wanted,  and 
could  have  killed  all  those  men  in  a  minute,  but  he  wouldn't. 
Are  you  quite  sure,  Grandfaver,  nobody  ever  did  see  him  ?  Was 
he  very  old  then  ? 

D.  Does  the  story  say  where  he  lived  ?  I  like  to  look  at  a 
map  when  we  have  a  story  and  see  all  about  the  places.  I've 
got  a  map  upstairs,  and  I  like  to  look  at  it  and  see  pictures  of  the 
places  you  tell  us  about. 


JONAH. 


483 


F.  Now,  I  can't  tell  you  any  more  to-night ;  it's  quite  bed- 
time. Just  look  behind  that  curtain  for  two  little  boxes. 

R.  Chockies  ? 

F.  Yes.  Only  two  each  to-night ;  but  I  suppose  you'll  each 
give  one  to  nurse.  So  off  you  go.  I'll  perhaps  tell  you  some 
more  stories  on  Tuesday. 

R.  Aren't  you  coming  up  to  the  nursery,  Grandfaver  ? 

F.  Well,  when  you're  ready  for  bed  I'll  come  up. 

R.  Then,  can  we  play  Jabberwock  ? 

Half  an  hour  later  I  heard  the  children  calling,  and  V.  ran 
upstairs.  In  a  few  minutes  I  heard  screams  of  delight  and  pretended 
terror,  and  the  sound  of  V.  jumping  on  the  floor. 

V.,  when  he  came  down,  said  :  *  Isn't  it  difficult  under^children's 
cross-examination  to  tell  no  lies  and  to  hide  no  truths  ?  I  hope 
I  haven't,  but  I  don't  feel  at  all  sure.  If  the  children  could  have 
ventured  to  have  asked  questions  as  freely  of  a  Bench  of  Bishops  as 
of  me,  I  wonder  what  the  answer  would  have  been.  But  the 
children  can't  say  all  they  think.  I  expect  it  would  be  a  wonderful 
revelation  if  we  knew  all  they  thought  and  felt  when  they  hear  that 
strange  old  story.  I  am  seriously  inclined  to  think  that  the  book 
is  verbally  inspired,  and  I  hope  the  critics  will  prove  right  who  say 
it  was  the  latest  book  of  the  Old  Testament.  Was  it  not  a  real 
stroke  of  genius  to  think  of  that  fish  as  a  way  out  of  a  difficult 
situation  ?  How  delighted  the  writer  must  have  been  when  he 
thought  of  it,  and  how  natural  that  ever  since  it  should  have 
appealed  to  the  imagination  of  generation  after  generation  of 
those  who  had  insight,  and  been  the  subject  of  ribald  mockery 
to  the  dullest  minds ! ' 

I  happened  to  go  into  the  nursery  next  evening  and  found  the 
children  playing.  They  turned  to  me  eagerly,  asking  me  to  come 
and  see  their  new  game.  Dick  ran  up  to  me,  saying :  *  We're 
playing  at  Jonah  and  the  whale.  Just  watch  while  the  whale 
swallows  me  up.'  Down  by  the  side  of  the  nursery  wall  a  long 
green  curtain  with  white  spots  had  been  arranged  to  look  like  the 
back  of  a  fish  or  dragon  with  a  long  tail.  It  was  drawn  over  a 
packing-case  just  big  enough  for  the  boy  to  creep  into.  The  nurse 
was  away  for  the  evening,  and  the  children  had  been  down  into  the 
pantry  and  brought  up  two  silver  decanter  stands,  which  they 
had  fixed  over  the  end  of  the  packing-case  to  represent  the  creature's 
eyes.  Ruth  was  sitting  behind  a  curtain  on  the  top  of  a  chest 
of  drawers,  dressed  up  in  every  piece  of  odd  finery  she  could  find, 


484  JONAH. 

with  a  gilt  paper  crown  taken  from  a  cracker,  and  as  I  came  in 
I  heard  her  saying  very  gravely  :  *  Jone,  go  to  Nineveh.'  Then 
the  whole  drama  was  re-enacted.  The  table  had  been  turned  on 
its  back  on  the  floor  to  represent  a  ship ;  Dick  jumped  upon  it, 
and  began  rocking  it  about  to  represent  a  storm,  and  then 
tumbled  out  on  the  floor  and  dived  head-first  into  the  case  and 
began  to  groan. 

I  thought  it  best  to  leave  them  there  for  fear  of  awkward  ques- 
tions, which  I  should  have  found  it  difficult  to  answer,  and  I  doubt 
whether  the  full  answer  has  yet  been  found. 

II. 

I  have  hesitated  whether  to  add  the  two  following  incidents, 
but  as  my  old  friend  has  since  passed  away,  nothing  I  write  can 
affect  him  now.  The  last  time  I  saw  him,  except  once  about  an 
hour  before  his  death  two  years  afterwards,  was  when  he  was 
staying  with  the  children  at  a  cottage  at  Sandwick,  near  Howtown 
on  Ullswater.  He  had  rowed  across  with  them  to  Aira  Force  to 
meet  me,  and  as  they  started  back  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain  came 
on,  sweeping  down  over  the  lake  from  Catchedicam.  All  three 
were  in  the  wildest  spirits,  quite  '  fey,'  as  they  say  in  Scotland, 
when  the  waves  splashed  over  the  boat.  I  watched  them  until 
they  were  more  than  half-way  across,  and  then  it  became  too  dark 
to  see.  Though  he  was  then  about  seventy,  I  never  saw  a  boat 
better  handled  in  rough  water.  He  had  wrapped  Ruth  in  his 
Norfolk  jacket,  and  was  rowing  in  thin  flannels,  soaked  to  the  skin. 
They  all  seemed  to  be  enjoying  a  romp  with  nature. 

Ruth  died  about  three  years  ago  in  India,  and  when  I  recently 
showed  what  I  have  written  to  Dick,  who  is  now  grown  up,  he 
made  some  slight  corrections  where  my  memory  was  at  fault, 
and  said :  '  Certainly  no  one  will  recognise  us.  I  love  anything 
recalling  the  dear  old  Granddad,  and  possibly  other  people  may 
be  interested  in  the  story.  He  always  set  me  thinking.5 

Two  days  after  that  visit  to  the  nursery,  I  was  again  writing 
in  the  library  when  the  children  came  in  at  their  usual  time  and  I 
heard  Ruth  say  to  her  Grandfather  :  '  I  got  a  secret.' 

'  Well,  what  is  it  ?  ' 

*  Last  night  I  had  a  vewy  bad  pain,  but  nursey  was  poorly 
and  I  would  not  wake  her,  so  I  said  my  hymn  about  "  little  lamb 
to-night,"  and  then  I  thought  I  would  like  to  talk  to  Jahweh 


JONAH.  485 

and  ask  him  somefing,  so  I  said :  *'  Do  you  care  for  little  birds 
as  well  as  for  those  cows  and  sheep  ?  "  I  fink  he  nodded  his  head, 
but  it  was  all  dark  and  I  could  not  see  him.  So  I  asked  why  he 
let  that  naughty  pussy  kill  the  dear  little  robin  that  used  to  come 
to  the  window ;  but  he  did  not  say  anything,  so  I  asked  him :  "  Are 
you  very  fond  of  little  boys  and  girls,  'cos  I  got  a  horwid  bad  pain  ? 
Won't  you  make  it  better  ?  "  I  just  waited  a  bit,  and  then  I  fell 
fast  asleep  and  didn't  hear  whether  he  said  anything.  Perhaps 
he'll  tell  me  if  I  ask  him  to-night.  Do  you  fink  he  will  ?  I  should 
like  to  see  him.' 

Just  then  the  nurse  came  in,  and  for  once  V.  seemed  glad  that 
Ruth  was  called  away  promptly  to  bed. 

As  soon  as  she  had  gone,  Dick  said  :  *  I  suppose  it's  all  just  a 
make-up  fairy  tale  about  Jonah  and  Jahweh.  If  Jahweh  could 
make  that  queer  fish,  and  the  castor-oil  plant  grow  up  in  a  night, 
and  do  anything  he  wanted,  he  would  have  made  Jonah  go  straight 
to  Nineveh  at  once ;  and  why  did  he  make  those  people  and  let 
them  annoy  him  by  being  so  wicked  ?  Of  course  there  couldn't 
be  anybody,  if  he  cared  for  the  children  and  the  animals  now,  and 
could  do  what  he  wanted,  would  let  those  beastly  black  cats  tear 
little  birds  to  pieces  and  children  have  bad  pains.  Ruth  was  quite 
good  all  day  yesterday,  and  had  only  one  tiny  bit  of  cake  at  tea. 
And  last  week,  when  I  went  to  school,  I  saw  a  poor  little  ragged 
girl  crying  in  the  road  ;  she  said  she  had  been  beaten  and  was 
very  hungry,  so  I  gave  her  my  penny  to  buy  a  bun.  I  don't  believe 
there  ever  was  any  such  person  as  Jahweh.' 

V.  waited  a  minute  or  two  without  speaking,  and  then  we  heard 
nurse  calling  to  ask  if  Master  Dick  was  ready  to  come  upstairs. 
He  went  at  once,  and  V.  turned  to  me — we  were  so  intimate  that 
I  was  not  always  sure  whether  he  was  talking  to  himself  or  to  me — • 
and  said  :  '  May  I  be  forgiven  !  09  av  cncav§a\lcrr)  eva  rwv  /jui/cpcov 
TOVTWV  tca\6v  ecmv  avro)  /Jid\\ov  el  TrepiKeirai,  JJLV\OS  OVLKOS.  .  . 

Though  I  was  much  attached  to  him,  I  felt  him  to  be  at  times 
strangely  morbid.  His  way  of  quoting  the  Greek  Testament, 
which  he  seemed  to  know  by  heart,  appeared  perhaps  pedantic. 
Though  he  admired  the  Authorised  Version,  and  though  I  often 
heard  him  discuss  theological  questions,  I  never  heard  him  quote 
from  the  New  Testament  in  English.  He  said  it  was  too  familiar, 
and  that  translation  introduced  another  risk  of  misunderstanding, 
and  once  remarked  that  the  Pauline  Epistles  in  the  Revised  Version 
were  often  quite  unintelligible  to  him.  Some  words,  too,  most 


486  JONAH. 

frequently  used  in  theological  discussion  he  scrupulously  avoided ; 
out  of  respect  for  his  memory  I  forbear  to  mention  them.  I  once 
asked  him  why  he  did  so,  and  he  simply  quoted  : 

*  And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek.  .  .  .' 

(You  know  the  rest.) 

I  stayed  on  with  my  friend  a  week  longer — over  Christmas 
Day,  but  was  usually  out  in  the  evenings.  I  was  with  him,  however, 
on  Christmas  Eve  when  the  carol  singers  came  round.  It  was  a 
cold,  snowy  night,  and  the  boys,  who  were  singing  remarkably  well, 
were  brought  into  the  hall  and  given  some  hot  cocoa  and  sweets. 
The  two  children  were  delighted  with  '  King  Wenceslas,'  and  with 
the  tune  of  f  Adeste  Fideles,'  which  was  sung  last,  before  the  boys 
left.  As  soon  as  they  had  gone,  Dick  and  Ruth  came  to  their 
Grandfather  and  asked  him  to  tell  them  what  the  last  song  was 
about. 

V.  '  You  can  read  it,  Dick,  if  you  like ;  the  book  is  on  the 
second  shelf  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  the  song  is  No.  9.' 

Dick  took  it,  looking  much  puzzled  as  he  read  slowly  to  him- 
self, while  Ruth  said :   *  I  heard  what  they  sang,  and  they  said 
'  'dore  him"  very  often.    Do  tell  us,  Grandfaver,  what  "  'dore 
him"  means.' 

Unfortunately,  I  had  to  go  out  at  that  moment  to  dispatch  a 
telegram  before  the  office  closed,  and  did  not  return  for  half  an 
hour.  Ruth  was  just  saying  '  Good-night ! '  Her  eyes  were  beam- 
ing and  her  cheeks  glowing  with  delight.  '  That  was  the  loveliest 
story  of  all,  Grandfaver.  Did  you  keep  it  specially  for  Kissmas  ? ' 
'  Yes,  perhaps.  Now,  good-night.  You  will  find  your  stockings 
hanging  on  the  end  of  your  beds  in  the  morning,  if  you  go  to  sleep 
quickly.'  They  ran  upstairs.  V.  seemed  unconscious  of  my 
presence,  and  I  heard  him  saying  to  himself  as  he  stared  into  the 
fire: 

69  av  firj  Se^TjTat  TTJV  fta<Ti\elav 
rov  Oeov  ct>9  TTCuSiov  ov  /JLrj  el<ri\6ri 
el^  avrrjv.  • 

'  Let  us  dress  for  dinner.    I  am  expecting '  naming  one  of 

the  judges  '  and  Canon .'    All  three  were  in  brilliant  form  that 

evening,  and  I  never  heard  more  amusing  talk  or  droller  stories ; 
but  I  will  not  give  the  guests  away  by  mentioning  their  names. 

ALFEED  HOPKINSON. 


487 


THE  SALESWOMAN. 

BY  DOUGLAS  WALSHE. 

I. 

THIS  story  is  really  a  warning  to  innocent,  unsuspecting  man. 
Fifty  years  ago  when,  according  to  grandmother,  girls  were  young 
ladies  and  not  hard  and  unwomanly  as  they  are  now,  it  was 
necessary  for  a  writer  to  warn  the  poor  but  virtuous  maiden 
against  the  wiles  of  the  handsome  but  wicked  young  Squire. 
To-day  all  the  squires  are  selling  their  estates — oh,  what  an  age  for 
auctioneers ! — and  it  is  one's  duty  to  caution  trusting  manhood 
against  that  cunning  young  thing,  the  modern  girl.  Unfortunately, 
like  all  my  stories,  the  moral  gets  rather  muddled.  But  that's 
the  gist  of  it. 

Be  war-arned  in  ti-ime  ...  as  they  sang  in  '  Dorothy,'  wasn't 
it  ?  Have  a  care — pray  beware — tum-ti-tum. 

'  Second-hand  Sunstar  two-seater  car  for  sale.  Only  driven  eight 
thousand  miles.  Perfect  mechanical  order.  Bodywork  as  new. 
Dynamo  lighting.  Self-starter.  Spares.  £350,  no  offers. — "  The 
Limes"  Streatham  Hill.3 

'  That  seems  rather  what  I'm  looking  for,'  thought  Leslie 
Markham,  and  cut  the  advertisement  out  of  the  Motor  with  his 
penknife. 

He  took  a  taxi  to  '  The  Limes.' 

He  was  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  keen,  intelligent  face.  Win- 
chester and  Balliol  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Dark-brown 
twinkling  eyes.  Curly  hair.  He  reminded  the  parlourmaid  who 
opened  the  door  to  him  of  one  of  her  favourite  heroes  on  the  films. 
Luckily  she  did  not  tell  him  so. 

'  I've  called  about  a  car  that's  advertised  for  sale,'  he  explained 
in  a  pleasant  voice. 

'  Yes,  sir.    This  way,  sir.' 

She  showed  him  into  a  black  and  apricot  drawing-room,  a  really 
charming  apartment.  Leslie  thoroughly  approved  of  it,  having 
a  distinct  feeling  for  beauty. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  girl  came  in. 

She  had  on  a  dress  which  was  like  a  good  picture  frame.    It 


488  THE  SALESWOMAN. 

didn't  seem  to  matter,  and  yet  it  showed  the  subject  off.  Her 
eyes  were  blue,  her  hair  golden,  her  features  irregular  but  alive. 
Photographed  she  would  have  taken  no  prize  in  any  beauty 
competition.  But  looked-at  she  was  delightful — a  companion- 
able, fascinating  personality  of,  say,  twenty-one  or  two. 

'  You've  come  about  my  car  ? '  she  said  in  a  voice  as  likeable 
as  the  rest  of  her. 

1  Yes/ 

He  betrayed  no  surprise  at  learning  that  it  was  her  car. 

'  It's  in  the  garage.  If  you'll  come  this  way  I'll  show  it  to 
you.' 

He  came  that  way. 

'  There  she  is,'  said  the  advertiser.  *  She  does  thirty  miles 
to  the  gallon  .  .  .  Well,  twenty-five,'  she  smiled,  as  Leslie  raised 
his  eyebrows. 

He  examined  the  body-work.  He  lifted  the  bonnet  and  looked 
at  the  engine.  He  shook  the  front  wheels.  He  tested  the  steering 
for  play,  and  found  some,  but  not  too  much. 

*  I  can  see  you  know  something  about  cars,'  said  the  smiling 
watcher. 

*  Do  you  mind  if  I  jack  up  one  of  the  back  wheels  ?  '  he  enquired. 
'  Not  at  all.' 

She  whipped  a  jack  out  of  the  tool  box  and  began  to  do  the 
work  herself. 

'  Oh,  I  say — let  me,'  he  protested. 

But  she  wouldn't. 

He  made  a  rough  test  for  wear  in  the  cardan  shaft  or  undue 
noise  in  the  differential.  And  she  handed  him  a  piece  of  waste 
on  which  to  wipe  his  hands. 

'  Now  I  suppose  you'd  like  to  try  her  on  the  road  ? '  she 


He  nodded,  and  she  pressed  the  self-starter  pedal. 

The  engine  did  not  '  turn  over.' 

'  Afraid  my  battery's  rather  run  down,'  she  apologised  with 
another  smile. 

Leslie  smiled,  too.  '  Trust  a  lady-driver  to  run  her  battery 
down  sooner  than  go  to  the  fag  of  swinging  her  engine,'  he  thought. 

Gallantly  he  forestalled  her  at  the  starting-handle,  and  the 
engine  started  on  the  third  pull  up. 

She  took  her  place  at  the  steering  wheel. 

'  You  don't  mind  if  I  drive  ?  '  she  said  winningly.  '  You  see, 
you  might  ...  * 


THE  SALESWOMAN.  489 

I  Smash  her  up,  eh  ? '  lie  helped  her  out.     '  Go  ahead.' 

*  No  flies  on  her'  he  thought.     '  She's  running  this  job  just  as 
a  man  would,  and  that's  how  I'm  going  to  treat  her,  too  ! '    And 
he  gave  her  a  sideways  glance  of  genuine  admiration. 

'  Pulls  well,  doesn't  she  ?  '  she  murmured,  changing  slick  from 
first  to  top.  '  She's  in  first-class  order.'  Pause.  '  Mind  you,  I 
don't  say  hi  one  or  two  details  she  couldn't  be  improved  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  of  course,'  he  agreed.  '  A  second-hand  car  is  a  second- 
hand car.' 

'  Exactly.' 

Presently,  when  they  got  out  of  the  traffic,  she  tapped  the 
speedometer  with  a  slim  finger  to  call  his  attention  to  the  fact 
that  it  was  registering  forty. 

I 1  shouldn't   have   thought    we    were    doing    so   much,'  he 
commented. 

£  Oh,  she's  very  well  sprung,  and  holds  the  road  splendidly,' 
said  the  saleswoman,  slowing  down. 

'  There,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  '  she  enquired  triumphantly. 

They  were  crawling  along  at  six  miles  an  hour  on  top  gear. 
The  engine  was  quite  happy,  and  the  cardan  shaft  was  not  clanking. 

*  Jolly  good,'  said  Leslie. 

*  I'll  just  take  her  up  a  hill  to  show  you  how  she  climbs.' 

But  when  they  tackled  the  hill  the  climb  was  rather  a  fiasco. 
They  got  up,  but  only  after  a  big  struggle  and  considerable  grating 
in  the  gear-box,  finishing  at  a  crawl  on  '  first.' 

*  Sorry,'  she  apologised.     *  I  missed  my  gear.' 
The  young  man  beside  her  smiled. 

There  was  just  the  least  trace  of  patronage  in  that  smile. 

This,  he  thought,  was  where  you  would  expect  a  lady  driver  to 
let  herself  down.  Changing  up  was  easy  enough,  but  changing 
down  .  .  . 

He  felt  quite  sorry  for  her,  and  decided  that  she  must  be  more 
nervous  than  he  had  imagined. 

She  turned  the  car  at  the  top,  and  they  coasted  down. 

'  I  suppose  you  won't  want  her  now  ?  '  she  sighed  contritely. 
*  Afraid  my  driving's  put  you  off.' 

Leslie  felt  even  more  sorry  for  her. 

'  Oh,  not  at  all,'  he  answered  with  some  embarrassment.  '  Er 
— how  about  letting  me  take  her  up  the  hill  for  myself  ?  ' 

The  advertiser  shook  her  charming  head. 

'  It's  not  usual  when  you  buy  a  second-hand  car  for  anyone 
but  the  seller  to  drive,  is  it  ?  '  she  said  gently. 


490  THE  SALESWOMAN. 

He  had  to  admit  that  that  was  so.  If  one  let  every  Tom,  Dick 
or  Harry  who  came  to  look  at  a  car  try  his  hand  at  driving  it, 
obviously  its  value  might  suffer. 

'  Sorry  I  made  such  a  mess  of  that  climb.  Where  shall  I  put 
you  down  ?  '  she  went  ony  with  a  brave  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  the  deal  must  be  off  and  a  polite  pretence  that  she  wasn't 
disappointed. 

Leslie  looked  at  her  sideways.    Her  humility  touched  him. 

'  It  wasn't  the  car's  fault,'  he  said  quietly.  '  I'm  going  to 
buy  her  all  the  same ! ' 

Her  head  jerked  round,  and  she  flashed  him  a  sudden  dazzling 
smile. 

'  //  we  can  come  to  terms,'  he  added  firmly,  telling  himself 
again  that  although  she  was  so  young  and  charming  he  wasn't 
going  to  be  anything  but  business-like.  No,  by  Jove,  he  wasn't 
even  going  to  be  afraid  to  talk  figures  with  her,  just  because  she 
was  a  woman.  He  would  treat  her  exactly  as  he  would  treat  a 
man  with  a  car  for  sale,  he  told  himself  .  .  .  and  didn't  know  that 
he  was  telling  himself  a  lie. 

'  I'll  give  you  three  hundred  for  her/  he  offered. 

'  Three  fifty  is  the  price,'  she  answered  in  a  delightfully 
business-like  tone. 

I*  Split  the  difference.    Make  it  three  twenty-five  ?  ' 

'  No.    My  advertisement  said  "  no  offers."    Three  fifty.' 

'  Oh,  very  well.     Three  fifty,'  he  gave  in. 

'  I've  got  an  instruction  book.  That  will  tell  you  all  you  want 
to  know  about  the  oiling.  Is  there  anything  else  you'd  like  to 
ask  me  ?  '  she  enquired  as  they  made  their  way  back. 

He  put  a  few  questions,  and  they  talked  car  till  they  pulled  up 
in  front  of  '  The  Limes  '  again. 

'  Tell  me  your  name,  and  I'll  come  in  and  write  a  cheque/  said 
Leslie,  hoping  she  would  ask  him  to  lunch. 

'  Oh  ...  I  thought  you'd  brought  notes  .  .  .  They  told  me 
on  no  account  to  take  a  stranger's  cheque,'  she  objected. 

Leslie  smiled.  He  didn't  know  who  '  they '  were,  but  he 
admired  her  business-like  attitude. 

'  Quite  right.  You  can't  be  too  careful/  he  agreed.  '  I'll 
bring  you  the  cash  to-morrow/ 

'  Couldn't  I  drive  you  to  your  bank  and  settle  it  now  ? '  she 
suggested. 

'  Wouldn't  that  be  troubling  you  too  much  ?  ' 


THE  SALESWOMAN.  491 

'  No.  I'd  rather.  Then  if  anyone  else  comes  along  I  can  tell 
them  the  car  is  sold,  and  not  have  to  keep  them  hanging  about.' 

'  Very  well.    Let's  go  to  the  bank.' 

He  was  delighted  to  be  going  for  another  little  ride  with  her. 
And  what  he  wanted  to  tell  her  was  that  she  was  the  daintiest  and 
most  charming  business-woman  he  had  ever  come  across.  But 
somehow  he  did  not  dare.  Something  about  her  seemed  to  be 
saying  all  the  time  :  '  I'm  a  seller — you're  a  buyer — and  person- 
alities are  barred.'  But  saying  it  delightfully,  saying  it  in  a  way 
that  only  made  him  admire  her  the  more. 

The  car  moved  off  again,  and  on  the  way  they  came  to  another 
hill. 

She  boggled  it  dreadfully,  and  Leslie  felt  thoroughly  sorry — 
for  the  car.  It  hurt  him  to  hear  a  gear  box  so  badly  treated. 

'  She's  very  interesting,  and  fairly  cautious  in  traffic,  but 
rotten,  simply  rotten,  at  changing  gear,'  he  thought. 

She  went  into  the  bank  with  him.  He  cashed  his  cheque, 
handed  her  the  money,  and  took  a  receipt. 

She  produced  her  own  stamp,  and  by  that  he  knew  how 
completely  emancipated  she  was.  The  test  of  whether  a  girl  is 
really  modern  or  still  a  little  bit  old-fashioned  is  whether  or  no 
she  carries  her  own  stamps. 

'  Florence  Armstrong — what  a  charming  name,'  he  thought 
a  trifle  fatuously,  as  he  scanned  her  receipt. 

'  You'll  let  me  drive  you  back  ?  '  he  suggested — for  it  was  his 
car  now. 

'  Oh  no.     Thanks,  awfuUy.     Don't  trouble.' 

'  I  should  love  to  .  .  .' 

'  It's  very  kind  of  you,  but  I'm  not  sure  I'm  going  straight 
back.  Good-bye.  Thanks  very  much.  Hope  you'll  get  on  with 
her  all  right.' 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  had  to  take  it.  He  was  so 
disappointed  at  his  summary  dismissal  that  he  was  a  little  belated 
in  raising  his  hat.  For  a  second  or  two  he  stood  there  watching 
her  gracefully  striding  away.  Then  he  got  into  the  car. 

II. 

She  had  sold  him  a  pup,  as  the  phrase  goes. 

In  five  minutes  he  knew  it. 

Blue   eyes,   golden   hair,    unobtrusive   dress   and    fascinating 


492  THE  SALESWOMAN. 

personality  notwithstanding,  she  had  done  him  down  as  neatly  as 
.  .  .  well,  as  neatly  as  he  might  have  hoped  to  do  her  down  had 
the  position  been  reversed. 

In  spite  of  his  experience,  in  spite  of  all  his  care,  in  spite  of 
his  determination  not  to  allow  her  sex  and  her  charm  to  influence 
him,  he  had  paid  her  at  least  a  hundred  pounds  more  than  her  car 
was  worth  ...  in  cash,  which  there  "could  be  no  getting  back. 

The  gears  were  dreadful.  The  third  speed  was  quite  worn  out 
and  the  second  did  not  engage  properly.  He  blushed  for  shame 
at  the  noise  he  made  when  he  tried  to  change,  and  a  passing  'bus- 
driver  called  out  something  hurtful  and  unkind — something  about 
going  'ome  and  learning  to  drive  a  pram. 

By  slipping  through  them  very  quickly  or,  better,  by  jumping 
from  first  to  top,  the  state  of  the  gears  could  be  camouflaged.  She, 
he  remembered,  had  jumped  from  first  to  top.  But  when  one 
tried  to  change  down,  the  truth  was  revealed  in  all  its  grating 
hideousness. 

'  Fool  that  I  am,  I  thought  she  couldn't  change  gear  properly/ 
he  groaned,  and  cursed  himself  for  not  having  taken  the  cover  off 
the  gear-box. 

But  examining  gears  that  run  in  grease  is  a  very  messy 
operation.  And  he  hadn't  cared  to  get  himself  too  filthy  in  the 
presence  of  that  vision.  He  had  preferred  to  trust  his  ear,  never 
dreaming  that  one  so  daintily  feminine  could  be  clever  enough 
to  ...  er — to  take  advantage  of  him  as  he  would  have  taken 
advantage  of  her. 

For  that  was  what  it  came  to. 

The  morals  of  one  with  a  horse  or  a  car  to  sell  are  something 
apart.  There  is  a  weak  spot  in  most  people's  honesty.  Many  an 
elder  of  the  church  has  jumped  off  a  'bus  rejoicing  because  the 
conductor  has  overlooked  asking  for  his  three  ha'pence.  One 
must  take  the  world  as  one  finds  it.  And  when  it  comes  to  buying 
and  selling  horses  and  cars,  the  only  safe  rule  is  :  believe  nothing, 
take  nothing  for  granted,  and  trust  nobody,  not  even  a  Bishop. 
Why,  I  know  a  man  who  bought  a  second-hand  limousine  from 
the  Bishop  of  ....  but  perhaps  to  say  more  would  be  libel. 

There  were  other  things  wrong  with  that  car.  Once  it  was  in 
his  own  hands  Leslie  spotted  them  all.  But  you  are  spared  the 
details  for  fear  this  story  grows  too  technical. 

The  point  is  that  she  had  done  him,  and  he  saw  how,  in  every 
respect  but  one. 


THE  SALESWOMAN.  493 

There  was  one  thing  that  puzzled  him.  Good  slow  running 
on  top  gear  is  an  impressive  test  of  an  engine's  condition.  She 
had  driven  that  car  at  six  miles  an  hour  on  top.  When  he  tried, 
he  stopped  the  engine.  With  him  the  very  lowest  speed  at  which 
she  was  at  all  happy  on  top  was  fifteen. 

'  How  on  earth  did  she  manage  it  ?  '  he  asked  himself.  And 
gave  the  answer  up. 

You  are  wrong  if  you  picture  him  in  a  rage  against  her.  He 
wasn't.  The  person  he  was  angry  with  was  himself.  He  had 
pitted  his  wits  against  hers,  as  buyer  and  seller  always  do,  and  she 
had  won.  All  he  could  do  was  to  admit  it  and  grin  and  bear  it. 
She  had  allowed  him  to  make  all  the  examination  he  wanted  to  : 
she  had  herself  suggested  that  the  deal  was  off  when  they  failed  at 
the  first  hill.  He  had  only  himself  to  blame. 

'A  mug,  that's  what  I  was/  he  told  himself.  'I  let  her  do 
me — just  because  she  was  a  Woman.' 

He  had  hit  it  at  last.  Had  she  been  a  man  he  would  certainly 
have  looked  inside  the  gear  box,  mess  or  no  mess.  Had  she  been 
a  man  he  would  have  insisted  on  her  trying  that  hill  again  or 
allowing  him  to.  But  as  she  was  a  Girl  he  had  told  himself 
she  couldn't  change  gear :  he  had  put  the  failure  of  the  self- 
starter  down  to  the  ways  of  her  sex  :  and  he  had  paid  her  what 
she  asked  because  he  admired  the  business-like  way  she  stood 
out  for  it. 

Yes,  he  had  been  a  mug,  he  told  himself  again  and  again.  And 
he  deserved  all  he  had  got.  But  he  would  like  to  know  how  she 
had  managed  that  six  miles  an  hour  on  top.  That  was  the  one 
thing  about  the  matter  that  he  could  not  understand. 


III. 

It  cost  him  sixty-two  pounds  eight  and  three  to  have  that 
car  put  in  order — engine  and  self-starter  overhauled,  two  new 
speeds  in  the  gear-box,  new  set  of  accumulators,  etc. 

Then  he  was  fairly  pleased  with  her,  and  asked  a  lady-friend 
to  give  her  a  name,  a  lady-friend  to  whom  he  had  told  all  that 
had  happened. 

She  suggested  '  Florence,'  with  a  knowing  smile. 

So  he  christened  her  Florence,  shortened  to  Florrie  when  for 
some  reason  the  car  chose  to  run  better  than  usual,  as  cars  will. 

He  often    thought  of  the  girl  he  had  bought  her  from,  and 


494  THE  SALESWOMAN. 

longed  to  see  her  again.  At  times  he  even  considered  whether 
he  might  not  boldly  call  at  *  The  Limes  '  and  ask  for  her.  But  he 
didn't  quite  see  how  he  could.  What  excuse  could  he  give  ? 
What  reason  had  he  for  intruding  upon  a  young  lady  whom  he 
had  only  met  once  on  a  strictly  business  occasion  ?  To  reproach 
her  for  having  bested  him  ?  That  wouldn't  be  sporting.  To  tell 
her  how  pleased  he  was  with  his  bargain  now  he  had  spent  sixty- 
two  pounds  eight  and  three  on  it  ?  That  would  be  silly. 

Yet  he  wanted  to  see  her — passionately  he  wanted  to  see  her. 
The  memory  of  that  hour  and  a  half  they  had  spent  together 
seemed  undying  in  his  mind.  Her  face,  her  figure,  the  sound  of 
her  voice,  her  calm,  competent  manner — these  things  haunted 
him.  That  black  and  apricot  drawing-room,  her  smile,  her  refusal 
to  let  him  drive  her  anywhere  when  the  bargain  was  completed  : 
every  detail  of  their  one  and  only  interview  remained  with  him, 
and  the  hope  ever  in  his  mind  was  that  some  day  he  might  meet 
her  again. 

Twice  when  somewhere  near  her  district,  he  drove  out  of  his 
way,  round  by  '  The  Limes  '  on  the  chance  of  seeing  her. 

The  second  time  he  slowed  down  the  car  and  pointed  out  the 
house  to  his  companion. 

'  That's  where  she  lives — the  girl  who  did  me  in  the  eye/  he 
said.  '  Wish  she  would  come  out  .  .  .' 

'  Don't  be  a  chump,'  was  the  companion's  reply.  '  What  would 
be  the  good  of  having  a  row  with  her  now  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  want  to  have  a  row  with  her,'  he  replied,  and  drove  on. 
But  at  last  Fate  was  kind.  In  that  way  she  has — that  way 
that  makes  a  self-respecting  artist  wonder  at  times  what  on  earth 
the  Management  can  be  thinking  about — Fate  arranged  a  meeting 
that  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  an  impossible,  old-fashioned 
coincidence  utterly  unworthy  of  any  modern  writer. 

Miss  Armstrong  herself  held  out  her  hand  as  a  sign  to  him 
to  pull  up  when  he  was  actually  about  to  drive  past  her  and  her 
new  car  in  a  lonely  country  lane. 

'  I  say/  said  the  well-remembered  voice.  '  Could  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  lend  me  a  pump  ?  My  pump  connection  has  just  burst. 
I've  had  a  puncture,  and  my  spare  wheel's  not  been  touched  for 
months,  and  the  tyre's  almost  flat/ 

Leslie  leapt  out,  his  heart  beating  a  little  fast,  his  eyes  excited. 
'  Certainly/     he    said.     '  Glad     to    meet     you    again,     Miss 
Armstrong/ 


THE  SALESWOMAN. 


495 


She  looked  surprised. 

'  Oh,'  she  exclaimed,  as  recollection  dawned.  '  I  thought 
there  was  something  familiar  about  your  car.  It's  my  old  Sunstar. 
You  bought  her  from  me,  didn't  you  ? ' 

It  was  the  car  she  had  recognised  first — not  Leslie.  But  what 
didjhe  care  ?  They  had  met  again  at  last. 

'  Yes,  that's  right,'  he  laughed,  and  began  to  pump  up  her  tyre 
for  her. 

'  I've  been  longing  to  see  you  again/  he  said  breathlessly  when 
the  task  was  done. 

She  smiled — non-committally,  a  shade  stiffly. 

'  There's  something  I  want  to  ask  you,'  Leslie  went  on.  '  It's 
been  on  my  mind  ever  since.  How  did  you  manage  to  make  that 
car  do  six  miles  an  hour  on  top  the  day  you  sold  her  to  me  ?  ' 

A  sunny  smile — the  smile  he  knew  so  well — irradiated  Miss 
Armstrong's  face. 

'  That's  tellings,'  she  purred. 

'  Do  tell  me,'  he  pleaded,  so  earnestly  that  she  felt  it  impossible 
to  refuse. 

'  Very  well.'  The  smile  was  now  a  positive  beam.  '  I  found 
it  out  by  accident.  When  I  first  began  to  drive  I  was  always 
forgetting  to  take  my  hand-brake  off  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  I  see  how  it  was  done  now,'  he  burst  in  excitedly.  '  You 
opened  the  throttle  a  little  and  put  your  foot  on  the  foot-brake. 
That  was  the  trick,  wasn't  it  ? ' 

*  Yes.    You  can  go  as  slow  as  you  like  that  way  with  a  little 
practice.     Of  course,  when  I  was  a  novice  I  used  to  stop  the  engine 
altogether,   but  so  long  as  you  don't  keep  the  brake  on  too 
hard  .  .  .'    The  sentence  tailed  off  in  another  smile. 

'  I'm  so  glad  you've  explained,'  he  cried  gratefully.  *  It's 
worried  me  no  end.  I  nearly  called  at  your  house  to  ask  you  about 
it !  I  say,  may  I  introduce  you  to  my  wife  ?  Mary,  this  is  the 
Miss  Armstrong  I  bought  our  car  from  ! ' 

*  I've  always  wanted  to  meet  the  girl  who  got  the  better  of  my 
husband,'  smiled  Mary  Markham,  offering  her  hand.     '  You  don't 
know  what  a  lot  of  good  you  did  him,  Miss  Armstrong.    He  bought 
the  car  for  our  honeymoon  tour,  and  we  only  got  it  put  in  order 
just  in  time.    But  I'm  bound  to  say  since  it's  been  done  up  it  has 
never  given  us  a  moment's  trouble — has  it,  Leslie  ?  ' 

'  No — she's  not  bad  .  .  .  now,'  he  admitted  cheerfully. 

'  He  asked  me  to  christen  her,  and  I  called  her  Florence,  after 


496  THE  SALESWOMAN. 


you ! '  his  wife  added.  '  I  didn't  want  him  to  forget  you,  you 
see!' 

The  two  women  exchanged  a  look. 

Well,  that's  the  story.  And  as  far  as  I  can  see  the  moral  is  : 
If  you  want  to  buy  anything  from  one  of  those  unsexed  modern 
minxes,  you'd  better  employ  your  maiden  aunt  to  carry  out  the 
negotiations.  But  I'm  not  very  clear  about  it,  because  I'm 
afraid  the  maiden  aunt  would  be  done,  too.  I  have  an  uncomfort- 
able suspicion  that  the  only  thing  to  do  with  them  is  to  let  them 
have  their  own  way  with  us.  After  all,  Man  always  has  been 
done  by  Woman  one  way  or  another — and  it's  waiting  to  find  out 
which  way  it  is  that  makes  life  worth  living. 


497 


LA  PAZ. 
BY  LIEUT.-COL.  C.  P.  HAWKES. 

IN  Teneriffe,  most  fortunate  of  the  Fortunate  Islands,  there  stands 
a  little  town  set  high  a  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  on  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Peak,  whose  lower  slopes,  rolling  up  behind  it  with  the 
gradations  of  Pedro  Gil  and  the  Montana  Blanca  marked  out  in 
bluish  shadows,  swell  upward  past  the  encircling  basin  of  the 
Canadas — smaller  volcanoes  shaped  like  rising  fish  with  gaping 
mouths,  and  grouped  around  the  Peak  as  suns  round  Saturn, 
forming  a  dam  of  rock,  a  protection  to  all  the  valley  from  the 
lava-streams — until  they  culminate  in  the  mighty  pyramid  of  the 
mountain  which  the  Guanches  called  *  The  Psak  of  Hell.' 

The  Summit,  dazzling  in  its  cloak  of  snow  alike  by  moonlight 
and  the  noonday  glare,  in  the  flames  of  sunset  seems  to  be  made 
of  molten  metal ;  casa  de  Oro  the  people  call  it  when  its  snow  is 
turned  to  gold  by  that  celestial  alchemy. 

All  round  are  little  townships — Eealejo  Alto,  with  steep  houses 
piled  up  like  a  mountain  village  in  the  Apennines,  and  separated 
by  a  deep  barranco  from  its  lower  counterpart,  Realejo  Bajo  ; 
Icod  el  Alto,  near  the  brink  of  the  dark  cliffs  of  Tigaia,  the  long 
sweep  of  whose  outline  hides  all  but  the  very  cone  ;  Matanza,  the 
place  of  slaughter,  where  the  Guanches  met  with,  and  massacred, 
their  Spanish  conquerors  ;  and  San  Juan  de  Rambla,  whence  came 
the  best  of  the  Malmsey  wine,  sack  such  as  Francis  drew  for 
Falstaff  and  Prince  Hal  at  the  Boar's  Head  in  Eastcheap. 

Lower  down  are  the  fumaroles,  black  heaps  of  cinders,  upheaving 
rounded  contours  like  the  breasts  of  a  recumbent  giantess.  Villa 
Orotava  is  the  name  of  this  old  Spanish  town,  untouched  by  all 
the  passing  years.  Before  the  conquest  it  was  the  capital  of  the 
Mencey,  the  Guanche  Prince  of  Taoro,  chieftain  of  eight  thousand 
warriors,  who,  after  election  to  his  sovereignty  in  council  of  his 
assembled  peers,  swore  on  the  arm-bone  of  a  former  king  to  lead 
his  people  with  justice  and  with  courage.  Holding  the  bone  aloft, 
he  cried  *  I  swear  it  by  The  Bone,  on  this  day  on  which  you  have 
made  me  great  I '  This  oath  he  took  in  the  council-chamber 
formed  by  the  hollow  trunk  of  the  great  dragon-tree  of  Taoro — 
which  for  six  thousand  years  reared  its  heavy  foliaged  head, 
VOL.  LII. — NO.  310,  N.S.  32 


498  LA  PAZ. 

buttressed  by  countless  naked  roots  descending  from  its  branches — 
in  the  Tagoror,  the  sacred  place  of  assembly  of  the  nation.  Later, 
the  conquering  Spaniard,  most  ruthless  of  evangelists,  said  Mass 
within  this  tabernacle  tree  and  the  Tagoror  became  a  hidalgo's 
stately  garden. 

The  town  has  steep  and  rambling  streets  of  cobbles,  inimical 
to  motors,  but  worn  by  the  hoofs  of  many  generations  of  oxen, 
mules,  and  donkeys.  Old  houses  flank  these  streets — the  homes 
of  ancient  Spanish  families  of  long  descent  and  dignity,  including 
some  of  Irish  lineage,  with  histories  of  Jacobite  ancestors  who  left 
their  country  after  the  Treaty  of  Limerick  sooner  than  bow  to 
William  the  Dutch  usurper.  The  perspective  of  the  streets  is  broken 
by  deep  balconies,  decorated  and  often  frescoed,  with  cunningly- 
wrought  upper  work  and  lattices  of  old  and  beautiful  carving ; 
most  of  the  woodwork  of  a  rich  soft  green,  with  great  green  shutters, 
half -closed  like  drowsy  eyes.  The  houses  have  tiled  roofs  and  old 
stone  doorways,  with  a  deep  fringe  of  shade  from  the  overhanging 
balconies  washed  in  on  the  mellow  plaster  of  the  walls  above  them, 
and  old  iron-studded  doors  of  quaint  design,  with  little  posterns 
hung  on  great  carved  hinges— through  these  one  catches  glimpses 
of  patios  with  cool  tinkling  fountains,  of  splashes  of  rich  coloured 
blossom  with  deep  contrasting  shadows,  and  of  creeper-clad  wooden 
stairways  leading  to  spacious  shady  balconies. 

Everywhere  are  trees  and  flowers  ;  walls  and  woodwork  are 
covered  with  purple  bougainvillea,  with  wisteria,  and  with  the  soft 
grey-green  of  the  plant  called  Pico  de  Paloma.  Red  poinsettias 
bloom  garish  in  the  patios,  with  stocks  and  lavender,  carnations 
and  verbena,  lilac  and  cineraria  ;  and  the  Lena  Noel,  or  convol- 
vulus, growing  down  the  trunks  of  great  umbrageous  trees  ;  and 
arum  lilies  sanctifying  dark  corners  overgrown  with  fern.  Of  spires 
and  domes  of  churches  there  are  many  ;  here  is  the  beautiful 
church  and  convent  of  San  Domingo,  and  not  far  off  the  Iglesia 
de  la  Concepcion,  where  is  still  the  silver  altar  plate  from  Old 
St.  Paul's,  dispersed  by  Cromwell's  Ironsides  when  purging  that 
house  of  God  of  '  baubles.'  Many  little  chapels  there  are,  shrinking 
within  their  covering  of  trees,  cypress  and  myrtle  and  orange. 
On  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi  processions  from  these  churches 
walk  through  the  streets  on  brilliant  carpets  of  flower  petals, 
arranged  in  elaborate  designs  over  the  cobblestones. 

Few  people  move  about  the  streets  :  some  dignified  house- 
holders in  dark  capas  with  their  graceful  folds  ;  some  peasants  in 


LA  PAZ.  499 

mantas,  blanket-cloaks  of  wool.  The  women  glide  along  with  a 
quick  swaying  walk,  wearing  tiny  saucer-shaped  straw  hats  on  which 
are  poised  great  earthen  pots  of  classic  shape  or  heavy  loads. 
Beneath  the  hat  a  black  kerchief  enfolds  the  head,  with  flying 
corners,  or  drawn  closely  like  a  shawl.  In  poorer  houses  the  girls 
sit  at  their  doors  busy  with  the  Calado,  a  rough  drawn-thread  work. 
All  have  black  eyes  and  hair,  with  olive  faces  of  a  finely-chiselled 
gravity,  lighted  up  from  time  to  time  by  a  quick  smile  ;  the  men 
with  a  blue  bristle  on  the  cheeks  and  chin. 

The  type  seems  purely  Spanish,  of  that  fine  never-changing 
Iberian  cast  traceable  in  Spanish  art  through  Velasquez,  Ribera, 
Goya  and  Fortuny  down  to  the  moderns,  Zuloaga  and  de  Zubiaurre, 
and  to  be  seen  in  most  of  the  work  of  our  own  half-Spanish  Philpot. 
Indeed,  Francisco  Jose  de  Goya  y  Lucientes  would  seem  to  have 
designed  the  Orotavans ;  for  at  each  corner  one  meets  figures 
which  might  have  stepped  straight  out  of  the  canvases  of  that 
Madrileno  roisterer  (though  born  at  Fuendetodos),  who  had  the 
very  spirit  of  Spain  in  his  brush  ;  left  once  for  dead  in  the  streets 
of  Madrid  with  a  navaja  between  his  shoulder-blades  ;  pupil  in 
a  cuadrilla  of  Toreadors ;  lover  of  a  Duchess ;  and  first  of  the 
Impressionists,  to  whom  Delacroix,  Manet,  and  Rlgnault  owed 
the  inspiration  of  their  work. 

Here  and  there  one  hears  the  thrum  of  a  guitar,  and  always 
the  gentle  splash  of  running  water  and  the  occasional  clangour  of 
a  church's  bell,  calling  to  the  minds  of  such  as  heed  it  the  sacrifice 
of  Christ.  The  smell  of  the  burning  of  retama  charcoal  and  the 
heavy  scent  of  orange-blossom  pervade  the  atmosphere.  Out  of 
the  town  the  broad  white  carretera  leads  down  the  slope,  fringed 
with  prickly  pear,  agave,  and  cactus,  and  shaded  by  oleanders  and 
eucalyptus  trees,  their  bark  in  rags  and  tatters.  High-banked  lanes 
branch  outward  beneath  feathery  junipers,  leading  to  fincas  or 
banana  plantations.  The  people  say  that  the  banana  came  from 
Guinea,  where  it  had  been  transplanted  from  Eden  after  the  Fall — 
the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  expelled  with  man's  first 
parents,  who,  disobedient,  peeled  and  ate  of  its  fruit.  (One  of  its 
Latin  names,  indeed,  is  Musa  Sapientum.)  A  few  miles  down  the 
road,  with  but  one  turning-off,  one  comes  to  the  little  chapel  of 
Santo  Amaro,  where  is  said  a  yearly  Mass,  and  whence  is  carried 
in  procession  to  the  sea  the  image  of  the  Saint,  with  fireworks 
and  incense,  down  the  long  avenue  of  cypresses.  Close  by  it 
stands  the  outer  gate  of  the  Casa  de  la  Paz. 


500  LA  PAZ. 

The  House  of  Peace :  not  the  peace  of  torpor,  of  inanition,  of 
indolence  bred  of  a  heavy  exotic  listlessness,  fruitful  of  lethargy, 
but  the  peace  of  beauty  and  a  serenity  induced  by  the  calm  effort 
of  the  cycle  of  Nature,  marvellous  metteur-en-sc&ne  in  this  theatre 
of  glorious  colour-effects  ;  enhanced  by  the  work  of  man's  hands 
so  fitting  to  its  environment  as  to  harmonise  in  perfection  with  its 
loveliness.  An  old  Spanish  house,  green-tiled,  with  plastered  walls, 
embowered  in  flowers,  flanked  and  delineated  by  a  proscenium  of 
leafy  trees,  built  on  the  edge  of  noble  and  sheer  precipices,  the  fine 
ruggedness  of  whose  architecture  is  half-softened,  half-emphasised 
by  the  subtle  gradations  of  colour  of  the  strata,  ranging  from 
tawny  yellow  to  the  warm  red  of  a  blood-orange ;  dominated  on 
one  side  by  the  mountain's  exaltation,  and  with  the  background 
of  a  sea  and  sky  of  quivering  blue.  Such  is  the  garden  of  La  Paz, 
the  home  of  peace  and  of  contentment  of  the  soul. 

Two  cypresses  stand  sentinel  on  either  side  of  the  green  doorway 
in  the  old  plastered  wall,  through  which  opens  a  vista  of  a  wide 
pathway  with,  on  one  side,  a  border  of  flaming  scarlet  blossom, 
topping  a  myrtle  hedge,  and  opposite,  a  garden-wall  smothered  in 
flowering  creeper.  The  house  lies  beyond.  A  flight  of  rounded 
steps  leads  from  a  forecourt  to  an  inner  pleasaunce  with  paved 
walks  and  trim  yew  hedges,  the  work  of  a  former  gardener  from 
Portugal,  who  brought  with  him  the  remembrance  of  the  formal 
hedges  of  his  home  by  the  Tagus. 

A  larger  flagged  terrace  is  beyond,  facing  the  Atlantic  down 
the  perspective  of  a  cypress  avenue.  Over  the  door  is  carved 
in  stone  an  ancient  coat-of-arms,  and  graven  on  its  scroll  are 
these  words — '  me  EST  REQUIES  MEA.'  Fitting  inscription  !  for, 
sitting  in  quiet  upon  this  terrace  surrounded  by  a  rosy  loveli- 
ness and  fronted  by  the  sea,  a  peace  descends  upon  the  soul,  divine 
in  its  perfection  as  the  peace  of  God.  The  house  was  built  in  the 
seventeenth  century  by  a  certain  Walsh,  one  of  those  Irish  exiles 
of  whom  mention  has  been  made.  His  arms,  carved  over  the  house 
door,  also  appear  in  the  church  of  N.S.  de  la  Pena  de  Francia  in 
the  Villa.  His  family  intermarried  with  another  exile  clan,  the 
Calogans,  to  one  of  whom,  the  Marquis  de  la  Candia,  La  Paz 
belongs. 

The  garden  viewed  from  the  terrace  is  full  of  blended  colour ; 
long  hedges  of  Bandera  d'Espana  in  Spanish  colours  of  scarlet 
and  yellow,  and  Poyos,  double  walls  with  flowers  of  every  hue 
planted  in  the  space  between  ;  brilliant  orange  bignonias  cover  the 


LA  PAZ. 


501 


pergolas  and  the  wall-tops,  while  in  the  crannies  of  the  cliffs,  from 
the  foot  of  which  sounds  the  eternal  thunder  of  the  Atlantic  rollers, 
the  candelabra-plant  throws  out  its  great  square  leafless  columns 
topped  with  scarlet  flowers. 

On  the  terrace  day  by  day  some  years  ago  there  used  to  sit  a 
piquant  figure.  A  spare  gaunt  man  of  later  middle-age,  with  black 
sombrero  and  the  funereal  clothes  of  a  Spanish  gentleman  of  the 
old  school ;  his  face  a  perfect  oval,  identical  with  that  of  Vandyke's 
Charles  the  First — the  eyes  deep  with  fatalistic  pathos,  the  nose 
straight  and  clean-cut,  a  full  voluptuous  mouth,  pointed  beard, 
and  an  upturned  moustache.  Half  Italian  and  half  Scot,  his  name 
was  Rothesay,  and  he  claimed  to  be  a  descendant  of  the  Young 
Pretender,  who,  in  the  later  stages  of  his  decadence — so  the  story 
ran — had  loved  a  young  girl  of  the  Campagna.  Most  certainly 
his  face  bore  the  Stuart  mark  in  every  lineament,  and  the  belief 
that  he  was  of  the  blood  royal  obsessed  him  to  the  point  of  mono- 
mania. He  lived  in  an  old  house  in  the  Villa  near  the  convent 
of  San  Domingo,  with  a  Spanish  wife — a  resigned-looking  elderly 
woman  whom  he  called  Pilar,  and  an  old  bent  couple  who  looked 
after  them.  In  the  afternoon  of  every  day  he  would  take  his  hat 
and  cane  and  ride  down  to  La  Paz,  where  he  would  hitch  his  horse 
in  the  shade  and  sit  for  hours  upon  the  terrace,  a  white  rose  in  his 
ringers,  gazing  seaward  and  musing  upon  the  tragic  issues  of  his 
House. 

He  had  few  friends  and  neither  paid  nor  received  visits.  No- 
where else  he  went,  save  occasionally  to  La  Laguna  to  consult 
some  learned  work  in  the  library  of  San  Augustin — for  he  was  a 
scholar,  and  had  published  in  Madrid  some  notes  on  Horace  and 
an  edition  of  Catullus.  Further,  he  had  spent  much  time  in  research 
into  the  ethnology  of  the  Guanches  and  the  history  of  the  Spanish 
conquest  of  the  Islands,  and  was  reputed  to  be  one  of  the  few 
living  men  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  the  whistling  language  of 
the  Isle  of  Gomera,  southward  of  TenerifEe,  where  men  can  talk  by 
whistling  over  a  distance  of  four  miles  or  so. 

His  only  social  diversion  was  to  ride  in  the  Corridas  de  Sortiga 
(tilting  at  the  ring)  when  they  took  place  in  the  barranco  Martianez 
or  in  the  grounds  of  the  Taoro  hotel.  There  he  would  ride,  sitting 
erect  in  his  close-fitting  black  clothes  upon  his  long-bodied,  ewe- 
necked  pony,  with  its  gay  saddle-cloth  and  stirrups  hooded  like  a 
picador's,  and  would  spear  the  rings,  and  win  the  embroidered 
ribands  from  whose  ends  they  hung,  with  as  much  success  as  the 


502  LA  PAZ. 

young  caballeros  of  the  Villa  or  the  foreign  bloods  of  the  Grand 
Hotel  and  the  Puerto. 

Pobrecito  !  One  day  he  failed  to  return  from  his  accustomed 
visit  to  La  Paz,  and  was  found,  quite  dead,  still  sitting  on  the 
terrace  there,  his  lifeless  eyes  to  seaward,  and  a  white  rose,  its 
petals  scattered,  dropped  from  his  nerveless  hand.  His  spirit  had 
found  peace.  They  should  have  buried  him  there,  near  the  chapel 
of  Santo  Amaro,  where  masses  could  be  said  for  his  soul,  and  upon 
the  headstone  of  his  resting-place  should  be  engraved  the  words 
old  Walsh  its  builder  had  carved  above  the  threshold  of  La  Paz 
more  than  two  centuries  ago  : 

'  HIO  EST  REQUIES  MEA.' 


503 


THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA. 
\ 

BY  H.  ROWLAND-BROWN. 

THE  genius  of  W.  S.  Gilbert  is  a  thing  apart ;  Ms  place  in  English 
letters  unique.    In  his  art  as  a  librettist  he  has  no  predecessors. 
He  has  had  many  imitators,  but  no  successors.    As  soon  as  he 
found  himself,  he  came  at  once  into  his  own  ;   he  saw,  and  con- 
quered, and  now  after  the  lapse  of  some  forty  years  his  place  in 
popular  esteem  and  in  the  more  eclectic  world  of  letters  is  firmly 
established.    The  recent  revivals  in  London  of  the  earlier  Savoy 
operas,  '  Savoy '  being  a  convenient  if  not  strictly  accurate  term 
to  cover  the  series  from  Trial  by  Jury  to   Utopia  Limited,  have 
stimulated  curiosity  as  to  their  literary  evolution,  especially  in 
regard  to  the  almost  mysterious  transformation  of  Gilbert  from 
a  writer  of  burlesque  after  H.  J.  Byron,  and  a  more  or  less  con- 
ventional  playwright   at  first   strongly   under   the  influence   of 
Robertson,  into  a  librettist  of  extraordinary  skill,  working  on 
purely  original  lines.    The  mental  processes  which  gave  birth  and 
expression  to  his  real  genius — the  satiric  genius  of  Topsy-turvy- 
dom — are  revealed,  however,  in  the  pages  of  a  note-book — sole 
survivor,  it  is  to  be  feared,  of  many — kindly  placed  at  the  dis- 
position of  the  writer.    Gilbert  made  away  with  his  papers  ruth- 
lessly.   He  kept  neither  unfinished  nor  completed  manuscripts. 
The  final  copy  was  usually  bestowed  on  the  prima  donna  or  other 
artist  whose  interpretation  of  his  characters  happened  to  commend 
itself ;    the  rest,  with  all  notes,  were  committed  to  the  flames. 
And,  with  this  one  exception,  he  left  to  our  knowledge  no  literary 
remains  other  than  correspondence  with  friends  and  collaborators. 
The  exception  is  illuminating.    Sandwiched  between  sketches  and 
rough  copies  of  several  successful  comedies  are  a  number  of  '  Ideas  ' 
for  a  projected  play,  or  musical  play  to  be  entitled  Topsy-turvy- 
dom,  which  '  Ideas  '  embody  practically  the  whole  scheme  of  wit 
and  wisdom  afterwards  expounded  in  the  Savoy  operas. 

Gilbert  has  told  me  that  The  Yeomen  of  the  Guard  was  his 
favourite,  and  that  technically  he  considered  it  his  best.  He  also 
said  that  Phoebe's  song, '  Were  I  Thy  Bride/  was  written  to  demon- 
strate that  the  English  language  properly  treated  was  as  tuneful 


504  THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA. 

as  the  then  fashionable  Italian  and  German.  The  suppression  of 
the  sibilant,  here  and  generally,  denotes  the  master  craftsman. 
For  melody,  perhaps,  he  had  an  indifferent  ear  ;  but  he  had  a  domi- 
nant sense  of  rhythm,  and  the  true  artist's  joy  of  bending  his  verses 
to  a  thousand  metres  and  conceits.  Granted  his  serious  lyrics 
are  conceived  in  mockery,  still,  their  appeal  is  to  the  heart,  a 
quality  rare  in  his  work,  which  partakes  far  more  of  the  faery, 
the  freakish,  the  Gay-like  quod  est  absurdum,  or  in  other  words 
the  serious  treatment  and  logical  development  of  ridiculous  premises. 
But  in  our  many  discussions  of  the  subject  I  never  heard  him 
mention  Gay,  whose  Beggar's  Opera,  by  the  way,  was  written  as 
a  skit  on  the  Italian  opera  absurdities  of  his  day,  just  as  Sullivan's 
music  of  the  Savoy  operas  is  often  a  parody — more  beautiful  than 
the  originals — of  the  Italian  composers.  Yet,  I  have  no  doubt 
he  was  familiar  with  Gay's  method,  for  he  was  a  close  student 
of  dramatic  composition,  and  could  recite  from  his  wonderful 
memory  whole  pages  of  long-forgotten  plays,  extravaganzas  and 
burlesques. 

The  fairy  had  developed  early  in  him,  the  perverse  fairy  of  the 
1  Bab  Ballads,'  themselves  the  wellsprings  of  so  many  of  the  operas 
— Gilbert's  own  creation,  Gilbert  himself.  Even  as  long  as  he 
was  under  the  spell  of  Robertson,  writing  plays  in  orthodox  form, 
the  fairy  peeps  out  in  the  words  and  actions  of  his  characters. 
Indeed,  with  some  half  a  dozen  exceptions  in  the  long  line  of  his 
original  plays,  Gilbert  seems  incapable  of  portraying  a  real  woman. 
Mrs.  Van  den  Burgh  in  Charity  is  the  nearest  approach  he  ever 
made  on  his  own  account.  Phoebe  in  The  Yeomen  of  the  Guard, 
Clarice  in  Comedy  and  Tragedy,  have  human  hearts,  and  there  is 
in  the  gallery  of  irresponsible,  impossible  *  Bab '  femininity,  the  un- 
expectedly human  Only  a  Dancing  Girl.  The  rest  are  fairies  pur 
sang,  as  often  as  not,  with  a  strong  dash  of  the  minx  in  them. 

This  peculiar  quality  of  Gilbert's  genius  was  reflected  in  the 
man  himself.  He  was  at  once  the  least  emotional  and  artistically 
the  most  sensitive  of  men.  I  once  asked  him  if  he  had  written 
any  love  poems,  and  if  so  whether  such  poems  were  in  existence. 
Gilbert  assured  me  that  he  never  had,  even  in  his  literary  youth ; 
and  added  with  a  chuckle,  '  Every  line  I  ever  wrote  in  verse  was 
to  order,  and  well  paid  for  at  that ! '  In  nearly  all  his  plays, 
other  than  Broken  Hearts  and  The  Wicked  World,  in  the  whole 
of  the  Savoy  opera  as  defined  above,  the  male  interest  predominates. 
When  at  last  he  went  to  the  other  extreme,  and  in  his  final  opera, 


THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA. 


505 


Fallen  Fairies,  eliminated  the  male  chorus  altogether,  the  experi- 
ment was  a  failure  for  stage  purposes. 

His  fairy  plays  proper  introduced  London  to  an  entirely  new 
form  of  dramatic  entertainment,  and  it  says  much  for  the  taste 
of  the  'seventies  that  both  The  Wicked  World — forty  years  later 
to  reappear  in  lyric  form  as  Fallen  Fairies — and  Broken  Hearts 
were  successful  as  well  from  the  financial  as  from  the  artistic  point 
of  view.  Incidentally,  they  show  that  Gilbert  was  as  facile  a 
writer  of  blank  as  of  lyric  verse.  He  is  at  his  best  in  this  respect 
in  Pygmalion  and  Galatea,  a  play  developed  on  a  classic  theme, 
it  is  true,  but  justly  claimed  by  him  as  original.  For  Gilbert 
held,  Shakespeare-like,  that  inspiration  drawn  from  history,  or 
the  creatures  of  others'  imagining,  is  no  bar  to  the  claim  of  origin- 
ality ;  that  a  play  is  none  the  less  entitled  to  be  regarded  as  original 
if  based  on  the  ideas  of  classic  or  even  modern  authors.  He  writes 
in  one  of  his  prefaces  : 

'  The  Story  upon  which  The  Palace  of  Truth  is  founded  is  prob- 
ably as  old  as  the  Arabian  Nights.  The  Princess  (mother  so  to 
speak  of  the  opera,  Princess  Ida)  is  a  respectful  parody  (later 
described  as  a  perversion)  of  Mr.  Tennyson's  exquisite  poem. 

'  It  has  been  generally  held,  I  believe,  that  if  a  dramatist  uses 
the  mere  outline  of  an  existing  story  for  dramatic  purposes  he  is 
at  liberty  to  describe  his  play  as  "  original." 

Gilbert  was  a  great  admirer  of  Dickens.  He  once  told  me 
that  he  never  went  away  from  home  without  one  or  other  of  the 
novels,  and  that  being  a  poor  sleeper  he  had  the  whole  of  them 
within  hand-reach  of  his  bed.  Probably,  not  a  little  of  the  clever 
fooling  of  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  owes  its  inception  to  Mr. 
Wopsle  and  his  transpontine  interpretation  of  Hamlet — ever  a 
favourite  butt  of  Gilbert's  wit,  and  more  elaborately  pursued  in 
The  Mountebanks.  He  had  himself  dramatised  Great  Expectations, 
but  according  to  his  own  judgment  '  with  no  success  worth  men- 
tioning.' He  tells  an  amusing  story,  however,  of  the  ways  of  the 
censorship  at  the  date  of  its  production.  The  custom  of  the  then 
Licenser  of  Plays  was  to  delete  irreverent  words  and  insert  in- 
offensive substitutes.  From  the  line  addressed  to  Pip  by  the 
returned  convict,  '  Here  you  are,  in  chambers  fit  for  a  Lord,'  the 
word  '  Lord '  was  struck  out,  and  '  Heaven,'  in  pencil,  put  in  its 
place  ! 

Again,  in  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Mr.  Stryver's  self-examination 


506  THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA. 

of  himself  before  an  imaginary  Court  on  the  subject  of  his  offer 
of  marriage  to  Lucie  Manette  foreshadows  unmistakably  the 
remarkable  performance  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  in  lolanthe,  who 
wishes  to  wed  Phyllis,  his  ward  in  Chancery  : 

'  Argued  with  the  jury  on  substantial  worldly  grounds — the 
only  grounds  ever  worth  taking  into  account — it  was  a  plain  case, 
and  had  not  a  weak  spot  in  it.  He  called  himself  for  the  plaintiff, 
there  was  no  getting  over  his  evidence,  the  counsel  for  the  defend- 
ant threw  up  his  brief,  and  the  jury  did  not  even  turn  to  consider. 
After  trying  it,  Stryver,  C.J.,  was  satisfied  that  no  plainer  case 
could  be.' 

The  Lord  Chancellor  had  failed  to  convince  himself  in  the  first 
instance : 

'  I  deeply  grieve  to  say  that  in  declining  to  entertain  my  last 
application,  I  presumed  to  address  myself  in  terms  which  render 
it  impossible  for  me  ever  to  apply  to  myself  again.  It  was  a  most 
painful  scene — my  Lord — most  painful ! ' 

but  presently,  encouraged  by  the  rival  peers  for  the  hand  of  this 
'  dainty  rogue  in  porcelain,'  he  returns  with  the  joyful  news  : 

'  Victory !  Victory !  Success  has  crowned  my  efforts,  and 
I  may  consider  myself  engaged  to  Phyllis.  .  .  .  Eventually,  after 
a  severe  struggle  with  myself  I  reluctantly,  most  reluctantly, 
consented '  to  the  application. 

It  may  be  a  literary  coincidence ;  if  so,  the  coincidence  is 
sufficiently  striking.  But  Gilbert,  where  such  ideas  were  not  abso- 
lutely spontaneous,  and  original  in  a  stricter  sense  than  he  himself 
acknowledged,  usually  derived  the  motives  of  the  libretti  from  his 
own  earlier  works.  The  Mikado  indisputably  sprang  Minerva- 
like  armed  cap-d-pie  from  his  brain  ;  no  suggestion  of  a  '  pre- 
Gilbertian,'  much  less  of  a  foreign,  progenitor  is  to  be  found  in  its 
sparkling  lines.  In  the  other  Savoy  operas  there  is  generally  some- 
thing of  an  echo  of  the  *  Bab  Ballads, '  or  possibly  of  those  farcical 
comedies  contemporaneous  with  the  older  productions  of  the  series. 
Engaged  is  pure  farce  and  fun.  Cheviot  Hill  of  the  many  fiancees, 
and  Belvawney  (a  Dickens  name),  his  friend  and  rival,  are  surely 
prototypes  of  the  greater  Bunthorne  and  Grosvenor  of  Patience. 

'  Suppose — I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  say  I  will  do  it — but  suppose 
for  one  moment  I  were  to  curse  you  ?  (Grosvenor  quails.)  Ah  ! 
Very  well,  take  care.' 


THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA.  507 

sounds  very  like  the  threat  of  Cheviot  Hill  when  he  demands 
of  Maggie  Macfarlane  the  whereabouts  of  her  mercenary  lover 
Angus. 

'  CHEVIOT.     Give  me  his  address  that  I  may  go  and  curse  him.' 
MAGGIE.     (Kneels  to  Hill)  .  .  .  Oh,  sir,  kind  sir,  have  mercy 
on  him,  and  do  not — do  not  curse  him,  or  I  shall  die.' 

and  Maggie  is  but  a  Lowland  Ellen  McJones  Aberdeen.  So 
Grosvenor  kneels  to  Bunthorne  to  avert  *  a  nephew's  curse,'  and 
Belinda  Treherne  is  reincarnated  in  Phyllis  of  lolanthe,  Patience 
herself,  and  half  a  dozen  other  Gilbertian  misses  : 

'  Miss  T.  I  am  glad,  sir,  that  you  are  pleased  with  my  modesty. 
It  has  often  been  admired.' 

The  satire  is  all  fun  and  good  fooling.  Sometimes,  it  is  true, 
and  most  notably  in  the  lyrics,  a  shadow  passes  over  the  sunny 
landscape.  Yet  never  so  much  as  a  shower  of  April  rain  follows 
with  the  fleeting  cloud.  The  solemn  funeral  bell  tolls  '  Bim-a- 
boom,'  but  no  one  is  or  will  be  beheaded,  and  the  next  moment 
the  joy  bells  are  ringing,  and —  *  Brightly  dawns  our  wedding  day/ 
'Fairest  days  are  sun  and  shade,'  carol  Angelina's  bridesmaids, 
but  for  the  most  part  it  is  all  sunshine ;  clean,  fresh  wit,  with  nothing 
of  the  suggestiveness  which  too  often  disfigured  the  jejune  libretti 
of  an  earlier  school.  For  this  is  Gilbert's  greatest  achievement 
— that  it  can  be  written  of  his  Muse,  and  written  truly,  as  of  his 
bright  and  beautiful  English  girl : 

'  Her  soul  is  sweet  as  the  ocean  air, 
For  prudery  knows  no  haven  there.' 

And  further,  can  it  be  said  of  any  other  librettist  of  this  or  any  other 
epoch  that  we  read  his  works  in  the  armchair  with  as  much  enjoy- 
ment and  amusement  as  we  listen  to  his  lines  and  lyrics  on  the  stage  ? 
They  are  not '  the  rinsings  of  a  comic  mind,'  in  the  pungent  words 
of  his  criticism  of  a  jealous  rival.  He  was,  indeed,  a  hard  and 
fastidious  worker.  The  libretti  and  dialogue  were  polished  and 
repolished,  and  he  invariably  wrote  more  verses  than  the  opera 
required  that  the  composer  might  exercise  a  choice.  For  he 
realised,  as  so  few  writers  of  verse  appear  to  do,  that  the  lyrics 
suitable  for  music  are  seldom  those  poems  classic  in  form  with 
stanzas  of  uniform  metre.  The  perfect  libretto  demands  variety 


508  THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA. 

of  rhythm  and  metre,  and  he  knew  it.    Like  the  Wandering  Minstrel 
of  The  Mikado  : 

1  My  catalogue  is  long, 

Through  every  passion  ranging, 
And  to  your  humours  changing 
I  tune  my  supple  song  !  ' 

The  '  books  '  were  original  in  every  sense.  The  scheme  of  their 
topsy-turvydom  is  carefully  outlined  in  the  note-book  to  which 
allusion  has  already  been  made.  The  topsy-turvy  '  Ideas ' 
can  be  dated  with  some  accuracy.  They  follow  immediately  a 
complete  unconnected  MS.  of  Charity,  produced  in  1875  ;  but 
Topsy-turvydom,  the  actual  play,  or  opera-to-be  (for  the  Spirit 
of  Parliament  is  down  to  describe  the  kingdom  of  Topsy-turvy- 
dom '  in  patter  song '),  goes  no  further,  alas,  than  the  scenario 
of  Act  I,  Scene  1.  In  the  eight  pages  of  *  Ideas,'  however,  the 
Gilbertian  system  is  revealed,  and  it  is  interesting  to  note  that 
Trial  by  Jury,  which  may  be  said  to  have  inaugurated  the  topsy- 
turvy era,  appeared  in  the  same  year  as  Charity.  The  '  Ideas  ' 
are  too  copious  for  transliteration  in  full,  but  enough  of  them  may 
be  quoted  to  indicate  the  inner  workings  of  Gilbert's  mind  at 
this,  the  transition  period  of  his  art. 

'  Poverty  is  honoured — -wealth  despised.  Ignorance  is  honoured 
— learning  despised. 

'  Children  are  born  learned,  gradually  forget  everything  until, 
as  old  men,  they  are  utterly  ignorant.  Women  are  bold,  men 
bashful.  Vice  is  rewarded.  Virtue  punished.  Judges  administer 
injustice.  Dishonesty  is  rewarded.  Cowards  are  honoured,  brave 
men  elbowed  aside.  Therefore  the  most  ignorant,  the  most  vicious, 
the  most  lazy  man  is  made  Ruler.  Women  hate  their  husbands. 

[a  truly  Gilbertian  inversion] Thieves  are  employed  to 

arrest  honest  men. 

'  How  can  this  idea  be  best  exploited  ?  The  scene  may  be  laid 
in  the  Barbarous  Islands  in  the  Kingdom  of  Topsy-turvydom.' 

The  play  (or  opera)  was  evidently  intended  as  a  gentle  satire 
on  British  self-complacency,  and  British  institutions,  which  later 
found  expression  in  less  incisive  form  in  Utopia  Limited,  or  the 
Flowers  of  Progress.  The  House  of  Commons  was  to  be  singled 
out  for  target  of  Gilbert's  wit,  just  as  in  lolanthe  it  was  to  be  the 
House  of  Lords.  The  central  figure  of  the  play  is  John  Swivel, 
Esq.,  M.P.,  who  has  just  been  returned  for  his  Borough  : 


THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA.  509 

'  He  is  enthusiastic  at  the  good  he  proposes  to  effect.  He  is 
a  member  of  the  most  enlightened  assembly  in  the  world,  a  perfect 
epitome  of  the  opinion  and  wishes  of  the  Nation.' 

In  the  sketch  for  Scene  1,  the  Spirit  of  Parliament  appears  to 
him  in  his  library,  '  is  delighted  to  hear  that  one  member  at  least 
is  actuated  by  independent  motives,'  and,  when  Swivel  protests 
that  his  sole  motive  is  to  benefit  his  Country,  and  asks  how'  that 
may  best  be  done,  the  Spirit  suggests  a  visit  to  the  land  '  where 
everything  is  conducted  on  precisely  opposite  political  and  social 
principles/  Swivel  readily  assents,  and  asks  if  he  may  take  his 
wife  : 

'SPIRIT.  Certainly.  I  should  tell  you  that  in  that  country 
you  will  have  to  walk  on  the  ceiling  with  your  head  towards  the 
floor. 

SWIVEL.     Oh  !— Then  I  don't  think  I'll  take  my  wife.' 

He  asks  for  further  information  about  the  place — '  Spirit,  in  patter 
song,  describes  Topsy-turvy dom.  Scene  changes.  Scene  2. 
Topsy-turvy dom.  Everything  topsy-turvy.'  Here  the  MS.  ends 
abruptly,  and  it  is  necessary  to  revert  to  the  '  Ideas '  to  dis- 
cover what  sort  of  people  the  Topsy-turvyites  might  be — their 
manners  and  customs.  Gilbert  tells  us.  In  a  projected  Court 
scene  : 

1  The  Prime  Minister — a  most  popular  man — -enters  with  top 
and  hoop.  He  is  received  with  hoots  and  groans,  this  being  the 
topsy-turvy  method  of  expressing  applause.  M.P.  enquires  why 
he  is  hooted  in  this  way.  Mentor  explains  that  it  is  because  he 
is  so  popular.  He  was  raised  to  his  present  office  because  he  is 
so  unfit  for  it.  Why  raise  him  to  an  office  for  which  he  is 
obviously  unfitted  ?  Why  ?  because  this  is  topsy-turvydom. 
"  Well,"  says  M.P., "  I  never  heard  anything  like  it  before."  "  No," 
says  Mentor,  "  you  wouldn't  be  likely  to — in  England." 

'  M.P.  must  go  through  certain  adventures  involving  an  en- 
counter with  such  typical  Topsy-turvyites  as  will  best  help  the 
satire.  So  he  gets  involved  in  a  breach  of  promise  action,  having 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  a  pretty  woman,  while  alleged  to  be  engaged 
"  to  another  ugly  one  to  whom  he  takes  a  great  dislike."  The  father 
of  the  ugly  one  (the  Prime  Minister)  says  he  has  noticed  that  M.P. 
has  taken  a  great  dislike  to  his  daughter.  .  .  .  M.P.  admits  it. 
"  You  don't  admire  her  at  all."  M.P.  says,  "  Not  at  all."  "  Then 
I  am  authorised  to  say  that  she  has  taken  just  such  a  detestation 
to  you."  M.P.  is  wholly  indifferent.  "  Then  take  her  and  be 


510  THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA. 

unhappy  !  Eh  !  You  hate  her.  She  hates  you.  Marry  and  be 
wretched.  It  is  the  law  of  the  land.  Never  !  " 

Action  for  breach  follows.  '  M.P.  is  found  to  be  sane,  and  is  sen- 
tenced to  be  detained  during  the  Royal  displeasure.'  M.P.  appeals 
to  Parliament,  and  asks  where  it  is  sitting.  Mentor  replies,  *  Oh, 
all  over  the  place.' 

*  SWIVEL.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

MENTOR.  What  I  say.  Some  are  shooting — some  fishing — 
some  abroad — some  yachting.  You  can  appeal  to  them  if  you 
like. 

SWIVEL.    But  don't  they  ever  meet  ? 

MENTOR.  Well — now  and  then  when  there's  no  more  fishing, 
or  shooting,  or  yachting.  How  can  a  country  require  any  laws 
during  the  fishing,  shooting,  and  yachting  season  ? 

SWIVEL  (turns  round  to  his  Mentor).  I  thought  this  was  Topsy- 
turvydom. Why,  I  don't  see  much  difference  between  this  place 
and  my  own  happy  country.' 

The  idea  is  worked  out  with  some  elaboration  at  the  end  of 
Utopia  Limited,  where  Utopia  has  been  so  effectively  reconstructed 
and  re-modelled  after  English^institutions — so  '  swamped  by  dull 
Prosperity  ' — that  the  islanders  demand  that  the  reformers,  the 
Flowers  of  Progress 

'  Be  sent  about  their  business,  and  affairs 
Restored  to  their  original  complexion.' 

Zara,  the  King's  daughter,  prompted  by  Sir  Bailey  Barre,  declares 
that  the  most  essential  element  of  all — Government  by  Party — 
has  been  forgotten. 

'  No  political  measures  will  endure,  because  one  party  will 
assuredly  undo  all  the  other  party  has  done,  and  while  grouse  is 
to  be  shot,  and  foxes  worried  to  death,  the  legislative  action  of 
the  country  will  be  at  a  standstill.  Then  there  will  be  sickness 
in  plenty,  endless  lawsuits,  crowded  jails,  interminable  confusion 
in  the  Army  and  Navy,  and,  in  short,  general  and  unexampled 
prosperity.' 

Utopia  is  delighted,  and  Gilbert,  who  was  no  politician,  and  once 
refused  to  vote  for  a  candidate  because  his  features  on  the  canvass- 
ing card  did  not  please  him,  certainly  spoke  his  mind  fearlessly, 
though  in  Topsy-turvy dom.  He  himself  could  not  endure  to 
take  life  even  in*sport. 


THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA.  511 

As  a  foil  to  the  ignorant,  childish,  popular  Premier  of  Topsy- 
turvydom : 

'  There  must  be  a  Court  Fool — a  particularly  clever  philosopher 
— whom  all  despise.  He  is  described  as  a  very  melancholy  case. 
He  was  born  without  any  knowledge  at  all,  and  he  has  gone  on 
gradually  improving  himself  until  he  has  become  the  best-informed 
and  most  intellectual  man  in  the  kingdom.' 

When  Swivel  eventually  decides  to  return  home,  the  jester 

'  proposes  to  accompany  him,  for  he  has  been  told  that  learning 
is  highly  honoured  there.  M.P.  tells  him,  on  second  thoughts 
he  don't  know  that  he  will  be  any  better  off  in  England/ 

Space  precludes  further  quotation  ;  but  it  may  be  regretted 
that  the  scheme  was  not  carried  to  its  logical-illogical  conclusion, 
and  the  intended  work  completed.  When  these  *  Ideas  '  were 
evolved  Gilbert  had  yet  to  make  good  his  claim  as  the  librettist 
of  first  rank — a  rank  which  once  attained  he  was  to  maintain 
unchallenged  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  thereafter. 

There  is  hardly  one,  however,  of  the  '  Ideas  '  which  was  not 
destined  to  be  used  and  expanded  in  his  intellectual  kingdom  of 
topsy-turvydom ;  and,  it  may  be,  he  himself  felt  they  were 
better  distributed  over  a  number  of  libretti  than  concentrated  in 
one  brilliant  masterpiece. 

A  discussion  of  the  genesis  of  the  Gilbertian  Idea  would  hardly 
be  complete  without  some  acknowledgment  of  Gilbert's  hereditary 
debt  to  his  father,  William  Gilbert.  It  would  be  pressing  his 
claim  far  to  suggest  that  W.  S.  Gilbert  owed  more  than  the  smallest 
part  of  his  artistic  equipment  to  his  parent.  In  temperament  the 
two  men  had  much  in  common ;  they  often  surveyed  the  literary 
horizon  eye  to  eye.  The  son  could  illustrate  the  father's  work — 
King  George's  Middy,  and  The  Magic  Mirror — with  perfect 
sympathy;  just  as  later  the  father  of  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  em- 
bellished his  son's  word-pictures  of  India  in  a  spirit  wonderfully 
in  accord  with  that  of  '  Kim.'  The  Gilberts  were  both  artists, 
both  of  original  minds  and  of  kindred  sensibility.  But,  whereas 
the  father  followed  more  or  less  the  old  conventional  ways,  the 
son  struck  out  into  paths  of  his  own  finding  and  adventure,  cheered 
though  not  directed  by  the  warm  encouragement  of  the  elder. 

The  times  were  ripe  for  his  satire  of  our  insular  complacency  ; 
the  social  atmosphere  was  congenial  to  his  wit ;  though  at  least 


512  THE  GILBERTIAN  IDEA. 

we  had  some  excuse  for  self-satisfaction  in  the  easy-going  *  seventies ' 
and  early  *  eighties  '  when  '  Britain  really  ruled  the  waves '  with 
a  phantom  fleet,  when  autumn  sessions  were  few  and  far  between, 
and  income-tax  was  2d.  in  the  pound.  The  savage  methods  of 
a  previous  generation  of  ink-slingers  were  out  of  date  ;  the  gods 
appeared  little  inclined  to  make  of  our  pleasant  national  vices 
instruments  to  plague  us.  John  Bull's  blissful  outlook  of  superiority 
offered  Gilbert  just  the  objective  he  required  for  his  gentlemanly 
arrows.  '  His  foe  was  folly,  and  his  weapon  wit.'  He  derided 
pretence,  and  made  enemies  only  of  the  pretentious  who,  to  change 
the  metaphor,  fitted  such  fools-caps  as  he  fashioned  upon  their 
own  precious  heads.  He  presented  society  with  the  picture  of 
a  logical  topsy-turvy  world  in  contrast  to  its  own  illogically 
ordered  system,  and  the  medium  employed  appealed  to  it. 
Like  the  Athenians  of  the  golden  age,  when  an  Aristophanes 
arrives  to  hold  our  foibles  and  follies  up  to  ridicule,  we  are  ready 
to  applaud  and  laugh  with  the  satirist,  though  we  ourselves 
compose  the  material  of  his  satire. 

Gilbert  invented  this  new  medium  for  the  exposition  of  his 
philosophy.  The  world  laughed  at  itself  as  it  laughed  with  him, 
and  will  continue  to  do  so,  as  long  as  the  Savoy  operas  remain  to 
charm  our  ears  and  captivate  our  senses. 


Printed  in  England  at  THE  BALLANTYNK  PKES» 

SPOTTISWOODE,  BALLANTYNE  &  Co.  LTD. 

Colchester,  London  &  Eton 


BOOK  -  NOTES 


TV/fR.  ARTHUR  KEYSER  has 
*•**  lived  a  life  of  exceptionally 
varied  experiences,  and  in  his  book, 
PEOPLE  AND  PLACES,  he  allows  us  to 
share  his  memories.  Beginning 
with  "society"  in  London  in  the 
early  'eighties,  he  takes  us  to 


MR.  Ross's  COMPOUND, 
CHRISTMAS  ISLAND 

Australia,  Fiji,  and  New  Guinea, 
before  settling  down  to  the  serious 
business  of  administration  in  the 
Malay  Peninsula,  Borneo,  and 
Somaliland.  His  sympathy  with 
the  people  among  whom  he  worked 
is  obvious,  and  he  earned  and 
evidently  enjoyed  their  confidence  in 
return.  This  volume  includes  many 
good  stories  of  people  of  all  grades 
from  the  ex-Kaiser  and  great  ladies 
of  a  bygone  generation  to  the  naked 
inhabitants  of  Fiji  and  the  Malay 
Archipelago. 


jT  is  interesting  to  note  that  Mr. 
•1  Solomon  J.  Solomon,  R.A.,  has 
recently  painted  a  portrait  of 
Viscount  Lascelles.  It  will  be  re- 
membered that  he  is  the  author  and 
illustrator  combined  of  STRATEGIC 
CAMOUFLAGE,  in  which  he  applies 
the  principles  of  Art  to  the  science 
of  War. 

T  N  his  latest  work,  HARMONISM  AND 
•*•  CONSCIOUS  EVOLUTION,  Sir 
Charles  Walston  follows  an  original 
line  of  thought.  The  first  part  of 
the  book  is  devoted  to  the  definition 
and  explanation  of  philosophical 
terms  and  a  general  description  of 
aesthetics,  which — using  the  word  in 
its  wider  sense — he  finds  to  be  the 
basis  of  all  human  conception.  He 
proceeds  to  discuss  the  Harmonistic 
Principle,  which  he  avers  should  be 
substituted  for  the  assthetic 
principle,  and  enlists  the  support  of 
Biology,  Physiology,  and  Psychics. 
A  chapter  entitled  the  "Arts  of 
Meaning  "  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting in  the  book,  and  includes 
Sculpture,  Painting,  Lyrical  Poetry, 
Drama,  and  Music. 

THE  CHURCH  IN  MADRAS, 
Vol.  III.— 1835-1860— by  the 
Rev.  Frank  Penny,  completes  the 
story  of  the  East  India  Company's 
affairs  in  the  Presidency  of  Madras, 
by  bringing  it  to  the  period  when  the 
Company  surrendered  its  responsi- 
bilities to  the  Government  of  the 
Queen.  It  has  been  compiled  from 
the  Company's  documents  and  from 
other  public  and  private  records 
which  have  not  been  drawn  upon 

13 


BOOK-NOTES 


before.  The  result  as  published  in 
the  three  volumes  challenges  a 
complete  change  of  opinion  as  to 
the  ecclesiastical  policy  and  action 
of  the  Company. 

A  RETURN  to  pre-war  quality. 
*^  Mr.  Murray's  Blue  Fiction 
Library  will  shortly  include  the 
whole  series  of  Henry  Seton  Merri- 
man's  novels,  together  with  those 
of  Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle,  Mr. 
Horace  A.  Vachell,  Mrs.  Kathleen 
Norris,  Mrs.  Allen  Harker,  Mr. 
Eden  Phillpotts,  and  other  popular 
writers. 

THE  outstanding  feature  of  Mrs. 
Gene  Stratton-Porter's  book, 
FRIENDS  IN  FEATHERS,  is  the  de- 
lightfully intimate  illustrations  of 
bird  life  it  provides.  The  photo- 
graphic studies — no  less  than  130  in 
number — are  character  studies  of 
native  American  birds  in  all  stages 
of  their  lives  from  the  time  they 
emerge  from  the  shell,  until,  fully 
fledged,  they  are  ready  for  migra- 
tion. A  prominent  nature  lover  and 
editor  once  said  to  Mrs.  Porter  : 
'That  is  not  a  woman's  work,"  to 
which  she  retorted,  "A  human 
mother  is  best  prepared  to  under- 
stand and  deal  with  a  bird  mother." 
Perhaps  this  suggests  the  reason  of 
her  wonderful  success. 

T17ITH  the  coming  of  the  motor- 
^*  car  and  cycle  the  charm  and 
seclusion  of  remote  England  has 
nearly  departed,  and,  because  of  the 
many  intruders,  the  old  kindly  hospi- 
tality is  rapidly  vanishing.  In 
writing  MY  MOORLAND  PATIENTS, 
"A  Yorkshire  Doctor"  explains 
that  it  is  in  response  to  the  insistent 
demand  of  friends  that  he  should 
place  on  permanent  record  tales 
he  has  told  them  of  the  moorland 
folk,  with  whose  ways  and  speech 
his  many  years  of  practice  on  the 
Yorkshire  moors  have  made  him  so 
familiar. 
14 


THE    PRIVATE    DIARIES   OF 
THE      EMPRESS      MARIE 
LOUISE  have  a  history  attached  to 
them.        Mrs.      Smyth      Windham, 


THE   EMPRESS   MARIE    LOUISE 

grandmother  of  Lady  Thompson — 
the  owner  of  these  diaries — became 
acquainted  in  1836  with  a  Swiss 
governess,  from  whom  she  pur- 
chased these  memoirs.  All  the 
governess  knew  of  their  history  was 
that  her  brother,  Monsieur  Miiller, 
was  tutor  to  one  of  the  Empress's 
pages-in-waiting  when  she  escaped 
from  the  Tuileries.  He  picked  up 
the  Diaries  from  the  floor,  and  gave 
them  to  his  tutor  some  time  after- 
wards. Their  publication  will  throw 
a  new  light  on  the  observant 
character  of  Marie  Louise,  and  the 
diary  of  her  honeymoon  to  the  low 
countries  is  full  of  amusing 
incidents. 

A  THIRD  EDITION  of  Sir 
^^  Sidney  Lee's  expanded  LIFE 
OF  SHAKESPEARE,  first  published  in 
1915,  is  to  appear  shortly.  Sir 
Sidney  has  brought  his  text  up  to 
date,  and  contributes  a  new  preface 
in  which  he  describes  recent  phases 
of  Shakespeare's  vogue  and  ex- 
amines the  results  of  the  latest 
researches. 


BOOK-NOTES 


Hp  HE  scene  of  DORMANT  FIRES, 
•*•  by  Gertrude  Atherto-n,  is  set 
for  the  most  part  in  the  San 
Francisco  of  the  'sixties.  The 
heroine,  Madeleine,  is  a  flower  of 
the  proudest  and  most  refined 
American  aristocracy ;  but  when 
curbed  and  somewhat  crushed  by 
the  very  restricted  atmosphere  of 
her  home  life,  she  meets  an  artist 
in  letters  and  love  comes,  she  fol- 
lows the  great  impulse  to  the  depths. 
The  theme  is  well  suited  to  Mrs. 
Atherton,  who  works  it  to  the  happy 
ending  with  a  delicacy  and  charm 
of  outstanding  quality. 

T^ROM  the  pen  of  another  American 
A  author,  Miss  Ellen  Glasgow,  we 
are  to  get  a  new  novel,  ONE  MAN 
IN  His  TIME.  The  scene  of  this 
love  story  is,  however,  3,000  miles 
nearer  home.  It  is  in  Virginia, 
where  lies  the  real  seat  of  the  proud 
American  aristocracy.  In  her  own 
charming  manner  Miss  Glasgow 
shows  that  the  War  and  the  thing 
called  Progress  have  penetrated 
even  into  this  old-world  State,  and 
so  we  see  the  characters  swayed 
alternately  by  the  blustering  forces 
recently  let  loose  and  the  courtly 
influence  which  made  the  old  times 
fragrant. 

WHEN  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman's 
novel,  THE  GREAT  HOUSE, 
was  first  published  after  a  silence  of 
nearly  twelve  years,  a  reviewer  in 
the  Daily  Mail  said  :  "  I  really  think 
it  is  the  best  of  his  many  good 
stories.  ...  It  is  rare  for  a  writer 
to  give  up  writing,  and  then  to  pro- 
duce a  work  so  fresh  and  vigorous." 
A  cheaper  edition  of  this  fine  novel 
of  the  fight  over  the  Corn  Laws  is 
to  be  published  by  Mr.  Murray 
shortly. 

TTLSTER'S   STAND   FOR  THE 

UNION,     by     Mr.      Ronald 

McNeill,   M.P.,  is  a  history  of  the 

political     struggle     against     Home 


Rule,  led  by  Sir  Edward  Carson  in 
Ulster,  from  the  passing  of  the 
Parliament  Act  to  the  opening  of 
the  first  Ulster  Parliament  by  the 


SIR  EDWARD  CARSON 

King  in  1921.  The  book  discloses 
secrets  that  should  cause  surprise 
in  some  quarters. 

A  FURTHER  REPRINT  has 
been  called  for  of  the  late  Sir 
Arthur  Wollaston's  COMPLETE 
ENGLISH-PERSIAN  DICTIONARY.  Sir 
Arthur  spent  many  years  in  research 
and  in  collecting  from  newspapers 
and  modern  works  as  many  terms 
as  within  reasonable  time  might  be 
possible  ;  and  enjoyed  the  assistance 
in  his  work  of  Mirza  Baker,  a  native 
translator  of  great  knowledge.  The 
work  is  an  established  monument  to 
a  man  whose  passing  is  mourned 
by  many  friends. 

T  N  addition  to  the  customary  in- 
*  stalment  of  OVINGTON'S  BANK,  by 
Stanley  J.  Weyman,  THE  CORNHILL 
for  May  will  contain  an  article  on 
HISTORY  AND  FICTION,  being  the 
Sidgwick  Lecture  delivered  at 
Cambridge,  by  G.  M.  Trevelyan, 
showing  both  why  certain  historical 
novelists  succeed  or  fail,  and 

15 


BOOK-NOTES 


how  fiction  can  make  the  past 
live,  but  does  not  make  the 
facts  live,  which  is  the  task  of 
history.  At  the  same  time  the 
creative  imagination  in  literature 
provides  all  the  colour  and  variety 
of  life  which,  neglected  by  the  older 
historians  such  as  Gibbon,  provide 
a  new  sphere  for  modern  historians. 

In  MRS.  GAMP  AND  THE  KING'S 
ENGLISH  Prof.  Ernest  Weekley,  by 
means  of  amusing  and  instructive 
parallels,  illustrates  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Gamp's  favourite  idioms  and 
pronunciations  were  current  in  the 
everyday  language  of  high-bred 
ladies  early  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  sustains  the  paradox 
that  "standard  English"  rather 
than  dialect  is  "corrupt  English." 

JOEY  JOANNE  is  the  true  story  of 
a  pet  swallow  which  fell  from  its 
nest  and  was  brought  up  by  hand. 
It  was  entirely  tame  and  fearless, 
and,  when  set  free,  used  to  return 
at  nights  to  its  human  friends,  until 
it  departed  with  its  migrating  fel- 
lows. Next  year  it  did  not  return ; 
only  report  came  of  a  swallow 
having  shown  great  tameness 
during  migration.  Can  it  be  that 
its  friendliness  with  man  betrayed 
it  to  its  undoing? 

Sir  Ian  Malcolm,  K.C.B.,  con- 
tributes another  of  his  PARIS 
CAUSERIES,  reflecting  for  English 
eyes  the  lights  and  shades  of  social 
life  in  the  French  capital,  from  a 
story  of  M.  Briand  to  the  tardy 
satisfaction  of  Voltaire's  wish  that 
France  should  honour  Moliere  as 
England  honoured  Shakespeare. 


principle.  Among  the  articles  will  be 
a  review  of  the  recent  LIFE  OF  LORD 
RIPON,  with  some  personal  reminis- 
cences added  by  Viscount  Esher; 
critical  appreciations  of  the  careers 
and  personalities  of  the  late 
Marquess  of  Salisbury  and  Viscount 
Bryce;  the  question  of  Egypt,  the 
problems  of  Modern  Industry  and 
of  Agriculture,  separately  dealt 
with ;  the  Navy  at  the  time  of 
Napoleon  and  during  the  recent 
War;  the  Letters  of  Byron  as  re- 
vealed in  Mr.  Murray's  recent 
edition — these  and  other  interests  are 
authoritatively  treated  in  a  Review 
which  at  once  is  able  to  speak  with 
the  authority  of  a  hundred  years, 
and  yet  is  alert  to  the  causes,  con- 
ditions, movements,  aspirations,  of 
these  hurrying,  wonderful  times. 

A  THIRD  EDITION  of  THE 
ROMANCE  OF  NAMES,  by  Pro- 
fessor Ernest  Weekley,  M.A.,  is 
shortly  to  appear  from  the  House 
of  Murray.  In  this  work  the 
author  applies  the  methods  of 
modern  philological  research  to  the 
curious  and  often  romantic  history 
of  surnames.  That  things  are  not 
always  what  they  seem  is  shown  by 
the  fact  that  Best  is  for  "beast" 
and  Black  sometimes  means 
"white."  Hundreds  of  names  will 
be  found  to  be  derived  from 
obsolete  callings  or  from  words 
familiar  to  Chaucer,  but  now  either 
quite  dead  or  struggling  feebly  in 
rural  dialects. 


*~pHE    purpose    of    the    Quarterly 
•*•       Review    is    to    study    present 
events  in  the  light  of  recorded  ex- 
perience;     and,     therefore,     in     its 
pages     the     past,     the     interesting 
present  and   the  hopeful  future  are 
to  be  met  in  due  relation.     The  April 
number  will  be  found  to  fulfil  this 
16 


These  books  are  published  by  MR. 
MURRAY,  and  may  be  obtained  from 
any  bookseller.  Mr.  Murray  will 
be  glad  to  send  his  QUARTERLY  LIST 
OF  NEW  BOOKS  to  any  reader  of  THE 
CORNHILL  MAGAZINE  on  request 
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The     Life    and     Works    of 
CHARLOTTE  BRONTE 

and   her  Sisters 

EMILY     AND     ANNE      BRONTE 
HAWORTH    EDITION. 

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THE  PROFESSOR.  By  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE,  and 
POEMS,  by  CHARLOTTE,  EMILY,  AND  ANNE  BRONTE, 
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THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE.  By  MRS. 
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18 


THE  WORKS  OF 

GEORGE  BORROW. 

DEFINITIVE  EDITION. 

With  Photogravure  and  other  Illustrations  by  A.WALLIS  MILLS, 
PERCY  WADHAM,  F.  C.  KITTON,  and  A.  S.  HARTRICK.  Large 
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THE  BIBLE  IN  SPAIN ; 

OR  THE  JOURNEYS,  ADVENTURES  AND  IM- 
PRISONMENTS OF  AN  ENGLISHMAN  IN  AN 
ATTEMPT  TO  CIRCULATE  THE  SCRIPTURES  IN 
THE  PENINSULA-  With  the  Notes  and  Glossary  of 
ULICK  BURKE. 

THE  GYPSIES  OF  SPAIN 

THEIR  MANNERS,  CUSTOMS,  RELIGION,  AND 
LANGUAGE. 

LAVENGRO : 

THE  SCHOLAR,  THE  GYPSY,  THE  PRIEST.  Con- 
taining the  unaltered  Text  of  the  original  issue ;  some 
Suppressed  Episodes  printed  only  in  the  Editions  issued  by 
Mr.  Murray ;  MS.  Variorum,  Vocabulary,  and  Notes  by 
Professor  W.  I.  KNAPP. 

ROMANY  RYE, 

A  SEQUEL  TO  "LAVENGRO."  Collated  and  Revised  in 
the  same  manner  as  "  Lavengro."  By  Professor  W.  I.  KNAPP. 

WILD  WALES : 

ITS  PEOPLE,  LANGUAGE,  AND  SCENERY. 

ROMANO  LAVO  LIL : 

THE  WORD  BOOK  OF  THE  ROMANY  OR  ENGLISH 
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them,  and  of  various  things  relating  to  Gypsy  Life  in  England. 


THE  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  BORROW. 

By  HERBERT  JENKINS.  Compiled  from  Unpublished  Official 
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19 


WORKS  BY  SIR  A.  D.  HALL 


FERTILISERS  AND  MANURES 

"The  teaching  in  this  book  is  very  clear,  the  amount  of  information 
contained  in  it  is  very  great.  It  is  a  work  that  should  appeal  both  to  the 
farmer  in  search  of  information  on  some  particular  point  of  practice  and  to 
the  student  who  is  making  a  serious  detailed  study  of  the  effect  of  manures 
on  plant  development." — Farm  and  Home.  8s.  net. 

THE  SOIL 

AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  SCIENTIFIC  STUDY  OF  THE 
GROWTH  OF  CROPS.  "  Sir  A.  D.  Hall  is  the  leading  British  authority 
upon  chemical,  physical,  and  biological  considerations  involved  in  the 
scientific  study  of  the  soils.  His  book  is  accepted  as  the  standard  work 
upon  the  characters  and  properties  of  soils,  with  particular  reference  to 
plant  growth.  As  a  text-book  or  a  convenient  work  of  reference,  the 
volume  stands  alone." — School  World.  Third  Revised  Edition.  8s.  net. 

THE  FEEDING  OF  CROPS  AND  STOCK 

AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  SCIENCE  OF  THE  NUTRITION 
OF  PLANTS  AND  ANIMALS.  "The  products  of  Sir  A.  D.  Hall's 
knowledge  and  experience  are  always  welcome  in  the.manuals  which  come 
from  his  facile  pen,  but  that  now  under  notice  is  especially  so,  as  it  is 
complementary  to  his  works  on  soils  and  manures  which  have  previously 
appeared."—  Agricultural  Economist.  Fourth  Impression.  7s.  6d.  net. 

A    PILGRIMAGE    OF    BRITISH     FARMING, 
1910-1912 

"  A  new  and  marvellously  accurate  and  illuminating  account  of  agriculture. 
It  must  be  one  of  the  most  valuable  books  in  the  library  of  English  agri- 
cultural literature." — Daily  Chronicle.  Second  Impression.  7s.  6d.  net. 

AGRICULTURE  AFTER  THE  WAR 

"  Sir  A.  D.  Hall  is  one  of  the  highest  living  authorities  on  what  is  still, 
and  must  always  remain,  the  pivotal  industry  of  these  islands." — Morning 
Post.  Second  Impression.  5s.  net. 

THE  BOOK   OF  THE  ROTHAMSTED 
EXPERIMENTS 

By  SIR  A.  D.  HALL.  Second  Edition  Revised  by  E.  J.  RUSSELL. 
Issued  with  the  authority  of  the  Lawes  Agricultural  Trust  Committee. 
"  It  is  not  possible  in  a  brief  survey  to  give  a  just  idea  of  the  mass  of 
valuable  material  contained  in  this  most  fascinating  book.  It  should  be 
studied  in  detail  by  all  those  who  own  and  work  land." — Spectator. 

12s.  net. 

JOHN     MURRAY,    Albemarle     Street,     LONDON,     W.  1 

20 


jl    bath    with 

LIFEBUOY  SOAP 

is  a  protection 
against  the  many 
germ-laden  things 
one  comes  into 
contact  with  daily. 
Everyone  shou 
use  Lifebuoy. 


Bodily  health — skin   comfort — 

crowded  areas- — demand  the  use  of 
Lifebuoy  Soap.  Its  healthy  and 
antiseptic  odour  proclaims  its  worth. 

A  thought  given  to  the  functions  of  the 
skin  or  to  the  chances  and  dangers  of  infec- 
tion will  prompt  one  to  use  an  antiseptic 
soap  in  preference  to  other  kinds.  A  trial 
of  Lifebuoy  will  ensure  that  one  becomes 
a  regular  user.  Lifebuoy  Soap  confers 
additional  benefits  at  no  further  cost. 


Lifebuoy  Soap  is  brimful  of  health. 
Wash  face  and  hands  with  it — 
Bathe  with  it— Shampoo  with  it. 


MORE  THAN  SOAP-YET  COSTS  NO  MORE. 


L  179  -  » 


*Ghe  name  LEVER  on 
Soap  is  a  Guarantee  of 
'Purity  and  Excellence. 

LEVER    BROTHERS    LIMITED.    PORT    SUNLIGHT. 


For  Dyspeptics 


Made  from  pure  milk  and  whole  wheat, 
both  of  which  are  predigested  during 
manufacture,  the  preparation  is  both  light 
and  nourishing  and  is  retained  and  digested 
with  ease  even  in  the  most  intractable 

gastric  cases. 

A  DOCTOR'S  TESTIMONY. 
"  /  may  sa\>  that  I  tried  with  very  great  success 
your  Diet  on  an  intractable  gastric  and  intestinal 
case.  I  oerily  believe  it  Was  the  means  of  saving  the 
mans  life  for  he  could  digest  nothing  until  I  gave 
him  your  Diet  which  speedily  brought  him  round 
and  enabled  him  to  tide  over  a  very  critical  period, 

M.B. 


THREE  DAYS 
SUPPL/ST 


To  readers  of  this  paper 
we  offer  a  three  days' 
supply  of  the  Diet  free 
of  charge.  Send  post- 
card  to  address  below. 


Your  Chemist  stocks  it. 
MADE  IN  A  MOMENT.       ADD  BOILING  WATER  ONLY. 


Sole  Manufacturers  — 


Allen  &  Hanburys  Ltd.,  37  Lombard  St.,  E.C.3. 


Spottiswoode,  Battantyne  &  Co.  Ltd.,  Printert,  Colchester,  London,  and  Eton.