THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

MAY, 1860.




CONTENTS.


                                                                      PAGE

    FRAMLEY PARSONAGE                                                  513
      CHAPTER XIII.—_Delicate Hints._
         ”     XIV.—_Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock._
         ”      XV.—_Lady Lufton’s Ambassador._

    CAMPAIGNING IN CHINA                                               537

    LITTLE SCHOLARS                                                    549

    THE CARVER’S LESSON                                                560

    WILLIAM HOGARTH: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. Essays
        on the Man, the Work, and the Time                             561
      _IV.—The Painter’s Progress._

    WRITTEN IN THE DEEPDENE ALBUM. By WASHINGTON IRVING.               582

    LOVEL THE WIDOWER. (With an Illustration.)                         583
      CHAPTER V.—_In which I am Stung by a Serpent._

    STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE                                             598
      CHAPTER V.—_Talking in beetles—Identity of Egyptian
      animals with those now existing: does this prove
      fixity of species?—Examination of the celebrated
      argument of species not having altered in four
      thousand years—Impossibility of distinguishing
      species from varieties—The affinities of animals—New
      facts proving the fertility of Hybrids—The hare and
      the rabbit contrasted—Doubts respecting the development
      hypothesis—On hypothesis in Natural History—Pliny, and
      his notion on the formation of pearls—Are pearls owing
      to a disease of the oyster?—Formation of the shell;
      origin of pearls—How the Chinese manufacture pearls._

    PATERFAMILIAS TO THE EDITOR OF THE “CORNHILL MAGAZINE”             608

    THE OUTCAST MOTHER. By E. J. BRONTË                                616

    THE PORTENT. (With an Illustration.)                               617
      _I.—Its Legend._

    ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.—NO. 3                                           631
      _On Ribbons._

                                 LONDON:
                   SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.

          _LEIPZIG, B. TAUCHNITE. NEW YORK: WILLMER AND ROGERS.
                        MELBOURNE: G. ROBERTSON._




THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE.


CONTENTS of No. 1.

JANUARY, 1860.

    FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Chaps. 1, 2 and 3.
    THE CHINESE AND THE “OUTER BARBARIANS.”
    LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Chapter 1. (With an Illustration.)
    STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. Chapter 1.
    FATHER PROUT’S INAUGURATIVE ODE TO THE AUTHOR OF “VANITY FAIR.”
    OUR VOLUNTEERS.
    A MAN OF LETTERS OF THE LAST GENERATION.
    THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN FRANKLIN (from the Private Journal of an
      Officer of the _Fox_). (With an Illustration and Map.)
    THE FIRST MORNING OF 1860.
    ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.—NO. 1. _On a Lazy Idle Boy._


CONTENTS of No. 2.

FEBRUARY, 1860.

    NIL NISI BONUM.
    INVASION PANICS.
    TO GOLDENHAIR (FROM HORACE). By THOMAS HOOD.
    FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Chaps. 4, 5 and 6.
    TITHONUS. By ALFRED TENNYSON.
    WILLIAM HOGARTH: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. Essays on the Man,
      the Work, and the Time.—_I. Little Boy Hogarth._
    UNSPOKEN DIALOGUE. By R. MONCKTON MILNES. (With an Illustration.)
    STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. Chapter 2.
    CURIOUS IF TRUE. (Extract from a Letter from Richard Whittingham, Esq.)
    LIFE AMONG THE LIGHTHOUSES.
    LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Chapter 2. (With an Illustration.)
    AN ESSAY WITHOUT END.


CONTENTS of No. 3.

MARCH, 1860.

    A FEW WORDS ON JUNIUS AND MACAULAY.
    WILLIAM HOGARTH: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. Essays on the Man,
      the Work, and the Time.—_II. Mr. Gamble’s Apprentice._ (With an
      Illustration.)
    MABEL.
    STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. Chapter 3.
    FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Chapters 7, 8 and 9.
    SIR JOSHUA AND HOLBEIN.
    A CHANGELING.
    LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Chapter 3. (With an Illustration.)
    THE NATIONAL GALLERY DIFFICULTY SOLVED.
    A WINTER WEDDING-PARTY IN THE WILDS.
    STUDENT LIFE IN SCOTLAND.
    ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.—NO. 2. _On Two Children in Black._


CONTENTS of No. 4.

APRIL, 1860.

    LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Chapter 4. (With an Illustration.)
    COLOUR BLINDNESS.
    SPRING. By THOMAS HOOD.
    INSIDE CANTON.
    WILLIAM HOGARTH: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. Essays on the Man,
      the Work, and the Time.—_III. A Long Ladder, and Hard to Climb._
    STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. Chapter 4.
    STRANGERS YET! By R. MONCKTON MILNES.
    FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Chapters 10, 11, and 12. (With an Illustration.)
    IDEAL HOUSES.
    DANTE.
    THE LAST SKETCH—EMMA (a fragment of a Story by the late Charlotte
      Brontë.)
    UNDER CHLOROFORM.
    THE HOW AND WHY OF LONG SHOTS AND STRAIGHT SHOTS.


NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.

⁂ _Communications for the Editor should be addressed to the care of
Messrs. SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, Cornhill, and not to the Editor’s
private residence. The Editor cannot be responsible for the return of
rejected contributions._




THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

MAY, 1860.




Framley Parsonage.


CHAPTER XIII.

DELICATE HINTS.

Lady Lufton had been greatly rejoiced at that good deed which her son did
in giving up his Leicestershire hunting, and coming to reside for the
winter at Framley. It was proper, and becoming, and comfortable in the
extreme. An English nobleman ought to hunt in the county where he himself
owns the fields over which he rides; he ought to receive the respect and
honour due to him from his own tenants; he ought to sleep under a roof of
his own, and he ought also—so Lady Lufton thought—to fall in love with a
young embryo bride of his own mother’s choosing.

And then it was so pleasant to have him there in the house. Lady Lufton
was not a woman who allowed her life to be what people in common parlance
call dull. She had too many duties, and thought too much of them, to
allow of her suffering from tedium and _ennui_. But nevertheless the
house was more joyous to her when he was there. There was a reason for
some little gaiety, which would never have been attracted thither by
herself, but which, nevertheless, she did enjoy when it was brought about
by his presence. She was younger and brighter when he was there, thinking
more of the future and less of the past. She could look at him, and that
alone was happiness to her. And then he was pleasant-mannered with her;
joking with her on her little old-world prejudices in a tone that was
musical to her ear as coming from him; smiling on her, reminding her of
those smiles which she had loved so dearly when as yet he was all her
own, lying there in his little bed beside her chair. He was kind and
gracious to her, behaving like a good son, at any rate while he was there
in her presence. When we add, to this, her fears that he might not be so
perfect in his conduct when absent, we may well imagine that Lady Lufton
was pleased to have him there at Framley Court.

She had hardly said a word to him as to that five thousand pounds. Many
a night, as she lay thinking on her pillow, she said to herself that no
money had ever been better expended, since it had brought him back to his
own house. He had thanked her for it in his own open way, declaring that
he would pay it back to her during the coming year, and comforting her
heart by his rejoicing that the property had not been sold.

“I don’t like the idea of parting with an acre of it,” he had said.

“Of course not, Ludovic. Never let the estate decrease in your hands. It
is only by such resolutions as that that English noblemen and English
gentlemen can preserve their country. I cannot bear to see property
changing hands.”

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing to have land in the market sometimes,
so that the millionnaires may know what to do with their money.”

“God forbid that yours should be there!” And the widow made a little
mental prayer that her son’s acres might be protected from the
millionnaires and other Philistines.

“Why, yes: I don’t exactly want to see a Jew tailor investing his
earnings at Lufton,” said the lord.

“Heaven forbid!” said the widow.

All this, as I have said, was very nice. It was manifest to her ladyship,
from his lordship’s way of talking, that no vital injury had as yet been
done: he had no cares on his mind, and spoke freely about the property:
but nevertheless there were clouds even now, at this period of bliss,
which somewhat obscured the brilliancy of Lady Lufton’s sky. Why was
Ludovic so slow in that affair of Griselda Grantly? why so often in these
latter winter days did he saunter over to the Parsonage? And then that
terrible visit to Gatherum Castle!

What actually did happen at Gatherum Castle, she never knew. We, however,
are more intrusive, less delicate in our inquiries, and we can say. He
had a very bad day’s sport with the West Barsetshire. The county is
altogether short of foxes, and some one who understands the matter must
take that point up before they can do any good. And after that he had had
rather a dull dinner with the duke. Sowerby had been there, and in the
evening he and Sowerby had played billiards. Sowerby had won a pound or
two, and that had been the extent of the damage done.

But those saunterings over to the Parsonage might be more dangerous. Not
that it ever occurred to Lady Lufton as possible that her son should
fall in love with Lucy Robarts. Lucy’s personal attractions were not
of a nature to give ground for such a fear as that. But he might turn
the girl’s head with his chatter; she might be fool enough to fancy
any folly; and, moreover, people would talk. Why should he go to the
Parsonage now more frequently than he had ever done before Lucy came
there?

And then her ladyship, in reference to the same trouble, hardly knew
how to manage her invitations to the Parsonage. These hitherto had been
very frequent, and she had been in the habit of thinking that they could
hardly be too much so; but now she was almost afraid to continue the
custom. She could not ask the parson and his wife without Lucy; and when
Lucy was there, her son would pass the greater part of the evening in
talking to her, or playing chess with her. Now this did disturb Lady
Lufton not a little.

And then Lucy took it all so quietly. On her first arrival at Framley she
had been so shy, so silent, and so much awe-struck by the grandeur of
Framley Court, that Lady Lufton had sympathized with her and encouraged
her. She had endeavoured to moderate the blaze of her own splendour, in
order that Lucy’s unaccustomed eyes might not be dazzled. But all this
was changed now. Lucy could listen to the young lord’s voice by the hour
together—without being dazzled in the least.

Under these circumstances two things occurred to her. She would speak
either to her son or to Fanny Robarts, and by a little diplomacy have
this evil remedied. And then she had to determine on which step she would
take.

“Nothing could be more reasonable than Ludovic.” So at least she said to
herself over and over again. But then Ludovic understood nothing about
such matters; and he had, moreover, a habit, inherited from his father,
of taking the bit between his teeth whenever he suspected interference.
Drive him gently without pulling his mouth about, and you might take
him anywhere, almost at any pace; but a smart touch, let it be ever so
slight, would bring him on his haunches, and then it might be a question
whether you could get him another mile that day. So that on the whole
Lady Lufton thought that the other plan would be the best. I have no
doubt that Lady Lufton was right.

She got Fanny up into her own den one afternoon, and seated her
discreetly in an easy arm-chair, making her guest take off her bonnet,
and showing by various signs that the visit was regarded as one of great
moment.

“Fanny,” she said, “I want to speak to you about something that is
important and necessary to mention, and yet it is a very delicate affair
to speak of.” Fanny opened her eyes, and said that she hoped that nothing
was wrong.

“No, my dear, I think nothing is wrong: I hope so, and I think I may say
I’m sure of it; but then it’s always well to be on one’s guard.”

“Yes, it is,” said Fanny, who knew that something unpleasant was
coming—something as to which she might probably be called upon to differ
from her ladyship. Mrs. Robarts’ own fears, however, were running
entirely in the direction of her husband;—and, indeed, Lady Lufton had a
word or two to say on that subject also, only not exactly now. A hunting
parson was not at all to her taste; but that matter might be allowed to
remain in abeyance for a few days.

“Now, Fanny, you know that we have all liked your sister-in-law, Lucy,
very much.” And then Mrs. Robarts’ mind was immediately opened, and she
knew the rest as well as though it had all been spoken. “I need hardly
tell you that, for I am sure we have shown it.”

“You have, indeed, as you always do.”

“And you must not think that I am going to complain,” continued Lady
Lufton.

“I hope there is nothing to complain of,” said Fanny, speaking by no
means in a defiant tone, but humbly as it were, and deprecating her
ladyship’s wrath. Fanny had gained one signal victory over Lady Lufton,
and on that account, with a prudence equal to her generosity, felt that
she could afford to be submissive. It might, perhaps, not be long before
she would be equally anxious to conquer again.

“Well, no; I don’t think there is,” said Lady Lufton. “Nothing to
complain of; but a little chat between you and me may, perhaps, set
matters right, which, otherwise, might become troublesome.”

“Is it about Lucy?”

“Yes, my dear—about Lucy. She is a very nice, good girl, and a credit to
her father——”

“And a great comfort to us,” said Fanny.

“I am sure she is: she must be a very pleasant companion to you, and
so useful about the children; but——” And then Lady Lufton paused for a
moment; for she, eloquent and discreet as she always was, felt herself
rather at a loss for words to express her exact meaning.

“I don’t know what I should do without her,” said Fanny, speaking with
the object of assisting her ladyship in her embarrassment.

“But the truth is this: she and Lord Lufton are getting into the way of
being too much together—of talking to each other too exclusively. I am
sure you must have noticed it, Fanny. It is not that I suspect any evil.
I don’t think that I am suspicious by nature.”

“Oh! no,” said Fanny.

“But they will each of them get wrong ideas about the other, and about
themselves. Lucy will, perhaps, think that Ludovic means more than he
does, and Ludovic will——” But it was not quite so easy to say what
Ludovic might do or think; but Lady Lufton went on:

“I am sure that you understand me, Fanny, with your excellent sense and
tact. Lucy is clever, and amusing, and all that; and Ludovic, like all
young men, is perhaps ignorant that his attentions may be taken to mean
more than he intends——”

“You don’t think that Lucy is in love with him?”

“Oh dear, no—nothing of the kind. If I thought it had come to that, I
should recommend that she should be sent away altogether. I am sure she
is not so foolish as that.”

“I don’t think there is anything in it at all, Lady Lufton.”

“I don’t think there is, my dear, and therefore I would not for worlds
make any suggestion about it to Lord Lufton. I would not let him suppose
that I suspected Lucy of being so imprudent. But still, it may be well
that you should just say a word to her. A little management now and then,
in such matters, is so useful.”

“But what shall I say to her?”

“Just explain to her that any young lady who talks so much to the same
young gentleman will certainly be observed—that people will accuse her of
setting her cap at Lord Lufton. Not that I suspect her—I give her credit
for too much proper feeling: I know her education has been good, and her
principles are upright. But people will talk of her. You must understand
that, Fanny, as well as I do.”

Fanny could not help meditating whether proper feeling, education,
and upright principles did forbid Lucy Robarts to fall in love with
Lord Lufton; but her doubts on this subject, if she held any, were not
communicated to her ladyship. It had never entered into her mind that a
match was possible between Lord Lufton and Lucy Robarts, nor had she the
slightest wish to encourage it now that the idea was suggested to her.
On such a matter she could sympathize with Lady Lufton, though she did
not completely agree with her as to the expediency of any interference.
Nevertheless, she at once offered to speak to Lucy.

“I don’t think that Lucy has any idea in her head upon the subject,” said
Mrs. Robarts.

“I dare say not—I don’t suppose she has. But young ladies sometimes allow
themselves to fall in love, and then to think themselves very ill-used,
just because they have had no idea in their head.”

“I will put her on her guard if you wish it, Lady Lufton.”

“Exactly, my dear; that is just it. Put her on her guard—that is all that
is necessary. She is a dear, good, clever girl, and it would be very sad
if anything were to interrupt our comfortable way of getting on with her.”

Mrs. Robarts knew to a nicety the exact meaning of this threat. If Lucy
would persist in securing to herself so much of Lord Lufton’s time
and attention, her visits to Framley Court must become less frequent.
Lady Lufton would do much, very much, indeed, for her friends at the
Parsonage; but not even for them could she permit her son’s prospects in
life to be endangered.

There was nothing more said between them, and Mrs. Robarts got up to take
her leave, having promised to speak to Lucy.

“You manage everything so perfectly,” said Lady Lufton, as she pressed
Mrs. Robarts’ hand, “that I am quite at ease now that I find you will
agree with me.” Mrs. Robarts did not exactly agree with her ladyship, but
she hardly thought it worth her while to say so.

Mrs. Robarts immediately started off on her walk to her own home, and
when she had got out of the grounds into the road, where it makes a turn
towards the Parsonage, nearly opposite to Podgens’ shop, she saw Lord
Lufton on horseback, and Lucy standing beside him. It was already nearly
five o’clock, and it was getting dusk, but as she approached, or rather
as she came suddenly within sight of them, she could see that they were
in close conversation. Lord Lufton’s face was towards her, and his horse
was standing still; he was leaning over towards his companion, and the
whip, which he held in his right hand, hung almost over her arm and
down her back, as though his hand had touched and perhaps rested on her
shoulder. She was standing by his side, looking up into his face, with
one gloved hand resting on the horse’s neck. Mrs. Robarts, as she saw
them, could not but own that there might be cause for Lady Lufton’s fears.

But then Lucy’s manner, as Mrs. Roberts approached, was calculated to
dissipate any such fears, and to prove that there was no ground for
them. She did not move from her position, or allow her hand to drop, or
show that she was in any way either confused or conscious. She stood her
ground, and when her sister-in-law came up, was smiling and at her ease.

“Lord Lufton wants me to learn to ride,” said she.

“To learn to ride!” said Fanny, not knowing what answer to make to such a
proposition.

“Yes,” said he. “This horse would carry her beautifully: he is as quiet
as a lamb, and I made Gregory go out with him yesterday with a sheet
hanging over him like a lady’s habit, and the man got up into a lady’s
saddle.”

“I think Gregory would make a better hand of it than Lucy.”

“The horse cantered with him as though he had carried a lady all his
life, and his mouth is like velvet—indeed, that is his fault, he is too
soft-mouthed.”

“I suppose that’s the same sort of thing as a man being soft-hearted,”
said Lucy.

“Exactly: you ought to ride them both with a very light hand. They are
difficult cattle to manage, but very pleasant when you know how to do it.”

“But you see I don’t know how to do it,” said Lucy.

“As regards the horse, you will learn in two days, and I do hope you will
try. Don’t you think it will be an excellent thing for her, Mrs. Robarts?”

“Lucy has got no habit,” said Mrs. Robarts, making use of the excuse
common on all such occasions.

“There is one of Justinia’s in the house, I know. She always leaves one
here, in order that she may be able to ride when she comes.”

“She would not think of taking such a liberty with Lady Meredith’s
things,” said Fanny, almost frightened at the proposal.

“Of course it is out of the question, Fanny,” said Lucy, now speaking
rather seriously. “In the first place, I would not take Lord Lufton’s
horse; in the second place, I would not take Lady Meredith’s habit; in
the third place, I should be a great deal too much frightened; and,
lastly, it is quite out of the question for a great many other very good
reasons.”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Lufton.

“A great deal of nonsense,” said Lucy, laughing, “but all of it of Lord
Lufton’s talking. But we are getting cold—are we not, Fanny?—so we will
wish you good-night.” And then the two ladies shook hands with him, and
walked on towards the Parsonage.

That which astonished Mrs. Robarts the most in all this was the perfectly
collected manner in which Lucy spoke and conducted herself. This
connected, as she could not but connect it, with the air of chagrin with
which Lord Lufton received Lucy’s decision, made it manifest to Mrs.
Robarts that Lord Lufton was annoyed because Lucy would not consent to
learn to ride; whereas she, Lucy herself, had given her refusal in a firm
and decided tone, as though resolved that nothing more should be said
about it.

They walked on in silence for a minute or two, till they reached the
Parsonage gate, and then Lucy said, laughing, “Can’t you fancy me sitting
on that great big horse? I wonder what Lady Lufton would say if she saw
me there, and his lordship giving me my first lesson?”

“I don’t think she would like it,” said Fanny.

“I’m sure she would not. But I will not try her temper in that respect.
Sometimes I fancy that she does not even like seeing Lord Lufton talking
to me.”

“She does not like it, Lucy, when she sees him flirting with you.”

This Mrs. Robarts said rather gravely, whereas Lucy had been speaking
in a half-bantering tone. As soon as even the word flirting was out of
Fanny’s mouth, she was conscious that she had been guilty of an injustice
in using it. She had wished to say something which would convey to her
sister-in-law an idea of what Lady Lufton would dislike; but in doing so,
she had unintentionally brought against her an accusation.

“Flirting, Fanny!” said Lucy, standing still in the path, and looking up
into her companion’s face with all her eyes. “Do you mean to say that I
have been flirting with Lord Lufton?”

“I did not say that.”

“Or that I have allowed him to flirt with me?”

“I did not mean to shock you, Lucy.”

“What did you mean, Fanny?”

“Why, just this: that Lady Lufton would not be pleased if he paid you
marked attentions, and if you received them;—just like that affair of the
riding; it was better to decline it.”

“Of course, I declined it; of course I never dreamt of accepting such
an offer. Go riding about the country on his horses! What have I done,
Fanny, that you should suppose such a thing?”

“You have done nothing, dearest.”

“Then why did you speak as you did just now?”

“Because I wished to put you on your guard. You know, Lucy, that I do
not intend to find fault with you; but you may be sure, as a rule,
that intimate friendships between young gentlemen and young ladies are
dangerous things.”

They then walked up to the hall-door in silence. When they had reached
it, Lucy stood in the doorway instead of entering it, and said, “Fanny,
let us take another turn together, if you are not tired.”

“No, I’m not tired.”

“It will be better that I should understand you at once,”—and then they
again moved away from the house. “Tell me truly now, do you think that
Lord Lufton and I have been flirting?”

“I do think that he is a little inclined to flirt with you.”

“And Lady Lufton has been asking you to lecture me about it?”

Poor Mrs. Robarts hardly knew what to say. She thought well of all
the persons concerned, and was very anxious to behave well by all of
them;—was particularly anxious to create no ill feeling, and wished that
everybody should be comfortable, and on good terms with everybody else.
But yet the truth was forced out of her when this question was asked so
suddenly.

“Not to lecture you, Lucy,” she said at last.

“Well, to preach to me, or to talk to me, or to give me a lesson; to say
something that shall drive me to put my back up against Lord Lufton?”

“To caution you, dearest. Had you heard what she said, you would hardly
have felt angry with Lady Lufton.”

“Well, to caution me. It is such a pleasant thing for a girl to be
cautioned against falling in love with a gentleman, especially when the
gentleman is very rich, and a lord, and all that sort of thing!”

“Nobody for a moment attributes anything wrong to you, Lucy.”

“Anything wrong—no. I don’t know whether it would be anything wrong,
even if I were to fall in love with him. I wonder whether they cautioned
Griselda Grantly when she was here? I suppose when young lords go about,
all the girls are cautioned as a matter of course. Why do they not label
him ‘dangerous?’” And then again they were silent for a moment, as Mrs.
Robarts did not feel that she had anything further to say on the matter.

“‘Poison’ should be the word with any one so fatal as Lord Lufton; and
he ought to be made up of some particular colour, for fear he should be
swallowed in mistake.”

“You will be safe, you see,” said Fanny, laughing, “as you have been
specially cautioned as to this individual bottle.”

“Ah! but what’s the use of that after I have had so many doses? It is
no good telling me about it now, when the mischief is done,—after I
have been taking it for I don’t know how long. Dear! dear! dear! and I
regarded it as a mere commonplace powder, good for the complexion. I
wonder whether it’s too late, or whether there’s any antidote?”

Mrs. Robarts did not always quite understand her sister-in-law, and now
she was a little at a loss. “I don’t think there’s much harm done yet on
either side,” she said, cheerily.

“Ah! you don’t know, Fanny. But I do think that if I die—as I shall—I
feel I shall;—and if so, I do think it ought to go very hard with Lady
Lufton. Why didn’t she label him ‘dangerous’ in time?” and then they went
into the house and up to their own rooms.

It was difficult for any one to understand Lucy’s state of mind at
present, and it can hardly be said that she understood it herself. She
felt that she had received a severe blow in having been thus made the
subject of remark with reference to Lord Lufton. She knew that her
pleasant evenings at Lufton Court were now over, and that she could not
again talk to him in an unrestrained tone and without embarrassment. She
had felt the air of the whole place to be very cold before her intimacy
with him, and now it must be cold again. Two homes had been open to
her, Framley Court and the Parsonage; and now, as far as comfort was
concerned, she must confine herself to the latter. She could not again be
comfortable in Lady Lufton’s drawing-room.

But then she could not help asking herself whether Lady Lufton was not
right. She had had courage enough, and presence of mind, to joke about
the matter when her sister-in-law spoke to her, and yet she was quite
aware that it was no joking matter. Lord Lufton had not absolutely
made love to her, but he had latterly spoken to her in a manner which
she knew was not compatible with that ordinary comfortable masculine
friendship with the idea of which she had once satisfied herself. Was not
Fanny right when she said that intimate friendships of that nature were
dangerous things?

Yes, Lucy, very dangerous. Lucy, before she went to bed that night, had
owned to herself that they were so; and lying there with sleepless eyes
and a moist pillow, she was driven to confess that the label would in
truth be now too late, that the caution had come to her after the poison
had been swallowed. Was there any antidote? That was all that was left
for her to consider. But, nevertheless, on the following morning she
could appear quite at her ease. And when Mark had left the house after
breakfast, she could still joke with Fanny as to Lady Lufton’s poison
cupboard.


CHAPTER XIV.

MR. CRAWLEY OF HOGGLESTOCK.

And then there was that other trouble in Lady Lufton’s mind, the sins,
namely, of her selected parson. She had selected him, and she was by no
means inclined to give him up, even though his sins against parsondom
were grievous. Indeed she was a woman not prone to give up anything, and
of all things not prone to give up a _protégé_. The very fact that she
herself had selected him was the strongest argument in his favour.

But his sins against parsondom were becoming very grievous in her eyes,
and she was at a loss to know what steps to take. She hardly, dared to
take him to task, him himself. Were she to do so, and should he then tell
her to mind her own business—as he probably might do, though not in those
words—there would be a schism in the parish; and almost anything would
be better than that. The whole work of her life would be upset, all the
outlets of her energy would be impeded if not absolutely closed, if a
state of things were to come to pass in which she and the parson of her
parish should not be on good terms.

But what was to be done? Early in the winter he had gone to Chaldicotes
and to Gatherum Castle, consorting with gamblers, whigs, atheists, men of
loose pleasure, and Proudieites. That she had condoned; and now he was
turning out a hunting parson on her hands. It was all very well for Fanny
to say that he merely looked at the hounds as he rode about his parish.
Fanny might be deceived. Being his wife, it might be her duty not to see
her husband’s iniquities. But Lady Lufton could not be deceived. She knew
very well in what part of the county Cobbold’s Ashes lay. It was not in
Framley parish, nor in the next parish to it. It was half-way across to
Chaldicotes—in the western division; and she had heard of that run in
which two horses had been killed, and in which parson Robarts had won
such immortal glory among West Barsetshire sportsmen. It was not easy to
keep Lady Lufton in the dark as to matters occurring in her own county.

All these things she knew, but as yet had not noticed, grieving over
them in her own heart the more on that account. Spoken grief relieves
itself; and when one can give counsel, one always hopes at least that
that counsel will be effective. To her son she had said, more than once,
that it was a pity that Mr. Robarts should follow the hounds.—“The world
has agreed that it is unbecoming in a clergyman,” she would urge, in her
deprecatory tone. But her son would by no means give her any comfort.
“He doesn’t hunt, you know—not as I do,” he would say. “And if he did,
I really don’t see the harm of it. A man must have some amusement, even
if he be an archbishop.” “He has amusement at home,” Lady Lufton would
answer. “What does his wife do—and his sister?” This allusion to Lucy,
however, was very soon dropped.

Lord Lufton would in no wise help her. He would not even passively
discourage the vicar, or refrain from offering to give him a seat in
going to the meets. Mark and Lord Lufton had been boys together, and
his lordship knew that Mark in his heart would enjoy a brush across the
country quite as well as he himself; and then what was the harm of it?

Lady Lufton’s best aid had been in Mark’s own conscience. He had taken
himself to task more than once, and had promised himself that he would
not become a sporting parson. Indeed, where would be his hopes of
ulterior promotion, if he allowed himself to degenerate so far as that?
It had been his intention, in reviewing what he considered to be the
necessary proprieties of clerical life, in laying out his own future
mode of living, to assume no peculiar sacerdotal strictness; he would
not be known as a denouncer of dancing or of card-tables, of theatres
or of novel-reading; he would take the world around him as he found
it, endeavouring by precept and practice to lend a hand to the gradual
amelioration which Christianity is producing; but he would attempt no
sudden or majestic reforms. Cake and ale would still be popular, and
ginger be hot in the mouth, let him preach ever so—let him be never so
solemn a hermit; but a bright face, a true trusting heart, a strong arm,
and an humble mind, might do much in teaching those around him that men
may be gay and yet not profligate, that women may be devout and yet not
dead to the world.

Such had been his ideas as to his own future life; and though many will
think that as a clergyman he should have gone about his work with more
serious devotion of thought, nevertheless there was some wisdom in
them;—some folly also, undoubtedly, as appeared by the troubles into
which they led him.

“I will not affect to think that to be bad,” said he to himself, “which
in my heart of hearts does not seem to be bad.” And thus he resolved that
he might live without contamination among hunting squires. And then,
being a man only too prone by nature to do as others did around him,
he found by degrees that that could hardly be wrong for him which he
admitted to be right for others.

But still his conscience upbraided him, and he declared to himself more
than once that after this year he would hunt no more. And then his own
Fanny would look at him on his return home on those days in a manner that
cut him to the heart. She would say nothing to him. She never inquired in
a sneering tone, and with angry eyes, whether he had enjoyed his day’s
sport; but when he spoke of it, she could not answer him with enthusiasm;
and in other matters which concerned him she was always enthusiastic.

After a while, too, he made matters worse, for about the end of March he
did another very foolish thing. He almost consented to buy an expensive
horse from Sowerby—an animal which he by no means wanted, and which,
if once possessed, would certainly lead him into further trouble. A
gentleman, when he has a good horse in his stable, does not like to leave
him there eating his head off. If he be a gig-horse, the owner of him
will be keen to drive a gig; if a hunter, the happy possessor will wish
to be with a pack of hounds.

“Mark,” said Sowerby to him one day, when they were out together, “this
brute of mine is so fresh, I can hardly ride him; you are young and
strong; change with me for an hour or so.” And then they did change,
and the horse on which Robarts found himself mounted went away with him
beautifully.

“He’s a splendid animal,” said Mark, when they again met.

“Yes, for a man of your weight. He’s thrown away upon me;—too much of a
horse for my purposes. I don’t get along now quite as well as I used to
do. He is a nice sort of hunter; just rising six, you know.”

How it came to pass that the price of the splendid animal was mentioned
between them, I need not describe with exactness. But it did come to pass
that Mr. Sowerby told the parson that the horse should be his for 130_l._

“And I really wish you’d take him,” said Sowerby. “It would be the means
of partially relieving my mind of a great weight.”

Mark looked up into his friend’s face with an air of surprise, for he did
not at the moment understand how this should be the case.

“I am afraid, you know, that you will have to put your hand into your
pocket sooner or later about that accursed bill—” Mark shrank as the
profane word struck his ears—“and I should be glad to think that you had
got something in hand in the way of value.”

“Do you mean that I shall have to pay the whole sum of 500_l._?”

“Oh! dear, no; nothing of the kind. But something I dare say you will
have to pay: if you like to take Dandy for a hundred and thirty, you can
be prepared for that amount when Tozer comes to you. The horse is dog
cheap, and you will have a long day for your money.”

Mark at first declared, in a quiet, determined tone, that he did not want
the horse; but it afterwards appeared to him that if it were so fated
that he must pay a portion of Mr. Sowerby’s debts, he might as well repay
himself to any extent within his power. It would be as well perhaps that
he should take the horse and sell him. It did not occur to him that by so
doing he would put it in Mr. Sowerby’s power to say that some valuable
consideration had passed between them with reference to this bill, and
that he would be aiding that gentleman in preparing an inextricable
confusion of money-matters between them. Mr. Sowerby well knew the value
of this. It would enable him to make a plausible story, as he had done in
that other case of Lord Lufton.

“Are you going to have Dandy?” Sowerby said to him again.

“I can’t say that I will just at present,” said the parson. “What should
I want of him now the season’s over?”

“Exactly, my dear fellow; and what do I want of him now the season’s
over? If it were the beginning of October instead of the end of March,
Dandy would be up at two hundred and thirty instead of one: in six
months’ time that horse will be worth anything you like to ask for him.
Look at his bone.”

The vicar did look at his bones, examining the brute in a very knowing
and unclerical manner. He lifted the animal’s four feet, one after
another, handling the frogs, and measuring with his eye the proportion of
the parts; he passed his hand up and down the legs, spanning the bones
of the lower joint; he peered into his eyes, took into consideration the
width of his chest, the dip of his back, the form of his ribs, the curve
of his haunches, and his capabilities for breathing when pressed by work.
And then he stood away a little, eyeing him from the side, and taking in
a general idea of the form and make of the whole. “He seems to stand over
a little,” I think, said the parson.

“It’s the lie of the ground. Move him about, Bob. There now, let him
stand there.”

“He’s not perfect,” said Mark. “I don’t quite like his heels; but no
doubt he’s a nicish cut of a horse.”

“I rather think he is. If he were perfect, as you say, he would not be
going into your stables for a hundred and thirty. Do you ever remember to
have seen a perfect horse?”

“Your mare Mrs. Gamp was as nearly perfect as possible.”

“Even Mrs. Gamp had her faults. In the first place she was a bad feeder.
But one certainly doesn’t often come across anything much better than
Mrs. Gamp.” And thus the matter was talked over between them with much
stable conversation, all of which tended to make Sowerby more and more
oblivious of his friend’s sacred profession, and perhaps to make the
vicar himself too frequently oblivious of it also. But no: he was not
oblivious of it. He was even mindful of it; but mindful of it in such a
manner that his thoughts on the subject were nowadays always painful.

There is a parish called Hogglestock lying away quite in the northern
extremity of the eastern division of the county—lying also on the borders
of the western division. I almost fear that it will become necessary,
before this history be completed, to provide a map of Barsetshire for
the due explanation of all these localities. Framley is also in the
northern portion of the county, but just to the south of the grand
trunk line of railway from which the branch to Barchester strikes off
at a point some thirty miles nearer to London. The station for Framley
Court is Silverbridge, which is, however, in the western division of the
county. Hogglestock is to the north of the railway, the line of which,
however, runs through a portion of the parish, and it adjoins Framley,
though the churches are as much as seven miles apart. Barsetshire taken
altogether is a pleasant green tree-becrowded county, with large bosky
hedges, pretty damp deep lanes, and roads with broad grass margins
running along them. Such is the general nature of the county; but just
up in its northern extremity this nature alters. There it is bleak and
ugly, with low artificial hedges and without wood; not uncultivated, as
it is all portioned out into new-looking large fields, bearing turnips
and wheat and mangel, all in due course of agricultural rotation; but it
has none of the special beauties of English cultivation. There is not
a gentleman’s house in the parish of Hogglestock besides that of the
clergyman; and this, though it is certainly the house of a gentleman,
can hardly be said to be fit to be so. It is ugly, and straight, and
small. There is a garden attached to the house, half in front of it and
half behind; but this garden, like the rest of the parish, is by no
means ornamental, though sufficiently useful. It produces cabbages, but
no trees: potatoes of, I believe, an excellent description, but hardly
any flowers, and nothing worthy of the name of a shrub. Indeed the whole
parish of Hogglestock should have been in the adjoining county, which is
by no means so attractive as Barsetshire;—a fact well known to those few
of my readers who are well acquainted with their own country.

Mr. Crawley, whose name has been mentioned in these pages, was the
incumbent of Hogglestock. On what principle the remuneration of our
parish clergymen was settled when the original settlement was made,
no deepest, keenest lover of middle-aged ecclesiastical black-letter
learning can, I take it, now say. That the priests were to be paid
from tithes of the parish produce, out of which tithes certain other
good things were to be bought and paid for, such as church repairs and
education, of so much the most of us have an inkling. That a rector,
being a big sort of parson, owned the tithes of his parish in full,—or at
any rate that part of them intended for the clergyman,—and that a vicar
was somebody’s deputy, and therefore entitled only to little tithes,
as being a little body: of so much we that are simple in such matters
have a general idea. But one cannot conceive that even in this way any
approximation could have been made, even in those old mediæval days,
towards a fair proportioning of the pay to the work. At any rate, it is
clear enough that there is no such approximation now.

And what a screech would there not be among the clergy of the Church,
even in these reforming days, if any over-bold reformer were to suggest
that such an approximation should be attempted? Let those who know
clergymen, and like them, and have lived with them, only fancy it!
Clergymen to be paid, not according to the temporalities of any living
which they may have acquired either by merit or favour, but in accordance
with the work to be done! O Doddington! and O Stanhope, think of this, if
an idea so sacrilegious can find entrance into your warm ecclesiastical
bosoms! Ecclesiastical work to be bought and paid for according to its
quantity and quality!

But, nevertheless, one may prophesy that we Englishmen must come to
this, disagreeable as the idea undoubtedly is. Most pleasant-minded
churchmen feel, I think, on this subject pretty much in the same way.
Our present arrangement of parochial incomes is beloved as being
time-honoured, gentlemanlike, English, and picturesque. We would fain
adhere to it closely as long as we can, but we know that we do so
by the force of our prejudices, and not by that of our judgment. A
time-honoured, gentlemanlike, English, picturesque arrangement is so far
very delightful. But are there not other attributes very desirable—nay,
absolutely necessary—in respect to which this time-honoured, picturesque
arrangement is so very deficient?

How pleasant it was, too, that one bishop should be getting fifteen
thousand a year and another with an equal cure of parsons only four! That
a certain prelate could get twenty thousand one year and his successor in
the same diocese only five the next! There was something in it pleasant,
and picturesque; it was an arrangement endowed with feudal charms,
and the change which they have made was distasteful to many of us. A
bishop with a regular salary, and no appanage of land and land-bailiffs,
is only half a bishop. Let any man prove to me the contrary ever so
thoroughly—let me prove it to my own self ever so often, my heart in
this matter is not thereby a whit altered. One liked to know that there
was a dean or two who got his three thousand a year, and that old Dr.
Purple held four stalls, one of which was golden, and the other three
silver-gilt! Such knowledge was always pleasant to me! A golden stall!
How sweet is the sound thereof to church-loving ears!

But bishops have been shorn of their beauty, and deans are in their
decadence. A utilitarian age requires the fatness of the ecclesiastical
land, in order that it may be divided out into small portions of
provender, on which necessary working clergymen may live,—into portions
so infinitesimally small that working clergymen can hardly live.
And the full-blown rectors and vicars, with full-blown tithes—with
tithes when too full-blown for strict utilitarian principles—will
necessarily follow. Stanhope and Doddington must bow their heads,
with such compensation for temporal rights as may be extracted,—but
probably without such compensation as may be desired. In other trades,
professions, and lines of life, men are paid according to their work.
Let it be so in the Church. Such will sooner or later be the edict of a
utilitarian, reforming, matter-of-fact House of Parliament.

I have a scheme of my own on the subject, which I will not introduce
here, seeing that neither men nor women would read it. And with reference
to this matter, I will only here further explain that all these words
have been brought about by the fact, necessary to be here stated,
that Mr. Crawley only received one hundred and thirty pounds a year
for performing the whole parochial duty of the parish of Hogglestock.
And Hogglestock is a large parish. It includes two populous villages,
abounding in brickmakers, a race of men very troublesome to a zealous
parson who won’t let men go rollicking to the devil without interference.
Hogglestock has full work for two men; and yet all the funds therein
applicable to parson’s work is this miserable stipend of one hundred
and thirty pounds a year. It is a stipend neither picturesque, nor
time-honoured, nor feudal, for Hogglestock takes rank only as a perpetual
curacy.

Mr. Crawley has been mentioned before as a clergyman of whom Mr. Robarts
said, that he almost thought it wrong to take a walk out of his own
parish. In so saying Mark Robarts of course burlesqued his brother
parson; but there can be no doubt that Mr. Crawley was a strict man,—a
strict, stern, unpleasant man, and one who feared God and his own
conscience. We must say a word or two of Mr. Crawley and his concerns.

He was now some forty years of age, but of these he had not been in
possession even of his present benefice for more than four or five. The
first ten years of his life as a clergyman had been passed in performing
the duties and struggling through the life of a curate in a bleak, ugly,
cold parish on the northern coast of Cornwall. It had been a weary life
and a fearful struggle, made up of duties ill requited and not always
satisfactorily performed, of love and poverty, of increasing cares, of
sickness, debt, and death. For Mr. Crawley had married almost as soon
as he was ordained, and children had been born to him in that chill,
comfortless Cornish cottage. He had married a lady well educated and
softly nurtured, but not dowered with worldly wealth. They two had gone
forth determined to fight bravely together; to disregard the world
and the world’s ways, looking only to God and to each other for their
comfort. They would give up ideas of gentle living, of soft raiment, and
delicate feeding. Others,—those that work with their hands, even the
bettermost of such workers—could live in decency and health upon even
such provision as he could earn as a clergyman. In such manner would they
live, so poorly and so decently, working out their work, not with their
hands but with their hearts.

And so they had established themselves, beginning the world with one
bare-footed little girl of fourteen to aid them in their small household
matters; and for a while they had both kept heart, loving each other
dearly, and prospering somewhat in their work. But a man who has once
walked the world as a gentleman knows not what it is to change his
position, and place himself lower down in the social rank. Much less can
he know what it is so to put down the woman whom he loves. There are a
thousand things, mean and trifling in themselves, which a man despises
when he thinks of them in his philosophy, but to dispense with which puts
his philosophy to so stern a proof. Let any plainest man who reads this
think of his usual mode of getting himself into his matutinal garments,
and confess how much such a struggle would cost him.

And then children had come. The wife of the labouring man does rear her
children, and often rears them in health, without even so many appliances
of comfort as found their way into Mrs. Crawley’s cottage; but the task
to her was almost more than she could accomplish. Not that she ever
fainted or gave way: she was made of the sterner metal of the two, and
could last on while he was prostrate.

And sometimes he was prostrate—prostrate in soul and spirit. Then would
he complain with bitter voice, crying out that the world was too hard
for him, that his back was broken with his burden, that his God had
deserted him. For days and days, in such moods, he would stay within his
cottage, never darkening the door or seeing other face than those of
his own inmates. Those days were terrible both to him and her. He would
sit there unwashed, with his unshorn face resting on his hand, with an
old dressing-gown hanging loose about him, hardly tasting food, seldom
speaking, striving to pray, but striving so frequently in vain. And then
he would rise from his chair, and, with a burst of frenzy, call upon his
Creator to remove him from this misery.

In these moments she never deserted him. At one period they had had four
children, and though the whole weight of this young brood rested on her
arms, on her muscles, on her strength of mind and body, she never ceased
in her efforts to comfort him. Then at length, falling utterly upon the
ground, he would pour forth piteous prayers for mercy, and, after a night
of sleep, would once more go forth to his work.

But she never yielded to despair: the struggle was never beyond her
powers of endurance. She had possessed her share of woman’s loveliness,
but that was now all gone. Her colour quickly faded, and the fresh, soft
tints soon deserted her face and forehead. She became thin, and rough,
and almost haggard: thin, till her cheek-bones were nearly pressing
through her skin, till her elbows were sharp, and her finger-bones as
those of a skeleton. Her eye did not lose its lustre, but it became
unnaturally bright, prominent, and too large for her wan face. The soft
brown locks which she had once loved to brush back, scorning, as she
would boast to herself, to care that they should be seen, were now sparse
enough and all untidy and unclean. It was matter of little thought now
whether they were seen or no. Whether he could be made fit to go into
his pulpit—whether they might be fed—those four innocents—and their backs
kept from the cold wind—that was now the matter of her thought.

And then two of them died, and she went forth herself to see them laid
under the frost-bound sod, lest he should faint in his work over their
graves. For he would ask aid from no man—such at least was his boast
through all.

Two of them died, but their illness had been long; and then debts came
upon them. Debt, indeed, had been creeping on them with slow but sure
feet during the last five years. Who can see his children hungry, and not
take bread if it be offered? Who can see his wife lying in sharpest want,
and not seek a remedy if there be a remedy within reach? So debt had come
upon them, and rude men pressed for small sums of money—for sums small to
the world, but impossibly large to them. And he would hide himself within
there, in that cranny of an inner chamber—hide himself with deep shame
from the world, with shame, and a sinking heart, and a broken spirit.

But had such a man no friend? it will be said. Such men, I take it, do
not make many friends. But this man was not utterly friendless. Almost
every year one visit was paid to him in his Cornish curacy by a brother
clergyman, an old college friend, who, as far as might in him lie, did
give aid to the curate and his wife. This gentleman would take up his
abode for a week at a farmer’s in the neighbourhood, and though he found
Mr. Crawley in despair, he would leave him with some drops of comfort
in his soul. Nor were the benefits in this respect all on one side.
Mr. Crawley, though at some periods weak enough for himself, could be
strong for others; and, more than once, was strong to the great advantage
of this man whom he loved. And then, too, pecuniary assistance was
forthcoming—in those earlier years not in great amount, for this friend
was not then among the rich ones of the earth—but in amount sufficient
for that moderate hearth, if only its acceptance could have been managed.
But in that matter there were difficulties without end. Of absolute money
tenders Mr. Crawley would accept none. But a bill here and there was
paid, the wife assisting; and shoes came for Kate—till Kate was placed
beyond the need of shoes; and cloth for Harry and Frank found its way
surreptitiously in beneath the cover of that wife’s solitary trunk—cloth
with which those lean fingers worked garments for the two boys, to be
worn—such was God’s will—only by the one.

Such were Mr. and Mrs. Crawley in their Cornish curacy, and during their
severest struggles. To one who thinks that a fair day’s work is worth a
fair day’s wages, it seems hard enough that a man should work so hard and
receive so little. There will be those who think that the fault was all
his own in marrying so young. But still there remains that question, Is
not a fair day’s work worth a fair day’s wages? This man did work hard—at
a task perhaps the hardest of any that a man may do; and for ten years he
earned some seventy pounds a year. Will any one say that he received fair
wages for his fair work, let him be married or single? And yet there are
so many who would fain pay their clergy, if they only knew how to apply
their money! But that is a long subject, as Mr. Robarts had told Miss
Dunstable.

Such was Mr. Crawley in his Cornish curacy.


CHAPTER XV.

LADY LUFTON’S AMBASSADOR.

And then, in the days which followed, that friend of Mr. Crawley’s,
whose name, by-the-by, is yet to be mentioned, received quick and great
promotion. Mr. Arabin by name he was then;—Dr. Arabin afterwards, when
that quick and great promotion reached its climax. He had been simply
a Fellow of Lazarus in those former years. Then he became Vicar of St.
Ewold’s, in East Barsetshire, and had not yet got himself settled there
when he married the Widow Bold, a widow with belongings in land and
funded money, and with but one small baby as an encumbrance. Nor had he
even yet married her,—had only engaged himself so to do, when they made
him Dean of Barchester—all which may be read in the diocesan and county
chronicles.

And now that he was wealthy, the new dean did contrive to pay the debts
of his poor friend, some lawyer of Camelford assisting him. It was but
a paltry schedule after all, amounting in the total to something not
much above a hundred pounds. And then, in the course of eighteen months,
this poor piece of preferment fell in the dean’s way, this incumbency
of Hogglestock with its stipend reaching one hundred and thirty pounds
a year. Even that was worth double the Cornish curacy, and there was,
moreover, a house attached to it. Poor Mrs. Crawley, when she heard of
it, thought that their struggles of poverty were now well nigh over. What
might not be done with a hundred and thirty pounds by people who had
lived for ten years on seventy?

And so they moved away out of that cold, bleak country, carrying with
them their humble household gods, and settled themselves in another
country, cold and bleak also, but less terribly so than the former.
They settled themselves, and again began their struggles against man’s
hardness and the devil’s zeal. I have said that Mr. Crawley was a stern,
unpleasant man; and it certainly was so. The man must be made of very
sterling stuff, whom continued and undeserved misfortune does not make
unpleasant. This man had so far succumbed to grief, that it had left
upon him its marks, palpable and not to be effaced. He cared little for
society, judging men to be doing evil who did care for it. He knew as a
fact, and believed with all his heart, that these sorrows had come to him
from the hand of God, and that they would work for his weal in the long
run; but not the less did they make him morose, silent, and dogged. He
had always at his heart a feeling that he and his had been ill-used, and
too often solaced himself, at the devil’s bidding, with the conviction
that eternity would make equal that which life in this world had made so
unequal;—the last bait that with which the devil angles after those who
are struggling to elude his rod and line.

The Framley property did not run into the parish of Hogglestock; but,
nevertheless, Lady Lufton did what she could in the way of kindness to
these new comers. Providence had not supplied Hogglestock with a Lady
Lufton, or with any substitute in the shape of lord or lady, squire or
squiress. The Hogglestock farmers, male and female, were a rude, rough
set, not bordering in their social rank on the farmer gentle; and Lady
Lufton, knowing this, and hearing something of these Crawleys from Mrs.
Arabin, the dean’s wife, trimmed her lamps, so that they should shed
a wider light, and pour forth some of their influence on that forlorn
household.

And as regards Mrs. Crawley, Lady Lufton by no means found that her
work and good-will were thrown away. Mrs. Crawley accepted her kindness
with thankfulness, and returned to some of the softnesses of life under
her hand. As for dining at Framley Court, that was out of the question.
Mr. Crawley, she knew, would not hear of it, even if other things were
fitting and appliances were at command. Indeed Mrs. Crawley at once said
that she felt herself unfit to go through such a ceremony with anything
like comfort. The dean, she said, would talk of their going to stay at
the deanery; but she thought it quite impossible that either of them
should endure even that. But, all the same, Lady Lufton was a comfort to
her; and the poor woman felt that it was well to have a lady near her in
case of need.

The task was much harder with Mr. Crawley, but even with him it was not
altogether unsuccessful. Lady Lufton talked to him of his parish and
of her own; made Mark Robarts go to him, and by degrees did something
towards civilizing him. Between him and Robarts too there grew up an
intimacy rather than a friendship. Robarts would submit to his opinion
on matters of ecclesiastical and even theological law, would listen to
him with patience, would agree with him where he could, and differ from
him mildly when he could not. For Robarts was a man who made himself
pleasant to all men. And thus, under Lady Lufton’s wing, there grew up a
connection between Framley and Hogglestock, in which Mrs. Robarts also
assisted.

And now that Lady Lufton was looking about her, to see how she might best
bring proper clerical influence to bear upon her own recreant fox-hunting
parson, it occurred to her that she might use Mr. Crawley in the matter.
Mr. Crawley would certainly be on her side as far as opinion went, and
would have no fear as to expressing his opinion to his brother clergyman.
So she sent for Mr. Crawley.

In appearance he was the very opposite to Mark Robarts. He was a lean,
slim, meagre man, with shoulders slightly curved, and pale, lank, long
locks of ragged hair; his forehead was high, but his face was narrow;
his small grey eyes were deeply sunken in his head, his nose was
well-formed, his lips thin and his mouth expressive. Nobody could look
at him without seeing that there was a purpose and a meaning in his
countenance. He always wore, in summer and winter, a long dusky gray
coat, which buttoned close up to his neck and descended almost to his
heels. He was full six feet high, but being so slight in build, he looked
as though he were taller.

He came at once at Lady Lufton’s bidding, putting himself into the gig
beside the servant, to whom he spoke no single word during the journey.
And the man, looking into his face, was struck with taciturnity. Now Mark
Robarts would have talked with him the whole way from Hogglestock to
Framley Court; discoursing partly as to horses and land, but partly also
as to higher things.

And then Lady Lufton opened her mind and told her griefs to Mr. Crawley,
urging, however, through the whole length of her narrative, that Mr.
Robarts was an excellent parish clergyman,—“just such a clergyman in
his church, as I would wish him to be,” she explained, with the view of
saving herself from an expression of any of Mr. Crawley’s special ideas
as to church teaching, and of confining him to the one subject-matter in
hand; “but he got this living so young, Mr. Crawley, that he is hardly
quite as steady as I could wish him to be. It has been as much my fault
as his own in placing him in such a position so early in life.”

“I think it has,” said Mr. Crawley, who might perhaps be a little sore on
such a subject.

“Quite so, quite so,” continued her ladyship, swallowing down with a gulp
a certain sense of anger. “But that is done now, and is past cure. That
Mr. Robarts will become a credit to his profession, I do not doubt, for
his heart is in the right place and his sentiments are good; but I fear
that at present he is succumbing to temptation.”

“I am told that he hunts two or three times a week. Everybody round us is
talking about it.”

“No, Mr. Crawley; not two or three times a week; very seldom above once,
I think. And then I do believe he does it more with the view of being
with Lord Lufton than anything else.”

“I cannot see that that would make the matter better,” said Mr. Crawley.

“It would show that he was not strongly imbued with a taste which I
cannot but regard as vicious in a clergyman.”

“It must be vicious in all men,” said Mr. Crawley. “It is in itself
cruel, and leads to idleness and profligacy.”

Again Lady Lufton made a gulp. She had called Mr. Crawley thither to her
aid, and felt that it would be inexpedient to quarrel with him. But she
did not like to be told that her son’s amusement was idle and profligate.
She had always regarded hunting as a proper pursuit for a country
gentleman. It was, indeed, in her eyes one of the peculiar institutions
of country life in England, and it may be almost said that she looked
upon the Barsetshire hunt as something sacred. She could not endure to
hear that a fox was trapped, and allowed her turkeys to be purloined
without a groan. Such being the case, she did not like being told that it
was vicious, and had by no means wished to consult Mr. Crawley on that
matter. But nevertheless she swallowed down her wrath.

“It is at any rate unbecoming in a clergyman,” she said; “and as I know
that Mr. Robarts places a high value on your opinion, perhaps you will
not object to advise him to discontinue it. He might possibly feel
aggrieved were I to interfere personally on such a question.”

“I have no doubt he would,” said Mr. Crawley. “It is not within a woman’s
province to give counsel to a clergyman on such a subject, unless she be
very near and very dear to him—his wife, or mother, or sister.”

“As living in the same parish, you know, and being, perhaps——” the
leading person in it, and the one who naturally rules the others. Those
would have been the fitting words for the expression of her ladyship’s
ideas; but she remembered herself, and did not use them. She had made up
her mind that, great as her influence ought to be, she was not the proper
person to speak to Mr. Robarts as to his pernicious, unclerical habits,
and she would not now depart from her resolve by attempting to prove that
she was the proper person.

“Yes,” said Mr. Crawley, “just so. All that would entitle him to offer
you his counsel if he thought that your mode of life was such as to
require it, but could by no means justify you in addressing yourself to
him.”

This was very hard upon Lady Lufton. She was endeavouring with all her
woman’s strength to do her best, and endeavouring so to do it that the
feelings of the sinner might be spared; and yet the ghostly comforter
whom she had evoked to her aid, treated her as though she were arrogant
and overbearing. She acknowledged the weakness of her own position with
reference to her parish clergyman by calling in the aid of Mr. Crawley;
and under such circumstances, he might, at any rate, have abstained from
throwing that weakness in her teeth.

“Well, sir; I hope my mode of life may not require it; but that is not
exactly to the point: what I wish to know is, whether you will speak to
Mr. Robarts?”

“Certainly I will,” said he.

“Then I shall be much obliged to you. But, Mr. Crawley, pray—pray,
remember this: I would not on any account wish that you should be harsh
with him. He is an excellent young man, and——”

“Lady Lufton, if I do this, I can only do it in my own way, as best I
may, using such words as God may give me at the time. I hope that I am
harsh to no man; but it is worse than useless, in all cases, to speak
anything but the truth.”

“Of course—of course.”

“If the ears be too delicate to bear the truth, the mind will be too
perverse to profit by it.” And then Mr. Crawley got up to take his leave.

But Lady Lufton insisted that he should go with her to luncheon. He
hummed and ha’d and would fain have refused, but on this subject she
was peremptory. It might be that she was unfit to advise a clergyman as
to his duties, but in a matter of hospitality she did know what she was
about. Mr. Crawley should not leave the house without refreshment. As to
this, she carried her point; and Mr. Crawley—when the matter before him
was cold roast-beef and hot potatoes, instead of the relative position of
a parish priest and his parishioner—became humble, submissive, and almost
timid. Lady Lufton recommended Madeira instead of Sherry, and Mr. Crawley
obeyed at once, and was, indeed, perfectly unconscious of the difference.
Then there was a basket of seakale in the gig for Mrs. Crawley; that he
would have left behind had he dared, but he did not dare. Not a word was
said to him as to the marmalade for the children which was hidden under
the seakale, Lady Lufton feeling well aware that that would find its way
to its proper destination without any necessity for his co-operation. And
then Mr. Crawley returned home in the Framley Court gig.

Three or four days after this he walked over to Framley Parsonage. This
he did on a Saturday, having learned that the hounds never hunted on that
day; and he started early, so that he might be sure to catch Mr. Robarts
before he went out on his parish business. He was quite early enough
to attain this object, for when he reached the Parsonage door at about
half-past nine, the vicar, with his wife and sister, were just sitting
down to breakfast.

“Oh, Crawley,” said Robarts, before the other had well spoken, “you are a
capital fellow;” and then he got him into a chair, and Mrs. Robarts had
poured him out tea, and Lucy had surrendered to him a knife and plate,
before he knew under what guise to excuse his coming among them.

“I hope you will excuse this intrusion,” at last he muttered; “but I have
a few words of business to which I will request your attention presently.”

“Certainly,” said Robarts, conveying a broiled kidney on to the plate
before Mr. Crawley; “but there is no preparation for business like a
good breakfast. Lucy, hand Mr. Crawley the buttered toast. Eggs, Fanny;
where are the eggs?” And then John, in livery, brought in the fresh eggs.
“Now we shall do. I always eat my eggs while they’re hot, Crawley, and I
advise you to do the same.”

To all this Mr. Crawley said very little, and he was not at all at home
under the circumstances. Perhaps a thought did pass across his brain, as
to the difference between the meal which he had left on his own table,
and that which he now saw before him; and as to any cause which might
exist for such difference. But, if so, it was a very fleeting thought,
for he had far other matter now fully occupying his mind. And then
the breakfast was over, and in a few minutes the two clergymen found
themselves together in the Parsonage study.

“Mr. Robarts,” began the senior, when he had seated himself uncomfortably
on one of the ordinary chairs at the further side of the well-stored
library table, while Mark was sitting at his ease in his own arm-chair by
the fire, “I have called upon you on an unpleasant business.”

Mark’s mind immediately flew off to Mr. Sowerby’s bill, but he could not
think it possible that Mr. Crawley could have had anything to do with
that.

“But as a brother clergyman, and as one who esteems you much and wishes
you well, I have thought myself bound to take this matter in hand.”

“What matter is it, Crawley?”

“Mr. Robarts, men say that your present mode of life is one that is not
befitting a soldier in Christ’s army.”

“Men say so! what men?”

“The men around you, of your own neighbourhood; those who watch your
life, and know all your doings; those who look to see you walking as a
lamp to guide their feet, but find you consorting with horse jockeys and
hunters, galloping after hounds, and taking your place among the vainest
of worldly pleasure-seekers. Those who have a right to expect an example
of good living, and who think that they do not see it.”

Mr. Crawley had gone at once to the root of the matter, and in doing so,
had certainly made his own task so much the easier. There is nothing
like going to the root of the matter at once when one has on hand an
unpleasant piece of business.

“And have such men deputed you to come here?”

“No one has or could depute me. I have come to speak my own mind, not
that of any other. But I refer to what those around you think and say,
because it is to them that your duties are due. You owe it to those
around you to live a godly, cleanly life;—as you owe it also, in a much
higher way, to your Father who is in heaven. I now make bold to ask you
whether you are doing your best to lead such a life as that?” And then he
remained silent, waiting for an answer.

He was a singular man; so humble and meek, so unutterably inefficient
and awkward in the ordinary intercourse of life, but so bold and
enterprising, almost eloquent on the one subject which was the work of
his mind! As he sat there, he looked into his companion’s face from out
his sunken grey eyes with a gaze which made his victim quail. And then
repeated his words: “I now make bold to ask you, Mr. Robarts, whether you
are doing your best to lead such a life as may become a parish clergyman
among his parishioners?” And again he paused for an answer.

“There are but few of us,” said Mark in a low tone, “who could safely
answer that question in the affirmative.”

“But are there many, think you, among us who would find the question so
unanswerable as yourself? And even, were there many, would you, young,
enterprising, and talented as you are, be content to be numbered among
them? Are you satisfied to be a castaway after you have taken upon
yourself Christ’s armour? If you will say so, I am mistaken in you, and
will go my way.” There was again a pause, and then he went on. “Speak
to me, my brother, and open your heart if it be possible.” And rising
from his chair, he walked across the room, and laid his hand tenderly on
Mark’s shoulder.

Mark had been sitting lounging in his chair, and had at first, for a
moment only, thought to brazen it out. But all idea of brazening had
now left him. He had raised himself from his comfortable ease, and was
leaning forward with his elbow on the table; but now, when he heard these
words, he allowed his head to sink upon his arms, and he buried his face
between his hands.

“It is a terrible falling off,” continued Crawley: “terrible in the
fall, but doubly terrible through that difficulty of returning. But it
cannot be that it should content you to place yourself as one among those
thoughtless sinners, for the crushing of whose sin you have been placed
here among them. You become a hunting parson, and ride with a happy mind
among blasphemers and mocking devils—you, whose aspirations were so
high, who have spoken so often and so well of the duties of a minister
of Christ; you, who can argue in your pride as to the petty details
of your church, as though the broad teachings of its great and simple
lessons were not enough for your energies! It cannot be that I have had a
hypocrite beside me in all those eager controversies!”

“Not a hypocrite—not a hypocrite,” said Mark, in a tone which was almost
reduced to sobbing.

“But a castaway! Is it so that I must call you? No, Mr. Robarts, not a
castaway; neither a hypocrite, nor a castaway; but one who in walking has
stumbled in the dark and bruised his feet among the stones. Henceforth
let him take a lantern in his hand, and look warily to his path, and
walk cautiously among the thorns and rocks,—cautiously, but yet boldly,
with manly courage, but Christian meekness, as all men should walk on
their pilgrimage through this vale of tears.” And then without giving
his companion time to stop him be hurried out of the room, and from the
house, and without again seeing any others of the family, stalked back on
his road to Hogglestock, thus tramping fourteen miles through the deep
mud in performance of the mission on which he had been sent.

It was some hours before Mr. Robarts left his room. As soon as he found
that Crawley was really gone, and that he should see him no more, he
turned the lock of his door, and sat himself down to think over his
present life. At about eleven his wife knocked, not knowing whether
that other strange clergyman were there or no, for none had seen his
departure. But Mark, answering cheerily, desired that he might be left to
his studies.

Let us hope that his thoughts and mental resolves were then of service to
him.




Campaigning in China.


At a time when military operations in China are about to be undertaken
upon a more extended scale than have hitherto been attempted in the
Celestial Empire, some account of the longest march into the interior
of the country ever yet performed by British troops may not be
uninteresting. To judge from the recent accounts which we have received
from India, the prospect of Chinese campaigning, so far from exciting
that enthusiasm which the novelty and interest of the undertaking might
have been expected to awaken, has produced the very opposite effect. The
military departmental mind is filled with doubts and vague misgivings.
The Quartermaster-General’s staff shake their heads with a mysterious
despondency, already oppressed with the weight of prospective cares, the
nature of which can only be appreciated by those who have shared in the
duties and responsibilities of their office. The Commissariat is no less
overwhelmed with a sense of its probable inefficiency, modestly diffident
of its capacity to perform its functions in the unknown regions of the
far East; while the parallel which has been drawn by those who have
visited both countries, between the plains of Chih-li and the steppes of
the Crimea, are by no means reassuring to the Land Transport Corps, who
are reminded by the comparison of experience not altogether encouraging.
So we have croaking articles in the Indian journals, and gloomy
forebodings on the part of officers experienced in Indian warfare, who
have never been in China, but who “know the East,” and are, therefore,
qualified to speak with confidence and authority upon all affairs,
military or diplomatic, which may be undertaken anywhere between Cairo
and the Sandwich Islands.

It is as well that we should remember, at this early period of our
operations, that whatever may be their result, there will be a large
class of persons who “always told us so,” and who some years hence, on
the occasion of the next Chinese war, will also inform us triumphantly
that they “always said that sooner or later there would be another
row.” These gentlemen now talk learnedly about blocking up the Grand
Canal, which no longer exists; and occupying Nankin, which is no longer
Imperial; and operating up the Yang-tse-kiang, though we are left in
doubt as to the nature of the operations they propose. They foresee the
most formidable obstacles to a march of thirty miles across the plains of
Chih-li, but it remains to be seen whether this foresight will be made
available to provide against these difficulties, or whether the greatest
impediment may not arise from the entire misapplication of the very
quality assumed. Some remarkable cases of this description of forethought
occurred during the Crimean war, to which it is not necessary now to
allude, more especially as more recent instances exist in connection with
the Chinese operations contemplated in 1857. We would suggest that those
ponderous iron grates, for example, which now ornament the dockyard at
Hong Kong, where they are stacked in tiers, and which had considerately
been supplied to the army in the event of a campaign, be left where they
are, as it will probably be found that a Whitworth’s gun weighing 200
pounds will be more useful and less troublesome on the march than a grate
of twice that weight: temporary fireplaces may be constructed with three
bricks, and the plains of Chih-li abound in kilns. Doubtless, if the army
is detained in the north until a late period of the year, fires will be
an immense comfort; but if those sepoys who are destined to encounter
the severity of the winter are not provided with flannel waistcoats, the
tiers of iron grates will fail to supply them with a sufficient amount of
caloric.

It is not improbable, that if the army reaches Tien-tsin, and its
occupation of that city is protracted over any space of time, telegraphic
communication with the coast may be deemed a desirable object. Should
any such project be entertained, we trust it will not be considered
impertinent if we express a hope that batteries be sent out as well as
wire. Upon the last occasion, when a similar attempt was made in China,
it was not until after the wire was laid down from the landing-place to
head-quarters that the discovery was made that the most essential item
had been forgotten, and that a wire, however well laid, if it had nothing
but a general at one end and an admiral at the other, could not possibly
convey a message.

Meantime, the observations made during a march of five days with a
thousand men, in the province of Quang-tung, just a year ago, may be of
interest to those who do not “know the East.” And here we would remind
the reader, who may make any use of this information he pleases, that
there are men in China who have an intimate knowledge of the country, who
have already had a military experience of some years there, and whose
hints will probably be more useful before the operations commence, than
after our ignorance has led us into serious difficulty.

The expedition about to be described was undertaken in the early spring
of last year. Its destination was Fayune, a town situated between thirty
and forty miles north of Canton, or about the same distance as Tien-tsin
is from the mouth of the Peiho. Its object was to strike terror into the
Braves of the ninety-six villages—a confederation which had, during the
preceding year, combined to furnish a force of local militia, or rather
blackguards, for the purpose of harassing our garrison at Canton. During
the summer their attacks had been constant and most annoying. The climate
at that time of year rendered any attempt at retaliation on the part of
our troops most dangerous; and it was, therefore, deemed more advisable
to submit to a nightly discharge of rockets and gingals, than to expose
the men to the risk of sunstrokes.

We were the more anxious to inflict a summary chastisement upon these
so-called “Braves,” so soon as the season should admit of it, as
diplomatic pressure had been exerted in vain at Tien-tsin to effect
the same object; the Court of Pekin repudiating any complicity in the
hostilities in the south, though documents subsequently came into the
possession of the authorities, clearly proving, not only the cognizance
of the government, but the fact that the military organization of the
south was being actually carried on under Imperial auspices, and the
leaders of it honoured with buttons and promotion. These leaders were
formed into committees and sub-committees, and styled “managers of
barbarian affairs.” In consequence, however, of the representations
of the British authorities, their functions in this capacity were no
longer recognized, and they had latterly for some time past appeared in
proclamations as “Commissioners for the enlistment of militia.” The most
notorious of these committees was that known as the “Gang-leang,” which
was divided into four sub-committees.

The most active members were three mandarins in mourning, by name Lung,
Soo, and Lo. These men were of considerable standing in the government
service, but the fact of their being in mourning deprived them of the
power of accepting any official position for a term of years. It did
not, however, debar them from serving their country in a promiscuous
manner, and they chose their present occupation of organizing Braves
against barbarians, as the one most acceptable to the government, and
most likely to lead to honour and distinction. In the prosecution of
their functions, they levied heavy taxes upon the unfortunate country
people, who thus found themselves between two fires;—in danger, on the
one hand, of being mistaken for Braves by our troops, and on the other,
obliged to contribute to a body of ruffians, who, when not engaged in
attacking us, amused themselves in plundering the unhappy peasantry.
These Committees formed, in fact, the rallying points for the miscreants
of all the surrounding districts; rebels who found rebellion did not pay,
robbers who had made their own neighbourhood too hot to hold them, scamps
who loved plunder better than toil,—all flocked to the standards of Lung,
Soo and Lo, who received them with open arms, and gave them a _carte
blanche_ to bully the country people, and squeeze their own living out of
unprotected rustics.

One of the most important of the sub-committees of the Gang-leang was at
a village called Shek-tsing, distant about eight miles from Canton. Here
a notorious Brave leader, by name Leang-paou-heun, held his court, and
from here he issued one fine morning and attacked a party of our troops
exercising in the neighbourhood of Canton. It was resolved to commence
the operations of the winter by honouring Leang with a morning call, of
a character to which he was not accustomed. In pursuance of this design,
the necessary preparations were made, and rumours thereof reaching the
ears of the Fayune Commissioners, they issued a proclamation calling
upon the people to arm, which was found among their papers after the
capture of Shek-tsing, an extract from which, as a curious specimen of
Chinese military tactics, is worthy of insertion. The various villages
are directed “to provide themselves with a number of gongs and horns, and
thus simulate the presence of an imposing force. At daylight on the 8th,
ranges of cooking places will be constructed in the Shek-tsing hills,
in which food may be prepared for the people who collect there, and
permission to do so is given to all classes, whether old or young, strong
or infirm. All the expenses will be defrayed by this committee; and it
has been already resolved that every person coming to the assembly shall
receive a daily ration of four candareens (about six cents), but this
money will have in the first instance to be advanced by the committee of
each village. Every person who comes armed and prepared to fight will, in
addition, receive one mace of silver (about fourteen cents) as his daily
pay: each committee is also requested to provide cooking utensils.”

A well-contrived attack upon the Brave position at Shek-tsing resulted in
the utter discomfiture of the nondescript army, collected in obedience
to the foregoing mandate, the casualties on our side amounting only to
four wounded. The house of the notorious Leang-paou-heun was gutted and
burned, to the great satisfaction of the country people, whom he had been
squeezing for some months past, at the rate of twelve catties of grain
per mow, which was, in fact, a tax of from twelve to twenty per cent. No
wonder they exclaimed, as they clustered joyfully round the smouldering
embers, and waited till they should cool sufficiently for purposes of
closer investigation: “Oh! Amidha Buddha! blessed be Heaven for having
willed its destruction, and the barbarians for having effected it.”
Pihquei afterwards accused Leang of having appropriated the pay of one
thousand Braves who had never been enrolled.

The affair of Shek-tsing was productive of so salutary an effect upon
both the peasantry and the Braves, that it was deemed desirable to
confirm the impression by military promenades in the neighbourhood
of Canton, whereby we should give indisputable evidence of our
power—hitherto always denied by the Chinese—to operate by land as well as
by water.

The three chief Commissioners were still holding court in fancied
security in the mountain village of Fayune; and although their efforts
to re-enlist Braves were by no means so successful as formerly, still it
was thought expedient to run these gentry to earth, if possible, and thus
extinguish the vital principle of an organization which had been a source
of considerable annoyance to us during our occupancy of Canton.

The force destined for this operation consisted of only a thousand men,
of whom one hundred and fifty were French blue-jackets. We marched out of
the north-west gate of Canton upon a sharp, clear February morning. The
chances of a skirmish, though somewhat remote, were sufficient to produce
an exhilarating effect upon the men, who stepped briskly out as they
filed in a thin irregular line along the narrow ridges which divided the
now dry rice-fields. In three hours we reached the village of Shek-tsing,
with its clear winding river, spanned by a charmingly picturesque bridge
of seven quaint arches, its groves of bamboo, its fir-clothed knolls,
shattered yamun and field of conflict. Here the country people approached
reverentially, and we once more wandered amid the ruins caused by our own
artillery, and gazed from the hill in rear over the peaceful landscape,
across which the progress of the troops was indicated by a winding
black thread. About five miles beyond Shek-tsing we reached Kong-soong,
a village situated upon a river, which it was necessary to ferry. As
this was an operation which involved some delay, considering the limited
number of ferry-boats, and the large quantity of camp-followers, it was
decided to camp here for the night, and those among us who were mounted,
and did not mind a wetting, scrambled across to the opposite shore, where
a fair was going on, and the dirty little streets of the village were
crowded with unctuous Chinamen. We rode among this noisy, chattering
rabble without provoking the slightest expression of animosity. Curiosity
and avarice were the predominating sentiments here, as they always will
be wherever a European army presents itself in China. The first impulse
of a peasant under these circumstances is to stare at you, the next to
sell something to you. Even when alone and unarmed, it does not enter
into his head to insult you, unless incited thereto by the authorities.
The population at large consider an invading army hostile to the troops
of their government, but by no means hostile to themselves: hence
they stand and look on as impartial spectators upon the occasion of a
conflict, and even before it is over come actually under fire to see if
anything in the way of trade may be managed. Under these circumstances
an invading force need never be under apprehension on the score of
commissariat.

[Illustration]

For months past the efforts of the Commissioners had been directed
towards prejudicing the mind of the country people against us; the most
absurd stories of our cruel and barbarous nature had become current among
them; the government at Pekin had lent itself to the fabrication of
these, and had even issued a secret edict on the subject, the nature of
which will be gathered from the following extract:—

    “As to the Province of Kwang-tung, which has hitherto been
    famed for its loyalty and patriotism, and on a former occasion
    received from his late Majesty the monumental inscription—‘A
    Sovereign’s reward for a people’s devotion,’ and a special
    edict expressing his marked approval of their conduct, and the
    gratification it afforded him,—we look to those high ministers,
    Lo and others (the Fayune Commissioners), to give effect to
    our wishes. On them the duty rests of making in secret all the
    necessary arrangements, of marshalling the rural population
    without attracting observation, and of everywhere establishing
    train-bands; and by seeming among them combination, as well as
    by rousing them to exertion, and keeping their communications
    everywhere complete, they may present to the outer barbarians
    such a display of the power of China, as shall cause them to
    retire from the position they have assumed.

    “In order to secure secrecy in their proceedings, and to
    prevent any notice of the scheme escaping, the authorities
    must no longer appear to act a hostile part (towards the
    foreigners), but must only direct the people to oppose them.
    Nor need any communication whatever be held with the local
    functionaries, nor even with the governor-general and the
    governor of the province. Thus, if victory attend us, we may be
    assured that we are fulfilling the demands of heaven; but if
    defeat, we shall still avoid being involved in war. And it is
    not impossible that we may see, as the result of this scheme,
    peace gradually taking the place of those foreign troubles, and
    assaults upon our nation, which we have experienced during some
    years past. We may see a stop put to barbarian encroachments,
    and glory again descending upon the civilization of China.

    “Let the efforts of you, my Ministers (the Fayune
    Commissioners), be directed to this end, and do not disappoint
    the hopes of your sovereign. When you shall have received
    this secret edict, hasten to draw up a minute statement of
    the measures which you think necessary for the execution of
    these objects, and forward to us by flying courier. Let there
    be no delay; and let this important edict, which is for the
    information of the Commissioners, be forwarded to them by an
    express of 600 li per day.”

Considering that this singular manifesto of the Imperial policy, which
came into our hands in the course of our operations, reached Fayune in
November, or about three months prior to our arrival there, and that
during this interval no effort had been spared to incite the population
against us, we had no reason to anticipate an actually friendly demeanour
on the part of the people. So far, however, from the machinations of
the Commissioners against us having operated to our prejudice, we found
the rural population on all occasions overwhelmingly polite; and their
disposition in this respect is worthy of note, as corresponding precisely
to that manifested by the villagers on the banks of the Peiho; on the
occasion of the ascent of the allied forces up that river after the
first attack upon the forts at Taku, and entitles us to expect a similar
reception again, in the event of a march across the plains of Chih-li
upon Tien-tsin becoming necessary.

Our day’s march had led us through a country pleasantly diversified,
although at this time of year it was dry, and the crops few and far
between. Numerous undulations, and conical mounds of tumulus form, richly
wooded, relieved the landscape of all monotony, and often furnished
agreeable scenic effects. Clear broad streams, navigated by flat-bottomed
boats, flowed between fertile banks and past flourishing villages,
seaward; and picturesquely situated upon one of these was a quaint old
joss-house, which was converted into General Straubenzee’s head-quarters
for the night. As viewed from the edge of the river bank, the scene
was eminently picturesque. Ferry-boats, crowded with men, were plying
actively from shore to shore; horsemen were fording, coolies shouting,
and villagers were rushing in excited groups to wonder at the strange
proceedings of the barbarian horde. Meantime a canvas village is rapidly
springing up all round the joss-house; arms are piled, sentries posted,
camp-fires blaze, kettles bubble, corks pop, and the contents of hampers
are strewn upon the ground; a Babel of tongues rises above the clatter
of dinner preparations, as Hindustani and French, Chinese and English,
mingle in discordant tumult. Here a group of our Gallican allies are
clustered eagerly over a salad; in close proximity a party of sepoys are
scouring brass cooking vessels, carefully guarding them from the defiling
touch of the infidel. There some of the Coolie Corps, composed of sleek
Chinamen, who have grown juicy on British pay, are returning laden with
the offal of some domestic animal, or other culinary delicacy, from the
village. John Bull is making a very coarse brew of coffee, and doing his
best to spoil the materials with which he has been furnished for his
evening meal. Then the band strikes up, and the wondering villagers, who
have been sufficiently confused by strange sights, now listen to strange
sounds, and only disperse reluctantly at last as evening closes in; and
the men get tired of singing choruses, and crowd into the tents; and the
full moon rises above the flaming waters of the river, as they rush over
a pebbly bed, and throws dark shadows into the bamboo grove, upon the
edge of which the flash of a sentry’s bayonet is here and there visible.

Day had not dawned before our camp was astir on the following morning,
and, quitting the relics of our festivities of the previous evening, we
were once more filing along the dividing ridges of paddy-fields. The
narrowness of the paths and bridges caused considerable embarrassment to
our artillery, although the force was only accompanied by light 3-pounder
field-pieces. A log bridge is an obstacle even to this portable arm, and
it is satisfactory to know that, in the country about to be traversed in
the north, no difficulties of this description present themselves: the
roads are broad enough for wheeled vehicles, unknown in the south, and
Indian corn, and other cereals requiring dry cultivation, do not render
the whole country a swamp at certain seasons of the year; but if we have
every reason to congratulate ourselves upon the character of the country
being totally different in Chih-li from that of Quang-tung, we may esteem
ourselves no less fortunate that our experience of the disposition of the
inhabitants is equally favourable in both. It will be remembered that
on the occasion of the advance of the gunboats up the Peiho in 1858,
after the capture of the forts at Taku, the country people on the banks
welcomed us as the precursors of a new dynasty, seeking to ingratiate
themselves into favour by offering us provisions, and even, according
to the statement of Sir Michael Seymour, assisting us in extricating
our gunboats from difficulties, in the course of their passage up that
little-known stream. So, throughout our march to Fayune, we met with
nothing but civility from the peasantry, although our progress was to
all intents and purposes that of an invading army, hostile to their
government, and avowedly undertaken for the purpose of encountering
and defeating the troops raised by the Imperial government to resist
us. At every village the elders came forth and stood by the roadside,
presiding over tables, upon which cups of tea for the refreshment of the
troops were ranged in tempting array, and presented us with slips of
pink paper, the tokens of amity and good-will. In return for these, we
distributed proclamations of a reassuring character, and had every reason
to believe that our presence, so for from inspiring mistrust or alarm,
was productive of the most wholesome effect, as tending to disabuse the
minds of the people of the prejudices which had been excited against us.

A practical evidence of the confidence established was furnished by the
readiness with which we obtained coolies from the villages through which
we passed, to assist in the conveyance of baggage; so that, in addition
to the Land Transport Corps, composed entirely of Chinamen, some hundreds
of the peasantry might have been seen jogging merrily in long single file
under the burdens imposed upon their shoulders by the enemy, who had
become converted into friends by the transfer of a few dollars.

Although we should be far from recommending the authorities to rely
absolutely upon the co-operation of the country people in the north of
China, the possibility of their being rendered available should not be
lost sight of, whilst it is impossible to over-estimate the value of
a corps which was raised at the commencement of the operations in the
south, and which proved of the utmost service throughout the hostilities
at Canton. The men composing this corps are recruited from Canton and its
neighbourhood: hardy, patient, and enduring, their patriotic scruples,
if they ever existed, vanish before the pay and comfort with which they
are now provided. The English officers in charge have always spoken in
the highest terms of the obedience and efficiency of these men, and it
is most desirable that their numbers should be augmented in the event
of a campaign being undertaken in the north. Hitherto they have always
behaved admirably under the fire of their own countrymen, and delight in
contrasting their favoured condition with that of their less fortunate
relatives or friends who have not shaken off their allegiance. For
dragging guns, carrying sick or wounded, and doing all the heavy work of
an army on the march, they answer all the purposes of beasts of burden,
and, with a little previous drilling and discipline, are much more
useful. Their uniform consists of a conical straw hat and cross-belt,
with the name and number of the corps marked upon it.

The day’s march led us through a more arid and Indian-looking country
than that of yesterday. At this time of year, almost the only grain
cultivated is wheat. After two crops of rice have been taken off the
ground, they are followed by an edition of wheat, so sparse and sickly
as to give a somewhat sterile aspect to the country. Towards midday we
halted at a pretty little village, in a fir wood, for luncheon. Here
the whole population turned out, as usual, to inspect us: women, on
small feet, hobbled impetuously across the rough fields, to the peril of
the infants swung at their backs or carried in their arms; but female
curiosity is as strong in Quang-tung as elsewhere, and doubtless was
succeeded by those sentiments of admiration which a red coat always
excites in the feminine breast. The chief magistrate of Fayune met us
here, and endeavoured to propitiate us with sweetmeats. The Fayune
Commissioners, he said, had vanished, and were nowhere to be heard of.
His own heart was filled with pleasure at the prospect of a visit from
so charming a company in his secluded house. Any arrangements necessary
for the comfort of the troops should be promptly attended to. In fact,
if this old gentleman had been the Pope, and we had been an army of
Austrians, he could not have appeared more delighted to receive us.

Gaiety and merrymaking being the order of the day, the band was ordered
to play, and while the elders were crowding around it, we effected a
diversion in their favour by giving scrambles for cash to the juvenile
portion of the community. Altogether, we had every reason to believe
that, after spending two hours in this little village with a long and
unpronounceable name, we left it universally beloved and regretted.

We halted for the night at a village called Ping-shan, situated upon a
dry paddy-field expanse, out of which isolated wooded hills rose like
islands. Here we found a magnificent ancestral hall, highly decorated,
dedicated to the memory of sundry eminent men who had sprung from
the surrounding villages, and whose fame and virtues were recorded
upon elaborate tablets. These buildings are common throughout China,
being used by the descendants of the persons in whose honour they
have been erected, as a sort of club. As they are generally of great
extent, containing numerous suites of apartments, and affording shelter
for a large party of men and beasts, they are most convenient for
officers’ quarters; and it was with no little satisfaction that we took
possession of the rooms usually occupied by the Fayune Commissioners,
and established ourselves luxuriously for the night. It is worthy of
note that in respect of accommodation of this description, the numerous
temples, yamuns, and ancestral and Confucian halls, &c., with which all
districts of the empire abound, offer great advantages to an invading
army.

On the following day we reached Fayune. Our first view of the town,
from the summit of a hill, to which we clambered for the purpose of a
general survey, was charming. Nestling snugly at the base of a range
of hills from 1,500 feet to 2,000 feet in height, the little walled
village looked like the stronghold of some mountain robber who had
established himself on the edge of the rich country stretching away to
the south. Groves of magnificent trees dotted the landscape, and seemed
to bestow their especial patronage upon the town itself, a part of which
was buried in rich foliage. To its left was a remarkable conical hill,
surmounted by a pagoda. After feasting our eyes upon the scene at our
feet, we descended into the valley, and forming in more regular order,
filed between the rows of people who had come out to meet us, and passed
through the massive gateway into the town, the band leading the way, and
the Chinese guard turning out to salute us. So, then, we found ourselves
in the lions’ den without having encountered the slightest opposition,
or, apparently, excited any alarm. Although but a few weeks had elapsed
since the most violent manifestoes had been issued against us from
this very spot, and it had been for months the focus from whence had
radiated the hostility of both the Imperial authorities and gentry, yet
we found ourselves the objects of universal attention and civility, and
explored at pleasure the town and neighbourhood, alone and unarmed. The
town itself was mean and insignificant, but was surrounded by a wall in
perfect order; the embrasures, however, had been denuded of their guns
prior to our arrival. The wall was not above a mile in circumference,
so that the place presented almost the appearance of a fort. It had a
wild, cut-throat look—as different from an ordinary Chinese town as a
pirate schooner from an old East Indiaman. We appropriated the yamun,
which had been for some months past occupied by the Commissioners, who
had considerately evacuated the premises in our favour. The most profound
ignorance was assumed as to the present hiding-place of these gentry,
so we were obliged to content ourselves with using their bedrooms and
exploring their establishment. Most of the troops were comfortably lodged
in the temples and public buildings of the town, others were camped on a
hill in rear.

The proximity of the mountain range tempted some of us to explore its
unknown beauties. Nor were we disappointed with the result of our
exertions. After a hard scramble without guides, we reached the summit,
Kow-pak-chang, or the thousand-chang-hill, and gazed from it over
beautiful broken country, stretching northward, with secluded valleys,
highly cultivated, winding between rugged mountain ranges, where villages
in a setting of rich verdure hugged the banks of brawling streams,
spanned by quaint high-arched bridges, and square feudal towers rose
above the tree-clumps. It was singular to think that two Europeans should
find themselves in a position of perfect safety, five or six miles away
from assistance, looking down upon scenes, in all probability, never
before witnessed by the eye of a foreigner, in the midst of a population
with whom we were supposed to be in an attitude of open hostility. The
top of a hill two thousand feet high, in the month of February, is a very
cold place, even in the south of China, and we were glad to turn our
backs upon its bleak summit, and taking one last look at the lovely scene
beyond us, to hurry down into the sunny plain. We observed on our way
numerous granite quarries, indicating the formation of the range.

Our exertions enabled us to do ample justice to an elaborate Chinese
repast, which the chief magistrate, in the plenitude of his civility,
sent over to us on our return. Before leaving Fayune, the general and a
number of officers were entertained at dinner by this high functionary,
and the head of the gentry of the district. The latter personage had been
very active in the enlistment of Braves against us, and like the rest of
his class, had hoped by the manifestation of zeal in his hostility to
barbarians, to curry favour with the government: he now professed the
utmost friendship for us, and expressed sincere regret for what had
occurred, in opposition, as he declared, to his urgent remonstrances.
After the usual interchange of pretty speeches, and consumption of greasy
viands, we took leave of our smooth-tongued hosts, and once more striking
camp, marched out of Fayune, having thoroughly accomplished the object of
our visits. The troops re-entered Canton on the evening of the following
day, having marched between sixty and seventy miles in five days, without
encountering any of those difficulties which are predicted in the
coming operations, and having achieved the very satisfactory result of
instilling confidence into the country people, and inspiring the Braves
with a due respect for our arms. Since then the neighbourhood of Canton
has been tranquil, and foreigners have been enabled to extend their
explorations to greater distances than formerly, with perfect security.

The same effect will be produced in the north of China if the same means
are resorted to. It was not until the local militia at Canton received
a lesson which taught them our power of inflicting chastisement, that
they subsided into respectful quiescence. So, in 1858, the Court of
Pekin changed its tone of arrogance for one of subserviency the moment
we arrived at Tien-tsin: a feat supposed impracticable by the Chinese
government.

The effect of our unexpected appearance there may be best appreciated
by the following paragraph, extracted from the secret edict already
quoted. The Emperor, apologizing for the concessions made to us upon that
occasion, asks, “Why is it then that we have succumbed to circumstances,
and permitted the acceptance of terms of peace from the said barbarians?
It was indeed for no other reason than that war had reached the portals
of our Imperial domains; the enemy was at the gates of our capital, and
in the train of war follow alarm and disorder; the people are scattered
and rendered homeless. How could we endure that our people should suffer?
Our rest was disturbed, and we could not eat in peace. No other course,
therefore, was open to us but to concede what they requested, in order to
put an end to the present distress.”

The distress here alluded to was in reality not felt by the people, not
one of whom was turned out of his home by our presence at Tien-tsin, but
by the Emperor himself. The impression at Pekin at present is, that the
river having been staked, our reappearance at Tien-tsin is impossible.
Hence the stubborn attitude of the Chinese government, encouraged by
their confidence in the Tartar general, Sang-ko-lin-sin, who commanded at
the last Peiho affair, and who has declared his intention, on all fixture
occasions, of dealing with us in the same summary manner. His defeat, and
the march of our troops to Tien-tsin, will produce the same result as our
march to Fayune, or as our former operations on Tien-tsin. The difficulty
of our diplomatists in China consists not so much in the process of
extracting a treaty from the Chinese government, as in obliging them
to keep it in the spirit in which it is made. This can only be done by
exerting a continuous pressure upon the Cabinet at Pekin. The moment the
pressure is removed, the government interprets obnoxious stipulations in
its own manner; its functionaries at distant ports take their cue from
the disposition at head-quarters, and complications arise with local
officials, out of which ultimately spring new wars.

By dealing directly with the highest functionaries at the capital, these
may invariably be prevented; but the isolation of a foreign minister at
Pekin might possibly expose him to inconveniences, and even insults,
which, in the absence of any force, it would be impossible to resent.
Under these circumstances the most desirable compromise which could be
made, would be in the selection of Tien-tsin, as a summer abode for the
British plenipotentiary, with the right reserved to him of visiting
the capital at pleasure. Here, at a distance of only fifty miles from
Pekin, communication with the high functionaries there could be rapidly
and easily maintained, while the occasional visits of members of the
foreign missions would tend to familiarize the people, as well as the
authorities, with the contact of Europeans, and go far to remove those
prejudices which must ever, otherwise, subsist against us, and develop
themselves through the means of local authorities at distant ports.
Concurrently with the establishment of a mission at Tien-tsin, that city
might be opened as a port to trade, and the reassuring influence of
commerce be thus brought to second the efforts of a skilful and judicious
diplomacy. During the winter months, when the Peiho would be frozen, and
the port closed, the Minister would remove his establishment to Shanghai,
not a little pleased to return to a higher state of civilization;
while the terrible heats of summer, at this latter place, would be
agreeably exchanged for the dry, healthy climate of Tien-tsin. Two or
three gunboats, necessary, under any circumstances, for the protection
of our commerce in the gulf and river, would also serve as an adequate
and efficient support to our diplomacy. We might thus hope to achieve
all the advantages to be derived from a residence at Pekin, without any
of its inconveniences; and while leaving the prestige of the Imperial
government comparatively uninjured, pave the way for the assimilation of
our diplomatic relations with China to those of other countries.

Whether this be the course ultimately adopted or not, one thing is
certain,—that Tien-tsin is the key of the position. All military and
diplomatic action must, for the present, be alike centred upon it; and
if a campaign in this quarter becomes necessary, we have little doubt
that it will terminate within two months, in a treaty embracing larger
concessions, based upon broader principles, and ensuring a more durable
peace than that signed by Sir Henry Pottinger in 1842, after a bloody and
expensive war, which extended along the whole southern seaboard of China,
and was protracted over a period of two years.




Little Scholars.


Yesterday morning, as I was walking up a street in Pimlico, I came upon a
crowd of little persons issuing from a narrow alley. Ever so many little
people there were streaming through a wicket; running children, shouting
children, loitering children, chattering children, and children spinning
tops by the way, so that the whole street was awakened by the pleasant
childish clatter. As I stand for an instant to see the procession go
by, one little girl pops me an impromptu curtsey, at which another from
a distant quarter, not behindhand in politeness, pops me another; and
presently quite an irregular little volley of curtseyings goes off in
every direction. Then I blandly inquire if school is over? and if there
is anybody left in the house? A little brown-eyes nods her head, and
says, “There’s a great many people left in the house.” And so there are,
sure enough, as I find when I get in.

Down a narrow yard, with the workshops on one side and the schools on the
other, in at a little door which leads into a big room where there are
rafters, maps hanging on the walls, and remarks in immense letters, such
as, “COFFEE IS GOOD FOR MY BREAKFAST,” and pictures of useful things,
with the well-thumbed story underneath; a stove in the middle of the
room; a paper hanging up on the door with the names of the teachers; and
everywhere wooden benches and tables, made low and small for little legs
and arms.

Well, the schoolroom is quite empty and silent now, and the little
turmoil has poured eagerly out at the door. It is twelve o’clock, the sun
is shining in the court, and something better than schooling is going on
in the kitchen yonder. Who cares now where coffee comes from? or which
are the chief cities in Europe? or in what year Stephen came to the
throne? For is not twelve o’clock dinner-time with all sensible people?
and what periods of history, what future aspirations, what distant events
are as important to us—grown-up folks, and children, too—as this pleasant
daily recurring one?

The kind, motherly schoolmistress who brought me in, tells me, that
for a shilling, half-a-dozen little boys and girls can be treated to
a wholesome meal. I wonder if it smells as good to them as it does to
me, when I pull my shilling out of my pocket. The food costs more than
twopence, but there is a fund to which people subscribe, and, with its
help, the kitchen cooks all through the winter months.

All the children seem very fond of the good Mrs. K——. As we leave the
schoolroom, one little thing comes up crying, and clinging to her, “A boy
has been and ’it me!” But when the mistress says, “Well, never mind, you
shall have your dinner,” the child is instantly consoled; “and you, and
you, and you,” she continues; but this selection is too heartrending; and
with the help of another lucky shilling, nobody present is left out. I
remember particularly a lank child, with great black eyes and fuzzy hair,
and a pinched grey face, who stood leaning against a wall in the sun:
once, in the Pontine Marshes, years ago, I remember seeing such another
figure. “That poor thing is seventeen,” says Mrs. K——. “She sometimes
loiters here all day long; she has no mother: and she often comes and
tells me her father is so drunk she dare not go home. I always give her a
dinner when I can. This is the kitchen.”

The kitchen is a delightful little clean-scrubbed place, with rice
pudding baking in the oven, and a young mistress, and a big girl, busy
bringing in great caldrons full of the mutton broth I have been scenting
all this time. It is a fresh, honest, hungry smell, quite different from
that unwholesome compound of fry and sauce, and hot, pungent spice, and
stew and mess, which comes steaming up, some seven hours later, into
our dining-rooms, from the reeking kitchens below. Here a poor woman
is waiting, with a jug, and a round-eyed baby. The mistress tells me
the people in the neighbourhood are too glad to buy what is left of the
children’s dinner. “Look what good stuff it is,” says Mrs. K——, and she
shows me a bowl full of the jelly, to which it turns when cold. As the
two girls come stepping through the sunny doorway, with the smoking jar
between them, I think Mr. Millais might make a pretty picture of the
little scene; but my attention is suddenly distracted by the round-eyed
baby, who is peering down into the great soup-jug with such wide wide
open eyes, and little hands outstretched—such an eager, happy face,
that it almost made one laugh, and cry too, to see. The baby must be a
favourite, for he is served, and goes off in his mother’s arms, keeping
vigilant watch over the jug, while four or five other jugs and women are
waiting still in the next room. Then into rows of little yellow basins
our mistress pours the broth, and we now go in to see the company in the
dining-hall, waiting for its banquet. Ah me! but it is a pleasanter sight
to see than any company in all the land. Somehow, as the children say
grace, I feel as if there was indeed a blessing on the food: a blessing
which brings colour into these wan cheeks, and strength and warmth into
these wasted little limbs. Meanwhile, the expectant company is growing
rather impatient, and is battering the benches with its spoons, and
tapping neighbouring heads as well. There goes a little guest, scrambling
from his place across the room and back again. So many are here to-day,
that they have not all got seats. I see the wan girl still standing
against the wall, and there is her brother—a sociable little fellow, all
dressed in corduroys—who is making funny faces at me across the room,
at which some other little boys burst out laughing. But the infants
on the dolls’-benches, at the other end, are the best fun. There they
are—three, four, five years old—whispering and chattering, and tumbling
over one another. Sometimes one infant falls suddenly forward, with its
nose upon the table, and stops there quite contentedly; sometimes another
disappears entirely under the legs, and is tugged up by its neighbours. A
certain number of the infants have their dinner every day, the mistress
tells me. Mrs. —— has said so, and hers is the kind hand which has
provided for all these young ones; while a same kind heart has schemed
how to shelter, to feed, to clothe, to teach, the greatest number of
these hungry, and cold, and neglected little children.

As I am replying to the advances of my young friend in the corduroys, I
suddenly hear a cry “Ooo! ooo! ooo!—noo spoons—noo spoons—ooo! ooo! ooo!”
and all the little hands stretch out eagerly as one of the big girls goes
by with a paper of shining metal spoons. By this time the basins of soup
are travelling round, with hunches of home-made bread. “The infants are
to have pudding first,” says the mistress, coming forward; and, in a few
minutes more, all the little birds are busy pecking at their bread and
pudding, of which they take up very small mouthfuls, in very big spoons,
and let a good deal slobber down over their pinafores.

One little curly-haired boy, with a very grave face, was eating pudding
very slowly and solemnly—so I said to him:

“Do you like pudding best?”

_Little Boy._ “Isss.”

“And can you read?”

_Little Boy._ “Isss.”

“And write?”

_Little Boy._ “Isss.”

“And have you got a sister?”

_Little Boy._ “Isss.”

“And does she wash your face so nicely?”

_Little Boy, extra solemn._ “No, see is wite a little girl; see is on’y
four year old.”

“And how old are you?”

_Little Boy, with great dignity._ “_I_ am fi’ year old.”

Then he told me Mrs. Willis “wassed” his face, and he brought his sister
to school.

“Where _is_ your sister?” says the mistress, going by.

But four-years was not forthcoming.

“I s’pose see has walt home,” says the child, and goes on with his
pudding.

This little pair are orphans out of the workhouse, Mrs. K—— told me. But
somebody pays Mrs. Willis for their keep.

There was another funny little thing, very small, sitting between two
bigger boys, to whom I said—

“Are you a little boy or a little girl?”

“Little dirl,” says this baby, quite confidently.

“No, you ain’t,” cries the left-hand neighbour, very much excited.

“Yes, she is,” says right-hand neighbour.

And then three or four more join in, each taking a different view of the
question. All this time corduroys is still grinning and making faces in
his corner. I admire his brass buttons, upon which three or four more
children instantly crowd round to look at them. One is a poor little
deformed fellow, to whom buttons would be of very little use. He is in
quite worn and ragged clothes: he looks as pale and thin almost as that
poor girl I first noticed. He has no mother; he and his brother live
alone with their father, who is out all day, and the children have to
do everything for themselves. The young ones here who have no mothers
seem by far the worst off. This little deformed boy, poor as he is,
finds something to give away. Presently I see him scrambling over the
backs of the others, and feeding them with small shreds of meat, which
he takes out of his soup with his grubby little fingers, and which one
little boy, called Thompson, is eating with immense relish. Mrs. K——
here comes up, and says that those who are hungry are to have some more.
Thompson has some more, and so does another rosy little fellow; but the
others have hardly finished what was first given them, and the very
little ones send off their pudding half eaten, and ask for soup. The
mistresses here are quite touchingly kind and thoughtful. I did not hear
a sharp tone. All the children seemed at home, and happy, and gently
dealt with. However cruelly want, and care, and harshness haunt their
own homes, here at least there are only kind words and comfort for these
poor little pilgrims whose toil has begun so early. Mrs. —— told me
once, that often in winter time these children come barefooted through
the snow, and so cold and hungry that they have fallen off their seats
half fainting. We may be sure that such little sufferers—thanks to these
Good Samaritans—will be tenderly picked up and cared for. But, I wonder,
must there always be children in the world hungry and deserted? and will
there never, out of all the abundance of the earth, be enough to spare to
content those who want so little to make them happy?

Mrs. —— came in while I was still at the school, and took me over the
workshops where the elder boys learn to carpenter and carve. Scores
of drawing-rooms in Belgravia are bristling with the pretty little
tables and ornaments these young artificers design. A young man with
a scriptural name superintends the work; the boys are paid for their
labour, and send out red velvet and twisted legs, and wood ornamented
in a hundred devices. There is an industrial class for girls, too. The
best and oldest are taken in, and taught housework, and kitchen-work,
and sewing. Even the fathers and mothers come in for a share of the good
things, and are invited to tea sometimes, and amused in the evening with
magic lanterns, and conjurors, and lecturings. I do not dwell at greater
length upon the industrial part of these schools, because I want to speak
of another very similar institution I went to see another day.

On my way thither I had occasion to go through an old churchyard, full of
graves and sunshine: a quaint old suburban place, with tree-tops and old
brick houses all round about, and ancient windows looking down upon the
quiet tombstones. Some children were playing among the graves, and two
rosy little girls in big bonnets were sitting demurely on a stone, and
grasping two babies that were placidly basking in the sun. The little
girls look up and grin as I go by. I would ask them the way, only I
know they won’t answer, and so I go on, out at an old iron gate, with
a swinging lamp, up “Church Walk” (so it is written), and along a trim
little terrace, to where a maid-of-all-work is scrubbing at her steps.
When I ask the damsel my way to B—— Street, she says she “do-ant know B——
Street, but there’s Little Davis Street round the corner;” and when I
say I’m afraid Little Davis Street is no good to me, she says, “’Tain’t
Gunter’s Row, is it?” So I go off in despair, and after some minutes of
brisk walking, find myself turning up the trim little terrace again,
where the maid-of-all-work is still busy at her steps. This time, as we
have a sort of acquaintance, I tell her that I am looking for a house
where girls are taken in, and educated, and taught to be housemaids.
At which confidence she brightens up, and says, “There’s a ’ouse round
the-ar with somethink wrote on the door, jest where the little boy’s
a-trundlin’ of his ’oop.”

And so, sure enough, following the hoop, I come to an old-fashioned house
in a courtyard, and ring at a wooden door on which “Girls’ Industrial
Schools” is painted up in white letters.

A little industrious girl, in a lilac pinafore, let me in, with a curtsey.

“May I come in and see the place?” say I.

“Please, yes,” says she (another curtsey). “Please, what name?—please,
walk this way.”

“This way” leads through the court, where clothes are hanging on lines,
into a little office-room, where my guide leaves me, with yet another
little curtsey. In a minute the mistress comes out from the inner room.
She is a kind smiling young woman, with a fresh face and a pleasant
manner. She takes me in, and I see a dozen more girls in lilac pinafores
reading round a deal table. They look mostly about thirteen or fourteen
years old. I ask if this is all the school.

“No, not all,” the mistress says, counting, “some are in the laundry,
and some are not at home. When they are old enough, they go out into
the neighbourhood to help to wash, or cook, or what not. Go on, girls!”
and the girls instantly begin to read again, and the mistress, opening
a door, brings us out into the passage. “We have room for twenty-two,”
says the little mistress; “and we dress them, and feed them, and teach
them as well as we can. On week-days they wear anything we can find for
them, but they have very nice frocks on Sundays. I never leave them; I
sit with them, and sleep among them, and walk with them; they are always
friendly and affectionate to me and among themselves, and are very good
companions.”

In answer to my questions, she said that most of the children were put in
by friends who paid half-a-crown a week for them, sometimes the parents
themselves, but they could rarely afford it. That besides this, and what
the girls could earn, 200_l._ a year is required for the rent of the
house and expenses. “It has always been made up,” says the mistress, “but
we can’t help being very anxious at times, as we have nothing certain,
nor any regular subscriptions. Won’t you see the laundry?” she adds,
opening a door.

In the laundry is a steam, and a clatter, and irons, and linen, and a
little mangle, turned by two little girls, while two or three more are
busy ironing under the superintendence of a washerwoman with tucked-up
sleeves; piles of shirt-collars and handkerchiefs and linen are lying on
the shelves, shirts and clothes are hanging on lines across the room. The
little girls don’t stop, but go on busily.

“Where is Mary Anne?” says the mistress, with a little conscious pride.

“There she is, mum,” says the washerwoman, and Mary Anne steps out
blushing from behind the mangle, with a hot iron in her hand and a
hanging head.

“Mary Anne is our chief laundry-maid,” says the mistress, as we come out
into the hall again. “For the first year I could make nothing of her; she
was miserable in the kitchen, she couldn’t bear housework, she wouldn’t
learn her lessons. In fact, I was quite unhappy about her, till one day I
set her to ironing; she took to it instantly, and has been quite cheerful
and busy ever since.”

So leaving Mary Anne to her vocation in life, we went up-stairs to the
dormitories. The first floor is let to a lady, and one of the girls is
chosen to wait upon her; the second floor is where they sleep, in fresh
light rooms with open windows and sweet spring breezes blowing in across
gardens and courtyards. The place was delightfully trim, and fresh, and
peaceful; the little gray-coated beds stood in rows, with a basket at the
foot of each, and texts were hanging up on the wall. In the next room
stood a wardrobe full of the girls’ Sunday clothes, of which one of them
keeps the key; after this came the mistress’s own room, as fresh and
light and well kept as the rest.

These little maidens scrub, and cook, and wash, and sew. They make broth
for the poor, and puddings. They are taught to read and write and count,
and they learn geography and history as well. Many of them come from
dark unwholesome alleys in the neighbourhood—from a dreary country of
dirt and crime and foul talk. In this little convent all is fresh and
pure, and the sunshine pours in at every window. I don’t know that the
life is very exciting there, or that the days spent at the mangle, or
round the deal table, can be very stirring ones. But surely they are well
spent, learning useful arts, and order, and modesty, and cleanliness.
Think of the cellars and slums from which these children come, and of
the quiet little haven where they are fitted for the struggle of life,
and are taught to be good, and industrious, and sober, and honest. It is
only for a year or two, and then they will go out into the world again;
into a world indeed of which we know but little—a world of cooks and
kitchen-maids and general servants. I daresay these little industrious
girls, sitting round that table and spelling out the Gospel of St. John
this sunny afternoon, are longing and wistfully thinking about that
wondrous coming time. Meanwhile the quiet hour goes by. I say farewell
to the kind, smiling mistress; Mary Anne is still busy among her irons; I
hear the mangle click as I pass, and the wooden door opens to let me out.

In another old house, standing in a deserted old square near the City,
there is a school which interested me as much as any of those I have come
across—a school for little Jewish boys and girls. We find a tranquil
roomy old house with light windows, looking out into the quiet square
with its ancient garden; a carved staircase; a little hall paved with
black and white mosaic, whence two doors lead respectively to the Boys’
and Girls’ schools. Presently a little girl unlocks one of these doors,
and runs up before us into the schoolroom—a long well-lighted room full
of other little girls busy at their desks: little Hebrew maidens with
Oriental faces, who look up at us as we come in. This is always rather
an alarming moment; but Dr. ——, who knows the children, comes kindly to
our help, and begins to tell us about the school. “It is an experiment,”
he says, “and one which has answered admirably well. Any children are
admitted, Christians as well as Jews; and none come without paying
something every week, twopence or threepence, as they can afford, for
many of them belong to the very poorest of the Jewish community. They
receive a very high class of education.” (When I presently see what they
are doing, and hear the questions they can answer, I begin to feel a
very great respect for these little bits of girls in pinafores, and for
the people who are experimenting on them.) “But the chief aim of the
school is to teach them to help themselves, and to inculcate an honest
self-dependence and independence.” And indeed, as I look at them, I
cannot but be struck with a certain air of respectability and uprightness
among these little creatures, as they sit there, so self-possessed,
keen-eyed, well-mannered. “Could you give them a parsing lesson?” the
doctor asks the schoolmistress, who shakes her head, and says it is their
day for arithmetic, and she may not interrupt the order of their studies;
but that they may answer any questions the doctor likes to put to them.

Quite little things, with their hair in curls, can tell you about tons
and hundredweights, and how many horses it would take to draw a ton, and
how many little girls to draw two-thirds of a ton, if so many little
girls went to a horse; and if a horse were added, or a horse taken away,
or two-eighths of the little girls, or three-fourths of the horse, or
one-sixth of the ton,—until the room begins to spin breathlessly round
and round, and I am left ever so far behindhand.

“Is _avoirdupois_ an English word?” Up goes a little hand, with fingers
working eagerly, and a pretty little creature, with long black hair and a
necklace, cries out that it is French, and means, _have weight_.

Then the doctor asks about early English history, and the hands still go
up, and they know all about it; and so they do about civilization, and
despotism, and charters, and Picts and Scots, and dynasties, and early
lawgivers, and colonization, and reformation.

“Who was Martin Luther? Why did he leave the Catholic Church? What were
indulgences?”

“You gave the Pope lots of money, sir, and he gave you dispensations.”
This was from our little portress.

There was another little shrimp of a thing, with wonderful, long-slit,
flashing eyes, who could answer anything almost, and whom the other
little girls accordingly brought forward in triumph from a back row.

“Give me an instance of a free country?” asks the tired questioner.

“England, sir!” cry the little girls in a shout.

“And now of a country which is not free.”

“America,” cry two little voices; and then one adds, “Because there are
slaves, sir.” “And France,” says a third; “and we have seen the emperor
in the picture-shops.”

As I listen to them, I cannot help wishing that many of our little
Christians were taught to be as independent and self-respecting in their
dealings with the grown-up people who come to look at them. One would
fancy that servility was a sacred institution, we cling to it so fondly.
We seem to expect an absurd amount of respect from our inferiors; we are
ready to pay back just as much to those above us in station: and hence
I think, notwithstanding all the kindness of heart, all the well-meant
and well-spent exertion we see in the world, there is often too great an
inequality between those who teach and those who would learn, those who
give and those whose harder part it is to receive.

We were quite sorry at last when the doctor made a little bow, and said,
“Good morning, young ladies,” quite politely, to his pupils. It was too
late to stop and talk to the little boys down below, but we went for a
minute into an inner room out of the large boys’ schoolroom, and there we
found half-a-dozen little men, with their hats on their heads, sitting on
their benches, reading the _Psalms_ in Hebrew; and so we stood, for this
minute before we came away, listening to David’s words spoken in David’s
tongue, and ringing rather sadly in the boys’ touching childish voice.

But this is not by any means the principal school which the Jews
have established in London. Deep in the heart of the City—beyond St.
Paul’s—beyond the Cattle Market, with its countless pens—beyond Finsbury
Square, and the narrow Barbican, travelling on through a dirty, close,
thickly peopled region, you come to Bell Lane, in Spitalfields. And here
you may step in at a door and suddenly find yourself in a wonderful
country, in the midst of an unknown people, in a great hall sounding with
the voices of hundreds of Jewish children. I know not if it is always so,
or if this great assemblage is only temporary, during the preparation for
the Passover, but all along the sides of this great room were curtained
divisions, and classes sitting divided, busy at their tasks, and children
upon children as far as you could see; and somehow as you look you almost
see, not these children only, but their forefathers, the Children of
Israel, camping in their tents, as they camped at Succoth, when they
fled out of the land of Egypt and the house of bondage. Some of these
here present to-day are still flying from the house of bondage; many of
them are the children of Poles, and Russians, and Hungarians, who have
escaped over here to avoid conscription, and who arrive destitute and in
great misery. But to be friendless, and in want, and poverty-stricken, is
the best recommendation for admission to this noble charity. And here, as
elsewhere, any one who comes to the door is taken in, Christian as well
as Jew.

I have before me now the Report for the year 5619 (1858), during which
1,800 children have come to these schools daily. 10,000 in all have
been admitted since the foundation of the school. The working alone of
the establishment—salaries, repairs, books, laundresses, &c.—amounts to
more than 2,000_l._ a year. Of this a very considerable portion goes in
salaries to its officers, of whom I count more than fifty in the first
page of the pamphlet. “12_l._ to a man for washing boys,” is surely
well-spent money; “3_l._ to a beadle; 14_l._ for brooms and brushes;
1_l._ 19_s._ 6_d._ for repair of clocks,” are among the items. The annual
subscriptions are under 500_l._, and the very existence of the place (so
says the Report) depends on voluntary offerings at the anniversary. That
some of these gifts come in with splendid generosity, I need scarcely
say. Clothing for the whole school arrives at Easter once a year, and I
saw great bales of boots for the boys waiting to be unpacked in their
schoolroom. Tailors and shoemakers come and take measurings beforehand,
so that everybody gets his own. To-day these artists having retired,
carpenters and bricklayers are at work all about the place, and the great
boys’ school, which is larger still than the girls’, is necessarily
empty,—except that a group of teachers and monitors are standing in one
corner talking and whispering together. The head master, with a black
beard, comes down from a high desk in an inner room, and tells us about
the place—about the cleverness of the children, and the scholarship
lately founded; how well many of the boys turn out in after life, and for
what good positions they are fitted by the education they are able to
receive here;—“though Jews,” he said, “are debarred by their religious
requirements from two-thirds of the employments which Christians are able
to fill. Masters cannot afford to employ workmen who can only give their
time from Monday to Friday afternoon. There are, therefore, only a very
limited number of occupations open to us. Some of our boys rise to be
ministers, and many become teachers here, in which case Government allows
them a certain portion of their salary.”

The head mistress in the girls’ school was not less kind and ready to
answer our questions. During the winter mornings, hot bread-and-milk are
given out to any girl who chooses to ask for it, but only about a hundred
come forward, of the very hungriest and poorest. When we came away from
—— Square a day before, we had begun to think that all poor Jews were
well and warmly clad, and had time to curl their hair and to look clean,
and prosperous, and respectable, but here, alas! comes the old story of
want, and sorrow, and neglect. What are these brown, lean, wan little
figures, in loose gowns falling from their shoulders—black eyes, fuzzy,
unkempt hair, strange bead necklaces round their throats, and ear-rings
in their ears? I fancied these must be the Poles and Russians, but when
I spoke to one of them she smiled and answered very nicely, in perfectly
good English, and told me she liked writing best of all, and showed me a
copy very neat, even, and legible.

Whole classes seemed busy sewing at lilac pinafores, which are, I
suppose, a great national institution; others were ciphering and calling
out the figures as the mistress chalked the sum upon a slate. Hebrew
alphabets and sentences were hanging up upon the walls. All these little
Hebrew maidens learn the language of their nation.

In the infant-school, a very fat little pouting baby, with dark eyes,
and a little hook-nose and curly locks, and a blue necklace and funny
ear-rings in her little rosy ears, came forward, grasping one of the
mistresses’ fingers.

“This is a good little girl,” said that lady, “who knows her alphabet in
Hebrew and in English.”

And the little girl looks up very solemn, as children do, to whom
everything is of vast importance, and each little incident a great new
fact. The infant-schools do not make part of the Bell Lane Establishment,
though they are connected with it, and the children, as they grow up, and
are infants no longer, draft off into the great free-school.

The infant-school is a light new building close by, with arcaded
playgrounds, and plenty of light, and air, and freshness, though it
stands in this dreary, grimy region. As we come into the schoolrooms
we find, piled up on steps at either end, great living heaps of little
infants, swaying, kicking, shouting for their dinner, beating aimlessly
about with little legs and arms. Little Jew babies are uncommonly like
little Christians; just as funny, as hungry, as helpless, and happy now
that the bowls of food come steaming in. One, two, three, four, five
little cook-boys, in white jackets, and caps, and aprons, appear in
a line, with trays upon their heads, like the processions out of the
Arabian Nights; and as each cook-boy appears, the children cheer, and the
potatoes steam hotter and hotter, and the mistresses begin to ladle them
out.

Rice and browned potatoes is the manna given twice a week to these hungry
little Israelites. I rather wish for the soup and pudding certain small
Christians are gobbling up just about this time in another corner of
London; but this is but a halfpenny-worth, while the other meal costs a
penny. You may count by hundreds here instead of by tens; and I don’t
think there would be so much shouting at the little cook-boys if these
hungry little beaks were not eager for their food. I was introduced to
one little boy here, who seemed to be very much looked up to by his
companions because he had one long curl right along the top of his head.
As we were busy talking to him, a number of little things sitting on the
floor were busy stroking and feeling with little gentle fingers the soft
edges of a coat one of us had on, and the silk dress of a lady who was
present.

The lady who takes chief charge of these 400 babies told us how the
mothers as well as the children got assistance here in many ways,
sometimes coming for advice, sometimes for small loans of money, which
they always faithfully repay. She also showed us letters from some of
the boys who have left and prospered in life. One from a youth who has
lately been elected alderman in some distant colony. She took us into a
classroom and gave a lesson to some twenty little creatures, while, as it
seemed to me, all the 380 others were tapping at the door, and begging
to be let in. It was an object-, and then a scripture-lesson, and given
with the help of old familiar pictures. There was Abraham with his beard,
and Isaac and the ram, hanging up against the wall; there was Moses,
and the Egyptians, and Joseph, and the sack and the brethren, somewhat
out of drawing. All these old friends gave one quite a homely feeling,
and seemed to hold out friendly hands to us strangers and Philistines,
standing within the gates of the chosen people.

Before we came away the mistress opened a door and showed us one of
the prettiest and most touching sights I have ever seen. It was the
arcaded playground full of happy, shouting, tumbling, scrambling little
creatures: little tumbled-down ones kicking and shouting on the ground,
absurd toddling races going on, whole files of little things wandering
up and down with their arms round one another’s necks: a happy, friendly
little multitude indeed: a sight good for sore eyes.

And so I suppose people of all nations and religions love and tend their
little ones, and watch and yearn over them. I have seen little Catholics
cared for by kind nuns with wistful tenderness, as the young ones came
clinging to their black veils and playing with their chaplets;—little
high-church maidens growing up rosy and happy amid crosses and mediæval
texts, and chants, and dinners of fish, and kind and melancholy ladies
in close caps and loose-cut dresses;—little low-church children smiling
and dropping curtseys as they see the Rev. Mr. Faith-in-grace coming up
the lane with tracts in his big pockets about pious negroes, and broken
vessels, and devouring worms, and I daresay pennies and sugar-plums as
well.

Who has not seen and noted these things, and blessed with a thankful,
humble heart that fatherly Providence which has sent this pure and tender
religion of little children to all creeds and to all the world?




The Carver’s Lesson.


    Trust me, no mere skill of subtle tracery,
      No mere practice of a dexterous hand,
    Will suffice, without a hidden spirit,
      That we may, or may not, understand.

    And those quaint old fragments that are left us
      Have their power in this,—the Carver brought
    Earnest care, and reverent patience, only
      Worthily to clothe some noble thought.

    Shut, then, in the petals of the flowers,
      Round the stems of all the lilies twine,
    Hide beneath each bird’s or angel’s pinion,
      Some wise meaning or some thought divine.

    Place in stony hands that pray for ever
      Tender words of peace, and strive to wind
    Round the leafy scrolls and fretted niches
      Some true, loving message to your kind.

    Some will praise, some blame, and, soon forgetting,
      Come and go, nor even pause to gaze;
    Only now and then a passing stranger
      Just may loiter with a word of praise.

    But, I think, when years have floated onward,
      And the stone is gray, and dim, and old,
    And the hand forgotten that has carved it,
      And the heart that dreamt it still and cold:

    There may come some weary soul, o’erladen
      With perplexed struggle in his brain,
    Or, it may be, fretted with life’s turmoil,
      Or made sore with some perpetual pain.

    Then, I think, those stony hands will open,
      And the gentle lilies overflow,
    With the blessing and the loving token
      That you hid there many years ago.

    And the tendrils will unroll, and teach him
      How to solve the problem of his pain;
    And the birds’ and angels’ wings shake downward
      On his heart a sweet and tender rain.

    While he marvels at his fancy, reading
      Meaning in that quaint and ancient scroll,
    Little guessing that the loving Carver
      Left a message for his weary soul.

                                            A. A. P.




William Hogarth:

PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER.

_Essays on the Man, the Work, and the Time._


IV.—THE PAINTER’S PROGRESS.

About the year of grace 1727 the world began to hear of William Hogarth,
not only as a designer and engraver of pasquinades and book-plates,
but as a painter in oils. He had even begun to know what patronage
was; and it was, doubtless, not without a reason that his _Hudibras_
series was dedicated to “William Ward, Esquire, of Great Houghton,
Northamptonshire.” In his early heraldic days, I find that he was once
called upon to engrave an “Apollo in all his glory, azure.” He probably
copied the figure from some French print; but in 1724 he was hard at work
copying Apollo, and Marsyas to boot, at Thornhill’s Academy. Although he
was sensible enough not to neglect the cultivation of the main chance,
and with all convenient speed betook himself to the profitable vocation
of portraiture or “face painting;” obtaining almost immediately, from
his connection with the king’s sergeant painter, some aristocratic
commissions—it is curious to observe that the young man’s bent lay in
the direction of the historico-allegorical, then running neck-and-neck
with the upholstery style of adornment. He had the epic-fever. Who
among us has not suffered from that _fièvre brulante_—that generous
malady of youth? How many contented sub-editors and quiet booksellers’
readers do we not know, who, in their hot adolescence, came to town,
their portmanteaus bursting with the “Somethingiad,” in twenty-four
cantos, or with blank-verse tragedies running to the orthodox five acts?
Stipple, the charming domestic painter; Jonquil, who limns flowers
and fruits so exquisitely, commenced with their enormous cartoons
and show-clock oil-pictures: “Orestes pursued by the Eumenides,”
“Departure of Regulus,”—_la vieille patraque_, in short—the old, heroic,
impossible undertakings. And did not Liston imagine that he was born
to play _Macbeth_? and did not Douglas Jerrold project a treatise on
Natural Philosophy? and where is the little boarding-school miss that
has not dreamt of riding in a carriage with a coronet on the panels,
and being called her ladyship? Amina thinks the grandiloquent music of
_Norma_ would suit her; the maiden speech of young Quintus Briscus is
a tremendous outburst against ministers. Quintus is going to shake the
country, and cut the Gordian knot of red-tape. The session after next he
will be a junior Lord of the Treasury, the demurest and most complacent
of placemen. Peers, politicians, pamphleteers, and players: we all find
our level. Rolling about the board is not to be tolerated for any length
of time: we _must_ peg in somewhere, and happy the man who finds himself
in the right hole, and is satisfied with that state of life into which it
has pleased heaven to call him!

Hogarth has his _fièvre brulante_; and, although he painted portraits,
“conversations,” and “assemblies,” to eke out that livelihood of which
the chief source was the employment given him by Philip Overton,
Black-Horse Bowles, and the booksellers, he continued to hanker after
torsos, and flying trumpets, and wide-waving wings, and flaunting
drapery, and the other paraphernalia that went to furnish forth the
apotheoses of monarchs and warriors in full-bottomed wigs. This
preposterous school of art has long been in hopeless decay. You see the
phantom caricature of it, only, in hair-dressers’ “toilette saloons” and
provincial music-halls. Timon’s villa—the futile, costly caprice—has
vanished. Old Montagu House is no more. Doctor Misaubin’s house, in St.
Martin’s Lane, the staircase painted by Clermont (the Frenchman asked
a thousand, and actually received five hundred guineas for his work),
is not within my ken. Examples of this florid, truculent style, are
becoming rarer and rarer every day. Painted ceilings and staircases
yet linger in some grand old half-deserted country mansions, and in a
few erst gorgeous merchants’ houses in Fenchurch and Leadenhall, now
let out in flats as offices and chambers. If you have no objection to
hazard a crick in your neck, you may crane it, and stare upwards at the
ceil-paintings at Marlborough House, in Greenwich Hall, and on Hampton
Court Palace staircase. The rest has ceded before stucco and stencilled
paper-hangings; and even the French, who never neglect an opportunity
or an excuse for ornamentation, and who still occasionally paint the
ceilings of their palaces, seem to have quite lost the old Lebrun and
Coypel traditions of perspective and foreshortening—overcharged and
unnatural as they were (P. P. Rubens, in the Banqueting House, Whitehall,
inventor)—and merely give you a picture stuck upon a rooftree, in which
the figures are attenuated vertically, instead of sprawling down upon
you, isometrically upside down.

Hogarth became useful to Sir James Thornhill. This last, a worthy,
somewhat pompous, but industrious magnifico of the moment, a Covent
Garden Caravaggio and cross between Raphael Mengs and the Groom-porter,
had wit enough to discern the young designer and graver’s capacity,
and condescended to patronize him. There is reason to believe that he
employed William to assist in the production of his roomy works. When
ceilings and domes were to be painted at two guineas the Flemish ell, it
is not likely that Royal Sergeant painters and knights of the shire for
Melcombe Regis could afford or would vouchsafe to cover with pigments and
with their own courtly hands the whole of the required area. The vulgar,
of course, imagined that the painter did all; that Thornhill lay for
ever stretched on a mattress, swinging in a basket three hundred feet
high in the empyrean of Wren’s dome, daubing away at his immense Peters
and Pauls, or else stepping backwards to the edge of a crazy platform to
contemplate the work he had done, and being within an ace of toppling
over to inevitable crash of death beneath, when an astute colour-grinder
saved his beloved master by flinging a brush at Paul’s great toe—cruel to
be kind, and so causing the artist, in indignant apprehension of injury
to his beloved saint, to rush forward, saving his own life and the toe
likewise. A pretty parallel to this story is in that of the little boy
in the Greek epigram who has crawled to the very edge of a precipice,
and is attracted from his danger by the sight of his mother’s breast. A
neat little anecdote, but—it is somewhat musty. It is a myth, I fear. The
vulgar love such terse traditions. Zeuxis refusing to sell his pictures,
because no sum of money was sufficient to buy them, and imitating fruit
so nicely that the birds came and pecked at it; Parrhasius cozening
Zeuxis into the belief that his simulated curtain was real, and
crucifying a bondman (the wretch!) that he might transfer his contortions
to canvas; Apelles inducing a horse to neigh in recognition of the steed
he had drawn; Amurath teaching a French painter how properly to design
the contracted muscles of the neck when the head is severed from the
body by causing a slave to be decapitated in his presence: Correggio
receiving the price of his master-work in farthings, or some vile copper
Italian coinage, and dying under the weight of the sack in which he was
carrying the sordid wage home; Cimabue ruddling the fleeces of his lambs
with saintly triptichs, and the late Mr. Fuseli eating raw pork-chops for
supper in order to design the “Nightmare,” more to the life: all these
are _ben trovati_,—_ma non son veri_, I suspect.

Thornhill had not all his domes and ceilings and staircases to himself.
When Augustus found Rome of brick and left it of marble, he did not
execute all the quarrying and chiselling with his own imperial hands.
In 1727, the painter M.P. for Melcombe Regis was at the high tide of
celebrity. Many of the Flemish ells were covered by assistants. Here, I
fancy, Van Shackaback of Little Britain, and sometime of Ghent in the Low
Countries, was dexterous at war and art trophies, lyres, kettle-drums,
laurel wreaths, bass-viols, and S. P. Q. R.’s, charmingly heaped up on a
solid basis of cloud. Then little Vanderscamp, who had even been employed
about the great king’s alcoves at Versailles, was wondrous cunning at the
confection of those same purple and cream-coloured vapours. Lean Monsieur
Carogne from Paris excelled in drapery; Gianbattista Ravioli, ex-history
painter to the Seigniory of Venice, but vehemently suspected of having
been a galley-slave in the Venetian arsenal, was unrivalled in flying
Cupids. All these foreign aides-de-camp sprawled on their mattresses and
made their fancy’s children to sprawl; goodman Thornhill superintending,
touching up now and then, blaming, praising, pooh-poohing, talking of the
gusto, taking snuff, then putting on his majestic wig and his grand laced
hat, and departing in a serene manner in his coach to St. James’s or the
House, thinking perhaps of one Rafaelle who painted the _loggie_ and
_stanze_ of the Vatican, and of what a clever fellow he, James Thornhill,
was.

To him presently entered young Hogarth. The indulgence of William’s
own caustic whim had served an end he may not have recked of. He had
contrived to pay Thornhill the most acceptable compliment that can be
paid to a vain, shallow, pompous man. He had lampooned and degraded his
rival. He had pilloried Kent in the parody of the wretched St. Clement
Danes’ altar-piece, and had had a fling at him, besides, in _Burlington
Gate_, where in sly ridicule of the earl’s infatuation for this Figaro of
art, Kent’s effigy is placed on a pinnacle above the statues of Rafaelle
and Michael Angelo. It is a capital thing to have a friend in court with
a sharp tongue, or better still, with a sharp pen or pencil, who will
defend you, and satirize your enemies. The watch-dog Tearem at home, to
defend the treasure-chest, is all very well in his way; but the wealthy
worldling should also entertain Snarler, the bull-terrier, to bite and
snap at people’s heels. Not that for one moment I would insinuate that
Hogarth strove at all unworthily to toady or to curry favour with Sir
James Thornhill. The sturdiness and independence of the former are
visible in his very first etching. The acorn does not grow up to be
a parasite. But Hogarth’s poignant humour happened to tally with the
knight’s little malices. Hogarth, there is reason to assume, believed in
Thornhill more than he believed in Kent. The first, at least, could work,
was a fair draughtsman, and a not contemptible painter, albeit his colour
was garish, his conception preposterous, his execution loaded and heavy.
He showed at all events a genuine interest in, and love for that art, in
which he might not himself have excelled. Kent was a sheer meretricious
impostor and art-manufacturing quack, and Hogarth was aware of him at
once, and so scarified him. Moreover, a young man can scarcely—till
his wisdom-teeth be cut—avoid drifting temporarily into some clique or
another. Cibber must have had his admirers, who mauled Pope prettily
among themselves; and moreover, Sir James Thornhill, knight, sergeant
painter, and M.P., had a DAUGHTER—one mistress Jane—but I am forestalling
matters again.

Although it is difficult to imagine anything more confused,
misunderstood, and hampered with rags and tatters of ignorance, or—worse
than ignorance-false taste, than was English Art in 1727, Cimmerian
darkness did not wholly reign. There were men alive who had heard their
fathers tell of the glories of Charles the First’s gallery at Whitehall;
there were some princely English nobles, then as now patrons and
collectors; there were treasures of art in England, although no Waagen,
no Jameson, had arisen to describe them, and there were amateurs to
appreciate those treasures. The young peer who went the grand tour took
something else abroad with him besides a negro-boy, a tipsy chaplain,
and a pug-dog. He brought other things home beyond a broken-nosed busto,
a rusted medal, a receipt for cooking _risotto_ and the portrait of
a Roman beggar and a Venetian _corteggiana_. He frequently acquired
exquisite gems of painting and statuary abroad, and on his return formed
a noble gallery of art. It is unfortunately true that his lordship
sometimes played deep at “White’s” or the “Young Man’s,” and, losing
all, was compelled to send his pictures to the auction room; but even
then his treasures were disseminated, and wise and tasteful men were the
purchasers. To their credit, the few celebrated artists then possessed by
our country were assiduous gatherers in this field. Sir Godfrey Kneller
collected Vandykes. Richardson the elder, a pleasing painter, whose
daughter married Hudson, Sir Joshua Reynolds’s master, left Rafaelle
and Andrea del Sarto drawings, worth a large sum.[1] Jervas, Pope’s
friend, and by that polished, partial man artistically much overrated,
being at the best but a weak, diaphanous, grimacing enlarger of fans
and firescreens, became rich enough to form a handsome cabinet of
paintings, drawings, and engravings. We are apt to bear much too hardly
on the patron-lords and gentlemen of the eighteenth century. Many were
munificent, enlightened, and accomplished; but we devour the piquant
satires on Timon and Curio and Bubo, and have patron and insolence,
patron and ignorance, patron and neglect, patron and gaol, too glibly
at our tongue’s end. Is it not to be wished that thinking people should
bear _this_ in mind: that not only were there strong men who lived
_before_ Agamemnon, but that there were strong men who lived _besides_
Agamemnon—his contemporaries, in fine, to whom posterity has not been
generous, not even just, and whose strength has been forgotten?

The earliest known picture of William Hogarth is one called the
_Wanstead Assembly_, long, and by a ridiculous blunder, corrupted
into “Wandsworth.” The term “Assembly” was a little bit of art-slang.
A portrait being a portrait, and a “conversation” a group of persons
generally belonging to one family; by an “assembly” was understood a kind
of pictorial rent-roll, or domestic “achievement,” representing the
lord, or the squire, the ladies and children, the secretaries, chaplains,
pensioned poets, led-captains, body-flatterers, hangers-on, needy
clients, lick-trenchers, and scrape-plates, the governesses and tutors,
the tenants, the lacqueys, the black-boys, the monkeys, and the lapdogs:
_tutta la baracca_, in fact. In the _Wanstead Assembly_ was a portrait
of the first Earl Tylney, and many of his vassals and dependants; and
shortly after the completion of the picture, Mitchell, for whose opera of
_The Highland Clans_ Hogarth designed a frontispiece, complimented the
artist on his performance in smooth couplets:—

    “Large families obey your hand,
    Assemblies rise at your command.”

It was William’s frequent fortune during life to be much celebrated
in verse. Swift, you know, apostrophized him as “hum’rous Hogart;”
Mitchell, as we have seen, lauds his “families” and “assemblies.” Shortly
afterwards, the tender and graceful Vincent Bourne, who wrote the
_Jackdaw_, and whose innocent memory as “Vinny Bourne” is yet cherished
in Westminster School, where he was junior master, addressed the painter
in Latin “hendecasyllables.” Hoadley, chancellor and bishop, spurred a
clumsy Pegasus to paraphrase his pictures in verse. Churchill, when he
was old, tried to stab him with an epistle; David Garrick and Samuel
Johnson competed for the honour of writing his epitaph.

Between 1727 and 1730, Hogarth appears to have painted dozens of single
portraits, “conversations,” and “assemblies.” In the list he himself
scheduled are to be noticed “four figures for Mr. Wood” (1728); “six
figures for Mr. Cock” (1728); “an assembly of twenty-five figures for my
Lord Castlemaine” (1729); “five for the Duke of Montagu;” nine for Mr.
Vernon, four for Mr. Wood, and so forth. The prices paid for “Assemblies”
appear to have fluctuated between ten and thirty guineas. The oddest, and
nearly the earliest commission he received for a portrait was in 1726,
when several of the eminent surgeons of the day subscribed their guinea
a-piece for him to compose a burlesque “conversation” of Mary Tofts, the
infamous rabbit-breeding impostor of Godalming; and St. André, chirurgeon
to the King’s household, a highly successful and most impudent quack,
who had made himself very busy in the scandalous hoax, and pretended
to believe in Tofts. For the story that Hogarth made a drawing of Jack
Sheppard in Newgate (1724), at the time when Sir James painted the
robber’s half-length in oils—the imaginary scene is admirably etched by
George Cruikshank in one of his illustrations to Mr. Ainsworth’s strange
novel—there does not seem any foundation. W. H. certainly painted Sarah
Malcolm, the murderess, in her cell, in 1733; and from that well-known
and authenticated fact some persons may have jumped at the conclusion
that he was limner in ordinary to the Old Bailey.

I dwelt persistently in the preceding section of these essays upon
the scenes and characters, the vices and follies, the humours and
eccentricities, the beauties and uglinesses, that Hogarth must have seen
in his young manhood, and asked and thought about, and which must have
sunk into his mind and taken root there. Satirists can owe but little to
inspiration. They can move the world with the lever of wit, but they must
have a fulcrum of fact. Their philosophy is properly of the inductive
order. Without facts, facts to reason upon, their arguments would be
tedious and pointless. Wherein lies the force or direction of satirizing
that Chinese mandarin whom you never saw—that Zulu Kaffir who never came
out of his kraal but once, and then to steal a cow? It was Hogarth’s
faculty to catch the manners living as they rose; it was his province
to watch their rising, and to walk abroad, an early bird, to pick up
the worms of knavery and vice, to range the ample field, and see what
the open and what the covert yielded. From twenty to thirty the social
philosopher must OBSERVE. If he grovel in the mud even, he must observe
and take stock of the humane passer-by who stoops to pick him up. After
thirty he had better go into his study, turn on his lamp, and turn out
the contents of his mind’s commonplace book upon paper. This is the only
valid excuse for what is termed, after a Frenchman’s Quartier-Latin-argot
phrase “Bohemianism:” the only excuse for Fielding’s Covent Garden
escapades, for Callot’s gipsy flights, for Shakspeare’s deer-stealing.
Young Diogenes the cynic is offensive and reprehensible, but he is no
monstrosity. He is going to the deuce, but he may come back again. I will
pardon him his tub, his dingy body-linen, his nails bordered sable; but
the tub-career should have its term, and Diogenes should go and wash,
and if he can afford it, wear fine linen with a purple hem thereunto,
as Plato did. It is pleasanter to walk in the groves of Academe, than
to skulk about the purlieus of the Mint. Besides, Bohemianism has its
pains as well as its pleasures, and Fortune delights in disciplining with
a scourge of scorpions those whom she destines to be great men: _Alla
gioventù molto si perdona_. Cæsar was snatched from the stews of Rome
to conquer the world. But for the middle-aged Bohemian—the old, ragged,
uncleanly, shameful Diogenes—there is no hope and no excuse.

In that which I daresay you thought a mere digression, I strove my best
to guide you through the labyrinthine London, which Hogarth must have
threaded time after time before he could sit down, pencil or graver in
hand, and say, “This is ‘Tom King’s coffee-house,’ this is a ‘modern
midnight conversation,’ this is the ‘progress of a rake,’ and this the
‘career of a courtesan.’ I have seen these things, and I know them to
be true.”[2] Nor in the least do I wish to convey that in ranging the
streets and beating the town Hogarth had any fixed notions of collecting
materials for future melodramas and satires. Eminently to be distrusted
are those persons who prowl about the tents of Kedar, and pry into the
cave of Adullam, when they should be better employed, pleading their
desire to “see life,” and to “pick up character.” They are generally
blind as bats to all living, breathing life; and the only character they
pick up is a bad one for themselves. I apprehend that Hogarth just took
life as it came; only the Light was in him to see and to comprehend. A
right moral feeling, an intuitive hatred of all wicked and cruel things,
guided and strengthened him. Amid the loose life of a loose age the
orgies at Moll King’s and Mother Douglass’s might have been frolics _at
the time_ to him, and only frolics. A fight in a night-cellar was to him
precisely as the yellow primrose was to Peter Bell: a yellow primrose,
and nothing more. He was to be afterwards empowered and commanded to turn
his youthful follies to wise ends, and to lash the vices which he had
once tolerated by his presence.

The philosophic prelude to his work was undoubtedly his town wanderings,
1720-30. The great manipulative skill, the grace of drawing visible when
taken in comparison with the comic excrescences in the _Hudibras_—the
brilliance and harmony of colour he manifested in the _Progresses_ and
the _Marriage à la Mode_—have yet to be accounted for. A lad does not
step at once from the engraving bench to the easel, and handle the hog’s
hair brush with the same skill as he wields the burin and the etching
point. The Hogarthian transition from the first to the second of these
stages is the more remarkable when it is remembered that, although bred
an engraver, and although always quick, dexterous, and vigorous with the
sharp needle and the trenchant blade, he could never thoroughly master
that clear, harmonious, full-bodied stroke in which the French engravers
excelled, in which Hogarth’s own assistants in after life (Ravenet,
Scotin, and Grignion) surpassed him, but which was afterwards, to the
pride and glory of English chalcography, to be brought to perfection by
Woollett and Strange. Yet Hogarth the engraver seemed in 1730 to change
with pantomimic rapidity into Hogarth the painter. The matter of his
pictures may often be questionable: the manner leaves scarcely anything
for exceptional criticism. His colour is deliciously pure and fresh; he
never loads, never spatters paint about with his palette knife; never
lays tint over tint till a figure has as many vests as the gravedigger
in _Hamlet_. Whites, grays, carnations _stand_ in his pictures and defy
time; no uncertain glazings have changed his foregrounds into smears
and streaks and stains. He was great at Manchester in 1857; great at
the British Institution in 1814, when not less than fifty of his works
were exhibited, great in body, richness, transparency; he is great,
nay prodigious, in the English section of the National Gallery, where
gorgeous Sir Joshua, alas! runs and welters and turns into adipocere; and
Gainsborough (in his portraits—his landscapes are as rich as ever)—grows
pallid and threadbare, and Turner’s suns are grimed, and even Wilkie
cracks and tesselates. I think Hogarth came fresh, assured and decided,
to his picture-painting work, from a kind of second apprenticeship under
Thornhill, and from compassing the “conversations” and “assemblies.” The
historico-allegorico-mural decorations were a species of scene-painting;
they involved broad and decisive treatment. The hand learnt perforce to
strike lines and mark-in muscles at once. The maul-stick could seldom be
used, the fluttering wrist, the nerveless grasp were fatal, the eye could
not be performing a perpetual goose-step between canvas and model. Look
at Salvator, at Loutherbourg, at Stanfield, and Roberts, to show what
good a scene-painting noviciate can do in teaching an artist to paint
in one handling, _à la brochette_ as it were. Who can relish a Madonna
when one fancies half-a-dozen other Madonnas simpering beneath the
built-up tints? Next, Hogarth went to his portraits. They were a course
of physiognomy invaluable to him—of fair faces, stern faces, sensual,
stupid, hideous and pretty little baby faces. From the exigencies of the
“conversations” and “assemblies” he learnt composition, and the treatment
of accessories; learnt to paint four-and-twenty fiddlers, not “all of
a row,” but disposed in ellipse or in pyramid-form. The perception of
female beauty and the power of expressing it were his by birthright, by
heaven’s kindness; I am despondent only at his animals, which are almost
invariably impossible deformities.[3]

The Duke of Montagu and my Lord Castlemaine having ordered
“conversations” from Hogarth, there was of course but one thing necessary
to put the seal to his artistic reputation. That thing, so at least
the patron may have thought, was the patronage of the eminent Morris.
Morris is quite snuffed out now—evaporated even as the carbonic acid
gas from yesterday’s flask of champagne; but in 1727, he was a somewhat
notable person. He was a fashionable upholsterer in Pall Mall, and
not only sold, but manufactured, those tapestry arras hangings which,
paper-staining being in embryo, were still conspicuous ornaments of
the walls of palaces, the nobility’s saloons. Morris kept a shop much
frequented by the noble tribes, at the sign of the “Golden Ball,” in
Pall Mall. There seems to have been a plethora of Golden Balls in
London about this time, just as though all the Lombards had quarrelled
among themselves, and set up in business each man for himself, with
no connection with the golden ball over the way. In 1727, and, for a
century and a half before, the best and most celebrated painters were
employed to execute designs for tapestry. You know who drew for the
Flemish weavers that immortal dozen of cartoons, seven of which are at
Hampton Court, and which have been recently so wonderfully photographed.
Rubens and Vandyke, the stately Lebrun, and the meek Lesueur, made
designs also for these woven pictures. There are penitent thieves and
jesting Pilates from Hans Holbein’s inspiration in many faded hangings.
Thornhill had been himself commissioned by Queen Anne to make sketches
for a set of tapestry hangings emblematic of the union between England
and Scotland. And does not the fabric of the Gobelins yet flourish? Did
not Napoleon the Third vouchsafe the gift of a magnificent piece of
tapisserie to one of our West-end clubs? Morris, the upholsterer, had
many of the “first foreign hands” in his employ; but, being a Briton,
bethought himself magnanimously to encourage real native British talent.
My lord duke had employed Hogarth; Morris likewise determined on giving
a commission to the rising artist. He sought out William, conferred
with him, explained his wishes, and a solemn contract was entered into
between William Hogarth for the first part, and Joshua Morris for the
second, in which the former covenanted to furnish the latter with a
design on canvas of the _Element of Earth_, to be afterwards worked in
tapestry. The painter squared his canvas and set to work; but when the
design was completed Morris flatly refused to pay the thirty pounds
agreed upon as remuneration. It seems that the timorous tradesman, who
must clearly have possessed a large admixture of the “element of earth”
in his composition, had been informed by some good-natured friend of
Hogarth that the tapestry-designer was no painter, but a “low engraver.”
Horror! To think of a mean wretch who had earned his livelihood by
flourishing initials on flagons and cutting plates in _taille douce_ for
the booksellers, presuming to compete with the flourishing foreigners
employed by the eminent and ineffable Morris! ’Twas as though some
destitute index-maker of the Hop Gardens, some starved ballad-monger of
Lewkner’s Lane, had seduced Mr. Jacob Tonson into giving him an order for
a translation of the _Æneid_ into heroic verse. Amazed and terrified,
the deceived Joshua Morris rushed to Hogarth’s painting-room and accused
him of misrepresentation, fraud, covin, and other crimes. How would
ever my lord duke and her ladyship—perhaps Madam Schuylenburg-Kendal
herself—tolerate tapestry in their apartments designed by a base churl,
the quondam apprentice of a silversmith in Cranbourn Alley, the brother
of two misguided young women who kept a slop-shop? Hogarth coolly stated
that he should hold the upholsterer to his bargain. He admitted that the
_Element of Earth_ was “a bold undertaking,” but expressed an opinion
that he should “get through it well enough.” He brought the thing to a
termination; and it was, I daresay, sufficiently of the earth earthy.
Joshua resolutely withheld payment. No copper-scratcher should defraud
him of thirty pounds. The young man, formerly of Little Cranbourn Alley,
was not to be trifled with. If Morris had been a lord and had refused (as
one of Hogarth’s sitters absolutely did) to pay for his portrait, on the
ground that it wasn’t like him, the artist might have taken a satirical
revenge, and threatened to add tails to all the figures in the _Element
of Earth_, and send the canvas to Mr. Hare, the wild-beast-man, as a
showcloth. But the Pall Mall upholsterer was a tradesman, and Hogarth,
all artist as he knew himself to be, was a tradesman, too. So he went
to his lawyer’s, and sued Morris for the thirty pounds, “painter’s work
done.” Bail was given and justified, and on the 28th of May, 1728, the
great case of Hogarth against Morris came on _in communi banco_, before
the chief justice in Eyre. The defendant pleaded _non assumpsit_. Issue
was joined, and the gentlemen of the long-robe went to work. For the
defendant, the alleged fraudulent substitution of an engraver for a
painter was urged. The eminence of Morris’s tapestry and upholstery was
adduced. It was sworn to that he employed “some of the finest hands in
Europe.” Bernard Dorridor, De Friend, Phillips, Danten, and Pajou, “some
of the finest hands,” appeared in the witness-box and deposed to what
first-rate fellows they all were, and to William Hogarth being a mere
mechanic, the last of the lowest, so to speak. But the ready painter was
not without friends. He subpœnaed more of the “finest hands.” Up came
King, Vanderbank, the opera scene-painter, Laguerre, son and successor
to Charles the Second’s Laguerre, and Verrio’s partner, and the serene
Thornhill himself, who, I doubt it not, was bidden by my Lord to sit on
the bench, was oracular in his evidence as to the young man’s competency,
smiled on the chief justice, and revolved in his majestic mind the
possibility of the lords of the Treasury giving him a commission (had
they the power) to paint the walls and ceilings of all the courts of
justice with allegories of Themis, Draco, Solon, Justinian, and Coke
upon Lyttleton, to be paid for out of the suitors’ fee fund. We know
now how tawdry and trashy these painted allegories were; but Thornhill
and Laguerre were really the most reliable authorities to be consulted
as to the standard of excellence then accepted in such performances.
The verdict very righteously went against the defendant, whose plea was
manifestly bad, and Joshua Morris was cast in thirty pounds. I delight to
fancy that the successful party straightway adjourned to the Philazers’
Coffee-house, in Old Palace Yard, and there, after a slight refection
of hung beef and Burton ale, betook themselves to steady potations of
Lisbon wine in magnums—there were prohibitive duties on claret—until each
man began to see allegories of his own, in which Bacchus was the capital
figure. I delight to fancy that the Anglo-Frenchman Laguerre clapped
Hogarth on the back, and told him that he was “von clevare fellow,”
and that Sir James shook his young friend by the hand, enjoined him to
cultivate a true and proper gusto, and bade him Godspeed. Majestic man!
he little thought that when his own celebrity had vanished, or was but as
the shadow of the shadow of smoke, his young friend was to be famous to
the nations and the glory of his countrymen.[4]

For all the handshakings and libations of Lisbon, Sir James was to live
to be very angry with his young friend, although the quarrel was to last
but a little while. Hogarth had looked upon Thornhill’s daughter Jane,
and she was fair, and regarded him, too, with not unfavourable eyes. He
who has gained a lawsuit should surely be successful in love. Meanwhile—I
don’t think he was much given to sighing or dying—he went on painting,
in spite of all the Morrises in upholsterydom. Poor Joshua himself came
to grief. He seems to have been bankrupt; and on the 15 th of May, 1729,
the auctioneer knocked down to the highest bidder all the choice stock
of tapestry in Pall Mall. Hogarth’s _Element of Earth_ may have been
“Lot 90;” but one rather inclines to surmise that Morris slashed the
fatal canvas with vindictive peissors to shreds and mippets the day his
lawyer’s bill came in.

To record the tremendous success of that _Newgate Pastoral_, the
suggestion of the first idea of which lies between Swift, Pope,
Arbuthnot, and Gay, does not come within my province. The history of the
_Beggar’s Opera_, that made “Rich Gay and Gay Rich,” is too well known
to bear repetition. Hogarth, however, has left his mark on the famous
operatic score. For Rich, the Covent Garden manager, he painted (1729) a
picture of the prison scene in which Lucy and Polly are wrangling over
Macheath, of which several replicas in oil, some slightly varied, as
well as engravings, were afterwards executed. Portraits of many of the
great personages of the day are introduced in open boxes _on_ the stage.
Macheath was a portrait of the comedian Walker; and the Polly was the
beauteous Lavinia Fenton, the handsome, kindly, true-hearted actress with
whom the Duke of Bolton, to the amusement and amazement of the town, fell
in love, and fairly ran away. The Duchess of Bolton was then still alive,
and lived for many years afterwards; and poor Polly had to suffer some
part of the penalty which falls on those with whom dukes elope; but at
the duchess’s death, her lord showed that he was not of Mrs. Peachum’s
opinion, that “’tis marriage makes the blemish,” and right nobly elevated
Polly to the peerage. She lived long and happily with him, survived him,
and died late in the last century, very old, and beloved, and honoured
for her modesty, charity, and piety. “The lovely young Lavinia once had
friends,” writes Thomson in the _Seasons_; but our Lavinia lost not her
friends to her dying day. If Tenison, and Atterbury, and Sherlock, had
nothing to say against Eleanor Gwyn, let us trust that the severest
moralist could find charitable words wherewith to speak of Lavinia,
Duchess of Bolton.[5]

A sterner subject, the prologue to a dismal drama of human life, was now
to engross the pencil of this painter, who was now making his presence
known and felt among his contemporaries. I speak of the strange solemn
picture of the _Committee of the House of Commons_ taking evidence
of the enormities wreaked on the wretched prisoners in the Fleet by
Huggins and Bambridge. Let us drag these mouldering scoundrels from
their dishonoured graves, and hang them up here on Cornhill, for all
the world to gaze at, even as the government of the Restoration (but
with less reason) hung the carcases of Cromwell and Bradshaw on Tyburn
gibbet. Huggins—save the mark!—was of gentle birth, and wrote himself
“Armiger.” He had bought the patent of the wardenship of the Fleet from
a great court lord, and when the trade of torturing began, through
usance, to tend towards satiety, he sold his right to one Bambridge, a
twin demon. The atrocities committed by the pair may very rapidly be
glanced at. Huggins’s chief delight was to starve his prisoners, unless
they were rich enough to bribe him. Bambridge’s genius lay more towards
confining his victims charged with fetters in underground dungeons,
with the occasional recreation of attempting to pistol and stab them.
The moneyed debtors both rascals smiled upon. Smugglers were let out
through a yard in which dogs were kept; ran their cargoes; defrauded the
revenue, and came back to “college.” One, who owed 10,000_l._ to the
crown, was permitted to make his escape altogether. A certain T. Dumay
went several times to France, being all the time in the “custody,” as
the sham was facetiously termed, of the Warden of the Fleet. What was
such a fraud in an age when the highest legal authorities (who would not
take the fetters off Christopher Layer) gravely doubted whether the rules
of the King’s Bench might not extend to Bombay, in the East Indies?[6]
These surreptitiously enlarged prisoners were called “pigeons.” They had
bill transactions with the tipstaves; they drew on Huggins, and then
pleaded their insolvency. On the other hand, the poor debtors were very
differently treated. A broken-down baronet, Sir William Rich, on refusing
to pay the “baronet’s fee,” or “garnish,” of five pounds, was heavily
fettered, kept for months in a species of subterranean dog-kennel; the
vivacious Bambridge sometimes enlivening his captivity by threatening
to run a red-hot poker through his body. This cheerful philanthropist,
who was wont to range about the prison with a select gang of turnkeys,
armed with halberts and firelocks, ordered one of his myrmidons to fire
on “Captain Mackpheadris”—(what a name for a captain in difficulties!
Lieutenant Lismahago is nothing to it). As, however, even these callous
bravoes hesitated to obey so savage a behest, and as there was absolutely
nothing to be squeezed in the way of garnish out of this lackpenny
Captain Mackpheadris, Bambridge locked the poor wretch out of his room,
and turned him out to starve in an open yard called the “Bare.” Here,
Mack, who was seemingly an old campaigner, built himself out of broken
tiles and other rubbish, a little hovel in an angle of the wall, just as
the evicted Irish peasantry in famine and fever times were wont to build
little kraals of turf-sods and wattles over dying men in ditches; but
Bambridge soon heard of the bivouac, and ordered it to be pulled down. J.
Mendez Sola, a Portuguese, was by the same kind guardian fettered with
a hundredweight of iron, and incarcerated in a deadhouse, _with dead
people in it_, moreover! Others languished in dens called “Julius Cæsar’s
chapel,” the upper and lower “Ease,” and the “Lyon’s Den,” where they
were stapled to the floor. Attached to the prison itself was an auxiliary
inferno in the shape of a spunging-house kept by Corbett, a creature of
Bambridge. The orthodox process seemed to be, first to fleece you in the
spunging-house, and then to flay you alive in the gaol. Of course, Mr.
Bambridge went snacks with Mr. Corbett. Very few scruples were felt in
getting fish for this net. In one flagrant instance, a total stranger was
seized as he was giving charity at the grate for poor prisoners, dragged
into Corbett’s, and only released on paying “garnish,” and undertaking
not to institute any proceedings against his kidnappers. When a prisoner
had money to pay the debt for which he had been arrested, he often lay
months longer in hold for his “fees.” The caption fee was 5_l._ 16_s._
4_d._; the “Philazer”—who ever that functionary may have been, but his
was a patent place in the Exchequer—the judge’s clerk, the tipstaves,
the warden, all claimed their fees. Fees had to be paid for the favour
of lighter irons, and every fresh bird in the spunging-house cage paid
his “footing,” in the shape of a six shilling bowl of punch. When, as
from time to time, and to the credit of human nature, occurred, a person
visited the gaol, “on behalf of an unknown lady,” to discharge all claims
against persons who lay in prison for their fees only, Bambridge often
sequestered his prisoners till the messenger of mercy had departed.
But he was always open to pecuniary conviction, and from the wife of
one prisoner he took, as a bribe, forty guineas and a “toy,” being the
model of a “Chinese Jonque in amber set with silver,” for which the poor
woman had been offered eighty broadpieces. In these our days, Bambridge
would have discounted bills, and given one-fourth cash, one-fourth
wine, one-fourth camels’ bridles, and one-fourth ivory frigates. When
an Insolvent Act was passed, Bambridge demanded three guineas a piece
from those desirous of availing themselves of the relief extended by the
law: else he would not allow them to be “listed,” or inserted in the
schedule of Insolvents. And by a stroke of perfectly infernal cunning
this gaoler-devil hit upon a plan of preventing his victims from taking
proceedings against him by taking proceedings against _them_. After
some outrage of more than usual enormity, he would slip round to the
Old Bailey and prefer a bill of indictment against the prisoners he
had maltreated, for riot, or an attempt to break prison. He had always
plenty of understrappers ready to swear for him; and the poor, penniless,
friendless gaol-bird was glad to compromise with his tormentor by
uncomplaining silence.[7]

Already had these things been censured by highest legal authorities; at
least the judges had occasionally shaken their wise heads and declared
the abuses in the Fleet to be highly improper: “You may raise your
walls higher,” quoth Lord King; “but there must be no prison within a
prison.” An excellent dictum if only acted upon. At last, the prisoners
began to die of ill-usage, of starvation and disease, or rather, _it
began to be known_, that they were so dying, and died every year of our
Lord. A great public outcry arose. Humane men bestirred themselves. The
legislature was besieged with petitions. Parliamentary commissioners
visited the gaol, and a committee of the House of Commons sat to hear
those harrowing details of evidence of which I have given you a summary.
Bambridge was removed from his post, but the _vindicte publique_ was
not appeased. First, Huggins, the retired esquire, and Barnes, his
assistant, were tried at the Old Bailey for the murder of Edward Arne, a
prisoner. Page, the hanging judge, presided, but from that stern fount
there flowed waters of mercy for the monster of the Fleet. Owing chiefly
to his summing up, a special verdict was returned, and Huggins and the
minor villain were acquitted. Huggins’s son was a well-to-do gentleman of
Headley Park, Hants, had a taste for the fine arts, translated _Ariosto_,
and collected Hogarthian drawings! It was as though Sanson should have
collected miniatures of Louis the Sixteenth, or Simon the cobbler
statuettes of the poor little captive Capet of the Temple.

Next, the coarser scoundrels, Bambridge and Corbett, were tried for
the murder of a Mr. Castell, who had been thrust into Corbett’s
spunging-house while the small-pox was raging there, and died. Bambridge,
too, was acquitted through some legal quibble; but the widow of the
murdered man had another quibble, by which she hoped to obtain redress.
She retained the famous casuist Lee, the sage who in a single action once
pleaded seventy-seven pleas. She sued out an appeal of murder against
the warden and his man. This involved the “wager of battle,” which you
remember in the strange Yorkshire case some forty years ago, and which
was at last put an end to by statute. The appellee could either fight
the appellant _à la_ dog of Montargis, or throw himself on his country,
_i.e._ submit to be tried again. Bambridge and Corbett chose the latter
course, were again tried, and again escaped. They were, however, very
near being torn to pieces by the populace. Lord Campbell says, I venture
to think unjustly, that Mrs. Castell was incited to the appeal by a
“mobbish confederation.”[8] Good heaven! was anything but a confederation
of the feelings of common humanity necessary to incite all honest men
to bring these wretches to justice? I suppose that it was by a “mobbish
confederation” that the villanous Austin, of Birmingham gaol, was tried,
and that after all his atrocities of gagging, “jacketing,” and cramming
salt down his prisoners’ throats, he, too, escaped with an almost nominal
punishment. Lee, the casuist (he was afterwards Chief Justice), was so
disgusted with the result of the trial, that he vowed he would never
have aught to do with facts again, but henceforth would stick to law
alone. I am not lawyer enough to know why the case against Bambridge and
Corbett broke down; I only know that these men were guilty of murder most
foul and most unnatural, and that one of our most ancient legal maxims is
explicit as to their culpability.[9]

A committee of gentlemen in large wigs, sitting round a table in a
gloomy apartment, and examining witnesses likewise in wigs, is not
a very inspiring theme for a painter; but I have always considered
Hogarth’s rendering of the proceedings to be one of the most masterly
of Hogarth’s tableaux. The plate was a great favourite with Horace
Walpole, who described with much discrimination the various emotions of
pity, horror, and indignation on the countenances of the spectators; the
mutely eloquent testimony of the shackles and manacles on the table;
the pitiable appearance of the half-starved prisoner who is giving
evidence; and, especially, the Judas-like appearance of Bambridge (who
was present), his yellow cheeks and livid lips, his fingers clutching
at the button-holes in his coat, and his face advanced, “as if eager to
lie.” There was a large sale for the engraving taken from this picture,
and Hogarth gained largely in reputation from its production.

He had need of reputation, and of money too. A very serious crisis
in his life was approaching. He had found more favour in the eyes of
Jane Thornhill. “_On n’épouse pas les filles de grande maison avec des
coquilles de noix_,” writes a wise Frenchman, and William Hogarth’s
fortune might decidedly at this time have been comfortably “put into a
wine-glass and covered over with a gooseberry leaf,” as was suggested of
the immortal Mr. Bob Sawyer’s profits from his druggist’s shop. Sir James
Thornhill was a greater don in art than Sir Godfrey, or than Richardson,
or Jervas. He hated Sir Godfrey, and strove to outshine him. If extent
of area is to be taken as a test of ability, Thornhill certainly beat
Kneller hollow. To a Lombard Street of allegory and fable in halls and
on staircases the German could only show a china orange of portraiture.
Thornhill was a gentleman. His father was poor enough; but he was clearly
descended from Ralph de Thornhill (12 Henry III. 1228).[10] When he
became prosperous, he bought back the paternal acres, and built a grand
house at Thornhill, hard by Weymouth. He had been a favourite with Queen
Anne. He had succeeded Sir Christopher Wren in the representation of
Melcombe Regis, his native place. His gains were enormous. Though he
received but two guineas a yard for St. Paul’s, and twenty-five shillings
a yard for painting the staircase of the South Sea House (with bubbles,
or with an allegory of Mercury putting the world in his pocket?), instead
of 1,500_l._ which he demanded, he had a magnificent wage for painting
the hall at Blenheim, and from the noted Styles, who is said to have
spent 150,000_l._ in the embellishments of Moor Park, he received, after
a lawsuit and an arbitration, 4,000_l._ To be sure Lafosse got nearly
3,000_l._ for the staircase and saloons of Montagu House (the old British
Museum). Look at the etching of Sir James Thornhill, by Worlidge. He is
painting in an elaborately-laced coat with brocaded sleeves; and his wig
is as so many curds in a whey of horsehair, and no one but a Don could
have such a double chin.

With the daughter of this grandee of easeldom, this favourite of
monarchs, this Greenwich and Hampton Court Velasquez, William Hogarth,
painter, engraver, and philosopher, but as yet penniless, had the
inconceivable impudence not only to fall in love, but to run away. I
rather think that Lady Thornhill connived at the surreptitious courtship,
and was not inexorably angry when the stolen match took place; but as for
the knight, he would very probably just as soon have thought of Mars,
Bacchus, Apollo and Virorum coming down from an allegorical staircase,
and dancing a saraband to the tune of “Green Sleeves” on the north side
of Covent Garden Piazza, as of his young _protégé_ and humble friend
Willy Hogarth presuming to court or to marry his daughter. Oh! it is
terrible to think of this rich man, this father of a disobedient Dinah,
walking his studio all round, vowing vengeance against that rascally
Villikins, and declaring that of his large fortune she shan’t reap the
benefit of one single pin! Oh! cruel “parient,” outraged papa, Lear of
genteel life! He frets, he fumes, he dashes his wig to the ground. He
remembers him, perchance, of sundry small moneys he has lent to Hogarth,
and vows he will have him laid by the heels in a spunging-house ere
the day be out. Send for a capias, send for a mittimus! Send for the
foot-guards, the tipstaves, and the train-bands, for Jane Thornhill has
levanted with William Hogarth!

They were married at old Paddington Church on the 23rd of March, 1729.
Thus runs the parish register: “William Hogarth, Esq. and Jane Thornhill,
of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden.” Marriage and hanging go together they
say, and William and Jane went by Tyburn to have _their_ noose adjusted.
In the _Historical Chronicle_ for 1729, the bridegroom is described as
“an eminent designer and engraver;” but in Hogarth’s own family Bible, a
worn, squat, red-ink-interlined little volume, printed early in the reign
of Charles the First, and now reverentially preserved by Mr. Graves, the
eminent print-publisher of Pall Mall, there is a certain flyleaf, which I
have seen, and which to me is of infinitely greater value than Historical
Chronicle or Paddington Parish Register, for there, in the painter’s own
handwriting, I read—“W. Hogarth married Sir James Thornhill’s daughter,
March 23rd, 1729.”

Papa-in-law was in a fury, set his face and wig against the young
couple, would not see them, would not give them any money, cast them
out of the grand piazza mansion to starve, if they so chose, among
the cabbage-stumps of the adjacent market. It behoved William to work
hard. I don’t think he ever resided with his wife in Cranbourn Alley.
He had given that messuage up to his sisters. What agonies the member
for Melcombe Regis, the scion of Henry the Third’s Thornhills, must
have endured at the thought of that abhorred “old frock-shop!” There is
reason to believe that for some time previous to his marriage Hogarth
had resided in Thornhill’s own house, and had so found opportunities for
his courtship of the knight’s daughter. Of young Thornhill, Sir James’s
son, he was the intimate friend and comrade. Where he spent his honeymoon
is doubtful; but it was either in 1729 or 1730 that he began to take
lodgings at South Lambeth, and to form the acquaintance of Mr. Jonathan
Tyers, the lessee of Vauxhall Gardens.

In the tranquillity and sobriety of a happy married life, Hogarth began
for the first time deeply to philosophize. He had eaten his cake. He had
sown his wild-oats. He was to beat the town no more in mere indifference
of carousal; he was to pluck the moralist’s flower from the strange
wild nettles he had handled. In this age have been found critics stupid
and malevolent enough to accuse every author who writes with a purpose,
and who endeavours to draw attention to social vices, of imposture and
of hypocrisy. He should be content, these critics hold, to describe
the things he sees; he is a humbug if he moralize upon them. It is
not unlikely that the vicious Fribbles of Hogarth’s time held similar
opinions, and took Hogarth to be a reckless painter of riotous scenes,
and who just infused sufficient morality into them “to make the thing go
off.” It was otherwise with him I hope and believe. I am firmly convinced
that the sin and shame of the evils he depicted were as deeply as they
were vividly impressed on Hogarth’s mind—that he was as zealous as any
subscriber to a Refuge, a Reformatory, or a Home can be now, to abate a
dreadful social evil; that his hatred for the wickedness of dissolute
men, his sympathy for women fallen and betrayed; his utter loathing
for those wretched scandals to their sex, the women whose trade it is
to decoy women, was intense and sincere. I do _not_ believe in the
sincerity of Fielding, who could grin and chuckle over the orgies of the
Hundreds of Drury and the humours of the bagnio. I find even the gentle
and pure-minded Addison simpering in the _Freeholder_ about certain
frequenters of Somerset House masquerades. But Hogarth’s satire in the
_Harlot’s Progress_ never makes you laugh. It makes you rather shudder
and stagger, and turn pale. The six pictures which form this tragedy were
painted immediately after his marriage. They were painted in the presence
of a young, beautiful, and virtuous woman, who read her Bible, and loved
her husband with unceasing tenderness; and casting to the winds the mock
morality and lip-virtue that fear to speak of the things depicted in this
_Progress_, I say that no right-minded man or woman will be the worse for
studying its phases.

Some time before Hogarth painted the _Harlot’s Progress_, a hundred and
thirty years ago, Edward Ward and Tom Brown had described in coarse,
untranscribable, but yet graphic terms, the career of these unfortunates.
The former, although a low-lived pottlepot at the best of times, makes
some honest remarks concerning the barbarous treatment of the women
in Bridewell.[11] “It’s not the way to reform ’em,” he says, plainly.
But Hogarth first told the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He
first told the story of a courtesan without either ribald jesting or
sickly sentimentality; and he much more than if he had been a royal
duke mincingly handling trowel and mallet, laid the first stone of the
Magdalen Hospital.

“_Ora_,” writes an appreciative Venetian biographer of Hogarth, “_conduce
una bella dalla barca in cui nacque ad un albergo di Londra, da un
magnifico palazzo in un lupanare, dal lupanare in prigione, dalla
prigione all’ ospitale, dall’ ospitale alla fossa_.” This is the tersest
summary I know. The Venetian loses not a word. From the cottage where
she was born to an inn; from an inn to a palace; thence to a bagnio,
thence to prison, thence to a sick-room, thence to the grave. This is the
history of Kate Hackabout.

Each tableau in the _Harlot’s Progress_ is complete in itself; but there
is a “solution of continuity”—the progression is not consecutive. More
than once a hiatus occurs. Thus, it is Mother Needham, the horrible
procuress, who first accosts the innocent country girl in the inn-yard;
and it is the infamous Colonel Charteris who is leering at her. The
magnificent “palazzo” belongs, however, to a Jew financier; and after
the disturbance of the table kicked over, and the gallant behind the
door, we can understand how she sinks into the mistress of James Dalton
the highwayman. But how comes she to be dressed in brocade and silver
when she is beating hemp in Bridewell? The _Grub Street Journal_ tells
us that the _real_ Hackabout was so attired when by the fiat of nine
justices she was committed to penitential fibre-thumping; but the
pictorial Kate in the preceding tableau, sitting under the bed-tester
with the stolen watch in her hand, is in very mean and shabby attire.
Do people put on their best clothes to go to the House of Correction
in? or, again, when being captured—Sir John Gonson allowed her to dress
herself, discreetly waiting outside the door meanwhile—did she don her
last unpawned brocaded kirtle and her showiest lappets, in order to
captivate the nine stern justices withal? The fall to the garret, after
her release from prison, I can well understand. Some years have elapsed.
She has a ragged little wretch of a boy who toasts a scrap of bacon
before the fire, while the quacks squabble about the symptoms of her
malady, and the attendant harridan rifles her trunk—it is the same old
trunk with her initials in brass nails on it that we see in the yard of
the Bell Inn, Wood Street, in Scene the First?—of its vestiges of finery.
The ragged boy is, perchance, James Dalton, the highwayman’s son, long
since translated to Tyburnia. The real Hackabout’s brother was indeed
hanged with much completeness. But I can’t at all understand how in the
next tableau this poor creature, when her woes are all ended, has a
handsome and even pretentious funeral, moribund, as we saw her, in her
dismal garret but just before. Had Fortune cast one fitful ray on her
as she sank into the cold dark house? Had a bag of guineas been cast
to jingle on her hearse? She was a clergyman’s daughter, it seems. Had
the broken-hearted old curate in the country sent up sufficient money
to bury his daughter with decency? Had the sisterhood of the Hundreds
of Drury themselves subscribed for the enlargement of obsequies which
might excuse an orgy? There is plenty of money from somewhere in this
death-scene, to a certainty. The boy who sits at the coffin foot, winding
the string round his top, has a new suit of mourning, and a laced hat.
That glowering undertaker has been liberally paid to provide gloves and
scarves; the clergyman—I hope he’s only a Fleet chaplain—has evidently
been well entertained; there is a whole Jordan of gin flowing: gin on
the coffin-lid; gin on the floor; and on the wall there is even an
“achievement of arms,” the dead woman’s scutcheon.

On every scene in the _Harlot’s Progress_ a lengthy essay might be
written. Well, is not every stone in this city full of sermons? Are
there no essays to be written on the Kate Hackabouts who are living, and
who die around us every day? Better for the nonce to close that dreary
coffin, wish that we were that unconscious child who is sitting at the
feet of Death, and preparing to spin his pegtop amid the shadows of all
this wretchedness and all this vice.


FOOTNOTES

[1] Richardson, senior, was a pupil of Charles the Second’s Riley. He
was born in 1666, was apprenticed to a scrivener, and at twenty turned
painter. In 1734, he edited an edition of _Paradise Lost_, with notes.
He was not a highly educated man, but had given his son a university
training; and, once letting fall the unfortunate expression, that “he
looked at classical literature through his son,” remorseless Hogarth
drew Richardson, junior, impaled with a telescope, the sire peeping
through at a copy of Virgil. But Richardson seems to have been an honest,
kindly-hearted man; and William Hogarth, as in every case where he had
not a downright rogue to deal with, repented of his severity, cancelled
the copies of his squib, and destroyed the plate. Richardson was quite
a Don in the Art world. He died in 1745, and two years afterwards his
collections were sold. The sale lasted eighteen days. The drawings
fetched 2,060_l._; the pictures, 700_l._ Richardson’s son, to all
appearances, might have served very well as a sample of those monstrous
jackasses that the South Sea Bubbler proposed to import from Spain. He
declared himself “a connoisseur, and nothing but a connoisseur,” and
babbled and scribbled much balderdash in Italianized English. He was not
alone. Pope even proposed to found a science of “picture tasting,” and
to call it “connoissance.” In our days the science has been christened
“fudge.” I have seen the portrait of Richardson the elder, in whose
features some one has said that “the good sense of the nation is
characterized;” but if this dictum be true, the most sensible-looking man
in England must have been a foolish, fat scullion.

[2] “_J’ai vu les mœurs de mon temps, et j’ai publié ces lettres._”—J. J.
ROUSSEAU: _La Nouvelle Héloise_.

[3] Beautiful female faces in Hogarth’s plates and pictures.
Among others, the bride-elect with handkerchief passed through
her wedding-ring; the countess kneeling to her dying lord (in the
_Marriage_); the charming wife mending the galligaskins in the
_Distressed Poet_; the poor wretch whom the taskmaster is about to
strike with a cane, in the Bridewell scene of the _Rake’s Progress_; the
milkmaid, in the _Enraged Musician_; the blooming English girl (for she
is no more an Egyptian than you or I) in “_Pharaoh’s Daughter_;” the pure
soul who sympathizes with the mad spendthrift, in the Bedlam scene of
the _Rake’s Progress_; the hooped belle who is chucking the little black
boy under the chin, in the _Taste in High Life_—a priceless performance,
and one that should be re-engraved in this age, as a satire against
exaggerated crinoline. Lord Charlemont’s famous picture, _Virtue in
Danger_, I have not seen.

[4] The damages and costs must have amounted to a round sum; but it
is to me marvellous that in those days of legal chicanery the action
should have been so brief, and so conclusively decided. Those were the
days when, if you owed any one forty shillings, you were served with
writs charging you with having committed a certain trespass, to wit at
Brentford, being in the company of Job Doe (not always _John_ Doe);
with “that having no settled abode, you had been lurking and wandering
about as a vagabond;” with that (this was in the Exchequer) “out of deep
hatred and malice to the body politic, you had kept our sovereign lord
the king from being seised of a certain sum, to wit, two millions of
money, for which it was desirable to escheat the sum of forty shillings
towards the use of our sovereign and suffering lord aforesaid.” In the
declaration, it was set forth, that you had gone with sticks and staves,
and assaulted and wounded divers people; and the damages were laid at
10,000_l._, of which the plaintiff was reasonable enough to claim only
the moderate sum of forty shillings. The capias took you at once for any
sum exceeding 2_l._, and you had to find and justify bail, if you did not
wish to pine in a spunging-house, or rot in the Fleet. These were the
days, not quite five thousand, and some of them not quite one hundred
and fifty years ago, when criminal indictments were drawn in Latin, and
Norman-French was an important part of legal education (see Pope and
Swift’s _Miscellanies_, “Stradling _versus_ Styles”), and prisoners were
brought up on habeas laden with chains. See Layer’s case in the _State
Trials_, Lord Campbell’s agreeable condensation in the _Lives of the
Chief Justices_. Layer was a barrister, a man of birth and education,
but was implicated in an abortive Jacobite plot. His chains were of such
dreadful weight, that he could sleep only on his back. He was suffering
from an internal complaint, and pathetically appealed to Pratt, C.J., who
was suffering from a similar ailment, to order his irons to be taken off,
were it only on the ground of common sympathy. The gentleman gaoler of
the Tower, who stood by him on the floor of the court while he made this
application, was humanely employed in holding up the captive’s fetters
to ease him, partially, of his dreadful burden. Prisoner’s counsel urged
that the indignity of chains was unknown to his “majesty’s prisoners in
the Tower;” that the gentleman gaoler and the warders did not know how to
set about the hangman’s office of shackling captives; that there were no
fetters in the Tower beyond the “Scavenger’s Daughter,” and the Spanish
Armada relics, and that they had been obliged to procure fetters from
Newgate. But Pratt, C.J., was inexorable. He was a stanch Whig; and, so
civilly, but sternly remanded the prisoner, all ironed as he was, to the
Tower. Christopher Layer was soon afterwards put out of his misery by
being hanged, drawn, and quartered; but he was much loved by the people,
and his head had not been long on Temple Bar when it was carried off
as a relic. It is almost impossible to realize this cool, civil, legal
savagery, in the era so closely following Anna Augusta’s silver age. Sir
Walter Scott was in evidently an analogous bewilderment of horror when
he described the execution of Feargus McIvor: a fiction certainly, but
with its dreadful parallels of reality in the doom of Colonel Townely,
Jemmy Dawson, Dr. Cameron, and scores more unfortunate and misguided
gentlemen who suffered the horrible sentence of the law of high treason
at Carlisle, at Tyburn, or on Kennington Common.

[5] Hogarth painted a beautiful separate portrait of her—a loving,
trustful face, and _such_ lips—which has been engraved in mezzotint. I
should properly have added it to my catalogue of the Hogarthian Beauties.

[6] A similar doubt—was it not by Lord Ellenborough?—has been expressed
within our own times.

[7] These horrors were not confined to the Fleet. The King’s Bench and
the Marshalsea were nearly as bad: and, in the former prison, gangs of
drunken soldiers—what could the officers have been about?—were frequently
introduced to coerce the unhappy inmates. The Bench and Marshalsea were
excellent properties. The patent rights were purchased from the Earl of
Radnor for 5,000_l._, and there were some sixteen shareholders in the
profits accruing from the gaol. Of the Marshalsea, evidence is given of
the turnkeys holding a drinking bout in the lodge, and calling in a poor
prisoner to “divert” them. On this miserable wretch they put an iron
skull-cap and a pair of thumbscrews, and so tortured him for upwards of
half-an-hour. Then, somewhat frightened, they gave him his discharge, as
a _douceur_; but the miserable man fainted in the Borough High Street,
and being carried into St. Thomas’s Hospital, presently died there.

[8] Did the poet Thomson, the kind-hearted, tender, pure-minded man,
belong to the “mobbish confederation?” Hear him in the _Seasons_, in
compliment to the commissioners for inquiring into the state of the
gaols:—

    “Where sickness pines, where thirst and hunger burn,
    Ye sons of mercy, yet resume the search;
    _Drag forth the legal monsters into light_!
    Wrench from their hands oppression’s iron rod,
    And make the cruel feel the pains they give.”

It is slightly consolatory to be told by antiquary Oldys, that Bambridge
cut his throat in 1749; but the ruffian should properly have swung as
high as Haman.

[9] “If a prisoner die through duresse of the gaoler, it is _murder in
the gaoler_.”—St. German’s _Doctor and Student_. Why was this not quoted
at Birmingham?

[10] Rev. James Dallaway, whose notes to Walpole’s _Anecdotes_ are very
excellent. Mr. Wornum, the last editor of Walpole, annotated by Dallaway,
puzzles me. He must be an accomplished art-scholar: is he not the Wornum
of the Marlborough House School? but he calls Swift’s Legion Club the
“Congenial Club,” utterly ignoring Swift’s ferocious text, an excerpt
from which he quotes.

[11] The clumsy police of the time seem to have entirely ignored the
existence of unchaste women till they became riotous, were mixed up in
tavern brawls, had given offence to the rich rakes, or, especially,
were discovered to be the mistresses of thieves and highwaymen. Then
they were suddenly caught up, taken before a justice, and committed to
Bridewell—either the _ergastolo_ in Bridge Street, or the _presidio_
in Tothill Fields—I take the former. Arrived there, they were kept
till noon on board-day, Wednesday. Then they were arraigned before the
honourable Board of Governors; the president with his hammer in his
high-backed chair. The wretched Kate stands among the beadles clad in
blue, at the lower end of the room, which is divided into two by folding
doors. Then, the accusation being stated, the president cries, “How say
you, gentlemen, shall Katherine Hackabout receive present punishment?”
The suffrages are collected; they are generally against Kate, who
is forthwith seized by the beadles, half unrobed, and receives the
“civility of the house,” _i.e._ the correction of stripes, which torture
is continued (the junior beadle wielding the lash) till the president
strikes his hammer on the table as a signal for execution to stop.
“Knock! Sir Robert; oh, good Sir Robert, knock!” was a frequent entreaty
of the women under punishment; and “Knock, knock!” was shouted after them
in derision by the boys in the street, to intimate that they had been
scourged in Bridewell. Being sufficiently whealed, Kate was handed over
to the taskmaster, to be set to beat hemp, and to be herself caned, or
scourged, or fettered with a log, like a stray donkey, according to his
fancy and the interests of the hemp manufacture. Many women went through
these ordeals dozens of times. “It’s not the way to reform ’em,” observes
Ned Ward; and for once, I think, the satirical publican, who travelled
in “ape and monkey climes,” is right—Vide Smollett: _Roderick Random_;
Cunningham: _Handbook of London_; and, _Bridewell Hospital Reports_,
1720-1799.




Written in the Deepdene Album.


    Thou record of the votive throng,
      That fondly seek this fairy shrine,
    And pay the tribute of a song
      Where worth and loveliness combine,—

    What boots that I, a vagrant wight
      From clime to clime still wandering on,
    Upon thy friendly page should write
      ——Who’ll think of me when I am gone?

    Go plow the wave, and sow the sand;
      Throw seed to every wind that blows;
    Along the highway strew thy hand,
      And fatten on the crop that grows.

    For even thus the man that roams
      On heedless hearts his feeling spends;
    Strange tenant of a thousand homes,
      And friendless, with ten thousand friends!

    Yet here, for once, I’ll leave a trace,
      To ask in aftertimes a thought;
    To say that here a resting-place
      My wayworn heart has fondly sought.

    So the poor pilgrim heedless strays,
      Unmoved, through many a region fair;
    But at some shrine his tribute pays,
      To tell that he has worshipped there.

                              WASHINGTON IRVING.

_June 24th, 1822._




Lovel the Widower.


CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH I AM STUNG BY A SERPENT.

[Illustration]

If, when I heard Baker call out Bessy Bellenden, and adjure Jove, he
had run forward and seized Elizabeth by the waist, or offered her other
personal indignity, I too should have run forward on my side and engaged
him. Though I am a stout elderly man, short in stature and in wind, I
know I am a match for _that_ rickety little captain on his high-heeled
boots. A match for him? I believe Miss Bessy would have been a match for
both of us. Her white arm was as hard and polished as ivory. Had she held
it straight pointed against the rush of the dragoon, he would have fallen
backwards before his intended prey: I have no doubt he would. It was the
hen, in this case, was stronger than the libertine fox, and _au besoin_
would have pecked the little marauding vermin’s eyes out. Had, I say,
Partlet been weak, and Reynard strong, I _would_ have come forward: I
certainly would. Had he been a wolf now, instead of a fox, I am certain I
should have run in upon him, grappled with him, torn his heart and tongue
out of his black throat, and trampled the lawless brute to death.

Well, I didn’t do any such thing. I was just _going_ to run in,—and I
didn’t. I was just going to rush to Bessy’s side to clasp her (I have
no doubt) to my heart: to beard the whiskered champion who was before
her, and perhaps say, “Cheer thee—cheer thee, my persecuted maiden, my
beauteous love—my Rebecca! Come on, Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert, thou
dastard Templar! It is I, Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe.” (By the way, though
the fellow was not a _Templar_, he was a _Lincoln’s Inn man_, having
passed twice through the Insolvent Court there with infinite discredit.)
But I made no heroic speeches. There was no need for Rebecca to jump out
of window and risk her lovely neck. How could she, in fact, the French
window being flush with the ground floor? And I give you my honour,
just as I was crying my war-cry, couching my lance, and rushing _à la
recousse_ upon Sir Baker, a sudden thought made me drop my (figurative)
point: a sudden idea made me rein in my galloping (metaphorical) steed,
and spare Baker for that time.

Suppose I had gone in? But for that sudden precaution, there might
have been a Mrs. Batchelor. I might have been a bullied father of ten
children. (Elizabeth has a fine high temper of her own.) What is four
hundred and twenty a year, with a wife and perhaps half-a-dozen children?
Should I have been a whit the happier? Would Elizabeth? Ah! no. And yet I
feel a certain sort of shame, even now, when I think that I didn’t go in.
Not that I was in a fright, as some people choose to hint. I swear I was
not. But the reason why I did not charge was this:—

Nay, I _did_ charge part of the way, and then, I own, stopped. It was an
error in judgment. It wasn’t a want of courage. Lord George Sackville
was a brave man, and as cool as a cucumber under fire. Well, _he_ didn’t
charge at the battle of Minden, and Prince Ferdinand made the deuce and
all of a disturbance, as we know. Byng was a brave man,—and I ask, wasn’t
it a confounded shame executing him? So with respect to myself. Here is
my statement. I make it openly. I don’t care. I am accused of seeing a
woman insulted, and not going to her rescue. I am not guilty, I say. That
is, there were reasons which caused me not to attack. Even putting aside
the superior strength of Elizabeth herself to the enemy,—I vow there were
cogent and honourable reasons why I did not charge home.

You see I happened to be behind a blue lilac bush (and was turning a
rhyme—heaven help us!—in which _death_ was only to part me and Elizabeth)
when I saw Baker’s face surge over the chair-back. I rush forward as he
cries “by Jove.” Had Miss Prior cried out on her part, the strength of
twenty Heenans, I know, would have nerved this arm; but all she did was
to turn pale, and say, “Oh, mercy! Captain Baker! Do pity me!”

“What! you remember me, Bessy Bellenden, do you?” asks the captain,
advancing.

“Oh, not that name! please, not that name!” cries Bessy.

“I thought I knew you yesterday,” says Baker. “Only, gad, you see, I
had so much claret on board, I did not much know what was what. And oh!
Bessy, I have got such a splitter of a headache.”

“Oh! please—please, my name is Miss Prior. Pray! pray, sir, don’t.”—

“You’ve got handsomer—doosid deal handsomer. Know you now well, your
spectacles off. You come in here—teach my nephew and niece, humbug my
sister, make love to the ah——. Oh! you uncommon sly little toad!”

“Captain Baker! I beg—I implore you,” says Bess, or something of the
sort: for the white hands assumed an attitude of supplication.

“Pooh! don’t gammon _me_!” says the rickety captain (or words to that
effect), and seizes those two firm white hands in his moist, trembling
palms.

[Illustration: BEDFORD TO THE RESCUE.]

Now do you understand why I paused? When the dandy came grinning forward,
with looks and gestures of familiar recognition: when the pale Elizabeth
implored him to spare her:—a keen arrow of jealousy shot whizzing through
my heart, and caused me well-nigh to fall backwards as I ran forwards. I
bumped up against a bronze group in the gardens. The group represented
a lion stung by a serpent. _I_ was a lion stung by a serpent too. Even
Baker could have knocked me down. Fiends and anguish! he had known her
before? The Academy, the life she had led, the wretched old tipsy,
ineffective guardian of a father—all these antecedents in poor Bessy’s
history passed through my mind. And I had offered my heart and troth to
this woman! Now, my dear sir, I appeal to you. What would _you_ have
done? Would _you_ have liked to have such a sudden suspicion thrown over
the being of your affection? “Oh! spare me—spare me!” I heard her say,
in clear—too clear—pathetic tones. And then there came rather a shrill
“Ah!” and then the lion was up in my breast again; and I give you my
honour, just as I was going to step forward—to step?—to _rush_ forward
from behind the urn where I had stood for a moment with thumping heart,
Bessy’s “Ah!” or little cry was followed by a _whack_, which I heard as
clear as anything I ever heard in my life;—and I saw the little captain
spin back, topple over a chair heels up, and in this posture heard him
begin to scream and curse in shrill tones...

Not for long, for as the captain and the chair tumble down, a door
springs open;—a man rushes in, who pounces like a panther upon the
prostrate captain, pitches into his nose and eyes, and chokes his bad
language by sending a fist down his naughty throat.

“Oh! thank you, Bedford!—please, leave him, Bedford! that’s enough.
There, don’t hurt him any more!” says Bessy, laughing—laughing, upon my
word.

“Ah! will you?” says Bedford. “Lie still, you little beggar, or I’ll
knock your head off. Look here, Miss Prior!—Elizabeth—dear—dear
Elizabeth! I love you with all my heart, and soul, and strength—I do.”

“O Bedford! Bedford!” warbles Elizabeth.

“I do! I can’t help it. I must say it! Ever since Rome, I do. Lie still,
you drunken little beast! It’s no use. But I adore you, O Elizabeth!
Elizabeth!” And there was Dick, who was always following Miss P. about,
and poking his head into keyholes to spy her, actually making love to her
over the prostrate body of the captain.

Now, what was I to do? Wasn’t I in a most confoundedly awkward situation?
A lady had been attacked—_a_ lady?—_the_ lady, and I hadn’t rescued her.
Her insolent enemy was overthrown, and I hadn’t done it. A champion,
three inches shorter than myself, had come in, and dealt the blow. I
was in such a rage of mortification, that I should have liked to thrash
the captain and Bedford too. The first I know I could have matched: the
second was a tough little hero. And it was he who rescued the damsel,
whilst I stood by! In a strait so odious, sudden, and humiliating, what
should I, what could I, what did I do?

Behind the lion and snake there is a brick wall and marble balustrade,
built for no particular reason, but flanking three steps and a grassy
terrace, which then rises up on a level to the house-windows. Beyond
the balustrade is a shrubbery of more lilacs and so forth, by which you
can walk round into another path, which also leads up to the house.
So as I had not charged—ah! woe is me!—as the battle was over, I—I
just went round that shrubbery into the other path, and so entered the
house, arriving like Fortinbras in _Hamlet_, when everybody is dead and
sprawling, you know, and the whole business is done.

And was there to be no end to my shame, or to Bedford’s laurels? In that
brief interval, whilst I was walking round the bypath (just to give
myself a pretext for entering coolly into the premises), this fortunate
fellow had absolutely engaged another and larger champion. This was no
other than Bulkeley, my Lady B.’s first-class attendant. When the captain
fell amidst his screams and curses, he called for Bulkeley: and that
individual made his appearance, with a little Scotch cap perched on his
powdered head.

“Hullo! what’s the row year?” says Goliah, entering.

“Kill that blackguard! Hang him, kill him!” screams Captain Blacksheep,
rising with bleeding nose.

“I say, what’s the row year,” asks the grenadier.

“Off with your cap, sir, before a lady!” calls out Bedford.

“Hoff with my cap! you be blo——”

But he said no more, for little Bedford jumped some two feet from the
ground, and knocked the cap off, so that a cloud of ambrosial powder
filled the room with violet odours. The immense frame of the giant shook
at this insult: “I will be the death on you, you little beggar!” he
grunted out; and was advancing to destroy Dick, just as I entered in the
cloud which his head had raised.

“I’ll knock the brains as well as the powder out of your ugly head!” says
Bedford, springing at the poker. At which juncture I entered.

“What—what is this disturbance?” I say, advancing with an air of mingled
surprise and resolution.

“You git out of the way till I knock his ’ead off!” roars Bulkeley.

“Take up your cap, sir, and leave the room,” I say, still with the same
elegant firmness.

“Put down that there poker, you coward!” bellows the monster on board
wages.

“Miss Prior!” I say (like a dignified hypocrite, as I own I was), “I
hope no one has offered you a rudeness?” And I glare round, first at the
knight of the bleeding nose, and then at his squire.

Miss Prior’s face, as she replied to me, wore a look of awful scorn.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, turning her head over her shoulder, and
looking at me with her grey eyes. “Thank you, Richard Bedford! God bless
you! I shall ever be thankful to you, wherever I am.” And the stately
figure swept out of the room.

She had seen me behind that confounded statue, then, and I had not come
to her! O torments and racks! O scorpions, fiends, and pitchforks! The
face of Bedford, too (flashing with knightly gratitude anon as she
spoke kind words to him and passed on), wore a look of scorn as he
turned towards me, and then stood, his nostrils distended, and breathing
somewhat hard, glaring at his enemies, and still grasping his mace of
battle.

When Elizabeth was gone, there was a pause of a moment, and then
Blacksheep, taking his bleeding cambric from his nose, shrieks out, “Kill
him, I say! A fellow that dares to hit one in my condition, and when I’m
down! Bulkeley, you great hulking jackass! kill him, I say!”

“Jest let him put that there poker down, that’s hall,” growls Bulkeley.

“You’re afraid, you great cowardly beast! You shall go, Mr.
What-d’ye-call-’em—Mr. Bedford—you shall have the sack, sir, as sure as
your name is what it is! I’ll tell my brother-in-law everything; and as
for that woman——”

“If you say a word against her, I’ll cane you wherever I see you, Captain
Baker!” I cry out.

“Who spoke to _you_?” says the captain, falling back and scowling at me.

“Who hever told you to put _your_ foot in?” says the squire.

I was in such a rage, and so eager to find an object on which I might
wreak my fury, that I confess I plunged at this Bulkeley. I gave him two
most violent blows on the waistcoat, which caused him to double up with
such frightful contortions, that Bedford burst out laughing; and even the
captain with the damaged eye and nose began to laugh too. Then, taking a
lesson from Dick, as there was a fine shining dagger on the table, used
for the cutting open of reviews and magazines, I seized and brandished
this weapon, and I daresay would have sheathed it in the giant’s bloated
corpus, had he made any movement towards me. But he only called out,
“hI’ll be the death on you, you cowards! hI’ll be the death of both on
you!” And snatching up his cap from the carpet, walked out of the room.

“Glad you did that, though,” says Baker, nodding his head. “Think I’d
best pack up.”

And now the Devil of Rage which had been swelling within me gave place to
a worse devil—the Devil of Jealousy—and I turned on the captain, who was
also just about to slink away:—

“Stop!” I cried out—I screamed out, I may say.

“Who spoke to you, I should like to know? and who the dooce dares to
speak to me in that sort of way?” says Clarence Baker, with a plentiful
garnish of expletives, which need not be here inserted. But he stopped,
nevertheless, and turned slouching round.

“You spoke just now of Miss Prior?” I said. “Have you anything against
her?”

“What’s that to you?” he asked.

“I am her oldest friend. I introduced her into this family. _Dare_ you
say a word against her?”

“Well, who the dooce has?”

“You knew her before?”

“Yes, I did, then.”

“When she went by the name of Bellenden?”

“Of course, I did. And what’s that to you?” he screams out.

“I this day asked her to be my wife, sir! _That’s_ what it is to me!” I
replied, with severe dignity.

Mr. Clarence began to whistle. “Oh! if that’s it—of course not!” he says.

The jealous demon writhed within me and rent me.

“You mean that there _is_ something, then?” I asked, glaring at the young
reprobate.

“No, I don’t,” says he, looking very much frightened. “No, there is
nothin’. Upon my sacred honour, there isn’t, that I know.” (I was
looking uncommonly fierce at this time, and, I must own, would rather
have quarrelled with somebody than not.) “No, there _is_ nothin’ that I
know. Ever so many years ago, you see, I used to go with Tom Papillion,
Turkington, and two or three fellows, to that theatre. Dolphin had it.
And we used to go behind the scenes—and—and I own I had a row with her.
And I was in the wrong. There now, I own I was. And she left the theatre.
And she behaved quite right. And I was very sorry. And I believe she is
as good a woman as ever stept now. And the father was a disreputable
old man, but most honourable—I know he was. And there was a fellow in
the Bombay service—a fellow by the name of Walker or Walkingham—yes,
Walkingham; and I used to meet him at the Cave of Harmony, you know; and
he told me that she was as right as right could be. And he was doosidly
cut up about leaving her. And he would have married her, I dessay, only
for his father the general, who wouldn’t stand it. And he was ready
to hang himself when he went away. He used to drink awfully, and then
he used to swear about her; and we used to chaff him, you know. Low,
vulgarish sort of man, he was; and a very passionate fellow. And if
you’re goin’ to marry her, you know—of course, I ask your pardon, and
that; and upon the honour of a gentleman I know nothin’ against her. And
I wish you joy and all that sort of thing. I do now, really now!” And so
saying, the mean, mischievous little monkey sneaked away, and clambered
up to his own perch in his own bedroom.

Worthy Mrs. Bonnington, with a couple of her young ones, made her
appearance at this juncture. She had a key, which gave her a free pass
through the garden door, and brought her children for an afternoon’s play
and fighting with their little nephew and niece. Decidedly, Bessy did not
bring up her young folks well. Was it that their grandmothers spoiled
them, and undid the governess’s work? Were those young people odious
(as they often were) by nature, or rendered so by the neglect of their
guardians? If Bessy had loved her charges more, would they not have been
better? Had she a kind, loving, maternal heart? Ha! This thought—this
jealous doubt—smote my bosom: and were she mine, and the mother of many
possible little Batchelors, would she be kind to _them_? Would they be
wilful, and selfish, and abominable little wretches, in a word, like
these children? Nay—nay! Say that Elizabeth has but a cold heart; we
cannot be all perfection. But, _per contra_, you must admit that, cold
as she is, she does her duty. How good she has been to her own brothers
and sisters: how cheerfully she has given away her savings to them: how
admirably she has behaved to her mother, hiding the iniquities of that
disreputable old schemer, and covering her improprieties with decent
filial screens and pretexts. Her mother? _Ah! grands dieux!_ You want
to marry, Charles Batchelor, and you will have that greedy pauper for a
mother-in-law; that fluffy Bluecoat boy, those hob-nailed taw-players,
top-spinners, toffee-eaters, those underbred girls, for your brothers-
and sisters-in-law! They will be quartered upon you. You are so absurdly
weak and good-natured—you know you are—that you will never be able to
resist. Those boys will grow up: they will go out as clerks or shopboys:
get into debt, and expect you to pay their bills: want to be articled
to attornies and so forth, and call upon you for the premium. Their
mother will never be out of your house. She will ferret about in your
drawers and wardrobes, filch your haberdashery, and cast greedy eyes on
the very shirts and coats on your back, and calculate when she can get
them for her boys. Those vulgar young miscreants will never fail to come
and dine with you on a Sunday. They will bring their young linendraper
or articled friends. They will draw bills on you, or give their own to
money-lenders, and unless you take up those bills they will consider you
a callous, avaricious brute, and the heartless author of their ruin. The
girls will come and practise on your wife’s piano. _They_ won’t come to
you on Sundays only; they will always be staying in the house. They will
always be preventing a _tête-à-tête_ between your wife and you. As they
grow old, they will want her to take them out to tea-parties, and to
give such entertainments, where they will introduce their odious young
men. They will expect you to commit meannesses, in order to get theatre
tickets for them from the newspaper editors of your acquaintance. You
will have to sit in the back seat: to pay the cab to and from the play:
to see glances and bows of recognition passing between them and dubious
bucks in the lobbies: and to lend the girls your wife’s gloves, scarfs,
ornaments, smelling-bottles, and handkerchiefs, which of course they will
never return. If Elizabeth is ailing from any circumstance, they will get
a footing in your house, and she will be jealous of them. The ladies of
your own family will quarrel with them, of course; and very likely your
mother-in-law will tell them a piece of her mind. And you bring this
dreary certainty upon you, because, forsooth, you fell in love with a
fine figure, a pair of grey eyes, and a head of auburn (not to say red)
hair! O Charles Batchelor! in what a galley hast thou seated thyself, and
what a family is crowded in thy boat!

All these thoughts are passing in my mind, as good Mrs. Bonnington is
prattling to me—I protest I don’t know about what. I think I caught some
faint sentences about the Patagonian mission, the National schools, and
Mr. Bonnington’s lumbago; but I can’t say for certain. I was busy with
my own thoughts. I had asked the awful question—I was not answered.
Bessy had even gone away in a huff about my want of gallantry, but I was
easy on that score. As for Mr. Drencher, she had told me her sentiments
regarding him; and though I am considerably older, yet thought I, I
need not be afraid of _that_ rival. But when she says _yes_? Oh, dear!
oh, dear! _Yes_ means Elizabeth—certainly, a brave young woman—but it
means Mrs. Prior, and Gus, and Amelia Jane, and the whole of that dismal
family. No wonder, with these dark thoughts crowding my mind, Mrs.
Bonnington found me absent; and, as a comment upon some absurd reply of
mine, said, “La! Mr. Batchelor, you must be crossed in love!” Crossed in
love! It might be as well for some folks if they _were_ crossed in love.
At my age, and having loved madly, as I did, that party in Dublin, a man
doesn’t take the second fit by any means so strongly. Well! well! the die
was cast, and I was there to bide the hazard. ‘What can be the matter?
I look pale and unwell, and had better see Mr. D.?’ Thank you, my dear
Mrs. Bonnington. I had a violent—a violent toothache last night-yes,
toothache; and was kept awake, thank you. And there’s nothing like having
it out? and Mr. D. draws them beautifully, and has taken out six of your
children’s? It’s better now; I daresay it will be better still, soon. I
retire to my chamber: I take a book—can’t read one word of it. I resume
my tragedy. Tragedy? Bosh!

I suppose Mr. Drencher thought his yesterday’s patient would be better
for a little more advice and medicine, for he must pay a second visit to
Shrublands on this day, just after the row with the captain had taken
place, and walked up to the upper regions, as his custom was. Very
likely he found Mr. Clarence bathing his nose there, and prescribed for
the injured organ. Certainly he knocked at the door of Miss Prior’s
schoolroom (the fellow was always finding a pretext for entering _that_
apartment), and Master Bedford comes to me, with a wobegone, livid
countenance, and a “Ha! ha! young Sawbones is up with her!”

“So my poor Dick,” I say, “I heard your confession as I was myself
running in to rescue Miss P. from that villain.”

“My blood was hup,” groans Dick,—“up, I beg your pardon. When I saw that
young rascal lay a hand on her I could not help flying at him. I would
have hit him if he had been my own father. And I could not help saying
what was on my mind. It would come out; I knew it would some day. I
might as well wish for the moon as hope to get her. She thinks herself
superior to me, and perhaps she is mistaken. But it’s no use; she don’t
care for me; she don’t care for anybody. Now the words are out, in course
I mustn’t stay here.”

“You may get another place easily enough with your character, Bedford!”

But he shook his head. “I’m not disposed to black nobody else’s boots
no more. I have another place. I have saved a bit of money. My poor old
mother is gone, whom you used to be so kind to, Mr. B. I’m alone now.
Confound that Sawbones, will he _never_ come away? I’ll tell you about
my plans some day, sir, and I know you’ll be so good as to help me.” And
away goes Dick, looking the picture of woe and despair.

Presently, from the upper rooms, Sawbones descends. I happened to be
standing in the hall, you see, talking to Dick. Mr. Drencher scowls at me
fiercely, and I suppose I return him haughty glance for glance. He hated
me: I him: I liked him to hate me.

“How is your patient, Mr.—a—Drencher?” I ask.

“Trifling contusion of the nose—brown paper and vinegar,” says the doctor.

“Great powers! did the villain strike her on the nose?” I cry, in terror.

“_Her_—whom?” says he.

“Oh—ah—yes—indeed; it’s nothing,” I say, smiling. The fact is I had
forgotten about Baker in my natural anxiety for Elizabeth.

“I don’t know what you mean by laughing, sir?” says the red-haired
practitioner. “But if you mean chaff, Mr. Batchelor, let me tell you I
don’t want chaff, and I won’t have chaff!” and herewith, exit Sawbones,
looking black doses at me.

Jealous of me, think I, as I sink down in a chair in the morning-room,
where the combat had just taken place. And so thou, too, art
fever-caught, my poor physician! What a fascination this girl has. Here’s
the butler: here’s the medical man: here am I: here is the captain has
been smitten—smitten on the nose. Has the gardener been smitten too, and
is the page gnawing his buttons off for jealousy, and is Mons. Bulkeley
equally in love with her? I take up a review, and think over this, as I
glance through its pages.

As I am lounging and reading, Mons. Bulkeley himself makes his
appearance, bearing in cloaks and packages belonging to his lady. “Have
the goodness to take that cap off,” I say, coolly.

“_You_ ’ave the goodness to remember that if hever I see you hout o’ this
’ouse I’ll punch your hugly ’ead off,” says the monstrous menial. But I
poise my paper-cutter, and he retires growling.

From despondency I pass to hope; and the prospect of marriage, which
before appeared so dark to me, assumes a gayer hue. I have four hundred
a year, and that house in Devonshire Street, Bloomsbury Square, of which
the upper part will be quite big enough for us. If we have children,
there is Queen Square for them to walk and play in. Several genteel
families I know, who still live in the neighbourhood, will come and see
my wife, and we shall have a comfortable, cosy little society, suited to
our small means. The tradesmen in Lamb’s Conduit Street are excellent,
and the music at the Foundling always charming. I shall give up one of my
clubs. The other is within an easy walk.

No: my wife’s relations will _not_ plague me. Bessy is a most sensible,
determined woman, and as cool a hand as I know. She will only see Mrs.
Prior at proper (and, I trust, distant) intervals. Her brothers and
sisters will learn to know their places, and not obtrude upon me or the
company which I keep. My friends, who are educated people and gentlemen,
will not object to visit me because I live over a shop (my ground floor
and spacious back premises in Devonshire Street are let to a German
toy-warehouse). I shall add a hundred or two at least to my income by my
literary labour; and Bessy, who has practised frugality all her life, and
been a good daughter and a good sister, I know will prove a good wife,
and, please heaven! a good mother. Why, four hundred a year, _plus_ two
hundred, is a nice little income. And my old college friend, Wigmore, who
is just on the Bench? He will, he must get me a place—say three hundred a
year. With nine hundred a year we can do quite well.

Love is full of elations and despondencies. The future, over which such
a black cloud of doubt lowered a few minutes since, blushed a sweet
rose-colour now. I saw myself happy, beloved, with a competence, and
imagined myself reposing in the delightful garden of Red Lion Square on
some summer evening, and half-a-dozen little Batchelors frisking over the
flower-bespangled grass there.

After our little colloquy, Mrs. Bonnington, not finding much pleasure in
my sulky society, had gone to Miss Prior’s room with her young folks, and
as the door of the morning-room opened now and again, I could hear the
dear young ones scuttling about the passages, where they were playing at
horses, and fighting, and so forth. After a while good Mrs. B. came down
from the schoolroom. “Whatever has happened, Mr. Batchelor?” she said to
me, in her passage through the morning-room. “Miss Prior is very pale and
absent. _You_ are very pale and absent. Have you been courting her, you
naughty man, and trying to supplant Mr. Drencher? There now, you turn
as red as my ribbon! Ah! Bessy is a good girl, and _so_ fond of my dear
children. ‘Ah, dear Mrs. Bonnington,’ she says to me—but of course you
won’t tell Lady B.: it would make Lady B. perfectly furious. ‘Ah!’ says
Miss P. to me, ‘I wish, ma’am, that my little charges were like their
dear little nephews and nieces—so exquisitely brought up!’ Pop again
wished to beat his uncle. I wish—I wish Frederick would send that child
to school! Miss P. owns that he is too much for her. Come, children, it
is time to go to dinner.” And, with more of this prattle, the good lady
summons her young ones, who descend from the schoolroom with their nephew
and niece.

Following nephew and niece comes demure Miss Prior, to whom I fling a
knowing glance, which says, plain as eyes can speak—Do, Elizabeth, come
and talk for a little to your faithful Batchelor! She gives a sidelong
look of intelligence, leaves a parasol and a pair of gloves on a table,
accompanies Mrs. Bonnington and the young ones into the garden, sees
the clergyman’s wife and children disappear through the garden gate,
and her own youthful charges engaged in the strawberry-beds; and, of
course, returns to the morning-room for her parasol and gloves, which she
had forgotten. There is a calmness about that woman—an easy, dauntless
dexterity, which frightens me—_ma parole d’honneur_. In that white breast
is there a white marble stone in place of the ordinary cordial apparatus?
Under the white velvet glove of that cool hand are there bones of cold
steel?

“So, Drencher has again been here, Elizabeth?” I say.

She shrugs her shoulders. “To see that wretched Captain Baker. The horrid
little man will die! He was not actually sober just now when he—when
I—when you saw him. How I wish you had come sooner—to prevent that
horrible, tipsy, disreputable quarrel. It makes me very, very thoughtful,
Mr. Batchelor. He will speak to his mother—to Mr. Lovel. I shall have to
go away. I know I must.”

“And don’t you know where you can find a home, Elizabeth? Have the words
I spoke this morning been so soon forgotten?”

“Oh! Mr. Batchelor! you spoke in a heat. You could not think seriously of
a poor girl like me, so friendless and poor, with so many family ties.
Pop is looking this way, please. To a man bred like you, what can I be?”

“You may make the rest of my life happy, Elizabeth!” I cry. “We are
friends of such old—old date, that you know what my disposition is.”

“Oh! indeed,” says she, “it is certain that there never was a sweeter
disposition or a more gentle creature.” (Somehow I thought she said the
words “gentle creature” with rather a sarcastic tone of voice.) “But
consider your habits, dear sir. I remember how in Beak Street you used
to be always giving, and in spite of your income, always poor. You love
ease and elegance; and having, I daresay, not too much for yourself now,
would you encumber yourself with—with me and the expenses of a household?
I shall always regard you, esteem you, love you as the best friend I ever
had, and—_voici venir la mère du vaurien_.”

Enter Lady Baker. “Do I interrupt a _tête-à-tête_, pray?” she asks.

“My benefactor has known me since I was a child, and befriended me since
then,” says Elizabeth, with simple kindness beaming in her look. “We were
just speaking—I was just—ah!—telling him that my uncle has invited me
most kindly to St. Boniface, whenever I can be spared; and if you and the
family go to the Isle of Wight this autumn, perhaps you will intercede
with Mr. Lovel, and let me have a little holiday. Mary will take every
charge of the children, and I do so long to see my dear aunt and cousins!
And I was begging Mr. Batchelor to use his interest with you, and to
entreat you to use _your_ interest to get me leave. That was what our
talk was about.”

The deuce it was! I couldn’t say No, of course; but I protest I had no
idea until that moment that our conversation had been about aunt and
uncle at St. Boniface. Again came the horrible suspicion, the dreadful
doubt—the chill as of a cold serpent crawling down my back—which had made
me pause, and gasp, and turn pale, anon when Bessy and Captain Clarence
were holding colloquy together. What _has_ happened in this woman’s life?
_Do_ I know all about her, or anything; or only just as much as she
chooses? O Batch—Batch! I suspect you are no better than an old gaby!

“And Mr. Drencher has just been here and seen your son,” Bessy continues,
softly; “and he begs and entreats your ladyship to order Captain Baker to
be more prudent. Mr. D. says Captain Baker is shortening his life, indeed
he is, by his carelessness.”

There is Mr. Lovel coming from the city, and the children are running
to their papa! And Miss Prior makes her patroness a meek curtsey, and
demurely slides away from the room. With a sick heart I say to myself,
“She has been—yes—humbugging is the word—humbugging Lady B. Elizabeth!
Elizabeth! can it be possible thou art humbugging _me_ too?”

Before Lovel enters, Bedford rapidly flits through the room. He looks as
pale as a ghost. His face is awfully gloomy.

“Here’s the governor come,” Dick whispers to me. “It must all come hout
now—out, I beg your pardon. So she’s caught _you_, has she? I thought she
would.” And he grins a ghastly grin.

“What do you mean?” I ask, and I daresay turn rather red.

“I know all about it. I’ll speak to you to-night, sir. Confound her!
confound her!” and he doubles his knuckles into his eyes, and rushes out
of the room over Buttons, entering with the afternoon tea.

“What on earth’s the matter, and why are you knocking the things about?”
Lovel asks at dinner of his butler, who, indeed, acted as one distraught.
A savage gloom was depicted on Bedford’s usually melancholy countenance,
and the blunders in his service were many. With his brother-in-law Lovel
did not exchange many words. Clarence was not yet forgiven for his
escapade two days previous. And when Lady Baker cried, “Mercy, child!
what have you done to yourself?” and the captain replied, “Knocked my
face against a dark door—made my nose bleed,” Lovel did not look up or
express a word of sympathy. “If the fellow knocked his worthless head
off, I should not be sorry,” the widower murmured to me. Indeed, the
tone of the captain’s voice, his _ton_, and his manners in general, were
specially odious to Mr. Lovel, who could put up with the tyranny of
women, but revolted against the vulgarity and assumption of certain men.

As yet nothing had been said about the morning’s quarrel. Here we were
all sitting with a sword hanging over our heads, smiling and chatting,
and talking cookery, politics, the weather, and what not. Bessy was
perfectly cool and dignified at tea. Danger or doubt did not seem to
affect _her_. If she had been ordered for execution at the end of the
evening she would have made the tea, played her Beethoven, answered
questions in her usual voice, and glided about from one to another with
her usual dignified calm, until the hour of decapitation came, when
she would have made her curtsey, and gone out and had the amputation
performed quite quietly and neatly. I admired her, I was frightened
before her. The cold snake crept more than ever down my back as I
meditated on her. I made such awful blunders at whist that even good
Mrs. Bonnington lost her temper with her fourteen shillings. Miss Prior
would have played her hand out, and never made a fault, you may be sure.
She retired at her accustomed hour. Mrs. Bonnington had her glass of
negus, and withdrew too. Lovel keeping his eyes sternly on the captain,
that officer could only get a little sherry and seltzer, and went to bed
sober. Lady Baker folded Lovel in her arms, a process to which my poor
friend very humbly submitted. Everybody went to bed, and no tales were
told of the morning’s doings. There was a respite, and no execution could
take place till to-morrow at any rate. Put on thy night-cap, Damocles,
and slumber for to-night, at least. Thy slumbers will not be cut short by
the awful Chopper of Fate.

Perhaps you may ask what need had _I_ to be alarmed? Nothing could happen
to me. I was not going to lose a governess’s place. Well, if I must
tell the truth, I had not acted with entire candour in the matter of
Bessy’s appointment. In recommending her to Lovel, and the late Mrs. L.,
I had answered for her probity, and so forth, with all my might. I had
described the respectability of her family, her father’s campaigns, her
grandfather’s (old Dr. Sargent’s) celebrated sermons; and had enlarged
with the utmost eloquence upon the learning and high character of her
uncle, the Master of Boniface, and the deserved regard he bore his niece.
But that part of Bessy’s biography which related to the Academy I own I
had not touched upon. _A quoi bon?_ Would every gentleman or lady like
to have everything told about him or her? I had kept the Academy dark
then; and so had brave Dick Bedford the butler; and should that miscreant
captain reveal the secret, I knew there would be an awful commotion
in the building. I should have to incur Lovel’s not unjust reproaches
for _suppressio veri_, and the anger of those two _viragines_, the
grandmothers of Lovel’s children. I was more afraid of the women than of
him, though conscience whispered me that I had not acted quite rightly by
my friend.

When, then, the bed-candles were lighted, and every one said good-night,
“Oh! Captain Baker,” say I, gaily, and putting on a confoundedly
hypocritical grin, “if you will come into my room, I will give you that
book.”

“What book?” says Baker.

“The book we were talking of this morning.”

“Hang me, if I know what you mean,” says he. And luckily for me, Lovel
giving a shrug of disgust, and a good-night to me, stalked out of
the room, bed-candle in hand. No doubt, he thought his wretch of a
brother-in-law did not well remember after dinner what he had done or
said in the morning.

As I now had the Blacksheep to myself, I said calmly, “You are quite
right. There was no talk about a book at all, Captain Baker. But I wished
to see you alone, and impress upon you my earnest wish that everything
which occurred this morning—mind, _everything_—should be considered as
strictly private, and should be confided to _no person whatever_—you
understand?—to no person.”

“Confound me,” Baker breaks out, “if I understand what you mean by your
books and your ‘strictly private.’ I shall speak what I choose—hang me!”

“In that case, sir,” I said, “will you have the goodness to send a friend
of yours to my friend Captain Fitzboodle? I must consider the matter
as personal between ourselves. You insulted, and as I find now, for
the second time—a lady whose relations to me you know. You have given
neither to her, nor to me, the apology to which we are both entitled.
You refuse even to promise to be silent regarding a painful scene which
was occasioned by your own brutal and cowardly behaviour; and you must
abide by the consequences, sir! you must abide by the consequences!” And
I glared at him over my flat candlestick.

“Curse me!—and hang me!—and,” &c. &c. &c. he says, “if I know what all
this is about. What the dooce do you talk to _me_ about books, and about
silence, and apologies, and sending Captain Fitzboodle to me? _I_ don’t
want to see Captain Fitzboodle—great fat brute! _I_ know him perfectly
well.”

“Hush!” say I, “here’s Bedford.” In fact, Dick appeared at this juncture,
to close the house and put the lamps out.

But Captain Clarence only spoke or screamed louder. “What do I care
about who hears me? That fellow insulted me already to-day, and I’d have
pitched his life out of him, only I was down, and I’m so confounded weak
and nervous, and just out of my fever—and—and hang it all! what are you
driving at, Mr. What’s-your-name?” And the wretched little creature cries
almost as he speaks.

“Once for all, will you agree that the affair about which we spoke shall
go no further?” I say, as stern as Draco.

“I shan’t say anythin’ about it. I wish you’d leave me alone, you
fellows, and not come botherin’. I wish I could get a glass of
brandy-and-water up in my bed-room. I tell you I can’t sleep without it,”
whimpers the wretch.

“Sorry I laid hands on you, sir,” says Bedford sadly. “It wasn’t worth
the while. Go to bed, and I’ll get you something warm.”

“Will you, though? I couldn’t sleep without it. Do now—do now! and I
won’t say anythin’—I won’t now—on the honour of a gentleman, I won’t.
Good night, Mr. What-d’-ye-call—.” And Bedford leads the helot to his
chamber.

“I’ve got him in bed; and I’ve given him a dose; and I put some laudanum
in it. He ain’t been out. He has not had much to-day,” says Bedford,
coming back to my room, with his face ominously pale.

“You have given him laudanum?” I ask.

“_Sawbones_ gave him some yesterday,—told me to give him a little—forty
drops,” growls Bedford.

Then the gloomy major-domo puts a hand into each waistcoat pocket, and
looks at me. “You want to fight for her, do you, sir? Calling out, and
that sort of game? Phoo!”—and he laughs scornfully.

“The little miscreant is too despicable, I own,” say I, “and it’s absurd
for a peaceable fellow like me to talk about powder and shot at this time
of day. But what could I do?”

“I say it’s SHE ain’t worth it,” says Bedford, lifting up both clenched
fists out of the waistcoat pockets.

“What do you mean, Dick?” I ask.

“She’s humbugging you,—she’s humbugging me,—she’s humbugging everybody,”
roars Dick. “Look here, sir!” and out of one of the clenched fists he
flings a paper down on the table.

“What is it?” I ask. It’s her handwriting. I see the neat trim lines on
the paper.

“It’s not to you; nor yet to me,” says Bedford.

“Then how dare you read it, sir?” I ask, all of a tremble.

“It’s to him. It’s to Sawbones,” hisses out Bedford. “Sawbones dropt it
as he was getting into his gig; and I read it. _I_ ain’t going to make no
bones about whether it’s wrote to me or not. She tells him how you asked
her to marry you. (Ha!) That’s how I came to know it. And do you know
what she calls you, and what _he_ calls you,—that castor-hoil beast? And
do you know what she says of you? That you hadn’t pluck to stand by her
to-day. There,—it’s all down under her hand and seal. You may read it, or
not, if you like. And if poppy or mandragora will medicine you to sleep
afterwards, I just recommend you to take it. _I_ shall go and get a drop
out of the captain’s bottle—I shall.”

And he leaves me, and the fatal paper on the table.

Now, suppose you had been in my case—would you, or would you not, have
read the paper? Suppose there is some news—bad news—about the woman you
love, will you, or will you not, hear it? Was Othello a rogue because he
let Iago speak to him? There was the paper. It lay there glimmering under
the light, with all the house quiet.




Studies in Animal Life.

    “Authentic tidings of invisible things;
    Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power,
    And central peace subsisting at the heart
    Of endless agitation.”—THE EXCURSION.


CHAPTER V.

    Talking in beetles—Identity of Egyptian animals with those
    now existing: does this prove fixity of species?—Examination
    of the celebrated argument of species not having altered in
    four thousand years—Impossibility of distinguishing species
    from varieties—The affinities of animals—New facts proving the
    fertility of Hybrids—The hare and the rabbit contrasted—Doubts
    respecting the development hypothesis—On hypothesis in Natural
    History—Pliny, and his notion on the formation of pearls—Are
    pearls owing to a disease of the oyster?—Formation of the
    shell; origin of pearls—How the Chinese manufacture pearls.

A witty friend of mine expressed her sense of the remoteness of the
ancient Egyptians, and her difficulty in sympathizing with them, by
declaring that “_they talked in beetles, you know_.” She referred, of
course, to the hieroglyphics in which that curious people now speak to
us from ancient tombs. Whether those swarthy sages were eloquent and
wise, or obscure and otherwise, in their beetle-speech, it is certain
that entomologists of our day recognize their beetles as belonging to
the same species that are now gathered into collections. Such as the
Egyptians knew them, such we know them now. Nay, the sacred cats found
in those ancient tombs, are cats of the same kind as our own familiar
mousers; they purred before Pharaoh as they purr on our hearthrugs; and
the descendants of the very dogs which irreligiously worried those cats,
are to this day worrying the descendants of those sacred cats. The grains
of wheat, which the _savans_ found in the tombs, were planted in the soil
of France, and grew into waving corn in no respect distinguishable from
the corn grown from the grain of the previous year.

Have these familiar facts any important significance? Are we entitled to
draw any conclusion from the testimony of paintings and sculptures, at
least four thousand years old, which show that several of our well-known
Species of animals, and several of the well-marked Races of men, existed
then, and have not changed since then? Nimrod hunted with dogs and
horses, which would be claimed as ancestors by the dogs and horses at
Melton Mowbray. The Negroes who attended Semiramis and Rhamses are in
every respect similar to the Negroes now toiling amid the sugar-canes
of Alabama. If, during four thousand years Species and Races have not
changed, why should we suppose that they ever will change? Why should
we not take our stand on that testimony, and assert that Species are
unchangeable?

Such has been the argument of Cuvier and his followers; an argument
on which they have laid great stress, and which they have further
strengthened by a challenge to adversaries to produce one single case
where a _transmutation_ of species has taken place:—“Here we show you
evidence that Species have persisted unaltered during four thousand
years, and you cannot show us a single case of Species having changed—you
cannot show us one case of a wolf becoming a dog, an ass becoming a
horse, a hare becoming a rabbit. Yet you must admit that if there were
any inherent tendency to change, four thousand years is a long enough
period for that tendency to display itself in; and we ought to see a very
marked difference between the Species which lived under Semiramis, and
those which are living under Victoria. Instead of this, we see that there
has been no change: the dog has remained a dog, the horse has remained a
horse; every Species retains its well-marked characters.”

No one will say that I have not done justice to this argument. I have
stated it as clearly and forcibly as possible, not with any design to
captivate your assent, but to make the answer complete. This argument
is the _cheval de bataille_ of the Cuvier school; but like many other
argumentative war-horses, it proves, on close inspection, to be spavined
and brokenwinded. The first criticism we must pass on it is, that it
implies the existence of Species as a _thing_, which can be spoken of
as fixed or variable; whereas, as we saw last month, Species is an
_abstraction_, like Whiteness or Strength. No one supposes that there
exists any whiteness apart from white things, or strength apart from
strong things; yet the naturalists who maintain the fixity of Species,
constantly talk as if Species existed independently of the individual
animals. Instead of saying that by the word Species is indicated a
certain group of characters, and that whenever we meet with this group
we say, here is an animal of the same Species; they explicitly declare,
or tacitly imply, that although an individual dog may vary, there is
something above all individuals—the Species—and _that_ cannot vary. As
it is possible some readers may protest that no respectable authority
in modern times ever held the opinion here imputed to a school, I will
quote the very explicit language of one of Cuvier’s disciples—the last
editor of Buffon—who, no later than 1856, could declare that “Species
are the primitive forms of Nature. Individuals are nothing but the
representatives—the copies of these forms: _Les espèces sont les formes
primitives de la Nature. Les individus n’en sont que des représentations,
des copies._”[12] According to this very explicit, but very extravagant,
statement, an individual dog is nothing but a copy of the primitive
form—the typical dog—the _idea_ of a dog, as Plato would say; and of
course, if this be true, it matters little how widely individual dogs may
vary, the type, or species, of which it is the representative, remains
unaltered. Indeed it is on this ground that many physiologists explain
the fact of hereditary transmission: the individual may vary, it is
said, but the species is preserved; and if a dog, without its fore paws,
has offspring, every one of which possesses the fore paws, the reason
is, that _l’idée de l’espèce se reproduit dans le fruit, et lui donne
des organes qui manquaient au père ou à la mère_.[13] It is not easy to
understand how the _idea_ of species can reproduce itself, and give the
offspring of a dog the _organs_ which were wanting in the parents; but to
those who believe that Species exist independently of individuals, and
form the only real existences, the conception may be easier.

I have too much respect for the reader to drag him through a refutation
of such philosophy as this; the statement of the opinion is enough. And
yet, unless some such opinion be maintained, the doctrine of Fixity
of Species is without a basis; for if it be said that the group of
characters which constitute the dog are incapable of change, and in this
sense Species are fixed, we have to ask what evidence there can be for
such an assertion? since it is notorious that individual dogs _do_ show
a change in some of the characters of the group. We shall be referred to
the Egyptian tombs for evidence. M. Flourens assures us that not only
are these tombs evidence that Species have not changed in four thousand
years, but that _no_ species has changed—_aucune espèce n’a changé_—which
is surely stepping a long way beyond the precincts of the tombs?

It may be paradoxical, but it is strictly true, that the fact of
particular species having remained unaltered during four thousand years,
does not add the slightest weight to the evidence in favour of the
fixity of Species. “What!” some may exclaim, “do you pretend that four
thousand years is not a period long enough to prove the fixity of animal
forms?” Yes; I affirm that four thousand, or forty thousand, prove no
more than four. It is only by a fallacy that the opposite opinion could
gain acceptance. You would not suppose that I had strengthened my case
if, instead of contenting myself with stating reasons once, I repeated
these same reasons during forty successive pages; you would remind me
that this _iteration_ was not _cumulation_, and that no force was given
to my fortieth assertion which the first wanted. Why, then, do you ask
me to accept the repetition of the same fact four thousand times over,
as an increase of evidence? It is a familiar fact that like produces
like, that dogs resemble dogs, and do not resemble buffaloes; this fact
is, of course, deepened in our conviction by the unvarying evidence we
see around us, and is guaranteed by the philosophical axiom that like
causes produce like effects; but when once such a conception is formed,
it can gain no fresh strength from any particular instance. If we believe
that crows are black, we do not hold that belief more firmly when we are
shown that crows were black four thousand years ago. In like manner, if
it is an admitted fact that individuals always reproduce individuals
closely resembling themselves, it is not a whit more surprising that the
dogs of Victoria should resemble the dogs of Semiramis, than that they
should resemble their parents: the chain of four thousand years is made
up of many links, each link being a repetition of the other. So long as
a single pair of dogs resembling each other unite, so long will there
be specimens of that species; simply because the children inherit the
characteristics of the parents. So long as Negroes marry with Negroes,
and Jews with Jews, so long must there be a perpetuation of the Negro and
Jewish types; but the tenth generation adds nothing to the evidence of
the first, nor the ten-thousandth to the tenth.

I believe that this fallacy, which destroys the whole value of the
Cuvierian argument, has not before been pointed out; and even now, you
may, perhaps, ask if the fixity of Species is not proved by the fact
that like produces like? So far from this, that it is only by the aid
of such a fact in organic nature that we can imagine _new_ species to
have arisen: in other words, those who believe in the variability of
Species, and the introduction of new forms by means of modification from
the old, always invoke the law of hereditary transmission as the means
of establishing accidental variations. Thus, let us suppose the Egyptian
king to have had one hundred dogs, all of them staghounds, and no other
form of dog to have existed at that time in that country; the dog species
would be represented by the staghound. These staghounds would transmit
to their offspring all their _specific characters_. But, as every one
knows, however much dogs may resemble each other, they always present
individual differences in size, colour, strength, intelligence, &c. Now,
if any one of these differences should happen to become marked, and to
increase by the intermarriage of two dogs similarly distinguished by the
marked peculiarity, this peculiarity would in time become established by
hereditary transmission, and would form the starting-point of a new race
of dogs—say the greyhound—unless it were obliterated by intermarriage
with dogs of the old type. In the former case, we should have two races
of dogs among the descendants of those figured on the Egyptian tombs; but
as one of these races would still preserve the original staghound type,
Cuvier would refer to _it_ as a proof that species had not varied. We, on
the other hand, should point to the greyhound as proof that animal forms
_are_ variable, and that a new form had arisen from modification of the
old.

An objection will at once be raised to this illustration, to the effect
that all zoologists admit the possibility of new Varieties, or Races,
being formed; but they deny that new Species can be formed. It is here
that the equivoque of the word Species prevents a clear understanding of
each other’s argument. Whiteness may justly be said to be unalterable;
but white things may vary—they may become gray, or yellow. In like manner
Species must be invariable, because Species is a word indicating a
particular group of characters; but animals may vary in these characters:
they may present some of the characters less, or more, developed; and
they may even want some of them. Now as there is no absolute standard
of what constitutes Species, what Sub-species, and what Varieties, it
becomes impossible to say whether any individual variation in an animal
form shall constitute a new Variety, or a new Species. With regard to
dogs the differences between the various races are so numerous, and so
marked, as would suffice to constitute species and even genera, in other
groups of animals.

We must relinquish the idea of proving anything by the paintings and
sculptures of the ancients. When we find an Egyptian plough closely
resembling the plough still in use in some places, we may identify it
as of the same “Species” as our own; but this does not disprove the
fact that steam-ploughs, and ploughs of various construction, have been
since invented, all of them being modifications of the original type.
Formerly, and for many years, the stage-coach was our approved mode of
conveyance—and it is still kept up in some districts; nevertheless,
modifications of coach-road into tramroad, and tramroad into railroad,
have gradually resulted in a mode of conveyance utterly unlike the
stage-coach. It is the same with animals.

Let us never forget that Species have no existence. Only individuals
exist, and these _all vary_ more or less from each other. When the
variations are slight, they have no name; when they are more marked,
and are transmitted from one generation to another, they constitute
particular Faces, or Varieties; when the differences are still more
marked they constitute Sub-species; but, as Mr. Darwin says, “Certainly
no clear line of demarcation has yet been drawn between Species and
Sub-species; that is, the forms which in the opinion of some naturalists
come very near to, but do not quite arrive at the rank of Species; or
again, between Sub-species and well-marked Varieties, or between lesser
Varieties and individual differences. These differences blend into each
other in an insensible series; and a series impresses the mind with the
idea of an actual passage.” But the same process of divergence which
establishes Varieties out of individual differences, and Species out
of Varieties, also serves to establish Genera out of Species, Orders
out of Genera, and Classes out of Orders. It is, doubtless, difficult
to conceive by what process of modification, two animals of distinct
Genera, say a dog and a cat, were produced from a common stock; but
organic analogies in abundance render it easy of belief. If we knew as
much of zoology as we do of embryology, in respect of the affinities
of divergent forms, it would be far less surprising that two different
Genera should arise from a common stock, than that all the various parts
of the skeleton should arise from a common osseous element. We know
that the jaws are identical with arms and legs—both being divergent
modifications of a common osseous structure. We know that the arm of a
man is identical with the fin of a whale, or the wing of a bird. The
differences here in form, size, and function are much greater than the
differences which establish orders and classes in the animal series.
Unless animal forms were modifications of some common type, it would be
difficult to explain their remarkable affinities. As Mr. Darwin says, “It
is a truly wonderful fact—the wonder of which we are apt to overlook from
familiarity—that all animals and all plants throughout all time and space
should be related to each other in group, subordinate to group, in the
manner which we everywhere behold, namely, varieties of the same species
most closely related together, species of the same genus less closely
and unequally related together, forming sections and sub-genera, species
of distinct genera much less closely related, and genera related in
different degrees, forming sub-families, families, orders, sub-classes,
and classes. The several subordinate groups in any class cannot be ranked
in a single file, but seem rather to be clustered round points, and these
round other points, and so on in almost endless circles. On the view that
each species has been independently created, I can see no explanation
of this great fact in the classification of all organic beings; but to
the best of my judgment it is explained through inheritance, and the
complex action of natural selection, entailing extinction and divergence
of character. The affinities of all the beings of the same class have
sometimes been represented by a great tree. I believe this simile largely
speaks the truth. The green and budding twigs may represent existing
species; and those produced during each former year may represent the
long succession of extinct species. At each period of growth all the
growing twigs have tried to branch out on all sides, and to overtop and
kill the surrounding twigs and branches, in the same manner as species
and groups of species have tried to overmaster other species in the great
struggle for life. The limbs divided into great branches, and these into
lesser branches, were themselves once, when the tree was small, budding
twigs; and this connection of the former and present buds by ramifying
branches, may well represent the classification of all extinct and
living species in groups subordinate to groups. Of the many twigs which
flourished when the tree was a mere bush, only two or three, now grown
into great branches, yet survive and bear all the other branches. So with
the species which lived during long-past geological periods, very few now
have living and modified descendants.... As buds give rise by growth to
fresh buds, and these, if vigorous, branch out and overtop on all sides
many a feebler branch: so by generation, I believe, it has been with the
great Tree of Life, which fills with its dead and broken branches the
crust of the earth, and covers the surface with its ever-branching and
beautiful ramifications.”[14]

It will not be expected that in these brief and desultory remarks
I should touch on all, or nearly all, the important points in the
discussion respecting the Fixity of Species. Mr. Darwin’s book is in
everybody’s hands, and my object has been to facilitate, if possible,
the comprehension of his book, and the adoption of a more philosophical
hypothesis, by pointing out the weakness of the chief argument on the
other side. There is one more argument which may be noticed—the more so
as it is constantly adduced with triumph by the one school, and admitted
as a difficulty by the other. Its force is so great that it prevents
many from accepting the development hypothesis. It is the argument
founded on the alleged impossibility of Hybrids continuing the race.
More than two or three generations of Hybrids, it is said, can never be
maintained; after that, the new form perishes: thus clearly showing how
Nature repudiates such amalgamations, and keeps her species jealously
distinct and invariable. This argument is held to be the touchstone of
the doctrine of species. I wish it were so; because, in that case, the
question would no longer be one of hypothesis, since we have now the
indubitable proof that some Hybrids _are_ fertile unto the thirteenth
generation and onwards.

A history of the various attempts which have been made to prove and
disprove the fertility of Hybrids, would lead us beyond our limits; the
curious reader is referred to the works cited below.[15] One decisive
case alone shall be given here, and no one will dispute that it _is_
decisive.

The hare (_lepus timidus_) is assuredly of a distinct species from the
rabbit (_lepus cuniculus_). So distinct are these species, that any
classification which should range them as one, would violate every
accepted principle. The hare is solitary, the rabbit gregarious; the hare
lives on the surface of the earth, the rabbit burrows under the surface;
the hare makes her home among the bushes, the rabbit makes a sort of nest
for her young in her burrow—keeping them there till they are weaned; the
hare has reddish-brown flesh, the rabbit white flesh; while the odour
exhaled by each, and the flavour of each, are unmistakeably different.
The hare has many anatomical characters differing from those of the
rabbit: such as greater length and strength of the hind legs, larger
body, shorter intestine, thicker skin, firmer hair, and different colour.
The hare breeds only twice or thrice a year, and at each litter has only
two or four; the rabbit will breed eight times a year, and each time has
four, six, seven, and even eight young ones. Finally, the two are violent
foes: the rabbits always destroy the hares, and all sportsmen are aware
that if the rabbits be suffered to multiply on an estate, there will be
small chance of hares.

Nevertheless, between species so distinct as these, a new hybrid race
has been reared by M. Rouy, of Angoulême, who each year sends to market
upwards of a thousand of his _Leporides_, as he calls them. His object
was primarily commercial, not scientific. His experiments, extending
from 1847 to the present time, have not only been of great commercial
value—introducing a new and valuable breed—but have excited the attention
of scientific men, who are now availing themselves of his skill and
experience to help them in the solution of minor problems. It is enough
to note here, that these hybrids of the hare and the rabbit are fertile,
not only with either hares or rabbits, but _with each other_. Thirteen
generations have already been enumerated, and the last remains so
vigorous that no cessation whatever is to be anticipated.

In presence of this case (and others, though less striking, might be
named) there is but one alternative; either we must declare that rabbits
and hares form one and the same species—which is absurd—or we must admit
_that new types may be formed by the union of two existing types_; and
consequently that species _are_ variable. If the doctrine of Fixity
of Species acknowledges the touchstone of hybridity, the fate of the
doctrine is settled for ever.

Although I conceive the doctrine of Fixity of Species to be altogether
wrong, I cannot say that the arguments adduced in favour of the
development hypothesis rise higher than a high degree of probability,
still very far from demonstration; they will leave even the most willing
disciple beset with difficulties and doubts. When stated in general
terms, that hypothesis has a fascinating symmetry and simplicity, but
no sooner do we apply it to particular cases, than a thick veil of
mystery descends, and our pathway becomes a mere blind groping towards
the light. There is nothing but what is perfectly conceivable, and in
harmony with all analogies, in the idea of all animal forms having arisen
from successive modifications of one original form; but there are many
things perfectly conceivable, which have nevertheless no existence;
there are many explanations perfectly probable, which are not true; and
when we come to seek for the evidence of the development hypothesis,
that evidence fails us. It _may_ be true, but we cannot say that it _is_
true. Ten years ago, I espoused the hypothesis, and believed that it
must be the truth; but ten years of study, instead of deepening, have
loosened that conviction: they have strengthened my opposition to the
hypothesis of fixity of species, but they have given greater force to
the difficulties which beset the development hypothesis, and have made
me feel that at present the requisite evidence is wanting. I conclude
with reminding the reader that the question of the origin of species is
at present incapable of a positive answer; of the two hypotheses, that
of development seems the more harmonious with our knowledge; but it
is no more than an hypothesis, and will probably for ever remain one.
Now, an hypothesis, although indispensable as a provisional mode of
grouping together facts, and giving them some sort of explanation, is
after all only a _guess_, and it may be absurdly wide of the truth. In
Natural History, as in all other departments of speculative ingenuity,
there have been a goodly number of outrageously extravagant hypotheses,
gravely propounded, and credulously accepted. Men prefer an absurd guess
to a blank; they would rather have a false opinion than no opinion; and
one of the last developments of philosophic culture, is the power of
_abstaining_ from forming an opinion, where the necessary data are absent.

If you wish to see how easily hypotheses are formed and accepted, you
need only turn over the history of any science. If you want a laugh
at credulity, read a chapter of Pliny’s _Natural History_. Pliny is a
classic, and was for centuries an authority; but looked at with impartial
eyes, he appears the veriest “old woman” that ever wrote in a beautiful
style. He was a mere bookworm, without a particle of scientific insight.
His was not an age when men had much regard to evidence; but to him the
suspicion never seems to have occurred that Gossip Report could be given
to romancing, or that travellers could “see strange things.” No fable is
too monstrous for his credulity.

One of the pretty fables Pliny repeats, is, that pearls are formed by
drops of dew falling into the gaping valves of the oyster. It never
occurred to him to ask whether oysters were ever exposed to the dew?
whether the drops _could_ fall into their valves? whether oysters kept
their valves open, except when under water? or, finally, whether, if the
dew _did_ fall in, it would _remain_ a rounded drop? The drop of dew had
a certain superficial resemblance to the pearl, and that was enough.
Ælian’s hypothesis was somewhat better: he supposed that the pearls were
produced by lightning flashing into the open shells.

Turning from these ancient sages, you will ask how pearls are formed?
And almost any ingenious modern, not a zoologist, will tell you (and
tell you falsely), that the pearl is a disease of the oyster. One is
somewhat fatigued with the merciless frequency with which this notion
has been dragged in, as an illustration of genius issuing out of sorrow
and adversity; and it is time to stop that “damnable iteration” by
discrediting the notion. Know then, that if

                            “Most wretched men
    Are cradled into poetry by wrong:
    They learn in suffering what they teach in song”—

it is not true that oysters secrete in suffering what women wear as
necklaces. Disease would be the very worst cradle for pearls. The idea
of disease originated in a fanciful supposition of pearls being to the
oyster and mussel what gall-stones and urinary calculi are to higher and
more suffering animals. Réaumur, to whom we owe so many good observations
and suggestive ideas, came near the truth when, in 1717, he showed that
the structure of pearls was identical with the structure of the shells in
which they grow. He attributed their formation to the morbid effusion of
coagulating shell-material.

I presume you know that shells are formed by a secretion from the
_mantle_? The mantle is that delicate semi-transparent membrane which you
observe, on opening a mussel, lining the whole interior of the shells,
and having at its free margins a sort of fringe of delicate tentacles,
which are sensitive and retractile. A microscopic examination of these
fringes shows them to be glandular in structure—that is, they are
secreting organs. The whole mantle, indeed, is a secreting organ, and
its secretion is the shell-material: the fringes secrete the colouring
matters of the shell, and enlarge its _circumference_; the rest of
the mantle secretes the nacre, or mother-of-pearl, and increases the
_thickness_ of the shell. Now it is obvious that the formation of pearl
nacre, and of pearls, depends on the _healthy_ condition of the mantle,
not on its diseases. If the mantle be injured the nacre is not secreted
at all, or in less quantities.

But, although pearls depend upon the healthy, not the diseased activity
of the mantle, it is clear that there must be some unusual condition
present for their formation; since the secretion of nacre does not
spontaneously assume the form of pearls. What is the unusual condition?
Naturalists are at present divided into two camps, fighting vigorously
for victory. The one side maintains that the origin of a pearl is this—an
egg of the oyster has escaped and strayed under the mantle; or the egg
of a parasite has been _deposited_ there; this egg forms the nucleus,
round which the nacre forms, and thus we have the pearl. The other side
maintains with great positiveness that _anything_ will form a nucleus, a
grain of sand, no less than the egg of a parasite. ’Tis a pretty quarrel,
which we may leave them to settle. Some aver that grains of sand are
more numerous than anything else; but Möbius says that of forty-four
sea pearls, and fifteen fresh-water pearls, examined by him, not one
contained a grain of sand; and Filippi, who has extensively investigated
this subject, denies that a grain of sand ever forms the nucleus of a
true pearl. Both Filippi and Küchenmeister[16] declare that a parasite
gets into the mussel or oyster, and its presence there stimulates an
active secretion of nacre.

There are pearls, according to Möbius, which consist of three different
systems of layers, like the shells in which they are formed; with this
difference, that these layers are _reversed_: in the shell the nacre
forms the innermost layer, in the pearl it forms the outermost. Hence
the qualities of the pearl depend on the shell, and on the different
proportions of nacre and carbonate of lime.

Since we know how pearls are made, may it not be expected that we should
learn to make them? Ever since the days of Linnæus the hope has been
entertained, and it is now becoming every day more likely to be realized.
Imperfect pearls have been made in abundance. The Chinese have long
practised the art. They simply remove the large fresh-water mussel from
the water, insert a foreign substance under the mantle, and in two or
three years (if I remember rightly) they take the mussels up again, and
find the pearls formed. In this way they make little mother-of-pearl
Josses, which are sold for a penny each; and I remember seeing a couple
of large shells in the Anatomical Museum at Munich, the whole length
of which was occupied by rows of little squab Josses, very comical to
behold. I was informed that a copper chain of these deities had been
inserted under the mollusc’s mantle, and this was the result.


FOOTNOTES

[12] FLOURENS: _Cours de Physiologie Comparée_, 1856, p. 9.

[13] BURDACH: _Physiologie_, ii. 245.

[14] DARWIN: _Origin of Species_, p. 128.

[15] ISIDORE GEOFFROY ST. HILAIRE: _Hist. Nat. Générale des Règnes
Organiques_, 1860, iii. 207 _sq._ BROCA: _Mémoire sur l’Hybridité_, in
BROWN-SEQUARD’S _Journal de la Physiologie_, 1859.

[16] See their interesting essays in MÜLLER’S _Archiv._ 1856.




Paterfamilias to the Editor of the “Cornhill Magazine.”


Sir,—To a person returning to England after an absence of many years,
few things can be more striking than the progress which has been made in
the art and practice of education since the commencement of the present
century, the methods and contrivances which have been ingeniously and
mercifully invented for imparting with greater ease the rudiments of
knowledge to the young, and the new books and new devices which really
merit the Old World title of _Reading made Easy_.

Formerly, any old paupers, who could read or write more or less
intelligibly, and who were too worn or too weak to earn their subsistence
in any other manner, used to be considered as perfectly qualified to
instruct the rising generation of the parish to which they belonged
in those necessary arts; and dire used to be the sufferings which the
unhappy village children underwent, solely because their broken-down and
incompetent teachers knew but little themselves, and knew not at all how
to impart that little to others.

To do them justice, however, their pupils were not entirely neglected.
If they could not read fluently, neither could they seat themselves with
any degree of comfort; and if they were backward in summing and spelling,
they seldom failed to return home at night with swollen eyes and scored
palms. The tree of knowledge in those days was only valued on account of
the tough and elastic materials which it furnished for the manufacture of
instruments of childish torture.

The normal aspect of a village school used then to be, an aged crone in
the chimney-corner, spectacles on nose, and rod in hand; a loutish boy,
crowned with a fool’s cap, whining by her side; a class of trembling
dunces before her, endeavouring in vain to shirk unchastised through
lessons which they were as unapt to learn as their mistress was to teach;
and, in the background, the body of the school, ignorant, rude, dirty,
and of evil savour—just such a brutal and unpromising brood as the
incapable old hen who presided over them might be expected to rear.

In the present year of our Lord 1860, a village, nay, a workhouse school,
in any district of England, presents a very different, and a much
pleasanter sight. Order, cleanliness, and intelligence now predominate;
the active and experienced teachers—young men and women in the prime of
life, carefully trained to teach—understand their duties thoroughly,
and are proud of their success in discharging them. Punishments are now
rare, and never cruel; the children have a happy and cultivated look, and
the result of this improved system of school-teaching obtrudes itself
gratefully on the eye and ear of the visitor in well-written copies
and careful drawings, in distinctly enunciated reading, in harmonious
singing, and in arithmetical calculations of surprising accuracy and
rapidity. And all these valuable results have been produced by a very
moderate degree of judicious encouragement and vigilance on the part of
the legislature, which has, in the first place, taught the teachers of
the children of the poor the art of teaching—an art until lately entirely
neglected in this country; and, secondly, has kept them up to their work
by a careful system of school inspection. Every school which now benefits
by a grant of government money is examined and reported on, publicly
and periodically, by the government inspectors of schools, able and
accomplished men, as thoroughly versed in the art of examination as the
teachers they overlook are in the art of teaching.

It is a deplorable and strange fact, that whilst all this care and
forethought has been so properly bestowed on the children of the English
poor, the children of our wealthier classes have been in that respect
altogether neglected. Their teachers are never trained to teach at
all; no government inspector ever reports on the educational merits
or demerits of our old-established upper-class schools, which remain,
for the most part, mere money speculations, in which the welfare and
progress of the pupils are held altogether subservient to the pecuniary
profits of the masters. All is left in those important establishments
to self-interest and to chance; and there would even now be small hope
of a change in their system for the better, were it not for external
circumstances, to which I will presently advert.

Many years ago I was myself a pupil at Harchester College, one of our
most celebrated public schools. It was indeed a pleasant place for a
sturdy, quick-witted boy; though for a boy who was neither sturdy nor
quick-witted, it was neither pleasant nor profitable: clever, studious
boys did very well at it, as clever, studious boys will generally do
anywhere; but boys of average ability and application learnt very little
there, and dull or idle boys learnt positively nothing at all.

Nor were these unsatisfactory results surprising, when the system and the
staff of the school were critically examined. The Harchester tutors were
all Fellows of one small and not very distinguished college at Oxbridge,
which possessed a sort of vested interest in Harchester. They came
thither as masters, not because anybody believed them to be clever men,
or because they were supposed to possess any natural or acquired aptitude
for teaching, but solely as a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence.
They wished to make money rapidly. The profits of a master at Harchester
were known to be very great; and the Fellows of —— college had, according
to their seniority, a prescriptive right to that position, if they
pleased.

Such an arrangement as this was bad enough, but the fact that the
proportion of masters to boys was dishonestly small, was worse; there
were not nearly enough of them even to hear the pupils the daily
tasks which were assigned to them; and as for any moral or social
supervision out of school-hours, none was ever attempted—so perplexed
and overwhelmed were the teachers with the burden of their scholastic
duties. If the elder boys in a tutor’s house chanced to be gentlemanlike
and well-conditioned lads, the juniors had a pretty good time of it,
and fared tolerably; if they chanced to be roughs or snobs, which they
occasionally were, the juniors had a bad time of it, and fared ill. But
the whole thing was a complete matter of chance. A tutor, who from seven
in the morning till ten at night, with very brief intervals for food and
exercise, was occupied in teaching and hearing lessons, in examining
maps, in correcting themes and verses, and who could not in that space
of time hear one-fifth of the lessons his pupils were supposed, by a
wild stretch of tutorial imagination, to learn, was not in a position to
bestow much attention on either the morals or the manners of the boys.
During the daytime they were left entirely to themselves, to ferment,
and purify or corrupt, as the case might be; and at night they were in
some degree supervised and controlled by the confidential servants of the
houses in which they boarded.

The regular business of the school consisted solely in the study of Latin
and Greek, which was taught in the precise manner in which it had been
taught to our fathers and grandfathers; for no newfangled or short cuts
to knowledge found favour in the eyes of the Principal of Harchester: of
modern history, modern geography, modern languages, English composition
and literature, arithmetic, or mathematics, we learnt nothing. There was,
indeed, a slight pretence made of teaching some few of those branches
of education, and French and mathematics figured occasionally as extras
in our bills; but it was but a pretence—they formed no part of what was
termed “the regular business of the school,” and proficiency in them
obtained for a boy neither credit nor position at Harchester. Straws
often show which way the wind blows. The Harchester boys were never
required to touch their hats to the French or the mathematical masters;
whilst to the classical masters, who alone conducted the discipline of
the school, they were required to be always hat in hand.

The insufficient number of masters, and the overwhelming number of
pupils, enabled the latter to shirk their lessons with great facility;
and the consequence was, that the masters, conscious of the evil
practice, yet unequal to prevent it, quieted their consciences by
inflicting corporal punishments to an incredible amount; notwithstanding
which, it is no exaggeration to say, that for one pupil who left
Harchester a fair scholar, a dozen left it with scarcely any education at
all.

But as the Harchester boys had plenty of holidays—as their amusements
were many and varied, and as they were liberally fed and well lodged—they
liked the system and the place well enough. Fives, rackets, cricket,
boating, hockey, and football kept them healthy and active; they dressed
well and expensively, had every opportunity they could desire for running
in debt at the pastrycooks’ and the public-houses of the town, and, I am
sorry to say, equal facilities for becoming initiated into some of the
vices of maturer age.

The masters were scarcely to blame for this; it was the system that was
mainly in fault. They had themselves been brought up under that system;
they sincerely believed in it. They worked from morning till night, and
more could not be expected of mortal men. If they could, they would have
educated all their pupils thoroughly; they would have watched over them
and kept them out of debt and difficulty of all kind; but they could
not—their numbers were so few. It is true that their numbers might have
been doubled, nay, trebled, with undoubted advantage to the school;
but then their profits must have been proportionably diminished; and
it was too much to expect from human nature that a reform, which could
only be attained at such a heavy cost, should be initiated by the very
individuals who would suffer from it. Government inspection would at once
have shown the propriety of such a step, and would have necessitated
its immediate adoption; but to talk of government inspection for such a
distinguished school as Harchester would have been rank sacrilege. It
might do very well for the schools of the poor, but Harchester would
never have submitted to it.

Harchester was a very popular school. The sons of half the nobility
and gentry of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales were sent thither,
because their fathers had been there before them; and because, although
it was known not to be a very good school—for learning—there was no other
upper-class school which was known to be decidedly better. It used to be
hinted, too, that between each generation vast improvements had taken
place in its system. The high social position of the Harchester boys was
sure to obtain for them a remarkably good start in the race of life, and
whenever any one of them distinguished himself signally at college or
in parliament, the admirers of Harchester fondly attributed his success
to the excellence of the Harchester system. It never seemed to occur to
them that the boy might have thriven in spite of that lax and dishonest
system, and not in consequence of it. Harchester men had also a great
reputation for being gentlemanlike, and on that quality they prided
themselves much more than upon their scholarship. But as the sons of the
best noblemen and gentlemen of England all went to Harchester, it was not
very surprising that they should grow up gentlemen. They would probably
have done so had they all been educated anywhere else. At any rate, the
masters could claim no credit for the gentility of their pupils—unless,
indeed, gentility be a plant which is best cultivated by entire neglect.

Numbers of the wealthy of the middle classes sent their sons to
Harchester in imitation of their betters. It was the most expensive
school in England. They imagined that its associations secured to their
boys great advantages in after life; and, in truth, like their betters,
they knew of no other upper-class school that was decidedly superior to
it. Mothers liked it because it was fashionable, and was supposed to
make their boys “gentlemen;” and country squires, who had been educated
there themselves, and were not particularly conscious of their own
deficiencies, were quite satisfied if their sons, after passing four or
five years in happy idleness, left it accomplished oarsmen and expert
cricketers.

Thirty or forty years ago such a system as this did very well for
our governing classes; well or ill educated, the Houses of Lords and
Commons, the Army, and the Civil Service, received with open arms the
children of the powerful and the rich; eldest sons, after a couple of
years’ additional idleness as gentlemen commoners at Oxbridge, went into
parliament and voted all the more steadily with their party, because
they were confirmed and incurable dunces; whilst younger sons obtained
commissions in crack regiments, or stools in the Treasury and Foreign
Office, and rose through the money and the parliamentary influence
their fathers could command, rather than through their own merits and
exertions. From such causes, and for such reasons, did Harchester College
prosper, and set an example which was followed by most of the upper-class
schools in England.

But in the present day, circumstances have arisen which must ere long
shake the time-honoured Harchester system to its very foundations. The
improvements which have of late years taken place in English education,
have, indeed, been first made manifest in the schools of the poor; but
they are swiftly surging upwards, and if Harchester, and our other
great public schools, are to maintain the position which they have
hitherto held, the sooner they call in the government inspector the
better for them. Middle-class schools are rising around them—in London,
in Liverpool, at Cheltenham, at Bradley, at Marlborough, at Bradfield,
and elsewhere—which are readily adapting themselves to the altered
requirements of the age; and unless Harchester means to be left in the
lurch, that venerable establishment must conform also.

No boy can now enter the Army or the Civil Service until he has proved
by an examination before government examiners, not only that his parents
have paid for a good education for him, but that he has profited by it.
The standard of education which has been erected by the Civil Service
Commissioners and the Board of Military Education, is, indeed, a low one;
but it has been constructed by the advice and with the concurrence of the
masters of our largest schools, it is firmly based upon public opinion,
and it is far more likely to be heightened than to be reduced. And there
it will henceforward remain—a sure though not a severe test of the
honesty and abilities of masters as well as of scholars. From a youth of
seventeen or eighteen years of age it requires but little, but it insists
that that little shall be well and thoroughly learnt. A correct knowledge
of his mother tongue and of arithmetic, a fair acquaintance with history,
geography, mathematics, and French, as well as with Latin and with Greek,
if the candidate volunteers the latter, is all that is asked; and if an
upper-class school does not teach that much to a boy between the age
of twelve and eighteen, it is not unreasonable to inquire what it does
teach him? But these are just the educational items which Harchester has
hitherto evaded teaching. They are not yet part of the Harchester “school
business;” the sooner they are, the better for the future prosperity of
Harchester.

As matters now stand, what happens to a Harchester boy the moment he
receives the promise of a commission or a clerkship, is just this: he is
hastily removed from that celebrated school, and is handed over to “a
crammer”—an educational empiric—who can have no pride in his calling;
who deals only with full-grown and avowed dunces; and who undertakes
to teach them in a few months what it is shameful to their teachers
that they should not have learnt years before. The “crammer” teaches at
a manifest disadvantage; he and his pupil are strangers to each other;
he knows nothing of his constitution, his disposition, his capacity, or
his temper; he has, and can have, no influence or control over him; all
he can do, all he undertakes to do, is to hustle him, by fair means or
by foul, over the low educational barrier which debars the youth from
entering the profession of his choice. Sometimes he succeeds—generally
after one or two mortifying failures; but very often the poor lad has
been allowed to become so incurably idle as to be unable to acquire
at eighteen those rudimentary parts of education, which ought to have
been imparted to him when he was a child, and in which the sons of his
father’s tradesmen are now mostly proficient; and he is in consequence
shut out from the career to which he and his parents have for years been
looking forward with eager satisfaction. In either case his friends are
unfairly exposed to great expense, anxiety, and mortification. And all
this happens because our old public school system is too deeply rooted in
vested interests to accommodate itself readily to the altered habits and
requirements of the age.

I know very well that I shall be told that our public school system is
not what it used to be, and that what I have here written refers rather
to what _was_ than to what _is_. I am prepared to test the justice of
this reproof in the manner most disadvantageous to my argument. I have
before me the statistics of half-a-dozen of our largest upper-class
schools; I will take up those of the most costly, the most renowned, the
largest. They are those of Eton.

I find that that school lately contained between 800 and 900 boys. To
teach them everything, save mathematics and French, there were twenty-one
masters. But of those, one, the head master, takes no pupils: nor does
the assistant master in college teach any of the boys. Upwards of 800
boys, therefore, are taught by nineteen masters. Now much economy of
scholastic labour may undoubtedly be effected by teaching boys in large
droves; but I am assured that the system of instruction at Eton is rather
wasteful than economical of scholastic labour. All the teaching is done
out of school, in the private houses of the tutors, and the boys only go
into school to repeat what they have previously learnt, and to exhibit
exercises that have been already examined and corrected. Therefore, as
each master has a few pupils in every class in the school, each master is
compelled every day to go through the entire business of every class in
the school; and some of them undertake single-handed the private tuition
of as many as seventy boys!

It seems absolutely impossible, under such conditions, that nineteen
masters can do justice to 800 or 900 boys; and the questions naturally
arise,—Do they do justice to them? Can they do justice to them? And if
they do not, and cannot, why are their numbers not doubled or trebled at
once? Ought not the liberal sum paid for the education of an Eton boy to
ensure to him the fullest educational advantages? Ought any “crammer” to
be required to prepare him for his appearance before the Civil Service
Commissioners or the Board of Military Education?

Of late years we have been told that the study of modern languages has
been much more attended to at our public schools than formerly; and
H.R.H. the Prince Consort has kindly and thoughtfully encouraged it
by offering prizes for the best scholars in that branch of knowledge
at Eton. But the authorities at that school do not appear, from
their published statistics, to be sensible of the importance of such
acquirements, although they absolutely constitute the only current coin
which will be received at the educational turnpike which the government
has recently erected, and through which every boy entering on public life
as a soldier or a civil servant must now pass. At that turnpike Greek and
Roman money is no longer exclusively taken.

The class of youths who are educated at Eton can scarcely be said to
have received the education of gentlemen, if at seventeen or eighteen
they have not acquired a moderate knowledge of French. Yet to teach
800 or 900 boys French, but one master has hitherto been provided by
the authorities of that school; and for their fractional share in his
services, his pupils each pay 10_l._ 10_s._ a year _extra_. At King’s
College, London,—one of the best of our middle-class schools—there are
three French masters kept to instruct 880 boys, without any _extra_
charge. At Charter-House—which enjoys the advantage of the independent
supervision of its distinguished governors—there is one classical master
to every twenty boys; and French—not an _extra_—is as well cared for as
it is at King’s College; whilst at Eton there is not one classical master
to every forty boys. I will, however, enter into no further comparisons
of this kind. I am fearful of falling into technical errors, which might
weaken the force of what I wish to say. I have no right to suppose that
Eton is a bit worse than others of our public schools, or that it is
not better than many of them: but I do say that the statistics to which
I have here adverted call for immediate attention and explanation. It
is of the utmost importance to every man in England that the schools at
which our future legislators are educated should be good schools, and
that the governors of this country should be at least as well educated as
the governed. If they are not, in the course of a few years deplorable
results must ensue.

I will now relate the accident which has decided me on calling, through
your means, public attention to this matter.

Some months ago I visited one of our newly established schools, where
about one hundred and fifty boys were receiving their education. The
principal of it, a very distinguished man, well known for his energetic
intelligence in the cause of education, told me that he felt he could
not do justice to his boys unless he had one master to every twelve of
them. I inquired what he paid his masters, and I found his maximum was
about 800_l._ a year, and his minimum 300_l._, board included. For these
sums, he assured me, he secured the best men the universities produced.
All the arrangements of his school appeared to me excellent; and the
conveniences and opportunities for cricket, football, and other athletic
amusements, were quite equal to those we used to enjoy at Harchester.
The principal himself took no part in the teaching—he merely exercised a
general superintendence over the whole. I should much like to name this
admirable establishment; but as I have not his permission to do so, I
forbear.

Shortly afterwards I chanced to read in _The Times_ the list of the
successful competitors at one of the highest open examinations held by
the Government Examiners. The boy whose name stood at the head of that
list was named as having been educated at this gentleman’s school, and as
having come direct from thence into the public examination room. He had
won in a canter, as the number of marks assigned to him proved. Last but
one on the list of sixty was the only Etonian candidate, and to his name
was added, “Educated at Eton, _and at subsequent private tutors’_.”

In conclusion, sir, I will offer a suggestion. I do so with extreme
diffidence, and with entire deference to those who are, I know, more
competent to judge of educational questions than I am. I merely throw it
out for consideration.

Compulsory inspection of our great schools is, I imagine, out of the
question; but I would ask whether a voluntary system could not be devised
which should place at the disposal of such schoolmasters as chose to
avail themselves of it, accredited government inspectors, who, being
invited, should repair to a school, examine its system and its pupils,
and report formally and publicly upon both.

Supposing that at this moment Eton, or any other great school, confident
in its system and its educational integrity, were to avail itself of this
privilege, and that the government inspectors should report that they had
examined that establishment; that its educational staff was abundant;
that its fifth and sixth forms were generally not only good classical
scholars, but so well grounded in English, French, arithmetic, and
mathematics as to be able to present themselves without the intervention
of “crammers” for examination for the Army or the Civil Service, with
every prospect of success—what an advantage such a report as that would
be to the school and to the pupils: what a load it would remove from the
bosoms of hundreds of doubting and anxious parents: what a stimulus it
would give to other less faithfully conducted educational establishments!

And if the inspectors’ report should happen to be not quite so favourable
to its existing system,—if it recommended that the number of tutors
should be at least trebled, and that modern languages, arithmetic, and
mathematics, should be made part of the “regular business” of the school,
would not its publicity render immediate improvement and reform the best
policy—no matter at what present pecuniary sacrifice?

My suggestion is, perhaps, a crude one; nevertheless, I earnestly commend
it to the attention of H.R.H. Prince Albert, and of those in authority
who interest themselves in the education of this great country.

                     I am, Sir, your humble servant,

                                                            PATERFAMILIAS.




The Outcast Mother.


    I’ve seen this dell in July’s shine,
      As lovely as an angel’s dream;
    Above—Heaven’s depth of blue divine,
      Around—the evening’s golden beam.

    I’ve seen the purple heather-bell
      Look out by many a storm-worn stone;
    And, oh! I’ve known such music swell,—
      Such wild notes wake these passes lone—

    So soft, yet so intensely felt;
      So low, yet so distinctly heard;
    My breath would pause, my eyes would melt,
      And tears would dew the green heath-sward.

    I’d linger here a summer day,
      Nor care how fast the hours flew by;
    Nor mark the sun’s departing ray
      Smile sadly from the dark’ning sky.

    Then, then, I might have laid me down,
      And dreamed my sleep would gentle be;
    I might have left thee, darling one,
      And thought thy God was guarding thee!

    But now there is no wand’ring glow,
      No gleam to say that God is nigh;
    And coldly spreads the couch of snow,
      And harshly sounds thy lullaby.

    Forests of heather, dark and long,
      Wave their brown branching arms above;
    And they must soothe thee with their song,
      And they must shield my child of love.

    Alas! the flakes are heavily falling,
      They cover fast each guardian crest;
    And chilly white their shroud is palling
      Thy frozen limbs and freezing breast.

    Wakes up the storm more madly wild,
      The mountain drifts are tossed on high;
    Farewell, unbless’d, unfriended child,
      I cannot bear to watch thee die!

                                E. J. BRONTË.

HAWORTH, _July 12th, 1839_.




The Portent.


I.—ITS LEGEND.

    [As the sole return which I have it in my power to make for
    a friendship and a skill which have greatly alleviated my
    sufferings, I accede to the request of Dr. —— to commit to
    writing one or two passages in a history which has had more
    than the ordinary share of the marvellous in its composition. I
    write them with reluctance, yet with the feeling that I owe him
    the narration. It will serve, it may be, if not to explain, yet
    to account for some of the anomalies which he confesses have
    perplexed him in the treatment of my case. I leave it entirely
    to him to direct, by will or otherwise, what is to be the fate
    of these papers, after his and my decease.]

Except a few acres of arable land at its foot, a bare hill formed almost
the whole of my father’s possessions. The sheep ate over it, and found
it good for food; I raced and bounded over it, and thought it a kingdom.
In the still autumn morning, the wide moor lay outstretched in its
stillness, high uplifted towards the heaven. The dew hung on every stalk
in tiny drops, which, as the sun arose, sparkled and burned with all the
hues shared by the whole family of gems. Here and there a bird gave a
cry: all else was silence. It is strange, but I never see the statue of
the Roman youth, praying with outstretched arms, and open, empty, level
palms, as if waiting to receive and hold the blessing of the gods, but
that outstretched barren heath rises before me, as if it meant the same
thing as the statue,—or were, at least, the fit room in the middle space
of which to set the praying and expectant youth. There was one spot upon
the hill, half-way between the valley and the moorland above, which was
my favourite haunt. This part of the hill was covered with great blocks
of stone, of all shapes and sizes—here crowded together, like the slain
where the battle was fiercest; there parting asunder from a space covered
with the delicate green of the sweetest, softest grass. In the centre of
one of these green spots, on a steep part of the hill, were three huge
rocks—two projecting out of the hill, rather than standing up from it,
and one, likewise projecting from the hill, but lying across the tops of
the two others, so as to form a little cave, the back of which was the
side of the hill. This was my refuge, my home within a home, my study,
and, in the hot noons, often my sleeping chamber, and my house of dreams.
If the wind blew cold on the hill-side, a hollow of lulling warmth was
there, scooped as it were out of the body of the blast, which swept
around, and whistled keen and thin through the cracks and crannies of the
great rocky chaos that lay all about, and in which the wind plunged, and
flowed, and eddied and withdrew, as the sea-waves on the cliffy shores
or the unknown rugged bottoms. When I lifted my eyes, before me lay, but
at some miles’ distance, behind another hill, which on the opposite side
of the valley ran parallel to mine, a great mountain; not like that on
which I was seated, but a mighty thing, a chieftain of the race, seamed
and scarred, featured with chasms, and precipices, and overleaning rocks,
themselves huge as hills; here blackened with shade, there overspread
with glory; interlaced with the silvery lines of many falling streams,
which, hurrying from heaven to earth, cared not how they went, so it
were downwards. Fearful stories were told of many an awful gulf, many a
sullen pool, and many a dread and dizzy height upon that terror-haunted
mountain. But, except in storms, when the wind roared like thunder in
its caverns and along the jagged sides of its cliffs, no sound from that
uplifted land—uplifted, yet secret and full of dismay—ever reached my
ears. Did I say no sound? But I must not anticipate.

[Illustration: LEGEND OF THE PORTENT.]

I will now describe that peculiarity to which I have referred. I have
some reason to believe that I have inherited it from a far-off ancestor.
It seemed to have its root in an unusual delicacy of hearing, which
often conveyed to me sounds inaudible to those about me. This I had many
opportunities of proving. It likewise, however, brought me sounds which
I could never trace back to their origin; but which, notwithstanding,
may have arisen from some natural operation which I had not perseverance
or mental acuteness sufficient to discover. From this, or, it may be,
from some deeper cause with which this was associated, arose a certain
kind of fearfulness connected with the sense of hearing, of which I have
never heard a corresponding instance, but which I think I can easily
make you understand. Full as my mind was of the wild and sometimes
fearful tales of a Highland nursery, fear never entered my mind by the
eyes; nor, when I brooded over tales of terror, and fancied new and yet
more frightful embodiments of horror, did I shudder at any imaginable
spectacle, or tremble lest the fancy should become fact, and from behind
the whin-bush or the elder-hedge should glide forth the tall swaying
form of the Boneless. Indeed, when I was alone in bed, I used to lie
awake, and look out into the room, peopling it with the forms of all the
persons who had died within the scope of my memory and acquaintance.
These fancied forms were vividly present to my imagination. I pictured
them pale, with dark circles around their hollow eyes, visible by a
light which glimmered within them; not the light of life, but a pale
greenish phosphorescence, generated by the decay of the brain inside.
Their garments were white and trailing, but torn and soiled, as if by
trying often in vain to get up out of the buried coffin. So far from
being terrified by these imaginings, I used to delight in them; and even,
when on a long winter evening I did not happen to have any book to read
that interested me sufficiently, to look forward with expectation to the
hour when, laying myself straight upon my back, as if my bed were my
coffin, I could call up from underground all who had passed away, and
see how they fared, yea even what progress they had made towards final
dissolution of form;—but, observe, all the time with my fingers pushed
hard into my ears, lest any the faintest sound should invade the silent
citadel of my soul. If by chance I removed one of my fingers, the agony
of terror I instantly experienced was such as to be, by me at least,
indescribable. I can compare it to nothing but the rushing in upon my
brain of a whole churchyard of spectres. The very possibility of hearing
a sound in such a mood, and at such a time, was enough to torture me.
So I could scare myself in broad daylight, on the open hill-side, by
imaginary unintelligible sounds; and my imagination was both original
and fertile in the invention of such. But my mind was too active to be
often subjected to such influences. Indeed life would have been hardly
endurable, had these moods been of more than occasional occurrence. As I
grew older, I almost outgrew them. Yet sometimes one awful dread would
seize me—that, perhaps, the prophetic power manifest in the gift of
second sight, which had belonged to several of my ancestors, according to
the testimony of my old nurse, had been in my case transformed in kind,
without losing its nature, and had transferred its abode from the sight
to the hearing, whence resulted its keenness, and my fear and suffering.

One summer evening, I had lingered longer than usual in my rocky retreat:
I had lain half-dreaming in the mouth of the cave, till the shadows of
evening had fallen, and the gloaming had deepened half-way towards the
night. But the night had no more terrors for me than the day. Indeed,
in such regions there is a solitude, for the recognition of which there
almost seems to exist a peculiar sense in the human mind, and upon
which the shadows of night seem to sink with a strange relief, closing
in around, and hiding from the eye the wide space which yet they throw
more open to the imagination. When I lifted my head, a star here and
there caught my eye; but when I looked intently into the depths of blue
gray, I saw that they were crowded with twinkles. The mountain rose
before me a huge mass of gloom; but its several peaks stood out against
the sky with a clear, pure, sharp outline, and seemed nearer than the
chaos from which they rose heavenwards. One star trembled and throbbed
upon the very tip of the loftiest, the central peak, which seemed the
spire of a mighty temple, where the light was worshipped—crowned,
therefore, in the darkness, with the emblem of the day. This fancy was
still in my thought, when I heard, clear, though faint and far away, the
sound as of the iron-shod hoofs of a horse, in furious gallop along an
uneven rocky surface. It was more like a distinct echo than an original
sound. It seemed to come from the face of the mountain, where I knew
no horse could go at that speed, even if its rider courted his certain
destruction. There was a peculiarity too in the sound—a certain tinkle,
or clank, which seemed only to mingle with the body of the sound, and
which I fancied myself able, by auricular analysis, to separate from it,
assigning to it a regular interval of recurrence. Supposing the sound to
be caused by the feet of a horse, the peculiarity was just such as would
result from one of the shoes being loose. A strange terror seized me, and
I hastened home. The sounds gradually died away as I descended the hill.
I could not account for them, except on the supposition that they were an
echo from the precipice. But I knew of no road lying so that, if a horse
were galloping upon it, the sounds would be reflected from the mountain
to me.

The next day, in one of my rambles, I found myself near the cottage of
my old foster-mother, who was distantly related to us, and was a trusted
servant in the family at the time I was born. On the death of my mother,
which took place almost immediately after my birth, she took the entire
charge of me, and brought me up, though with difficulty; for she used
to tell me I should never be either folk or fairy. For some years she
had lived alone in a cottage, which lay at the bottom of a deep green
circular hollow, upon which one came with a sudden surprise in walking
over a heathy table-land. I was her frequent visitor. She was a tall,
thin, aged woman, with eager eyes, and well-defined, clear-cut features.
Her voice was harsh, but with an undertone of great tenderness. She was
scrupulously careful in her attire, which was rather above her station.
Altogether she had much the bearing of a gentlewoman. Her devotion to me
was quite motherly. Never having had any family of her own, although she
had been the wife of one of my father’s shepherds, the whole maternity of
her nature was expended upon me; but this without much show of affection,
compared with what would be expected in a more southern climate. She was
always my first resource in any perplexity, for I was sure of all the
help she could give me. And as she had much influence with my father, who
was rather severe in his notions, I had now and then occasion to beg her
interference in regard to some slight aberration or other from what he
considered the path of strict decorum. Nothing of the sort, however, led
to my visit on the present occasion.

I ran down the side of the basin and entered the little cottage. Nurse
was seated on a chair by the wall, with her usual knitting, a stocking,
in one hand; but her hands were motionless, and her eyes wide open and
fixed. I knew that the neighbours stood rather in awe of her, on the
ground that she had the second sight; but although she often told us
frightful enough stories, she never alluded to such a gift as being in
her possession. Now I concluded at once that she was _seeing_. I was
confirmed in this conclusion when, seeming to come to herself suddenly,
she covered her head with her plaid, and sobbed audibly, in spite of her
efforts to command herself. But I did not dare to ask her any questions,
nor did she attempt any excuse for her behaviour. After a few moments,
she unveiled herself, rose, and welcomed me with her usual kindness;
then got me some refreshment, and began to question me about matters at
home. After a pause, she said suddenly: “When are you going to get your
commission, Duncan, do you know?” I replied, that I had heard nothing
of it; that I did not think my father had influence or money enough to
procure me one, and that I feared I should have no such good chance of
distinguishing myself. She did not answer, but nodded her head three
times, slowly and with compressed lips, apparently as much as to say, “I
know better.”

Just as I was leaving her, it occurred to me to mention that I had heard
an odd sound the night before. She turned full towards me, and looked at
me fixedly. “What was it like, Duncan, my dear?”

“Like a horse galloping with a loose shoe,” I replied.

“Duncan, Duncan, my darling,” she said, with a low, trembling voice, but
with passionate earnestness, “you did not hear it? Tell me that you did
not hear it! You only want to frighten poor old nurse: some one has been
telling you the story!”

It was my turn to be frightened now; for the matter became at once
associated with my fears as to the possible nature of my auricular
peculiarities. I assured her that nothing was farther from my intention
than to frighten her; that, on the contrary, she had rather alarmed me;
and I begged her to explain. But she sat down white and trembling, and
did not speak. Presently, however, she rose again, and saying, “I have
known it happen sometimes without anything very bad following,” began to
put away the basin and plate I had been eating and drinking from, as if
she would compel herself to be calm before me. I renewed my entreaties
for an explanation, but without avail; for she begged me to be content
for a few days, as she was quite unable to tell the story at present. She
promised, however, of her own accord, that before I left home, she would
tell me all she knew about it. The next day a letter arrived announcing
the death of a distant relation, by whose influence my father had had a
lingering hope of obtaining an appointment for me. There was nothing left
but to look out for a situation as tutor.

I was now nineteen. I had completed the usual curriculum of study at
one of the Scotch universities; and, possessed of a fair knowledge of
mathematics and physics, and what I considered rather more than a good
foundation of classical and metaphysical acquirement, I resolved to apply
for the first suitable situation that offered. But I was spared even
this trouble in the matter. Through a circuitous channel, a certain Lord
Hilton, an English nobleman, residing in one of the southern counties of
England, having heard that one of my father’s sons was desirous of such a
situation, wrote to him, offering me the post of tutor to his two boys,
of the ages of ten and twelve. He had himself been partly educated at a
Scotch university; and this, it may be, had prejudiced him in favour of
a Scotch tutor; while an ancient alliance of the families by marriage
was supposed by my nurse to be the cause of his offering me the post.
Of this connection, however, my father said nothing to me, and it went
for nothing in my anticipations. I was to receive a hundred pounds a
year, and to hold in the family the position of a gentleman; which might
mean anything or nothing, according to the disposition of the heads of
the family. Preparations for my departure were immediately commenced;
and I set out one evening for the cottage of my old nurse, to bid her
good-bye for many months, or probably years. I was to leave the next day
for Edinburgh, on my way to London, whence I had to repair by coach to
my new abode—almost to me like the land beyond the grave, so little did
I know about it, and so wide was the separation between it and my home.
The evening was sultry when I began my walk, and before I arrived at
nurse’s cottage, the clouds rising from all quarters of the horizon, and
especially gathering around the peaks of the mountain, betokened the near
approach of a thunder-storm. This was a great delight to me. Gladly would
I take leave of my home with the memory of a last night of tumultuous
magnificence, followed, probably, by a day of weeping rain, well suited
to the mood of my own heart in bidding farewell to the best of parents
and the dearest of homes. Besides, in common with most Scotchmen who
are young and hardy enough to be unable to realize to themselves the
existence of coughs and rheumatic fevers, it was a positive pleasure to
me to be out in rain, hail, or snow.

“I am come to bid you good-bye, Margaret, and to hear the story which you
promised to tell me before I left home: I go to-morrow.”

“Do you go so soon, my darling? Well, it will be an awful night to tell
it in; but, as I promised, I suppose I must.”

At the moment, down the wide chimney fell two or three great drops of
rain, with slight explosions upon the clear turf-fire, the first of the
storm.

“Yes, indeed you must,” I replied; and she commenced. Of course it was
all told in Gaelic; and I translate from my recollection of the Gaelic;
or, perhaps, rather from the impression left upon my mind, than from any
recollection of the words. We sat a little way back from the fire, which
we had reason to fear would soon be put out by the falling rain.

“How old the story is, I do not know. It has come down through many
generations. My grandmother told it to me, as I tell it to you; and her
mother and my mother sat beside, never interrupting, but nodding their
heads at every turn. Almost it ought to begin like the fairy tales, _Once
upon a time_,—it took place so long ago; but it is too dreadful and too
true to tell like a fairy tale. There were two brothers, sons of the
chief of our clan, but as different in appearance and disposition, as
two men could be. The elder was fair-haired and strong, much given to
hunting and fishing; fighting too, upon occasion, I daresay, when they
made a foray upon the Saxon, to get back a mouthful of their own. But he
was gentleness itself to every one about him, and the very soul of honour
in all his doings. The younger was very dark in complexion, and tall
and slender compared to his brother. He was very fond of book-learning,
which, they say, was an uncommon taste in those times. He did not care
for any sports or bodily exercises but one, and that too, was unusual in
these parts. It was horsemanship. He was a fierce rider, and seemed as
much at home in the saddle as in his study chair. You may think that,
so long ago, there was not much fit room for riding hereabouts; but,
fit or not fit, he rode. From his reading and riding, the neighbours
looked doubtfully upon him, and whispered about the black art. He usually
bestrode a great powerful black horse, without a white hair on him; and
people said it was either the devil himself, or a demon-horse from the
devil’s own stud. What favoured this notion was, that the brute would let
no other than his master go near him, in or out of the stable. Indeed no
one would venture, after he had already killed two men, and grievously
maimed a third, tearing him with his teeth and hoofs like a wild beast.
But to his master he was obedient as a hound, and was sometimes seen to
tremble in his presence.

“The youth’s temper corresponded to his habits. He was both gloomy and
passionate. Prone to anger, he had never been known to forgive. Debarred
from anything on which he had set his heart, he would have gone mad
with longing if he had not gone mad with rage. His soul was like the
night around us now, dark and sultry and silent, but lighted up by the
red levin of wrath, and torn by the bellowings of thunder passion. He
must have his will: hell might have his soul. Imagine then the rage and
malice in his heart, when he suddenly became aware that an orphan girl,
distantly related to them, who had lived with them for nearly two years,
and whom he had loved for almost all that period, was loved by his elder
brother, and loved him in return. He flung his right hand above his head,
swore a terrible oath that if he might not his brother should not, rushed
out of the house, and galloped off among the hills.

“The orphan was a beautiful girl, tall, pale, and slender, with plentiful
dark hair, which, when released from the snood, rippled down below her
knees. Her appearance consequently formed a strong contrast with that
of her favoured lover, and of course there was some resemblance between
her and the other. This fact seemed, to the fierce selfishness of the
younger, to be ground for a prior claim.

“It may seem strange that a man like him should not have had instant
recourse to his superior and hidden knowledge, by means of which he might
have got rid of his rival with far more certainty and less risk; but I
presume that for the moment his passion overwhelmed his consciousness
of skill. Yet I do not suppose that he foresaw the mode in which his
hatred was about to operate. At the moment when he learned their mutual
attachment, probably through a domestic, the lady was on her way to meet
her lover as he returned from the day’s sport. The appointed place was
on the edge of a deep rocky ravine, down in whose dark bosom brawled and
foamed a little mountain torrent. You know the place, Duncan, my dear, I
daresay.”

(Here she gave me a minute description of the spot, with directions how
to find it.)

“Whether any one saw what I am about to relate, or whether it was put
together afterwards, partly from conjecture, I cannot tell. The story is
like an old tree—so old that it has lost the marks of its growth. But
this is how my grandmother told it to me. An evil chance led him in the
right direction. The lovers, startled by the sound of the approaching
horse, parted in opposite directions along a narrow mountain-path on the
edge of the ravine. Into this path he struck at a point near where the
lovers had met, but to opposite sides of which they had now receded; so
that he was between them on the path. Turning his horse up the course
of the stream, he soon came in sight of his brother on the ledge before
him. With a suppressed scream of rage, he rode headlong at him, and ere
he had time to make the least defence, hurled him over the precipice.
The weakness of the strong man was uttered in one single despairing cry
as he shot into the abyss. Then all was still. The sound of his fall
could not reach the edge of the gulf. Divining in a moment that the
lady, whose name was Elsie, must have fled in the opposite direction, he
reined his steed on his haunches. He could touch the precipice with his
bridle hand half outstretched; his sword hand outstretched would have
dropped a stone to the bottom of the ravine. There was no room to wheel.
One desperate practicability alone remained. Turning his horse’s head
towards the edge, he compelled him by means of the powerful bit alone, to
rear till he stood almost erect; and so, his body swaying over the gulf,
with quivering and straining muscles to turn on his hind-legs. Having
completed the half-circle, he let him drop on all fours, and urged him
furiously in the opposite direction. It must have been by the devil’s own
care that he was able to continue his gallop along that ledge of rock.

“He soon caught sight of the maiden, as she leaned half-fainting against
the precipice. She had heard her lover’s last cry, and although it
conveyed no suggestion of his voice to her ear, she trembled from head to
foot, and her limbs could bear her no farther. He checked his speed, rode
gently up to her, lifted her unresisting, laid her across the shoulders
of his reeking horse, and riding carefully till he reached a more open
path, dashed again wildly along the mountain-side. The lady’s long hair
was shaken loose, and dropped trailing on the ground. The horse trampled
upon it, and stumbled, half dragging her from the saddle-bow. He caught
her, lifted her up, and looked at her face. She was dead. I suppose he
went mad. He laid her again across the saddle before him, and rode on,
reckless whither. Horse and man and maiden were found the next day,
lying at the foot of a cliff, dashed to pieces. It was observed that a
hind-shoe of the horse was loose and broken. Whether this had been the
cause of his fall, could not be told; but ever when he races, as race
he will, till the day of doom, along that mountain side, his gallop is
mingled with the clank of the loose and broken shoe. For the punishment
is awful like the sin: he shall carry about for ages the phantom-body of
the girl, knowing that her soul is away, sitting with the soul of his
brother, down in the deep ravine, or scaling with his the topmost crags
of the towering mountain-peaks. There are some who see him from time to
time, careening along the face of the mountain, with the lady hanging
across the steed; and they say it always betokens a storm, such as this
which is now raving all about us.”

I had not noticed till now, so absorbed had I been in her tale, that the
storm had risen to a very ecstasy of fury.

“They say, likewise, that the lady’s hair is still growing; for, every
time they see her, it is longer than before; and that now, such is its
length and the headlong speed of the horse, it floats and streams out
behind like one of those curved clouds that lie like a comet’s tail far
up in the sky; only the cloud is white, and the hair dark as night. And
they say it will go on growing till the Last Day, when the horse will
falter and fall, and her hair will gather in, and twist, and twine,
and wreathe itself like a mist of threads about him, and blind him to
everything but her. Then the body will rise up within it, face to face
with him, animated by a fiend, who, twining _her_ arms around him, will
drag him down to the bottomless pit.”

I may just mention here one little occurrence which seemed to have a
strange effect on my old nurse; and which illustrates the assertion that
we see around us only what is within us: marvellous things enough will
show themselves to the marvellous mood. During a short lull in the storm,
we heard the sound of iron-shod hoofs approaching the cottage. There was
no bridleway into the glen. A knock came to the door, and, on opening it,
we saw an old man seated on a horse, with a long slenderly-filled sack
lying across the saddle before him. He said he had lost his way in the
storm, and seeing the light, had scrambled down to inquire his way. I
saw at once from the scared and mysterious look of the old woman’s eyes,
that to her dying day nothing would persuade her that this appearance
had not something to do with the awful rider, the terrific storm, and
myself who had heard the sound of the phantom-hoofs. She looked after him
as he again ascended the hill, with wide and pale but unshrinking eyes;
and turning in, shut and locked the door behind her, as by a natural
instinct. Then, after two or three of her significant nods, accompanied
by the compression of her lips, she said:—

“He need not think to take me in, wizard as he is, with his disguises. I
can see him through them all. Duncan, my dear, when you suspect anything,
do not be too incredulous. This human demon is of course a wizard still;
and knows how to make himself, and anything he has to do with, take quite
different appearances from their real ones; only the appearances must
always bear some resemblance, however distant, to the natural forms. That
man you saw at the door was the phantom of which I have been telling you.
What he is after now, of course I cannot tell; but you must keep a bold
heart, and a firm and wary foot, as you go home to-night.”

I showed some surprise, I do not doubt, and, perhaps, some fear as well;
but only said, “How do you know him, Margaret?”

“I can hardly tell you,” she replied; “but I do know him. I think he
hates me. Often, of a wild night, when there is moonlight enough by fits,
I see him tearing around this little valley, just on the top edge, all
round; the lady’s hair and the horse’s mane and tail driving far behind,
and mingling, vaporous, with the stormy clouds. About he goes, in wild
careering gallop; now lost as the moon goes in, then visible far round
when she looks out again—an airy, pale gray spectre, which few eyes could
see but mine. There is no sound, except now and then a clank from the
broken shoe. But I did not mean to tell you that I had ever seen him. I
am not a bit afraid of him. He cannot do more than he may. His power is
limited, else ill enough would he work, the miscreant.”

“But,” said I, “what has all this, terrible as it is, to do with the
fright you were put in, by my telling you that I had heard the sound of
the broken shoe? Surely you are not afraid of only a storm?”

“No, my boy; I fear no storm. But the fact is, that that sound is seldom
heard, and never, as far as I know, by any of the blood of that wicked
man, without betokening some ill that will happen to one of the family,
and most probably to the one who hears it. But I am not quite sure about
that. Only some evil it does portend, although a long time may elapse
before it shows itself; and I have a hope it may mean some one else than
you.”

“Do not wish that,” I replied. “I know no one better able to bear it than
I am; and I will hope, whatever it may be, that I only shall have to meet
it. It must surely be something serious to be so foretold—it can hardly
be connected with my disappointment in being compelled to be a pedagogue
instead of a soldier.”

“Do not trouble yourself about that, Duncan,” replied she; “a soldier you
must be. The same day you told me of the clank of the broken horse-shoe,
I saw you return wounded from battle, and, in the street of a great
city, fall fainting from your horse—only fainting, thank God. But I have
particular reasons for being uneasy at your hearing that boding sound.
Can you tell me the day and hour of your birth?”

“No,” I replied. “It seems very odd when I think of it, but I really do
not know even the day.”

“Nor any one else, which is stranger still,” she answered.

“How does that happen, nurse?”

“We were in terrible anxiety about your mother at the time. So ill was
she, after you were just born, in a strange, unaccountable way, that you
lay almost neglected for more than an hour. In the very act of giving
birth to you, she seemed to the rest around her to be out of her mind,
so wildly did she talk; but I knew better. I knew that she was fighting
some evil power; and what power it was, I knew full well; for, three
times, during her pains, I heard the click of the horse-shoe. But no one
could help her. After her delivery, she lay as if in a trance, neither
dead, nor at rest, but as if frozen to ice, and conscious of it all the
while. Once more I heard the terrible sound of iron; and at the moment
your mother started from her trance, screaming, ‘My child! my child!’ We
suddenly became aware that no one had attended to the child; and rushed
to the place where he lay, wrapped in a blanket. On uncovering him,
he was black in the face, and spotted with dark spots upon the throat.
I thought he was dead; but with great and almost hopeless pains, we
succeeded in making him breathe, and he gradually recovered. But his
mother continued dreadfully exhausted. It seemed as if she had spent her
life for her child’s defence and birth. That was you, Duncan, my dear. I
was in constant attendance upon her.

“About a week after your birth, as near as I can guess, just in the
gloaming, I heard yet again the awful clank—only once. Nothing followed
till about midnight. Your mother slept, and you lay asleep beside her. I
sat by the bedside. A horror fell upon me suddenly, though I neither saw
nor heard anything. Your mother started from her sleep with a cry, which
sounded as if it came from far away, out of a dream, and did not belong
to this world. My blood curdled with fear. She sat up in bed, with wide
staring eyes, and half-open rigid lips, and, feeble as she was, thrust
her arms straight out before her with great force, her hands open and
lifted up, with the palms outwards. The whole action was of one violently
repelling another. She began to talk wildly as she had done before you
were born, but though I seemed to hear and understand it all at the time,
I could not recall a word of it afterwards. It was as if I had listened
to it when half-asleep. I attempted to soothe her, putting my arms round
her, but she seemed quite unconscious of my presence, and my arms seemed
powerless upon the fixed muscles of hers. Not that I tried to constrain
her, for I knew that a battle was going on of some kind or other, and
my interference might do awful mischief. All the time I was in a state
of indescribable cold and suffering; whether more bodily or mental I
could not tell. But at length I heard yet again the clank of the shoe. A
sudden peace seemed to fall upon my mind—or was it a warm, odorous wind
that filled the room? Your mother dropped her arms, and turned feebly
towards her baby. She saw that he slept a blessed sleep. She smiled like
a glorified spirit, and fell back exhausted on the pillow. I went to
the other side of the room to get a cordial, but when I returned to the
bedside, I saw at once that she was dead. Her face smiled still, with an
expression of the uttermost bliss.”

Nurse ceased, trembling as if overcome by the recollection; and I was too
much moved and awed to speak. At length, resuming the conversation, she
said: “You see it is no wonder, Duncan, my dear, if, after all this, I
should find, when I wanted to fix the date of your birth, that I could
not determine the day or the hour when it took place. All was confusion
in my poor brain. But it was strange that no one else could, any more
than I. One thing only I can tell you about it. As I carried you across
the room to lay you down, for I assisted at your birth, I happened to
look up to the window, and then saw what I did not forget, although I
did not think of it again till many days after,—that a bright star shone
within the half-circle of the thin crescent moon.”

“Oh, then,” said I, “it will be quite easy to determine the exact day and
the very hour when my birth took place.”

“See the good of book-learning,” replied she. “When you work it out, just
let me know, my dear, that I may remember it.”

“That I will.”

A silence of some moments followed. Margaret resumed:

“I am afraid you will laugh at my foolish fancies, Duncan; but in
thinking over all these things, as you may suppose I often do, lying
awake in my lonely bed, the notion sometimes comes to me: What if my
Duncan be the spirit of the youth whom his wicked brother hurled into the
ravine, come again in a new body to live out yet his life on the earth,
cut short by his brother’s hatred? If so, then his persecution of you,
and of your mother for your sake, would be easily understood. And if so,
you will never be able to rest till you find your mate, wherever she may
have been born on the face of the wide earth. For born she must be, long
ere now, for you to find. I misdoubt me much, however, should this be
the case, whether you will find her without great conflict and suffering
between, for the Powers of Darkness will be against you; though I have
good hope that you will overcome at last. You must forgive the fancies of
a foolish old woman, my dear.”

I will not try to describe the strange feelings, almost sensations, that
arose in me while listening to these extraordinary utterances, lest it
should be supposed I was ready to believe all that Margaret narrated or
concluded. I could not help doubting her sanity; but no more could I
help feeling very peculiarly moved by her narrative. Few more words were
spoken on either side.

After receiving renewed exhortations to carefulness on my way home, I
said good-bye to dear old nurse, considerably comforted, I must confess,
that I was not doomed to be a tutor all my days; for I never questioned
the truth of nurse’s vision and consequent prophecy. I went home in the
full ecstasy of the storm, through the alternating throbs of blackness
and radiance; now the possessor of no more room than what my body filled,
and now isolated in world-wide space—and the thunder filled it all.

Absorbed in the story I had heard, I took my way, as I thought,
homewards. The whole country was well known to me. I should have said,
before that night, that I could have gone home blindfold. Whether the
lightning bewildered me and made me take a false turn, I cannot tell; for
the hardest thing to understand, in moral as well as physical mistakes,
is how we came to go wrong. But after wandering for some time, plunged
in meditation, and with no warnings whatever of the presence of inimical
powers, a most brilliant lightning-flash showed me that at least I was
not near home. The flash was prolonged by a slight electric pulsation,
which continued for a second or two; and by that I distinguished a wide
space of blackness on the ground in front of me. Once more wrapt in the
folds of a thick darkness, I dared not move. Suddenly it occurred to me
what the blackness was, and whither I had wandered. It was a huge quarry,
of great depth, long disused, and half filled with water. I knew the
place perfectly. A few more steps would have carried me over the brink.
I stood still, waiting for the next flash, that I might be quite sure
of the direction I was taking before I dared to move. While I stood, I
fancied that I heard a single hollow plunge in the black water far below.
When the lightning came, I turned, and took my way back. After walking
for some time across the heath, I stumbled, and to my horror found I was
falling. The fall soon became a roll, however, and down a steep declivity
I went, over and over, arriving at the bottom uninjured.

Another flash soon showed me where I was—in the hollow valley, within a
couple of hundred yards from nurse’s cottage. I made my way towards it.
There was no light in it, except the feeblest glow from the embers. “She
is in bed,” I said to myself, “and I will not disturb her; ”yet something
drew me to look in at the little window. At first@ I could see nothing.
At length, as I kept gazing, I saw something, indistinct in the darkness,
like an outstretched human form.

By this time the storm had lulled. The moon had been up for some time,
but had been quite concealed by tempestuous clouds. Now, however, these
had begun to break up; and, while I looked into the cottage, they
scattered away from the face of the moon, and a faint vapoury gleam of
her light, entering the cottage through a window opposite that at which
I stood, fell directly on the face of my old nurse, as she lay on her
back outstretched upon chairs, pale as death, and with her eyes closed.
A stranger to her habits would have thought she was dead; but she had so
much of the same appearance as she had had in a former instance which I
have described, that I concluded at once she was in one of her trances.
Having often heard that persons in such a condition ought not to be
disturbed, and feeling quite sure she knew best how to manage herself,
I turned, though reluctantly, and left the lone cottage in the stormy
night, with the death-like woman lying motionless in the midst of it. I
found my way home without any further difficulty, and went to bed, where
I soon fell asleep, thoroughly wearied, more by the mental excitement I
had been experiencing, than by the amount of bodily exercise I had gone
through.

My sleep was tormented with awful dreams; yet, strange to say, I awoke
in the morning refreshed and fearless. The sun was shining through
several chinks in my shutters, and making, even upon the gloomy curtains,
streaks and bands of golden brilliancy. I had dressed and completed my
preparations long before I heard the steps of the servant who came to
call me.

What a wonderful thing waking is! The time of the ghostly moonshine—we
sleep it by; and the great positive sunlight comes: it fills me with
thoughts. As with a man who dreams, and knows that he is dreaming, and
thinks he knows what waking is, but knows it so little that he mistakes,
one after another, many a vague and dim change in his dream for an
awaking, and when the true waking comes at last, is filled and overflowed
with the power of its reality: so shall it be with us when we wake from
this dream of life into the truer life beyond, and find all our present
notions of being, thrown back as into a dim vapoury region of dreamland,
where yet we thought we knew, and whence we looked forward into the
present: as (to use another likeness) a who, in the night, when another
is about to cause light in the room, lies trying to conceive, with all
the force of his imagination, what the light will be like, is yet, when
most successful, seized as by a new and unexpected thing, different from
and beyond all his imagining, when the reality flames up before him, and
he feels as if the darkness were cast to an infinite distance behind him.
This must be what Novalis means when he says: Our life is not a dream;
but it may become a dream, and perhaps ought to become one.

I left my home, and have never since revisited it. When I next heard the
sound of the clanking iron, although it affected me with irresistible
terror, I little anticipated the influence of the event with which
it was associated. Before many years had elapsed, my foster-mother’s
prevision of my fall from a horse in the street of a city, was fulfilled:
this, too, was immediately preceded by the ominous sound, easily
distinguishable by me from the innumerable strokes of iron-shod hoofs
upon the stones around me. But both of these occasions are connected with
a period of my history involving such events, that the thought of writing
it makes me tremble.




Roundabout Papers—No. III.


ON RIBBONS.

[Illustration]

The uncle of the present Sir Louis N. Bonaparte, K.G., &c., inaugurated
his reign as Emperor over the neighbouring nation by establishing
an Order, to which all citizens of his country, military, naval,
and civil—all men most distinguished in science, letters, arts, and
commerce—were admitted. The emblem of the Order was but a piece of
ribbon, more or less long or broad, with a toy at the end of it.
The Bourbons had toys and ribbons of their own, blue, black, and
all-coloured; and on their return to dominion such good old Tories would
naturally have preferred to restore their good old Orders of Saint Louis,
Saint Esprit, and Saint Michel: but France had taken the ribbon of the
Legion of Honour so to her heart that no Bourbon sovereign dared to pluck
it thence.

In England, until very late days, we have been accustomed rather to
pooh-pooh national Orders, to vote ribbons and crosses tinsel gewgaws,
foolish foreign ornaments, and so forth. It is known how the Great Duke
(the breast of whose own coat was plastered with some half-hundred
decorations) was averse to the wearing of ribbons, medals, clasps,
and the like, by his army. We have all of us read how uncommonly
distinguished Lord Castlereagh looked at Vienna, where he was the only
gentleman present without any decoration whatever. And the Great Duke’s
theory was, that clasps and ribbons, stars and garters, were good and
proper ornaments for himself, for the chief officers of his distinguished
army, and for gentlemen of high birth, who might naturally claim to wear
a band of garter blue across their waistcoats; but that for common people
your plain coat, without stars and ribbons, was the most sensible wear.

And no doubt you and I are as happy, as free, as comfortable; we can walk
and dine as well; we can keep the winter’s cold out as well, without
a star on our coats, as without a feather in our hats. How often we
have laughed at the absurd mania of the Americans for dubbing their
senators, members of Congress, and States’ representatives, Honourable!
We have a right to call _our_ privy councillors Right Honourable, our
lords’ sons Honourable, and so forth: but for a nation as numerous, well
educated, strong, rich, civilized, free as our own, to dare to give
its distinguished citizens titles of honour—monstrous assumption of
low-bred arrogance and _parvenue_ vanity! Our titles are respectable,
but theirs absurd. Mr. Jones, of London, a chancellor’s son, and a
tailor’s grandson, is justly honourable, and entitled to be Lord Jones
at his noble father’s decease: but Mr. Brown, the senator from New York,
is a silly upstart for tacking Honourable to his name, and our sturdy
British good sense laughs at him. Who has not laughed (I have myself) at
Honourable Nahum Dodge, Honourable Zeno Scudder, Honourable Hiram Boake,
and the rest? A score of such queer names and titles I have smiled at in
America. And, _mutato nomine_? I meet a born idiot, who is a peer and
born legislator. This drivelling noodle and his descendants through life
are your natural superiors and mine-your and my children’s superiors. I
read of an alderman kneeling and knighted at court: I see a gold-stick
waddling backwards before majesty in a procession, and if we laugh, don’t
you suppose the Americans laugh too?

Yes, stars, garters, orders, knighthoods, and the like are folly. Yes,
Bobus, citizen and soap-boiler, is a good man, and no one laughs at
him or good Mrs. Bobus, as they have their dinner at one o’clock. But
who will not jeer at Sir Thomas on a melting day, and Lady Bobus, at
Margate, eating shrimps in a donkey-chaise? Yes, knighthood is absurd:
and chivalry an idiotic superstition: and Sir Walter Manny was a zany:
and Nelson, with his flaming stars and cordons, splendent upon a day of
battle, was a madman: and Murat, with his crosses and orders, at the
head of his squadrons charging victorious, was only a crazy mountebank,
who had been a tavern-waiter, and was puffed up with absurd vanity
about his dress and legs. And the men of the French line at Fontenoy,
who told Messieurs de la Garde to fire first, were smirking French
dancing-masters; and the Black Prince, waiting upon his royal prisoner,
was acting an inane masquerade; and Chivalry is naught; and Honour is
humbug; and Gentlemanhood is an extinct folly; and Ambition is madness;
and desire of distinction is criminal vanity; and glory is bosh; and fair
fame is idleness; and nothing is true but two and two; and the colour of
all the world is drab; and all men are equal; and one man is as tall as
another; and one man is as good as another—and a great dale betther, as
the Irish philosopher said.

Is this so? Titles and badges of honour are vanity; and in the American
Revolution you have his Excellency General Washington sending back, and
with proper spirit sending back, a letter in which he is not addressed
as Excellency and General. Titles are abolished; and the American
Republic swarms with men claiming and bearing them. You have the French
soldier cheered and happy in his dying agony, and kissing with frantic
joy the chief’s hand who lays the little cross on the bleeding bosom. At
home you have the dukes and earls jobbing and intriguing for the Garter;
the military knights grumbling at the civil knights of the Bath; the
little ribbon eager for the collar; the soldiers and seamen from India
and the Crimea marching in procession before the queen, and receiving
from her hands the cross bearing her royal name. And, remember, there
are not only the cross wearers, but all the fathers and friends; all the
women who have prayed for their absent heroes; Harry’s wife, and Tom’s
mother, and Jack’s daughter, and Frank’s sweetheart, each of whom wears
in her heart of hearts afterwards the badge which son, father, lover has
won by his merit; each of whom is made happy and proud, and is bound to
the country by that little bit of ribbon.

I have heard, in a lecture about George the Third, that, at his
accession, the king had a mind to establish an Order for literary men. It
was to have been called the Order of Minerva—I suppose with an Owl for
a badge. The knights were to have worn a star of sixteen points, and a
yellow ribbon; and good old Samuel Johnson was talked of as President,
or Grand Cross, or Grand Owl, of the society. Now about such an order
as this there certainly may be doubts. Consider the claimants, the
difficulty of settling their claims, the rows and squabbles amongst the
candidates, and the subsequent decision of posterity! Dr. Beattie would
have ranked as first poet, and twenty years after the sublime Mr. Hayley
would, no doubt, have claimed the Grand Cross. Mr. Gibbon would not have
been eligible on account of his dangerous freethinking opinions; and her
sex, as well as her republican sentiments, might have interfered with the
knighthood of the immortal Mrs. Catharine Macaulay. How Goldsmith would
have paraded the ribbon at Madame Cornelys’s, or the Academy dinner! How
Peter Pindar would have railed at it! Fifty years later, the noble Scott
would have worn the Grand Cross and deserved it; but Gifford would have
had it; and Byron, and Shelley, and Hazlitt, and Hunt would have been
without it; and had Keats been proposed as officer, how the Tory prints
would have yelled with rage and scorn! Had the star of Minerva lasted to
our present time——but I pause, not because the idea is dazzling, but too
awful. Fancy the claimants, and the row about their precedence! Which
philosopher shall have the grand cordon?—which the collar?—which the
little scrap no bigger than a buttercup? Of the historians—A, say,—and
C, and F, and G, and S, and T,—which shall be Companion and which Grand
Owl? Of the poets, who wears, or claims, the largest and brightest
star? Of the novelists, there is A, and B and C D; and E (star of first
magnitude, newly discovered), and F (a magazine of wit), and fair G,
and H, and I, and brave old J, and charming K, and L, and M, and N,
and O (fair twinklers), and I am puzzled between three P’s—Peacock,
Miss Pardoe, and Paul Pry—and Queechy, and R, and S, and T, _mère et
fils_, and very likely U, O gentle reader, for who has not written his
novel now-a-days?—who has not a claim to the star and straw-coloured
ribbon?—and who shall have the biggest and largest? Fancy the struggle!
Fancy the squabble! Fancy the distribution of prizes!

Who shall decide on them? Shall it be the sovereign? shall it be the
minister for the time being? and has Lord Palmerston made a deep study
of novels? In this matter the late ministry, to be sure, was better
qualified; but even then, grumblers who had not got their canary cordons,
would have hinted at professional jealousies entering the cabinet; and,
the ribbons being awarded, Jack would have scowled at his because Dick
had a broader one; Ned been indignant because Bob’s was as large: Tom
would have thrust his into the drawer, and scorned to wear it at all.
No—no: the so-called literary world was well rid of Minerva and her
yellow ribbon. The great poets would have been indifferent, the little
poets jealous, the funny men furious, the philosophers satirical,
the historians supercilious, and, finally, the jobs without end.
Say, ingenuity and cleverness are to be rewarded by State tokens and
prizes—and take for granted the Order of Minerva is established—who shall
have it? A great philosopher? no doubt, we cordially salute him G.C.M. A
great historian? G.C.M. of course. A great engineer? G.C.M. A great poet?
received with acclamation G.C.M. A great painter? oh! certainly, G.C.M.
If a great painter, why not a great novelist? Well, pass, great novelist,
G.C.M. But if a poetic, a pictorial, a story-telling or music-composing
artist, why not a singing artist? Why not a basso-profondo? Why not
a primo tenore? And if a singer, why should not a ballet-dancer come
bounding on the stage with his cordon, and cut capers to the music of
a row of decorated fiddlers? A chemist puts in his claim for having
invented a new colour; an apothecary for a new pill; the cook for a new
sauce; the tailor for a new cut of trowsers. We have brought the star of
Minerva down from the breast to the pantaloons. Stars and garters! can we
go any farther; or shall we give the shoemaker the yellow ribbon of the
Order for his shoetie?

When I began this present Roundabout excursion, I think I had not quite
made up my mind whether we would have an Order of all the Talents or not:
I think I rather had a hankering for a rich ribbon and gorgeous star, in
which my family might like to see me at parties in my best waistcoat.
But then the door opens, and there come in, and by the same right too,
Sir Alexis Soyer! Sir Alessandro Tamburini! Sir Agostino Velluti! Sir
Antonio Paganini (violinist)! Sir Sandy McGuffog (piper to the most noble
the Marquis of Farintosh)! Sir Alcide Flicflac (premier danseur of H.M.
Theatre)! Sir Harley Quin and Sir Joseph Grimaldi (from Covent Garden)!
They have all the yellow ribbon. They are all honourable, and clever,
and distinguished artists. Let us elbow through the rooms, make a bow to
the lady of the house, give a nod to Sir George Thrum, who is leading
the orchestra, and go and get some champagne and seltzer-water from Sir
Richard Gunter, who is presiding at the buffet. A national decoration
might be well and good: a token awarded by the country to all its
_bene-merentibus_: but most gentlemen with Minerva stars would, I think,
be inclined to wear very wide breast-collars to their coats. Suppose
yourself, brother penman, decorated with this ribbon, and looking in the
glass, would you not laugh? Would not wife and daughters laugh at that
canary-coloured emblem?

But suppose a man, old or young, of figure ever so stout, thin, stumpy,
homely, indulging in looking-glass reflections with that hideous
ribbon and cross called V. C. on his coat, would he not be proud? and
his family, would not they be prouder? For your noblemen there is the
famous old blue garter and star, and welcome. If I were a marquis—if I
had thirty—forty thousand a year (settle the sum, my dear Alnaschar,
according to your liking), I should consider myself entitled to my seat
in parliament and to my garter. The garter belongs to the Ornamental
Classes. Have you seen the new magnificent _Pavo Spicifer_ at the
Zoological Gardens, and do you grudge him his jewelled coronet and the
azure splendour of his waistcoat? I like my lord mayor to have a gilt
coach; my magnificent monarch to be surrounded by magnificent nobles:
I huzzay respectfully when they pass in procession. It is good for Mr.
Briefless (50, Pump Court, fourth floor) that there should be a Lord
Chancellor, with a gold robe and fifteen thousand a year. It is good
for a poor curate that there should be splendid bishops at Fulham and
Lambeth: their lordships were poor curates once, and have won, so to
speak, their ribbon. Is a man who puts into a lottery to be sulky because
he does not win the twenty thousand pounds prize? Am I to fall into a
rage, and bully my family when I come home, after going to see Chatsworth
or Windsor, because we have only two little drawing-rooms? Welcome to
your garter, my lord, and shame upon him _qui mal y pense_!

So I arrive in my roundabout way near the point towards which I have been
trotting ever since we set out.

In a voyage to America, some nine years since, on the seventh or eighth
day out from Liverpool, Captain L—— came to dinner at eight bells as
usual, talked a little to the persons right and left of him, and helped
the soup with his accustomed politeness. Then he went on deck, and was
back in a minute, and operated on the fish, looking rather grave the
while.

Then he went on deck again; and this time was absent, it may be, three
or five minutes, during which the fish disappeared, and the _entrées_
arrived, and the roast beef. Say ten minutes passed—I can’t tell after
nine years.

Then L—— came down with a pleased and happy countenance this time, and
began carving the sirloin: “We have seen the light,” he said. “Madam, may
I help you to a little gravy, or a little horse-radish?” or what-not?

I forget the name of the light; nor does it matter. It was a point of
Newfoundland for which he was on the look-out, and so well did the
_Canada_ know where she was, that, between soup and beef, the captain had
sighted the headland by which his course was lying.

And so through storm and darkness, through fog and midnight, the ship
had pursued her steady way over the pathless ocean and roaring seas, so
surely that the officers who sailed her knew her place within a minute
or two, and guided us with a wonderful providence safe on our way. Since
the noble Cunard Company has run its ships, but one accident, and that
through the error of a pilot, has happened on the line.

By this little incident (hourly of course repeated, and trivial to all
sea-going people) I own I was immensely moved, and never can think of
it but with a heart full of thanks and awe. We trust our lives to these
seamen, and how nobly they fulfil their trust! They are, under heaven, as
a providence for us. Whilst we sleep, their untiring watchfulness keeps
guard over us. All night through that bell sounds at its season, and
tells how our sentinels defend us. It rang when the _Amazon_ was on fire,
and chimed its heroic signal of duty, and courage, and honour. Think of
the dangers these seamen undergo for us: the hourly peril and watch; the
familiar storm; the dreadful iceberg; the long winter nights when the
decks are as glass, and the sailor has to climb through icicles to bend
the stiff sail on the yard. Think of their courage and their kindnesses
in cold, in tempest, in hunger, in wreck! “The women and children to the
boats,” says the captain of the _Birkenhead_, and, with the troops formed
on the deck, and the crew obedient to the word of glorious command, the
immortal ship goes down. Read the story of the _Sarah Sands_:—

                          “SARAH SANDS.”

    “The screw steam-ship _Sarah Sands_, 1,330 registered tons,
    was chartered by the East India Company in the autumn of 1858,
    for the conveyance of troops to India. She was commanded by
    John Squire Castle. She took out a part of the 54th Regiment,
    upwards of 350 persons, besides the wives and children of some
    of the men, and the families of some of the officers. All went
    well till the 11th November, when the ship had reached lat. 14
    S., longitude 56 E., upwards of 400 miles from the Mauritius.

    “Between three and four p.m. on that day a very strong smell of
    fire was perceived arising from the after-deck, and upon going
    below into the hold, Captain Castle found it to be on fire, and
    immense volumes of smoke arising from it. Endeavours were made
    to reach the seat of the fire, but in vain; the smoke and heat
    were too much for the men. There was, however, no confusion.
    Every order was obeyed with the same coolness and courage with
    which it was given. The engine was immediately stopped. All
    sail was taken in, and the ship brought to the wind, so as to
    drive the smoke and fire, which was in the after-part of the
    ship, astern. Others were, at the same time, getting fire-hoses
    fitted and passed to the scene of the fire. The fire, however,
    continued to increase, and attention was directed to the
    ammunition contained in the powder magazines, which were
    situated one on each side the ship immediately above the fire.
    The starboard magazine was soon cleared. But by this time the
    whole of the after-part of the ship was so much enveloped in
    smoke that it was scarcely possible to stand, and great fears
    were entertained on account of the port magazine. Volunteers
    were called for, and came immediately, and, under the guidance
    of Lieutenant Hughes, attempted to clear the port magazine,
    which they succeeded in doing, with the exception, as was
    supposed, of one or two barrels. It was most dangerous work.
    The men became overpowered with the smoke and heat, and fell;
    and several, whilst thus engaged, were dragged up by ropes
    senseless.

    “The flames soon burst up through the deck, and running rapidly
    along the various cabins, set the greater part on fire.

    “In the meantime Captain Castle took steps for lowering the
    boats. There was a heavy gale at the time, but they were
    launched without the least accident. The soldiers were mustered
    on deck;—there was no rush to the boats;—and the men obeyed the
    word of command as if on parade. The men were informed that
    Captain Castle did not despair of saving the ship, but that
    they must be prepared to leave her if necessary. The women and
    children were lowered into the port lifeboat, under the charge
    of Mr. Very, third officer, who had orders to keep clear of the
    ship until recalled.

    “Captain Castle then commenced constructing rafts of spare
    spars. In a short time, three were put together, which would
    have been capable of saving a great number of those on board.
    Two were launched overboard, and safely moored alongside, and
    then a third was left across the deck forward, ready to be
    launched.

    “In the meantime the fire had made great progress. The whole
    of the cabins were one body of fire, and at about 8.30 p.m.,
    flames burst through the upper deck, and shortly after the
    mizen rigging caught fire. Fears were entertained of the ship
    paying off, in which case the flames would have been swept
    forwards by the wind; but fortunately the after-braces were
    burnt through, and the main-yard swung round, which kept the
    ship’s head to wind. About nine p.m., a fearful explosion took
    place in the port magazine, arising, no doubt, from the one or
    two barrels of powder which it had been impossible to remove.
    By this time the ship was one body of flame, from the stern to
    the main rigging, and thinking it scarcely possible to save
    her, Captain Castle called Major Brett (then in command of the
    troops, for the colonel was in one of the boats) forward, and,
    telling him that he feared the ship was lost, requested him
    to endeavour to keep order amongst the troops till the last,
    but, at the same time, to use every exertion to check the fire.
    Providentially, the iron bulkhead in the after part of the ship
    withstood the action of the flames, and here all efforts were
    concentrated to keep it cool.

    “‘No person,’ says the captain, ‘can describe the manner in
    which the men worked to keep the fire back; one party were
    below, keeping the bulkhead cool, and when several were
    dragged up senseless, fresh volunteers took their places, who
    were, however, soon in the same state. At about ten p.m., the
    maintopsail-yard took fire. Mr. Welch, one quartermaster,
    and four or five soldiers, went aloft with wet blankets, and
    succeeded in extinguishing it, but not until the yard and mast
    were nearly burnt through. The work of fighting the fire below
    continued for hours, and about midnight it appeared that some
    impression was made; and after that, the men drove it back,
    inch by inch, until daylight, when they had completely got it
    under. The ship was now in a frightful plight. The after-part
    was literally burnt out—merely the shell remaining—the port
    quarter blown out by the explosion: fifteen feet of water in
    the hold.’

    “The gale still prevailed, and the ship was rolling and
    pitching in a heavy sea, and taking in large quantities of
    water abaft: the tanks, too, were rolling from side to side in
    the hold.

    “As soon as the smoke was partially cleared away, Captain
    Castle got spare sails and blankets aft to stop the leak,
    passing two hawsers round the stem, and setting them up. The
    troops were employed baling and pumping. This continued during
    the whole morning.

    “In the course of the day the ladies joined the ship. The boats
    were ordered alongside, but they found the sea too heavy to
    remain there. The gig had been abandoned during the night, and
    the crew, under Mr. Wood, fourth officer, had got into another
    of the boats. The troops were employed the remainder of the
    day baling and pumping, and the crew securing the stern. All
    hands were employed during the following night baling and
    pumping, the boats being moored alongside, where they received
    some damage. At daylight, on the 13th, the crew were employed
    hoisting the boats, the troops were working manfully baling and
    pumping. Latitude at noon, 13 deg. 12 min. south. At five p.m.,
    the foresail and foretopsail were set, the rafts were cut away,
    and the ship bore for the Mauritius. On Thursday, the 19th, she
    sighted the island of Rodrigues, and arrived at Mauritius on
    Monday the 23rd.”

[Illustration: STERN OF THE STEAM-SHIP “SARAH SANDS.”

Showing the state in which she arrived at Mauritius.

(_From a Photograph taken at the time._)]

The Nile and Trafalgar are not more glorious to our country, are not
greater victories than these won by our merchant seamen. And if you look
in the captains’ reports of any maritime register, you will see similar
acts recorded every day. I have such a volume, for last year, now lying
before me. In the second number, as I open it at hazard, Captain Roberts,
master of the ship _Empire_, from Shields to London, reports how on the
14th ult. (the 14th December, 1859), he, “being off Whitby, discovered
the ship to be on fire between the main hold and boilers: got the hose
from the engine laid on, and succeeded in subduing the fire; but only
apparently; for at seven, the next morning, the _Dudgeon_ bearing S. S.
E. seven miles’ distance, the fire again broke out, causing the ship to
be enveloped in flames on both sides of midships: got the hose again into
play and all hands to work with buckets to combat with the fire. Did not
succeed in stopping it till four p.m., to effect which, were obliged to
cut away the deck and top sides, and throw overboard part of the cargo.
The vessel was very much damaged and leaky: determined to make for the
Humber. Ship was run on shore, on the mud, near Grimsby harbour, with
five feet water in her hold. The donkey-engine broke down. The water
increased so fast as to put out the furnace fires and render the ship
almost unmanageable. On the tide flowing, a tug towed the ship off the
mud, and got her into Grimsby to repair.”

On the 2nd of November, Captain Strickland, of the _Purchase_ brigantine,
from Liverpool to Yarmouth, U. S., “encountered heavy gales from
W.N.W. to W.S.W, in lat. 43° N., long. 34° W., in which we lost jib,
foretopmast, staysail, topsail, and carried away the foretopmast stays,
bobstays and bowsprit, headsails, cut-water and stern, also started the
wood ends, which caused the vessel to leak. Put her before the wind
and sea, and hove about twenty-five tons of cargo overboard to lighten
the ship forward. Slung myself in a bowline, and by means of thrusting
2½-inch rope in the opening, contrived to stop a great portion of the
leak.

“_December 16th._—The crew, continuing night and day at the pumps,
could not keep the ship free; deemed it prudent for the benefit of
those concerned to bear up for the nearest port. On arriving in lat.
48° 45′ N., long. 23° W., observed a vessel with a signal of distress
flying. Made towards her, when she proved to be the barque _Carleton_,
water-logged. The captain and crew asked to be taken off. Hove to, and
received them on board, consisting of thirteen men: and their ship was
abandoned. We then proceeded on our course, the crew of the abandoned
vessel assisting all they could to keep my ship afloat. We arrived at
Cork harbour on the 27th ult.”

Captain Coulson, master of the brig _Othello_, reports that his brig
foundered off Portland, December 27;—encountering a strong gale, and
shipping two heavy seas in succession, which hove the ship on her
beam-ends. “Observing no chance of saving the ship, took to the long
boat, and within ten minutes of leaving her saw the brig founder. We
were picked up the same morning by the French ship _Commerce de Paris_,
Captain Tombarel.”

Here, in a single column of a newspaper, what strange, touching pictures
do we find of seamen’s dangers, vicissitudes, gallantry, generosity! The
ship on fire—the captain in the gale slinging himself in a bowline to
stop the leak—the Frenchman in the hour of danger coming to his British
comrade’s rescue—the brigantine, almost a wreck, working up to the barque
with the signal of distress flying, and taking off her crew of thirteen
men: “We then proceeded on our course, _the crew of the abandoned vessel
assisting all they could to keep my ship afloat_.” What noble, simple
words! What courage, devotedness, brotherly love! Do they not cause the
heart to beat, and the eyes to fill?

This is what seamen do daily, and for one another. One lights
occasionally upon different stories. It happened, not very long since,
that the passengers by one of the great ocean steamers were wrecked,
and, after undergoing the most severe hardships, were left, destitute
and helpless, at a miserable coaling port. Amongst them were old men,
ladies, and children. When the next steamer arrived, the passengers by
that steamer took alarm at the haggard and miserable appearance of their
unfortunate predecessors, and actually _remonstrated with their own
captain, urging him not to take the poor creatures on board_. There was
every excuse, of course. The last-arrived steamer was already dangerously
full: the cabins were crowded; there were sick and delicate people on
board—sick and delicate people who had paid a large price to the company
for room, food, comfort, already not too sufficient. If fourteen of us
are in an omnibus, will we hear three or four women say, “Come in,”
because this is the last ’bus, and it rains? Of course not: but think
of that remonstrance, and of that Samaritan master of the _Purchase_
brigantine!

In the winter of ’53, I went from Marseilles to Civita Vecchia, in one
of the magnificent P. and O. ships, the _Valetta_, the master of which
subsequently did distinguished service in the Crimea. This was his first
Mediterranean voyage, and he sailed his ship by the charts alone, going
into each port as surely as any pilot. I remember walking the deck at
night with this most skilful, gallant, well-bred, and well-educated
gentleman, and the glow of eager enthusiasm with which he assented, when
I asked him whether he did not think a RIBBON or ORDER would be welcome
or useful in his service.

Why is there not an ORDER OF BRITANNIA for British seamen? In the
Merchant and the Royal Navy alike, occur almost daily instances and
occasions for the display of science, skill, bravery, fortitude in
trying circumstances, resource in danger. In the First Number of our
_Magazine_, a friend contributed a most touching story of the M’Clintock
expedition, in the dangers and dreadful glories of which he shared; and
the writer was a merchant captain. How many more are there (and, for the
honour of England, may there be many like him!)—gallant, accomplished,
high-spirited, enterprising masters of their noble profession! Can our
Fountain of Honour not be brought to such men? It plays upon captains
and colonels in seemly profusion. It pours forth not illiberal rewards
upon doctors and judges. It sprinkles mayors and aldermen. It bedews a
painter now and again. It has spirted a baronetcy upon two, and bestowed
a coronet upon one noble man of letters. Diplomatists take their Bath in
it as of right; and it flings out a profusion of glittering stars upon
the nobility of the three kingdoms. Cannot Britannia find a ribbon for
her sailors? The Navy, royal or mercantile, is _a Service_. The command
of a ship, or the conduct of her, implies danger, honour, science, skill,
subordination, good faith. It may be a victory, such as that of the
_Sarah Sands_; it may be discovery, such as that of the _Fox_; it may be
heroic disaster, such as that of the _Birkenhead_; and in such events
merchant seamen, as well as royal seamen, take their share.

Why is there not, then, an Order of Britannia? One day a young officer
of the _Euryalus_ may win it; and, having just read the memoirs of LORD
DUNDONALD, I know who ought to have the first Grand Cross.